#fantastic Fanna

[pedrorascal]

Meet The Fantastic Four: First Steps Cast

[intheorangebedroom]

First, I am so sorry that tumblr is systematically breaking the Keep reading cut in my re-reblogs, it's awful, apologies for the long post 😱

Second: YOU HAVE SO MUCH TALENT. Do you think I'd be able to create edits the way you do??? NOPE. I don't ever want to hear you say you've not enough talent, because you are overflowing with it. You are very good with words too. You draw like a goddess. You are very good with EVERYTHING SHUT UP.

Ok, now that I've screamed at you, come get your hug, my little koala!!! 🐨 Your comments are NEVER unintelligible and I love both them and you 🧡 Girl, I can never thank you enough for the time and effort you put into them. For your insightful, attentive reading. I'm sorry I fucked up your focus, but also very grateful!

The structure was always going to be this back and forth journey between past and present. These two people have lived their entire adult lives up in their respective heads, stuck in the past. And so should we, to get a more profound understanding of who they are. Plus, they are potentially going to hurt a lot of people, potentially lose friends and take decisions that would be frowned upon irl. So I had to make excuses for them... I had to give a sense of that surreal bond and fairy tale connection between them so that everyone could forgive them.

I've lived and worked a little in NY, not long, but with the plan of settling there, and I could never adjust. I just missed Paris far too much, and what kept striking me is that beyond Paris, I missed Europe as a whole. That came easy for me to write (and no, she doesn't feel home ANYWHERE without Frankie, she's just more confused lol). As for my general knowledge, shut up bestie, I know shit!!! Literally!! I'm just ancient, is all.

Yes, WILL! This king!!! I think by now everyone who cares has guessed that he's my second favourite character in TF. That talk about his body count is my favourite scene. And I'm quite proud that it's not whore thots related 😅 He's like a brother to her and she's like a sister to him. I think I will write and post the Miller's backstory shortly, actually. She was always more scared to lose him than Benny, however awful this may seem. She has deeply rooted trust issues and Rosie and Will have trampled them with such ease. About Rosie. Fear not. Have faith in Dolores 😉 (imagine her grabbing the two girls by the ears and knocking their dumb heads together).

Now this sentence about the missing puzzle piece, HOW GLAD AM I that people like it so much, because I was peacefully (or not so peacefully I guess) SLEEPING when it popped into my restless brain at around 5am on a fine Saturday morning, and I had to get up to write it down. So it was worth being so tired the entire day afterwards.

This is my favourite part 😂 I hate-love that cap, and its stunts days are not nearly over...

Fanna, I fucking love you 🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡🧡

Pleased to meet you, chapter 15

Summary: You eventually made up your mind, but acting on it is a whole different story. Time is ticking on you. An afternoon at the museum with Will precipitates everything.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x French fem!Reader.

Rating: Explicit 🔞

A/N: So yeah, Plainsong became Flaming June... Don't ask! You'll see. If you'd like a song to go with this one, may I suggest Maps, by Yeah Yeah Yeahs? And if ever you're interested, @deadmantis (my favourite enabler) sent me an ask (thank you 🧡) that has allowed me to ramble discuss Reader & Benny's relationship further.

A million thank you Fanna my darling for making this gorgeous gif of those two kings. I am still giggly from it and I promise next time I won't ask on such short notice 🧡

@meandorla I don't know where I'd be without you... Thank you for your time, your help, your enthusiasm, your sharp understanding of them and their story. For bearing with me, and helping me find my way as I'm approaching the end of this story 🧡 Ily 🧡

Word count: 5.7k

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Chapter 15: Flaming June

Time is such an odd thing. A social construct, as they say. 

And you have spent so much of it reading on the subject, from nebulous scientific essays in specialised publications that left you questioning your intellectual abilities, to popular articles in mainstream media, trying to understand how two days and three nights in an orange bedroom could have contained all of your past and your entire future. 

How the fifteen years that followed could have lasted longer than ten life sentences.

How it violently collapsed in on itself as you walked into a dingy New Jersey bar, only to be propelled into an ascending spiral, gathering speed and momentum, yet still endlessly stretching on. 

Monday morning finds you rested. With the heavy curtains blocking the early morning sun, for the first time in months, you’ve slept soundly until your alarm rung.

Benny snoring lightly next to you. 

Rested but restless, hating yourself because you couldn’t find it in you to say “no” when he asked if he could stay the night at your place. It took his massive presence in your small apartment for you to realise you own only one pillow. 

But he didn’t mind, of course he didn’t. In appearance unfazed, undeterred, cheerful and patient as always, even when you pushed away his hands under the sheets with a bullshit excuse. 

How you’d wanted him to call you out on the obvious lies, confront you about your distance, the fact that you hardly ever let him fuck you anymore when you two used to get down to it in his brother’s pick-up parked on the side of the road.

Are your lies so expertly hidden, or is Benny so well-trained to your recurrent distance? The persistence of his affection just another blemish on your conscience, another blame for you to carry on your own. Besides, you have no right to wish for him to make this any easier for you, anyway. 

When you set off for work, he left with you, to swing by his house before his morning run and when he pulled you in for one last hug, holding you flush against his firm, wide chest, you let him. You strengthened your hold, threading your fingers through his thick blond hair, incapable of holding back your words, laced with guilt and regret. ���You’re so good, Benjamin.”

Time is ticking on you. As loud as the clock back in Rosie’s kitchen when you got up to leave. Relentless, no matter how hard you dig in your heels, how desperately you try to stall for more. One more day. One more night. One last kiss, one last fuck. 

And now it’s 10am again. Forty-eight hours since you’d sat in Frankie’s truck with the unreasoned, remorseless desire to let him know that you’ve never stopped waiting, that you have always cared. That to you, he’s still the same. You could swear it’s been forty-eight years. 

Twenty-four hours since you opened your door and let him in. Twenty-two since you’ve felt his lips on your neck, his skin etching your skin. 

And how long exactly until you can’t pretend any longer that it never happened? That your thoughts are only of him; your sole concern the fate that awaits him when he goes back to work today? 

Tomorrow, you reprise like a chorus. Tomorrow, you’ll act. Tomorrow every week. 

And in the meantime, you hide in the cracks, seeking physical discomfort to lull your sadness to sleep. 

The noise of the bookstore metallic shutters winding up that fills your brain like boulders made of lead tumbling down a cliff.

The sweltering atmosphere in the small, quaint shop when you get inside. The drop of sweat that rolls down your spine with every ample movement, until Suzanne walks in after lunch and turns on the antique AC unit that has only two positions: cold and freezing. 

The rasp in your throat from the frigid, artificial air. 

The unpleasant customers, the chatty ones and the obnoxious, the ones you hope will never visit again. 

