#Diane Adler | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thereoncewasagirlnamedjane · 1 month ago

Text

snow birds.

‣ pairing — frank adler x f!reader

‣ contents — xmas/holidays, angst [referenced character death, grief], fluff, childhood frenemies in love, mutual pining, not actually unrequited love

‣ summary — frank thought he closed that chapter of his life on love and romance a long time ago, but a fateful reunion on the dirt paths of a christmas tree farm seems to reopen an entire book of possibilities.

‣ word count — 5.1k

‣ notes — okay, again i’m not exactly thrilled about this one and also the first half of this turned out way angstier than i’d originally intended… but hey, i can’t help the way these stories turn out (i say, as if i’m not the one actually writing them 🫣). i also left the ending kind of open, but i think it works and at least i’m finally finished with this one! another character to add to my roster 🥰 i hope i did our frankie justice!

✩ read on ao3 ✩ janie’s masterlist ✩ library blog

The rusted pickup truck rumbles to a stop, its wheels crunching on the gravel parking lot. Outside, the rich scent of pine needles perfume the humid air. Festive red and green ribbons adorn the nearby farmhouse, strings of twinkling lights strung overhead, the atmosphere absolutely screaming Christmas despite the blazing Florida sun.

Before Frank even puts the truck in park, the passenger door flies open and a little blonde blur is bounding out, a scruffy one-eyed cat leaping out after her.

“Stay close!” He calls as he follows suit, sighing heavily. That darn cat goes everywhere with them now, even places cats have no place being—like a Christmas tree lot, for example.

Frank had tried to convince Mary to leave Fred at home, but she just looked so reluctant to leave this morning. He ended up relenting, even though the idea of letting a cat have the final say in which tree they brought home was actually ridiculous, but he couldn’t say no to her this time; she’d been through a lot these last few months.

“Hurry up, slowpoke!” Mary shouts back as she reaches the entrance to the lot. He ambles after her casually before she can’t wait anymore, turning and running up the paths between rows of towering firs and blue spruces with Fred hot at her heels.

Frank keeps a watchful eye on her as he trails behind, taking in the scene with a mix of nostalgia and bittersweet longing. The farm looks just like it did when he was a kid, and for a moment he could almost see Diane running ahead of him in Mary’s place, her blonde hair flying behind her as she wove between the trees.

Come on, Frankie! She’d giggle, ducking into the next aisle. Before Dad finds us!

His throat tightens at the memory. It’s been years since he last came here with his sister, even longer since his old man was alive, but the ache of their absence never really fades. Especially not around the holidays, when every tradition seems to carry the weight of what he’d lost.

But then he catches sight of Mary again, her cheeks flushed with excitement as she points out a particularly massive pine to Fred, tilting her head as she asks him what he thinks. Because again, Fred is a cat, he looks disinterested as he licks one of his paws.

And just like that, the heaviness in Frank’s chest eases, replaced by a fluttering warmth he’s grown to recognize all too well. He quickens his pace to catch up with them, trying to ignore the way his heart stumbles when Mary looks up at him with her mother’s eyes.

“This the one, kid?” Frank asks, hands on his hips as he regards the tree. He peers around it to the next row. “Or should we keep look—”

But when he peeks past the spiky branches, he halts mid-movement, breath catching in his throat. For a minute, he thinks he might be hallucinating—because standing there, looking frustratingly gorgeous in a cream cable knit sweater and black leggings is a blast from his past.

Or maybe he’s dreaming, he thinks as his pulse quickens traitorously. He hasn’t seen you outside of his dreams in years.

“Look, mister, all I’m saying—” you huff, one hand perched on your hip, gesturing animatedly with your other hand while arguing with the middle-aged tree farmer who looks just as done as you do. “—is that if you’re going to advertise ‘tall, full, and handsome’ trees, you need to deliver, okay? Also, a hundred bucks?! This thing can’t be worth more than fifty, maybe sixty. Or does it come with presents already underneath it?”

Some things never change, do they? You always did like to haggle.

“Frank?” Mary asks, reaching up to take his head. You look over then at the sound of the girl’s voice, your gaze colliding with his. Just like when he was a teenager and he saw you for the first time, it’s like the ground shifts beneath his feet, the world tilting on its axis.