The burn in your lungs when you draw another drag, Fayçal’s words adding a guilty flavour to the tar aroma of the nicotine. “Tu fumes trop, cousine.”

The proximity of hot and smelly strangers' bodies on the 7pm bus.

And when you finally make it home, well, another day has passed. Time your unlikely ally. Monday an unexpected truce. 

Tomorrow. Tomorrow you’ll act. 

The plastic handles of your heavy grocery bag is cutting off the blood circulation in your fingers and your key jams in the front door when you try to unlock it, winded from the four floor climb. 

The muffled ringtone of your phone has you cursing loudly at first, before your body stiffens at a sudden thought. 

Rosie. Could it be Rosie? Tomorrow is Tuesday. Could she be reaching out to you? Hope rattles your heart in your chest, the grocery bag dropping to the floor when you grab your phone from the back pocket of your short denim overalls, your other hand frantically jiggling the key. 

The lock gives as you read the caller ID on the screen. 

Ironhead

Will doesn’t text. He calls. You hate it, speaking on the phone makes you uncomfortable, you need time to think over your words. But where Benny can be flexible, Will never caves. You text, he calls. And that’s the end of it. 

However, you don’t hesitate before picking up, kicking the bag inside your apartment, groceries scattered and rolling on the carpeted floor. 

“Allô?” you answer in French, locking the door behind you.

“I thought you were going to send me to voicemail there for a second,” he taunts. “How are you?”

“No, no, I’m only just getting home. What’s up?”

Will marks a pause, and you grimace at your poorly performed deflection.

“Right,” he answers in his measured drawl. “Calling about tomorrow. Shall we meet over there, or should I come to pick you up? Did you finally buy that car?”

Tomorrow.

Fuck.

—

The GPS promises an hour’s drive from your place to 1 East 70th Street, but you’ve lived here long enough to know that the constant traffic will nearly double that, even on an early Tuesday afternoon. Reaching the destination is only the first part of the adventure; finding a parking spot there is always the real challenge. 

You’d be fine riding the subway but Will systematically insists that it’s faster this way. Deep down, you don’t really mind the drive. The New York City skyline appearing on the horizon of the New Jersey Turnpike is a spectacle you have yet to tire of. Growing up in Paris meant learning early on to make the best out of the busy, stressful capital, in particular by preserving your ability to marvel at its postcard landmarks. 

Despite the increasing tension running through you since early April winding you up like a power line, you welcome this opportunity to spend the afternoon with Will, certain that his self-possessed, even demeanour will soothe and balance your own. 

As the car takes the last U-turn before entering the Lincoln Tunnel, where more traffic awaits, you offer to give him cash for the toll, knowing full well he will turn it down.

“I choose the route, I pay the toll,” he tells you with a half smile. “You can pay for the first round.”

The midnight blue, tight polo he’s wearing darkens his eyes. Your gaze lingers affectionately on the large tattoos adorning his brawny forearms, before you become aware that you are trying to memorise them, and you push back the nagging thought that this might be the last time the two of you hang out together.

The tickets have been booked months in advance, Will sharing your excitement, with only slightly less exuberance, at the prospect of seeing Flaming June, on loan from the Museo de Arte de Ponce and presented at the Frick Collection. One of your favourite pieces by Frederic Leighton, whose work you’ve only seen printed in books or badly reproduced on postcards, save for a painting in Orsay and one in the Tate Gallery in London.

Booked before your world was tipped off its axis, and you completely forgot about the exhibition. 

Now, there’s a spring in your step when you get out of the car. You got dolled up, and enjoyed doing so, for the first time in what feels like a long while. Red lipstick and loose hair, you even put on a dress, sleeveless with a deep V-cut in the front and in the back, pretty knots tied over your shoulders. If this is a funeral, let it be one worth remembering.

You can barely pace yourself as you make your way through the mixed crowd of tourists and art enthusiasts across the Garden Court of the Frick. Will’s heavy boots resound on the marble flooring as he lengthens his strides to catch up with you. You step into the Oval Room like others walk into churches for mass, with reverent apprehension, devotion, and respect.

And then, it’s there.

Leighton’s masterpiece punches the air out of your lungs. You stare at it in stricken silence, mouth agape, Will standing behind you to your right, arms folded on his chest. 

There’s a small, wistful smile on his lips, as he lets the painting bring him back to his college years and resurfacing lessons on academic style, Victorian era, aesthetic considerations and concepts. Seemingly unproductive yet essential hours spent debating perspectives and artists’ intents, the reminiscence an indulgence only you and your friendship can provide. A futile and necessary contentment only you can share with him. 

You two have discussed it in the past, early in your relationship, when you had asked him if he had any regrets. He had none, he claimed with dignified resignation, save perhaps for the lack of recognition for what he had sacrificed to accomplish his duty. 

After a moment spent in silent contemplation, he takes a step closer to you, and he’s about to share his thoughts when your absent expression stops him in his tracks. You’re standing a few inches from him, yet you are miles, or rather years away from the Oval Room. 

Time has recoiled and wound back like a reversed mechanism. The woman at the centre of the painting, sleeping languidly and with a trustful, serene abandon, is draped in a sheer orange gown, her long, luxuriant hair parted on both sides of her body like a cascading, lush blanket. Above her, the sun sets on a placid sea, under a pastel pink summer sky. 

The gown leaps out of its frame to grip at your throat, its colour louder than any copy you’ve ever seen in art catalogues, Wikipedia page or websites, and you recognise it instantly. This particular shade has been seared into your flesh and your soul. It’s your past and a lost promise. It is love and safety. It is desire and trust. It’s two worlds colliding on a sunny and warm Sunday morning in July. 

There’s a prickling sensation at the corner of your eyes. Will sucks his teeth in and his stare sharpens. Propping his hands on his hips, he takes another step closer to you, and whispers, “You alright, there?”

You run your hands over your arms to hide the shivers that won’t leave your skin. When you speak, it’s in a distant voice, your eyes locked on the rumpled gown hugging the model’s figure.

“You know, my grandparents had curtains just like that in their living-room,” you start. “My grandma was a seamstress. She had made them herself.”

Will nods in silence. 

“Why couldn’t you stay with your grandfather, after she died?” he asks bluntly, albeit in a soft tone. 

You love his forthrightness and have always appreciated his lack of pretence. It puts you at ease, and grants you the freedom to provide him, or not, with an answer.

“I did, for a couple of months, but he was too overwhelmed with grief. It was as though he couldn’t function anymore, without her. He got very depressed, very quickly, and, well, you know what happened next.” 

Will knows, if not in the darkest details, about your difficult relationship with your mother, and your grandfather’s passing within two years of your grandmother’s death.

“What about your father? You never talk about him.”