It all started with a favour, more than half a lifetime ago.

Frank remembers jolting awake to the shrill ringing of the phone, rubbing his bleary eyes and glancing at the clock on the bedside table only to find it was 2:17 a.m. in the morning.

His sixteen-year-old self moved quickly, throwing the covers aside, running down the hall, and flying down the stairs to try and reach the kitchen before the phone could wake his mother. He picked up halfway through the third ring, his eyes closed as he held the receiver sleepily against his ear.

“‘Lo?” He mumbled, his brow furrowing when he heard Diane’s voice on the other line. He tilted his head up in the direction of his sister’s bedroom, completely unaware that she’d even left the house.

She needed a ride home, she said; she’d snuck out and went to Trish Aalerud’s party after all, the one their mother had expressly forbidden her from going to. There had been a big ensuing fight, one which he’d tried his best to mediate, but it ended with Evelyn once again laying down the law.

Diane, once again, was faced with the choice to either obey or rebel. For once, it seemed, she’d finally chosen to rebel.

A part of him was proud of her; they couldn’t live like this under Evelyn’s reign of terror forever. But on the other hand, he knew how their mother could be. Her expectations were sky high and her disappointment was even greater when her children failed to meet them.

But another part of him wanted to slump over in dread. If he were being honest, Diane got the worst of it. For some reason, it was just easier for him to shake off his mother’s lectures, to shrug off her impossible ideals, and to take a path away from the one Evelyn had so calculatingly laid out for him.

His sister, however, was different. Frank got good grades and was well-liked by his teachers, but Diane was downright brilliant, destined for greater and amazing things that Frank could only ever imagine. And somewhere beneath it all, she thought that maybe if she worked hard enough, if she were smart enough, maybe if she were the kind of genius Evelyn so desperately wanted her to be, then their mother might finally realize their worth. Maybe even love her.

But, unfortunately, Frank knew better.

So, despite being annoyed that he’d been woken up in the middle of the night on a school day, he shook off the cobwebs of sleep still clinging to his brain and promised he’d be there as fast as he could.

They couldn’t risk Diane getting caught, because he knew what it would mean. Evelyn would simply double down, her punishment swift and severe, maybe even lock his sister in her room again for days at a time “until she came back to her senses”. Never again, not as long as Frank could help it.

He hung up and dragged himself back to his room, pulling on some jeans and a hoodie, before grabbing his keys and carefully tiptoeing towards the front door. He listened for any signs that his mother had woken up, but thankfully only the sound of silence greeted him back.

Satisfied, he slipped out into the humid night air, climbing into the beat-up Chevy pickup he’d inherited from his late father the moment he got his learner’s permit. It only took him fifteen minutes before he was pulling up to the curb outside a large house still pulsing with music.

Frank remembers drunk teenagers in skimpy outfits stumbling around the lawn and pouring out the front door, their silhouettes illuminated by strobe lights flashing in the windows. He scanned the crowd for Diane, his jaw clenching before finally spotting her near the mailbox.

And there it was, where it all began.

She wasn’t alone. For the first time, Frank laid eyes on you, swaying uneasily on your feet beside his sister who looked on with sympathy. She made a move to touch your arm, but you twisted away from her and angrily began stalking down the driveway, swiping the back of your hand across your face.

“Frankie!” Diane called, her eyes widening when she saw him. You paused briefly, long enough to look up so he could get a clear view of your face. It occurred to him then, as he took in the sight of the tear tracks on your cheeks, that maybe you were the reason Diane had called in the first place.

“You’re both sitting in the back,” he said once he found his voice, looking away and feigning indifference despite the stuttering of his heart. “I don’t need anyone puking in the front seat.”

“I’m not drunk,” you snapped, eyes flashing in a way he decided he rather liked. But then you turned around and addressed Diane, “and I don’t need your damn charity!”

“Please,” Diane said, approaching you slowly and cautiously, as if trying to corner a hissing and frightened kitten. Frank could practically see your hair standing on end. “Just let us take you home?”

“I can call someone else, Adler,” you scoffed, wrapping your arms around your middle even though it’s hot and sticky out, shivering as you resumed your descent down the driveway.

“The hell you will,” Frank almost growled, a sound he didn’t know he was capable of making, placing the truck in drive and swerving to stop right in front of you and blocking your path. “It’s almost three in the morning. Both of you just get in the damn car.”

“Please,” Diane implored again, opening the door to the backseat and waiting. After a few seconds of hesitation and a tense staring match with the siblings, you relented with a huff and slid into the truck. Diane followed suit and once she slammed the door shut, Frank peeled away from the curb.

“You don’t know how to mind your own business,” you told Diane, the lot of you not even clearing the end of the street before you started in on her. You crossed your arms over your chest and leaned against the door, angling yourself as far away from her as you could. “You and your… whoever that is.”

“This is Frank, my brother,” Diane tried to explain kindly, before locking eyes with him in the rearview mirror. Judging from the way you were speaking to her, it was clear the two of you weren’t exactly friends, but Diane didn’t need to say anything to clue him in that something must have happened back at the party. If anything, your drying tears already told him as much.

“I think what you meant to say is ‘thank you’,” Frank scoffed however, unable to help snapping back. You were being a giant pain in the ass.

“Frank—” Diane admonished.

“Oh, right, thank you,” you began, your words soaked in sarcasm. “Thank you so much for practically forcing me into your car. You did everything but drag me in kicking and screaming.”

“Just tell me where you live so we can drop you off and be done with this,” Frank fired back, “you ungrateful twerp.”

“Sorry that sissy here interrupted your beauty sleep, pretty boy,” you leaned forward, eyes blazing as they met his in the rearview mirror. “But if I recall, I didn’t ask for either of your help. You insisted, remember?”

Frank remembers that the bickering didn’t let up the entire drive to your house, barbs flying fast and furious, all the while Diane kept trying to play peacemaker without much success. By the time Frank arrived in front of your place, your tears were forgotten, sadness replaced by a fire he much preferred, even if his knuckles were white with irritation around the steering wheel.

“Frankie…” Diane sighed disapprovingly from the backseat, once you exited the truck with a slam of the door and a final parting shot, along with an exaggerated flip of the bird.

“Don’t start, Di,” he snapped, turning around in his seat to fix her with a glare of his own. “That girl is a menace. You sure know how to pick ‘em, don’t you?”

“She’s had a rough night,” Diane smiled wryly, glancing out the window to watch you remove your shoes as you trodden up the driveway, dangling them by the straps at your side.

“Join the damn club,” Frank shook his head, but he was watching too, making sure you stepped into the house and closed the door behind you before beginning to drive away.

“They weren’t very nice to her tonight,” his sister murmured. Frank took a deep breath, something a bit like guilt settling like lead in the pit of his stomach, knowing very well just how cruel his schoolmates could be. And because Diane was always too soft-hearted for her own good, he knew what she was trying to say even though she fell quiet the rest of the ride home.

They weren’t very nice to her, but maybe we could be.

Frank remembers that it wasn’t long before the change, and he began seeing you with his sister more often than not. It only took a few more weeks before the two of you were inseparable, practically attached at the hip with Diane hanging off your arm with a big smile, bigger than he’d ever seen on her, and you letting her while looking only partially annoyed.

You were seen together in the school cafeteria, Diane talking your ear off as you ate; in the library, Diane’s legs stretched across your lap as you took notes; or sitting at the bleachers with your textbooks open, quiet conversations punctuated by the occasional giggle or reluctant snort.

What began as a random act of kindness blossomed into a true and rare friendship, much to Frank’s pleasure and dismay. Diane didn’t have a lot of close friends, or at all actually. Evelyn had made sure of that, but even she couldn’t keep you apart.

Diane would lie and say she was going to the library to study when in reality she was at your house. You’d invite her to your family gatherings, where your parents plied her with food and affection. At school events, everyone just knew that you and Diane were a package deal.

But you just got under his skin so easily, and he couldn’t resist the temptation to give as good as he got. The two of you would maintain a facade of civility in front of Diane, but the second her back was turned all bets were off.