“Ah yes,” you can’t keep the bitterness out of your scoff, “him. Said he wasn’t ready to be a father. Then went on and married another woman, who got pregnant, like, fifteen minutes later.”

You keep facing the painting, your spine a rigid metal rod, because you don’t think yourself capable of withholding his astonishment and the question you know he’ll ask next. 

“You mean you have siblings?”

“No,” you reply a little too fiercely. “As far as I’m concerned I’m an only child. These people are not my family. I found out about my father’s death two weeks after they’d buried him.”

Behind you, Will exhales slowly, deeply, and you realise he’s standing closer to you than you thought.

“My father loved art,” he says, eventually. “His parents wanted him to learn what they called a ‘real trade’, but he never stopped reading and learning about it. Pretty sure I got it from him. And he certainly never objected when I said I wanted to study it.”

In turn, you sigh and let your hands fall to your sides. 

You stand in silence side by side for a while longer, before he asks again. “So? Is it everything you hoped it would be?”

“It’s more,” you murmur.

“McSorley’s?”

“McSorley’s,” you reply with a nod, drawing away from Flaming June. 

—

Ever since you had landed in Newark, you’d been more than conflicted regarding the transient nature of your stay here. The part of you that hated to be away from Paris for longer than a summer vacation considered the move transitory. An internal countdown was permanently ticking in the back of your head towards the end of your three-year sabbatical, and you had failed - if not refused - to adjust to your new home in more ways than one. Your stubborn use of the metric system being just the comedic tip of the iceberg. 

Yet you had had all your books and belongings shipped to your new address the very day you got the keys to your apartment. You had never even raised the subject with Rosie, let alone with Will or Benny, instead slipping deliberately into a comfortable routine to neutralise your homesickness.  

Will had first taken you to the historical ale house, an East Village institution, after you had confided in him that you missed Europe as a whole. “It’s not that I feel French when I’m here,” you’d said, “I feel European. I can’t explain.” The Irish pub had been his answer, his own vision of good ol’ Europe, and the bar had quickly become a mandatory stop whenever you visited the city together.

It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the dimmer light inside the pub when you follow him in, but the wood chips on the floor, catching on the leather sole of your huaraches sandals, feel comfortingly familiar. 

Will places the order at the bar while you take a sit at one of the round tables, glancing at the hanging wishbones covered in a hundred years worth of greasy dust, wondering, as always, if any of them belonged to a pilot, only this time you know yours has returned from his wars, if not entirely sound and safe. 

Once the waiter has brought in four half pints of McSorley’s ale, you start sharing your impressions on the exhibition, digressing to the importance of the pre-Raphaelites avant-garde in the Victorian Era before the conversation naturally dies. 

The strong ale has given you a pleasant buzz, you’re light-headed, but nicely so, and you prop your elbow on the thick wooden table to rest your face in your hand. Staring emptily at the floor, you’re unaware of Will’s gaze fixed on you. The man is twice your mass and it takes more than a pint of beer to get him remotely tipsy. His next question falls on your neck like a guillotine. 

“So, where do you know Frankie from?”

Your cheek glued to your palm, you pivot your head on your arm to face him, eyes as wide as saucers giving away your alarm.

He leans back against the back of his chair, his forearms on his thighs, impassive, his steely blue eyes plunged into yours, and you feel like a field mouse that fell prey to a hawk.

You want to answer, you really do, but your teeth are stuck together and all you can do is frown, conceal the panic beneath pretend outrage, knowing all too well he will not let go. Sure enough, he seems to rethink and tilts his head to the side, sits up and leans forward over the table. 

“Wait… maybe the better question is, when do you know Frankie from?”

Would it be so bad if it ended here? With Will? The man already knows more about you than his brother does, would the damage be greater if he knew it all? Panic turns to capitulation, and capitulation reshapes into relief. 

The dead weight of weeks of dissimulation slowly slides off your shoulders. You straighten up, eventually, and look your friend in the eyes when you answer, in a flat tone, “1999.”

Whether he didn’t expect such an easy win or didn’t suspect such a long time, Will is visibly taken aback, and you ponder if you should speak first or wait for him to question you further. The man has been trained in interrogation techniques, you might want to take the lead in that conversation. Is he still your friend? 

Your voice is hoarse, and the prickling sensation is swelling again under your eyelids, but your mind is clear. Deep inside your chest, a foreign feeling flares up, one that you fail to identity at first.

“We met at a party I went to with Rosie. It was in July. Just before he joined the Army. We-” your words get stuck in your dry throat, your eyes flicking down to your empty glasses, fuck this is harder than anything, “we spent the weekend together.”

A single tear rolls down your cheek, that you only register when it reaches your jaw and hangs there before it falls on your forearm. Anger. What you feel is anger. 

“So it was just a one-off thing?” he prods.

More tears threaten to spill and you look upward to try to hold them back, breathing in through your nose and exhaling shakily through parted lips. When you look at him again, your face conveys so much pain and disillusion, he falls back against his chair, as if to avoid the ripples of your sadness. 

“What do you think, William? Would you be here, asking me those questions, if it was just a one-off thing?”

You take in the embarrassment on his face when he hangs his head, running his tongue other his teeth. 

“Yes,” he concedes. “So what happened?”

“We got separated by dumb fucking bad luck, is what happened. I lost his number, that’s the short version.” You let the implications sink in. “Does Benny… suspect anything?” you add in a small voice, hoping you don’t sound as despicable as you feel. 

“No. No, he doesn’t,” Will answers slowly. “But he’s worried. Said you were growing distant.”

Tears are freely rolling down your cheeks, now, but your brow remains knitted in anger. You can’t shake that off, nor do you want to, because it might be the last thing keeping you upright. 

Will’s voice is considerably softer when he asks, “What are you going to do, then?”

“I don’t want to hurt him, you know,” you reply aggressively, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand.

“Oh you’re gonna hurt him,” he shoots back matter-of-factly, “I know you don’t want to, I believe you. But you will. I don’t know what you…” he trails off and reaches across the table to cover your hand with his, encircling your wrist with his strong fingers, giving it a hard squeeze as he continues in a tone of confidence. 

“Look. I’ve known Frankie for a little over 10 years. To me, he’s always been like- like a puzzle with a missing piece. And then- then I see you together, in the same room… you’re not even talking… and I see the missing piece.”

A repressed sob shakes your chest and you pull your arm back to free your hand from his grip, so you can blow your nose, dry your cheeks, anything to give the illusion of composure, but he doesn’t let you.

“I don’t know what you’re gonna do, but I can’t imagine you staying with my brother, now. So whether you leave him for his best friend, or you just leave him, he’s gonna hurt.”