“Well, well, well,” you smirked as you passed him in the hall on your way to your next class, Diane up ahead and out of earshot. “If it isn’t dear ol’ Francis. I see you still have a knack for showing up where you’re least wanted.”

“Nice haircut,” he retorted, unflinching as his own smirk rose to meet yours. “Did you lose a bet or something?”

“Nah, just trying to keep up with your… ever-changing style,” you drawled sardonically, your eyes sweeping over his usual ripped jeans and button-up shirt over a white tee. “Is that really your only outfit?”

The barbs were sharp but never cruel, the both of you committing to a strange dance of wit and veiled…

Frank swallows hard.

He can call it what it was now, even though it still hurts, even though he can’t bring himself to say it out loud. Who would be there to listen, anyway? The only person he’d like to tell is long gone.

Because it was affection. It was always affection.

It was there in the quieter moments, tantalizing and unusually sweet, when his gaze lingered on you a little too long after a round of half-hearted insults, or when his hand accidentally brushed yours when he passed by. But he was always careful to stand behind that line, the one Diane had long ago forbidden him to cross.

“I see the way you look at her, Frankie,” Diane had said softly, her eyes pleading. “And I don’t blame you.”

Frank couldn’t look at her, his heart twisting in his chest. His first instinct was to deny it, to tell her she was seeing things that weren’t there. But he couldn’t lie to her, he never could.

“But please… don’t go there. She’s my best friend and you’re my brother. If things went wrong…” she trailed off, but he knew the implications. He’d be putting Diane in an impossible situation, because the thing she didn’t say was that you were her only friend.

And so he decided he wouldn’t ever make her choose.

Besides, to you, Frank was probably just your friend’s annoying brother and nothing more. Repeating that to himself made it slightly easier to keep his promise for years after, burying those feelings deep and putting up a front of playful antagonism whenever he saw you. It had been torture, especially during the more genuine moments shared during a movie night at your house, Diane asleep on the couch, or under the bleachers at one of his soccer games.

“I never did thank you for that night, did I?” You whispered to him, eyes bright, so close and yet so far out of reach. He swallowed down the words he really wanted to say, like—I’d go anywhere, no matter how far, to be your knight in shining armour.

Instead, he joked, “Yeah, well, it’ll never happen again, all right? So don’t go around making a habit of stranding yourself at parties.”

“Well, good,” you smirked, those walls going back up, the chasm between you once again opening up to something seemingly insurmountable. “Because your truck is an abomination. It’s, like, rolling probable cause with that illegal ass window tint.”

“Take that back. That truck is a national treasure,” he hissed, and you threw your head back and laughed. It was all he could do not to close the distance between you and lay his lips on yours.

It was torture, but he’d done it for Diane. He would’ve done anything for Diane.

Frank remembers the sky wept the day they laid her to rest. He’d stood beside her grave, his face a mask of stone, but his eyelids were heavy and swollen with grief. You stood just a few feet away, clutching at a sodden tissue in your trembling hands, sobbing as your eyes fixed on the casket that held your dearest friend.

As the service ended and the mourners began to disperse, Frank found himself face to face with you, the weight of your shared grief hanging heavy in the air. Words rose to his lips—confessions and apologies, longing and regret—but even then they remained unspoken. He couldn’t bring himself to reach out to you; he didn’t know how. Diane’s death had changed everything and yet nothing at all.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered to him, your voice barely audible above the patter of rain on fallen leaves. You leaned forward to press a kiss to the tiny little bundle fast asleep in his arms—Mary, the only piece of his sister he had left. “I’m so sorry, Frank.”

He wanted to ask you to stay, to navigate this dark and desolate new world without Diane with him. He wanted to say he’s loved you since he was sixteen, that Diane loved you too, and that like always he was here for you no matter how you needed him. He wanted to ask you to be in Mary’s life, because if she couldn’t have Diane then at least she would have you.

But he couldn’t, the words once again stuck between his lips. Instead, his heart clenching, Frank forced himself to let that dream go. He watched you walk away, turning away reluctantly himself to begin picking up the pieces of his shattered life, with half a lifetime’s worth of unspoken words lodged in his throat.

You would see each other around St. Petersburg every now and then, but then you took a job all the way across the continent. Mary had only been a year old when you came around to say goodbye, bringing toys and baby clothes, looking at him with all the silent apologies in the world in your eyes.

And despite the lightheartedness of your voice as you joked about how much you were dreading your new life in Toronto, he could see how desperately you needed to escape the suffocating grip of Diane’s absence.

“Take care of yourself, Frank,” you smiled, a sight so familiar and yet so foreign, the lines of your face tinged with profound sadness rather than the usual mirth and good-natured teasing.

And that’s how it was supposed to be. Frank thought he would never see you again. You were supposed to remain firmly in his past, a distant memory he thought back on whenever he visited Diane’s grave, whenever a postcard arrived in the mail with a short cursory message written on the back, whenever he pulled out photos of his sister for Mary to look at whenever she wanted to see her mom.

But six years later, after all that time telling himself that he was over you by now, that whenever he felt for you now was simply nostalgia, that the schoolboy crush he’d had was exactly that—fleeting and innocent and not at all life-changing, you’re here.

Years of history and unresolved tension zings up his spine like an electric current as his eyes find you again. Your expression mirrors his own, shock and awe rolled into one, and a flicker of something indecipherable in your eyes before your lips quick in that familiar smirk, a single brow arching in challenge.

“Francis,” you say in a tone that brings back an unbidden rush of memories. “Don’t tell me you’re trying to steal my Christmas.”

And just like that, Frank feels himself slipping back into old patterns, his competitive streak flaring to life as he realizes you’ve both set your sights on the same tree. Frank realizes right then, that no matter what he’s told himself these last six years, you’d never actually left him at all.

“Please, I was here first,” he outright lies, “this tree clearly has Adler written all over it.”

“You can’t possibly need a tree this big,” you scoff, falling easily back into that rhythm of banter, like no time had passed at all, like the two of you were still a couple of teens arguing over the last slice of pizza while Diane watched on with thinly-veiled irritation. “What are you decorating, a ballroom?”

“Maybe I am,” Frank retorts, crossing his arms, stubbornly not wanting to admit that, yes, this tree is definitely way too tall for the modest apartment he shares with Mary. “What’s it to you?”

“Don’t even,” you roll your eyes, “you wouldn’t know how to properly trim this thing down if your life depended on it.”

He opens his mouth to deliver a blistering response when a small voice interrupts him, “…Frank? Are we getting the tree?”

He startles, turning to find Mary looking up at him. He’d almost forgotten she was there and, judging by your bewildered expression, you didn’t even notice her until now. He hears the hitch in your breath as you drink in the sight of Diane’s daughter, the little girl you never really had the chance to know.

She has Diane’s high cheekbones, her stubborn chin, her vivid blue eyes—and he knows it’s like staring at a ghost of Christmas past.

“Mary, this is…” he says, resting his hand on his niece’s shoulder. Mary squints up at you, her brows furrowing thoughtfully before she grasps her uncle’s hand.

“it’s the lady from Mom’s pictures,” she observes, recognizing you from the photographs currently tucked away in an old shoebox at the back of Frank’s closet. She turns to you and repeats, a bit quieter this time, “you’re the lady from my mom’s pictures.”

You stare at her for a few more seconds, before a slow smile spreads across your face. “Well… yes. I, uh, I knew your mom a long time ago.”

“And Frank, too?”

You nod, your smile wobbling. “From way back.”

“How far back?” She asks, her curiosity piqued as she twists her fingers around Frank’s shyly.

“Oh, ancient history,” you laugh in a way that has his heart aching, your eyes glistening. “Back when your uncle was still cool.”

“Frank was cool?” Mary looks up at him with a hint of a grin, slightly skeptical. He playfully pinches her cheek.

“Actually? No,” your voice taking on that teasing tone he’s so used to. “I was only saying that to be nice.” Mary manages a tiny smile as a silence descends, like a quietly mounting blanket of freshly fallen snow. “You know what? You should take the tree.” You say suddenly, your voice falsely bright.

“Really?” Mary asks, sounding hopeful. She picks up Fred, squeezing him in her arms. The cat meows indignantly, but allows her to manhandle him all the same.