Letting go of your hand, he leans back again, shrugging his bulky shoulders, “It’s gonna be rough, probably on all of us but, I mean, that’s life. It’s not on you. This clown is lucky he didn’t get his heart broken earlier.” 

It’s not on you.  

A couple of days ago, his words would have triggered the imperious need to go home and give up, once more take it out on yourself, smoke a pack of lung cancer sticks, get shitfaced and blackout. 

So that you can keep soldiering on and show the world that you haven’t let your traumas and your losses define you. 

Will moves to stop you from digging your nails in your forearm, but you recoil from his touch, angry tears spilling out. 

“Hey,” he calls, his palm extended toward you, his brow knitted in concern, “hey, I mean it. It’s not your fault. It’s a shitty situation. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

The image of Frankie’s cap on your countertop flashes through your mind, the ghost sensation of his hand spanning your body raising a new trail of goosebumps on your skin. 

“I’m gonna need you to tell me that you’re hearing this,” he tries again. “It is not your fault.” 

Slowly, his right hand reaches your forearm, grabbing it and pulling it gently away from your other arm. His grip on you is almost tender, and after a few seconds, you register the little circles his thumb is tracing on your skin. 

“I hear you,” you articulate, eyes closed, before swallowing thickly, “I hear you,” you repeat, giving him the reassurance of eye contact.  

“Do you have any idea of what you’re gonna do?”

The depth of his insightfulness causes your head to spin a little. Around you, the bar has filled up, people stepping in for drinks after a day of work, tourists with thick annotated guides on their tables, happy chatter and laughter bouncing off the walls covered with framed pictures of patrons from yesteryears, their solemn faces looking down on you. 

“Yes,” you start, aware that speaking your plan out loud will give it substance and compel you to put it into motion, “I’m going to leave Benny.”

He gives you an encouraging nod, but his expression remains neutral, enabling you to continue, “I’ll speak to him tomorrow. I have to see Frankie, first, make sure he doesn’t tell him anything. I’ll tell Benny I met someone else, or that I’m not in love and things are getting too serious, I don’t know, he can hate me, it’s probably better, as long as he doesn’t lose his best friend.”

Will folds his arms on his chest and remains silent for an excruciatingly long moment, visibly weighing his next words. You know him well enough to understand that your willingness to shoulder the blame on your own forces his admiration. You’re not being entirely honest, however. Benny’s not really the one you want to protect. So when he speaks next, his words shoot through your body like a stray bullet. 

“And where does that leave us?” 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper inaudibly under the cacophony of the pub, your throat closing up, and you clench your eyes shut to hold back a new wave of tears, hiding your face in your hand. 

His heavy sigh sounds like defeat. He leans forward, hesitant, reaching for your hand once more, before changing his mind and sliding his napkin towards you across the table. 

“Ok, let’s go, I’ll drive you home,” he offers, standing up and placing his hand on your shoulder. 

“I need you to give me Frankie’s address, Will,” you say, dabbing the corner of your eyes with the tissue, removing small flakes of black mascara from your eyelids. 

His grasp on your shoulder tightens.

“He’s up north. Come on, it’s late, I’ll drive you.”

—

Six months of probation, with weekly drug tests. Any refusal to comply and he’s welcome to seek employment elsewhere.

Frankie slams the front door of his house behind him and throws the keys onto the console table next to it. It’ll be six months until he can fly again, working as a mechanic under tech support supervision, with this asshole Giovanni who ratted him out bossing him around. Back to square one, and for what. A stupid, minor coke bust.

Storming into the open kitchen, he gets a bottle of beer out of the fridge, uncaps it and tosses the cap on the table, where it ricochets and falls on the tiled floor. The cold glass pressed against his right cheek does little to temper his mood, but he leaves it there for a minute, until the condensation runs down his hand and into his beard. 

They had him drive over first thing Monday morning only to keep him waiting around all day, and have him come back again today to inform him of the conditions of his reinstatement, adding humiliation to injury. Well played.

He falls heavily on a kitchen chair, his blood boiling over the fast downward spin his life has recently taken, and the six months freshly added to his sixteen years of penance. 

“You gotta get back on your game, pendejo. It stops now,” he mutters to the bottle in his hand.

Just because you’re not his doesn’t alter the fact that he doesn’t want you to bear witness to his fuck-ups. You’re here. You’re real. 

Two days later, he has barely come down from the intoxicating sensation that came with the smoothness of your skin under his fingers, the weight of your breast in his hand, your scent between his lips, he could almost taste you as he ran his tongue over them, rushing back down the stairs. 

And the elation, the vengeful rightfulness he felt, taking the passenger seat of the Mustang next to Benny. The thought ugly and rampant, stifling his lungs, envy, near hostility, as he glanced in his direction from under the brim of his hat with ill-concealed fury. Resentment over his happiness, simmering and threatening to choke him until he had to remind himself that he would never have found you again if it wasn’t for him. Wouldn’t even be alive, for that matter. 

But fuck. You are his. 

You chased his mouth with yours. He didn’t imagine that. Reached out for his skin, moved by the same frantic need that made him seek yours. Dug your nails in his arms and your scent on that pillow…

“FUCK!”

The chair crashes with a clatter onto the floor when he stands up.

The last time he experienced this level of irritation was on the field, calling out Pope for challenging Redfly’s orders while they were under enemy fire, and his fingers flex around nothing, around the ghost presence of a gun. 

His doorbell jolts him out of the traumatic memory, his dark eyes flicking up to the front door. He’s in no mood to entertain visitors. He’ll sit this one out, he decides, falling still and silent, until your muffled voice comes in from outside, hesitant and apologetic. 

“Frankie?”

He’s at the door in two steps and swings it open so forcefully your hair flies with the pull of air. 

The first thing he sees is your dress, long, black and with a deep cleavage plunging down to your midriff, dragging his thoughts along the way, but when his eyes flicker back up to your face, dread flares up in his gut.

Small red spots linger tellingly around your swollen eyes, and there’s a shadow of wiped lipstick on your lips. 

“What happened? Are you ok?” he rasps before noticing Will’s pickup doubled parked in the street behind you. 

His frown deepens when his friend nods in his direction, starting the engine, and his puzzled gaze follows the vehicle until it turns right and disappears around the block.

You’re left standing here, on his doorstep, silently looking up at him, and he doesn’t know what to do with you. 

“Come in,” he mumbles, stepping to the side to let you pass, but not enough that you won’t brush his arm with yours. 

Seeing you in his home is disorienting, and guilt makes him wince, thinking about what he put you through two days ago. 

You seem lost in the large open space, trying to decide between the living-room and the kitchen, so you turn around and face him, a few feet away from his standing, rigid figure. For a brief moment, he thinks you’ll ask him for help, but instead you take your purse and position it in front of you, so he takes a step back away from you. 