Frank frowns, “No, you don’t have to—”

He feels you slipping away again as you shrug, your eyes still holding a glimmer of sadness despite your playful tone. “It’s just a tree, Francis. No big deal.”

But this is a big deal, he wants to shout. It’s never not when it comes to you. But you’re already backing away, forcing smiles and your gaze darting between Frank and Mary. He calls out your name, but you don’t look back as you avert your eyes and turn to leave, a faint “Merry Christmas” vanishing into the warm Florida afternoon.

“Frank?” Mary is tugging at his hand, but he watches your retreating form until the very last second, so many things bubbling up to his lips but going unsaid, held back by a childhood promise to a person who is no longer here.

But he never did tell Diane, did he? What the thing she always saw brewing there whenever he looked at you was.

He waits too long, and you disappear into the crowd, as if swallowed by magic, just as quickly as you’d reappeared.

You sit curled up by the crackling fire in your childhood home, nursing a mug of mulled wine as your nieces and nephews chatter excitedly around the brightly decorated fireplace. A pot containing a mixture of cranberries, rosemary, cinnamon sticks, and cloves simmers on the stovetop, the oven baking away at a batch of sugar cookies, filling the house with the undeniable smell of the holidays.

Despite the fact that you are thrilled to see all of your relatives after such a long time away from home, you have a hard time mustering up any holiday cheer.

All you can think of is Frank, the way his eyes widened when he saw you, the way they softened when you said his name, and the way his deep voice rumbled through your body like that distant thunder of longing you could always seem to hear on quiet nights, hovering nearby like a persistent storm cloud.

There was always a chance of running into him here, and you thought you’d been prepared for that possibility. And yet, your heart still soared at the sight of him, no longer that boy who had—albeit, reluctantly—come to your rescue that night of Trish’s party, but you’d recognize those blue eyes anywhere.

The couch sinks beneath you, and you turn to see your mother settling down beside you with a mug of her own. “You okay, honey?”

“Yeah, Mom,” you force a smile, tearing your gaze away from the fire. The twinkling fairy lights cast shadows upon your mother’s face, the lot of you having had to decorate the fireplace since you walked away from the tree farm empty-handed, almost running with your need to escape. “Sorry I couldn’t get you a tree.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” your mother waves a hand, gesturing at her grandchildren who are screaming at each other as they play a board game, “they don’t even know the difference.”

But she knows you, this woman. She studies you for a moment, her eyes soft with understanding. It’s a tough time of year for you; traditions feel somewhat incomplete when someone important is missing.

“I miss her, too,” she says, grasping your hand as she leans back against the couch. You smile to yourself, swallowing past the lump in your throat. So many nights you and Diane fell asleep on this couch watching TV or studying, only to wake up to find a blanket thrown over you and the smell of dinner wafting in from the kitchen.

“I know,” you lean against your mom and she wraps her arm around your shoulders. You sit there in her embrace, enjoying the sight of most of your family all gathered together in one place, but a commotion erupts near the front window of the house.

Your relatives are clamouring over each other, their excited shouts filling the air. You grin, their enthusiasm, even though you have no idea what about, is contagious. One of them calls out your name, beckoning you over. Reluctantly, you rise from the couch with a soft groan and make your way over to the window.

You peer out the glass, pushing aside the curtains, thinking maybe—despite the impossible odds—that it’s snowing outside. But something even more inconceivable happens and there, at the end of the driveway, is Frank’s beat-up old truck, the Christmas tree you’d surrendered tied up in the back.

Frank himself is walking up the driveway, hands in his pockets, until he stops in front of your door. He looks hesitant, completely oblivious to the fact he’s being watched. One of your cousins elbows you, hard, giving you an incredulous look when you glare over at them, “What are you doing? Go!”

This is a dream you’ve never dared to voice out loud, seeing Frank here again. But here he is, on Christmas, and you tell yourself that second chances like these are so rare.

So you get up and open the door before he’s even had a chance to knock.

He looks surprised, but you hold the door open and smile.

We’ve lost so much time.

I don’t want to waste another second.

Frank steps closer.

I fell in love with you when I was sixteen.

I have loved you ever since.

And he smiles back.

fin.