“I have to talk to you,” you start in a breathy voice. 

“What happened?” he asks again. 

“Nothing happened, not like that,” you add. “Last Saturday I told Rosie I saw you again. And she won’t talk to me anymore,” you explain shakily. “And Will knows. We went to the city together today, and he asked… Well, anyway. He knows.“

“Surprised he didn’t find out before,” he grumbles. 

“I think he’s suspected for a while.” 

“Yea, sounds like him,” he agrees.

His understanding stands between you, an overwhelming reminder of their enduring friendship, of their history and their bond. You deflate, suddenly, fiddling nervously with the strap of your bag, averting your eyes when Frankie lifts off his cap and combs his fingers through his dark curls.

“Do you have any alcohol?” you ask. 

He sighs heavily before asking, “What do you want?” 

“Something strong. Whiskey. Do you have whiskey?”

“I’m not giving you alcohol. What do you want?”

His voice is loud and clear. It travels around every surface of the room until it comes crashing into your ears. It’s not a question, not really, it’s an injunction to decide, a desperate demand to set him on his next course, whatever it may be, and as your silence stretches between you, time slowly swirls into a million eternities. 

“I want you,” you answer soberly, your shoulders sagging with the confession, and the sadness he had vowed to chase away forever ago in the orange bedroom dims your wide eyes. “I never taught myself to want anything else but you, Frankie. But that’s not possible. You will lose too much. I’ve seen you together. He trusts you. And you love him. I can’t destroy that.”

His frustration is palpable, it makes the air thrum around him. Everything in his body, in his posture, betrays his state of mind, from the nervous grind of his teeth to the hard grip of his fingers on his hip, from his corded neck to his glaring eyes. 

He wants to tell you that it’s too late. That his fondness for Benny was irredeemably tarnished the minute you stepped into that bar with your hand wrapped in his, probably longer before that, at the very second Benny deluded himself into thinking he could ever give you what you needed. 

That you are not to blame for his resentment. That your self-hatred and your culpability make him want to scream until his vocal cords snap. That he can shield you from it, if you only let him, please, let him protect you from it, and from the rest, from anything and everything.  

“I wish you would let me decide,” he says as gently as he possibly can, but the restraint in his voice remains audible, and threatening. 

And through it, you hear everything he cannot tell you. And you believe him, believe he would keep you safe, from the world and from yourself, that he holds that much power. But how can you possibly choose your own happiness over his? 

Defeated, you let go of your bag, let it sway over your hip before it stills and hangs by your side. 

“I am going to leave him. Tomorrow. I mean tonight,” you state. “And then I’ll go home.”

Frankie straightens up, raising to his full height, lips parted, hardly breathing, for the word has hit him in the chest. 

“Home,” he repeats huskily. 

“Home. Paris.” The familiar name catches in your throat like a large bone, and you clench your teeth with all of your strength, giving yourself the illusion of a will power you fear you don’t possess.  

“No.”

You’ve never heard him speak this loud, and the determination in his voice makes you flinch, your bag falling on the tiles. What happens next unfolds so fast you don’t even think to recoil, your feet are riveted to the floor and all you do is watch, watch Frankie grab his cap and throw it in the room at random, watch him march towards you with heavy footsteps and stop abruptly, an inch short from your trembling body. 

His right hand curls at his side, once, twice, before he reaches up and places it at the base of your neck, large and firm and burning. His thumb is on your pulse point, where your heart is leaping in a frantic, erratic thrum, the exposed expanse of your skin a siren song to his lips. 

He stands so tall and solid, you have to tilt your head up to look at him, and times stills, at last, your whole world contained in the dark pools of his eyes. You feel so tiny under his palm, once again the urge to fit you inside him overthrows everything he has ever stood for. 

“I’m so tired, Frankie,” you implore. 

He lowers his face over yours, his lips brushing against your lips. 

“Stay,” he says, and his entire life vacillates on the tip of his plea. 

****

Bonus: Flaming June, Frederic, Lord Leighton (British, Scarborough 1830–1896 London), 1895. Oil on canvas, 119.1 × 119.1 cm. Museo de Arte de Ponce.

Taglist (thank you 🧡): @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine @nicolethered @littleone65 @bands-tv-movies-is-me @the-rambling-nerd @saintbedelia @pedrostories @trickstersp8 @all-the-way-down-here @deadmantis @hbc8 @princessdjarin @harriedandharassed @girlofchaos @gracie7209 @mrsparknuts

[ca-8]

Yakko x Reader Scenario: When You First Meet

'This is it. The beginning of the end.' 

Gripping on the straps of her backpack, (Y/n) exited the bus and stared up at the water tower that displayed the famous Warner Bros. logo. As expected, it emitted a smug aura onto the entire area; however, surprisingly, there was a slight twinge of mystery to it as well. But she didn't have time to ponder about it, so she only gave it an uneasy look and headed straight for the entrance.

Her heart stopped. She knew the place was going to be busy, but it was like an entire New York City packed in one section! So many writers, producers, actors, large men carrying heavy sets, every type of person working in film was scattered all over the place. It was like an ocean, with the people as marine life doing what they're designed to do, and (Y/n) being the puppy that was abandoned at sea.

The moment it all settled in, an involuntary realization invaded her thoughts. 'I don't belong here.'

The young girl reminded herself to breathe and rushed over to a vacant wall, then pulled out her phone. She had already sent her mother about a thousand messages telling her she was here, but since she hasn't responded, a few more shouldn't hurt. Fingers rapidly typing away, she bit her lower lip, already wishing she had stayed on that bus. 

"Oh, you're just gonna love it!" Her mother's squealing voice had already filled her skull. "You're so talented, I know you're gonna fit right in."

'Yeah, standing around all day with a bunch of people I don't know while doing something I suck at is exactly how I wanna spend my summer.' She let out a soft sigh. 'It's fine. Just shut up and make her happy, (Y/n).'

Several attempts of calling and texting later, no response. (Y/n) sighed again, and her eyes wandered over to the bustling crowd. 'No way. Absolutely no way.' But if she wanted to get the day over with, absolutely yes way.

First, she walked up to a lady looking down at the clipboard in her hands. "Um, excuse me," (Y/n) said. 

The lady's head snatched up. "KYLE!" she yelled, her eyes now ablaze with fury, "YOU IDIOT! THAT GOES IN THE WAREHOUSE ACROSS THE STUDIO!" And like there was nothing but a breeze behind her, the lady stomped off to the poor soul that had to face her wrath.

The breeze took a step back and ran around the corner. 'Maybe I'll find someone else instead…!' (Y/n) stopped and spotted a man sitting on the steps that lead to the entrance of a small building. She swallowed whatever was left in her mouth and reluctantly approached him. 

"E-Excuse me, sir?" she stuttered, hoping her voice was louder than the last time. As she got closer, (Y/n) noticed he was chuckling, and his gaze was glued onto a small piece of paper. 

"I...I did it…!" he said. She yelped and shrinked back when he suddenly jumped to his feet. "I FINALLY DID IT! WE'LL SEE WHO'S REGRETTING THE DIVORCE NOW, MARGARET!" And with a manic laugh, the man dashed into the building. 

'...Or maybe I'll just find it myself.'

It wasn't too long before (Y/n) got herself lost. Despite the help of maps that were stuck to some of the buildings, all of them seemed exactly the same. It was like a maze, and with each passing minute, she was more and more convinced that there was no finish line. Even worse, her mother was too busy to respond to anything she sent her. 

'Oh, what should I do?' (Y/n) thought for the thousandth time. No matter how hard she pinched or held them, her arms refused to stop trembling. Not too long ago, the outside of the studio became deserted and she'd hate to walk in a warehouse and possibly interrupt something important, so asking for help again was out of the question.

...Or, perhaps it wasn't. 

A tiny, hopeful smile crossed (Y/n)'s face when she heard the sounds of frustrated grunts around the corner. It was the first time she was so relieved to see a stranger. 

And thank god that stranger was a security guard. Though she wondered why he had a giant net in his hand, she shoved the curiosity as far in the back of her mind as she could and reached up to gently tap his shoulder. 

"Um, excuse me sir?" she asked as loud as she could. 

His head whipped around, revealing angry eyes and a scowl that said he was ready to kill. But right as his gaze landed on her, it changed within an instant. 

"Oh, hello!" he said with a bright smile. 

(Y/n) blinked, cocking her head. ‘What was this guy up to?’

"I'm sorry to bother you, but do you know where (M/n) (L/n) is filming? I'm her daughter, (Y/n), and I'm trying to look for her. She's not answering her phone either."

His joyful expression slowly melted into a confused one. "Uuhhh…(M/n) (L/n)?”

“Yes. She’s a part of Animal Kingdom? Do you know where that’s being filmed?”

“Oh! I know there’s a zoo around here called Animal Kingdom! I don’t think you’ll find it in a film studio, though.”

(Y/n) frowned. “...No, I mean the show. Aren’t they filming in a warehouse today? Do you know where that is?”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

Her eye twitched, and she was just about ready to drown the entire studio in the nearest ocean. “N-Nevermind, I’ll just-”

As if the universe wasn’t satisfied with tormenting her enough, the security guard suddenly launched up into the air and flew into the sky. Right before her eyes, the heavens were coated with explosives of every color that ever existed. 

“Oh my god!” (Y/n) yelled. ‘Who strapped fireworks on that guy?!’

“Oh, I knew you’d love it!”

Her eyes were ripped from the loud fireworks show as she was immediately smothered in a hug. “It’s so nice that another girl’s here! All the other ones here are either too busy or just keep shouting about a restraining order for some reason. I dunno, but anyway, I just know you're gonna love it here! Anyway, my name’s Princess Angelina Louisa Cantessa Francesca Banana Fanna Bo Besca the third! But since we're friends now, you can just call me Dot.”

This confirmed it. This was a trap set up by her mother to deliberately drive her insane, because how else can someone explain the nut jobs and talking dogs in pink dresses? 

A combination of those two things happened to be clutching her head and digging her face into hers. “...Huh?” (Y/n) mumbled.

‘Dot’ jumped off of her and smiled widely. “Sorry about Ralph by the way. I figured out you were coming at the last second and I really needed someone for your welcoming gift.” she said.

(Y/n) glanced up at the sky where the fireworks were slowly dying down. “Um...Is he gonna be okay?” she asked.  

“Of course he will!” her backpack said.

The teen screamed and threw her bag on the ground. A hand popped out and unzipped it with impossible ease, then a taller boy version of Dot jumped out, pulling up his long brown pants and flashing a grin. 

“H-...H-H-How did you…?!” (Y/n) stuttered, pointing at him. 

“What? Never heard of cartoon logic?” he said, approaching her. “And Ralph’ll be fine. His skull’s so thick, concrete’s the last thing that can kill him.”

“What-?”

“Anyhow,” he walked over to Dot and put an arm over her shoulder, “The name’s Yakko, this here’s my beloved baby sister Dot, and this is-” He stopped, staring at the empty space to his left. He leaned into Dot, whispering, “Say, uh, you don't mind looking for Wakko, do ya sis?”

Dot glanced at (Y/n) for an uncomfortable moment and suddenly shot her brother a glare. "I've got eyes all over this studio, Yakko," she warned, slowly stepping away.

Now (Y/n) certainly knew she didn't see pairs of eyes appear around every inch of her sight. 'Oh god, I didn't breath in drugs on the way here, did I? Actually, that would explain whatever the heck's going on.'

Yakko smiled as he watched his sister leave and turned to (Y/n). He walked closer to her, and she realized that his half-lidded eyes had a strange glint in them. “Sooo, your name’s (Y/n), right? A pretty name for a pretty girl.”

(Y/n)’s face heated up. ‘First I get lost, then see a guy get blown up, and now some other guy’s flirting with me? ...To be honest, this is still better than what Mom had planned for today.’

“So what brings ya’ here?” he asked.

“O-Oh, well, my Mom was supposed to give me a tour of the studio, but I’ve been giving that to myself all day. I tried finding her, but I’m pretty sure I’m nowhere near it by now.” Her eyes wandered over to the ground, but a realization made them perk back up and over to Yakko. “Hey, do you happen to know this place by any chance?”

“Know it? Please, my sibs and I live here, we know this place by heart and soul!” He mumbled something else, along the lines of “Basically made our hearts and souls”. 

Her heart jumped; finally, a piece of good news. “Really?” she said, a smile spreading across her face.

He nodded. “So where do ya’ need to go?” Before she could answer, he pulled out a piece of folded paper and moved in so close, their shoulders were smooshed together. Yakko unfolded it, and it turned out to be the biggest map (Y/n) has ever seen. “Well, from here, you’re gonna need to take a right and continue straight until you get to the Harry Potter and Fantastic Beasts exhibit. But be careful, I heard some of them escaped, and if anyone asks if you’ve seen any of them, don’t tell them I gave one to Dot as a late birthday gift. Anyway, you take a left from there, then a right where you’ll see the lot where they used to shoot Game of Thrones. Now this is only a rumour I’ve heard, but I think some of the producers are still on that set. If you happen to see them, do not, I repeat, DO NOT mention season eight, or maybe just don’t mention the show at all. Actually, don’t even look at them. As a matter of fact, you probably shouldn’t even go there at all, just keep heading straight until you get to the D.C. Universe lot. Then you just take left there, then a sharp right over over, then you keep going straight until you get to here, turn up over there, turn right there, and then you’re there. Did ya’ follow all that?”

(Y/n) stared at his face, which was practically radiating with enthusiasm, and she felt her eye twitch again. “...No,” she said, shaking her head.

His smile dimmed, but it became just as bright as the sun again a split-second later. “Ah well, maps are gettin' old anyways,” he said, throwing the map over his shoulder. “WAKKO!!”

And, low and behold, another anthropomorphic dog popped out of nowhere, and (Y/n) was starting to question if there was an army of them hidden somewhere. But she had to admit, it was pretty cute how this one was dressed in an oversized blue sweater and red hat. 

“Tablet, please,” Yakko said politely, holding out his hand. 

‘You're not gonna walk me there-?'

Wakko suddenly held his head back with his cheeks puffed out, then leaned into Yakko’s hand as he forced out a small object from his mouth. After an incredibly uneasy moment, a tablet glazed in spit was in Yakko's grasp. While he praised the little guy, (Y/n) forced back the urge to vomit.

“E-Ehhhh…?” She couldn’t say anything else while her gaze frantically went back and forth from Wakko and the regurgitated tablet. 

“Oh! Where are my manners?” Yakko said. “(Y/n), this is my dear little brother, Wakko. Wakko, this here’s our new special friend, (Y/n).” 

“Hello!” Wakko greeted, who was suddenly in her arms. “You’re really pretty!”

“Ehh? Thank you? I guess??” she said apprehensively, and finally managed to make eye contact. Despite his...quirks, he's actually a little adorable... She let herself grin a little.

The moment of semi-peace was ruined when she took notice of Yakko’s narrowed eyes. “ALrighty, (Y/n)!” he said loudly, grabbing his little brother by the collar and gently setting him on the ground. “Animal Kingdom, right? Let’s get ya’ right over there.” He moved right beside her and taped the screen a couple times. 

“Um, what’re you doing exactly?” she asked.

“Doing what every person does to get somewhere nowadays.” He grabbed her waist and pulled her against him, and (Y/n) flinched from his touch. “Please keep your arms, legs, and personal items inside the tablet at all times.”

Just when she was about to question him for the hundredth time, he pressed the screen again, and her vision became nothing but white. Her body felt like it was launched into a tornado; a strong force of wind thrusted her back, and somehow, the boy’s arm kept her from flying off from his side. A second later, her feet were back on the ground, the sky was where it needed to be, and reality was back in place. 

Except for (Y/n)’s mentality. 

She stumbled around, trying to find her balance as the world unbearably whirled around her. Finally, she shook her head, and quickly turned back towards Yakko, whose face tried to tell her whatever happened was perfectly fine and normal. 

“What was THAT?” she yelled, staggering towards him and gripping his shoulders.

And he still had the audacity to have that 'why-are-you-freaking-out-so-much-we-do-this-every-Friday' smile. “Thank you for attending Warner’s Travel Tours! I would say my Agent Ralph’ll take your bags, but I left him alone with my sibs, so he’s probably in the middle of the Pacific Ocean by now.”

(Y/n) could only stare at him. Her mind was twisting and turning, trying so hard to make any sense of what happened but only making her headache grow larger and larger. And then, her thoughts just went blank.

She smirked. Then giggled. And a few seconds later, she had burst out laughing whilst holding her stomach. (Y/n) looked back up at Yakko, wiping a tear from her eye. “Th-Thank you…” she said, catching her breath. 

His smile had grown and she thought his white cheeks were red for a moment. Yakko had opened his mouth, but whatever he was about to say was cut off by a net suddenly covering his entire body. Ralph was behind him, his skin and clothes burnt and ears practically smoking. “You’re coming with me, Warner!” he said.

And yet, Yakko only grinned. Like physics was his enemy, he disappeared from inside the net and appeared sprouting from the security guard’s back, cheerfully waving at (Y/n). “I’ll see ya’ around, yeah?” he said, then ran around the corner with Ralph sprinting right after him.

(Y/n) giggled and reached for the straps around her back. But when she only felt the (f/c) fabric of her shirt, her smile dropped, and a deep sigh escaped her lips. “Great…” she whispered.

“(Y/N)!” 

She gasped as a pair of arms squeezed the life out of her. Her mother spun her around to face her gleaming smile, which was immediately replaced by an apologetic frown. “I’m so sorry I didn’t get your texts! That scene took forever, but I’m glad you found your way here! You’re so smart! Anyway, I know we don’t get as much time now, but there’s still so much we’ll be able to see!...”

She rambled on and on and on and on. Her daughter’s shoulders slumped and she followed her to where she wanted her to go, but the frown on her face didn’t last long when she remembered the fun she had just a few seconds ago. ‘Maybe this summer won’t be that bad.’

[janetbrown711]

My headcanons about Queen Angelina II

Majority of these can be seen in this fic, so if you like the idea go check it out ;)

Also- a handful of these are shared with the lovely @madelynartz, who also has fantastic takes on her, so be sure to check out their post too

If you want me to draw/write any of these specific headcanons/moments, just send an ask and I’ll probably do it

I’ll (likely) be making another, seperate post for William when i feel like it

Update: I have

This is gonna be a long post-

Early Life:

Her parents weren't very loving or caring, only ever wanting her to work on her studies and singing

Her mother was worse than her father, as she was egotistical and always critical of Angelina II and always seemed to find problems with things and people that made her happy

Her mother also always went by her full name (You had to refer to her as Queen Angelina Contessa Louisa Francesca Banana Fanna Bo Besca the First- she wouldn't let people shorten it)

Naturally- Angelina resented her mother and with that, her own name.

She hates it when people say her full name- "Just Angelina is fine"

But if she especially likes you, you can call her Lena ;)

Since the only thing her parents approved of was studying, she devoured the entire castle library as a child, which left her often more informed than her tudors, which left her bored during lessons and she quickly became a "smart-ass" as she liked to talk back and figure out the ways she could get out of lessons

She hated the idea of getting betrothed, and any time a suitor would come over, she'd attack his pride in any form she could think of to get them to hate her, and she was successful

One of the suitors was Prince Salazar

She hated Salazar the most

Despite her attitude being well known across several kingdoms, rumors of her beauty and wonderous singing kept them coming

Her father, King Harold the Eighth, died when she was 10, and she could hardly say she really grieved him, but it made her mother more distant and sometimes outright cruel

She met William when he was 15 in the royal stables when he was training to be a squire

He fell in love instantly, though Angelina wanted to get to know him first

They were the best of friends since they met, though it was obvious Queen Angelina I disapproved

However, after awhile Angelina just stopped caring about what her mother thought entirely and was much better off

She and William loved to garden together, and always planted new flowerbeds in the palace garden every spring

William proposed when he was 22 and she was 21

Obviously she said yes, but they had to keep it hidden from her mother, who would likely take William away

Luckily for them, Angelina I died a month after he proposed, and the two were quickly married.

Yakko:

Yakko was born 10 months after their wedding

Angelina fell in love instantly, declaring him to be the cutest baby she had ever seen

She's terrible with names, and never named her children until after they were born

She hated the idea of giving him a really long and convoluted name, or a name that was in her family (like Harold the 9th)

And so Yakko it was

She didn't expect motherhood to be so exhausting, but hearing Yakko's laugh for the first time made everything worth it to her

Yakko began babbling at a younger age than most, and he babbled constantly, even in his sleep. Angelina loved to just sit and listen to him try to tell stories in nonsense baby language

However, Yakko seemed to have a preference for hearing William give the bedtime stories, as when she tried to read he got fussy

Once he was able to explain he said "daddo does the voices" and that he preferred her lullabies anyway

It hurt at first, but she understood. William was an excellent story teller, though he did have a tendency to ramble at times

Yakko's favorite story was of how they met

She's very protective, and if he was sick or hurt, she'd never leave his side

Her hair used to be very, very long but once Yakko was able to grab things and kept yanking her hair, she chopped it all off and has kept it short ever since

Wakko:

Wakko didn’t cry or breathe when he was born, so for the first moments of his life, Angelina and William feared he was dead

He wasn’t dead though, and they rejoiced greatly, and cried a lot

Angelina refused to let go of him though, and they were only able to get Wakko away from her when she fell asleep from exhaustion

After about a week or so, she relaxed more, but she needless to say her protectiveness went to new heights 

“Lena, Yakko slept in a crib all the time, it’s fine-” “How do you know that?” “Lena, I was there.”

William did always have a way to reassure her though

However, the extra layer of protectiveness was kinda needed for Wakko, as he loved to bite and chew on everything and anything he could get his little hands on (including his own tail)

She eventually gained what William described as a “sixth sense” where she could just tell when Wakko put something he wasn’t supposed to in his mouth.

Wakko didn’t talk much when he was young, especially when compared to Yakko, though his brother seemed to get him to talk even more than his parents could

They didn’t mind though, whatever worked, worked

Wakko loved following Yakko everywhere he went the moment he could crawl. Angelina thought it was adorable.

Wakko had a tendency to hurt himself a lot (whether by tripping, crashing, bitting his tail too hard, etc.) which forced Angelina to learn that he’ll be okay, and not to overreact or panic, as he was most certainly not made of glass

Angelina had a tendency to be a worry-wart

Dot: 

Angelina became pregnant with Dot right before tensions with Ticktockia started to rise, but William was determined not to let that ruin their optimism about having another child that was hopefully a girl

Angelina really wanted a girl bc Yakko and Wakko didn’t like dressing up and she really hoped a girl would, though she knew there wasn’t ever a guarantee, but she hoped

Angelina went into labor in the middle of a meeting with an ambassador from Ticktockia, but forced herself to finish it bc she ain’t a quitter

Despite Dot being her third child, she took the longest to actually deliver (two days), likely due to the exhaustion from countless meetings with Ambassadors and the stress of trying to avoid war bc King Salazar decided past treaties suddenly didn’t mean anything

Angelina had originally been against giving her her name, as she still associated it with her mother, but William said that he only thought of her, and that she was a much better mother and person than Angelina I could’ve ever been, which changed her mind.

However, she had thought of the name Dot before she was born, and liked it to so she and William agreed they’d just call her that for short, and if you asked them “how is Dot short for Princess Angelina blah blah blah the Third, they’d reply “it just is”)

Though she wouldn’t tell Yakko or Wakko, Dot was most certainly the cutest baby of them all

Wakko and Yakko loved to just... stand over Dot’s crib and watch her do things

Wakko also didn’t grasp what a baby was, and would often try to make her do things, and when she wouldn’t he’d get upset and Angelina or William would have to explain why she can’t play with him with the toy soldiers

She’d often just ramble on and on to Dot as she slept while William watched the boys, talking about the new treaties going up, and how worried she was about what Salazar would do if he didn’t agree with the new treaties and deals. It made her feel better. 

To also ease her worries, she taught Yakko how to take care of his sister. How to burp her, how to change her, how to give her a bath, etc. She hated thinking about what could possibly happen, but knowing they’d survive somehow made her feel much better. 

Dot was three months old when the attack happened, and Angelina wished she had had more time with her before dying.

Misc. (bc I refuse to end on a bad/depressing note)

She had family portraits made after each of her kids were born bc she wanted to always remember how cute of babies they were

Her lullabies worked like magic in terms of getting the three of them to sleep

If you asked her, she thinks Yakko has her eyes, Wakko has her nose, and Dot has her eyes and face shape

In the space between her mother dying and their wedding, she met Hello Nurse, who was a childhood friend of William’s, and they hit it off quite well- so much so that Angelina offered her a job in the castle, but she refused, saying she had plans with some doctor in Acme Falls, which Angelina respected. 

She one time tried to practice knitting in hopes of knitting the kiddos a blanket, but she was  t e r r i b l e  at it, and gave up after a week of trying

William and her liked to throw balls at least once a year, and everyone agreed they were the best dancers out there (what they didn’t know was how much practice Angelina had to put in to get a sense of rhythm- she was a terrible dancer, and William’s natural grace when dancing far exceeded her own)

Despite others protesting, Angelina always suspected that the reason tension was growing with Ticktockia was because Salazar was jealous and upset that she married some random knight rather than him (a theory that was proven right to her right before her death)

Her favorite food was bananas

William was a huge cuddler, so they’d cuddle close every night

she personally tutored Yakko on things like history and geography, as she felt those tended to be the most boring classes, and she wanted to have some part in his education, as she hated all of her teachers when she was a kid

She often didn’t know when to shut up, which did end up costing her in the end, but she didn’t regret a single word she said before her death, as Salazar deserved every bit of it. 

[trashcora]

This is a Tumblr hug, pass it on to your ten favorite followers and mutuals! 💞💝💖💘💗

FANNA! Ilysm💖💗💕 I hope you’re having a fantastical day🤗

[painedpower]

hands u my url 💖

Becca Becca bo-eccaBanana fanna fo-feccaFee, fy, mo-mecca. Becca! .    Honest i’m a bit down rn and seeing your url in my ask box just made me a lil happy got a little smile becaus e i love your blog so much and i admire who you are as a person sososo much YOU PLAY SUCH FANTASTIC CHARACTERS and write them so well please never forget this okaayyy??

[pedrorascal]

F4 Entertainment Weekly Photoshoot BTS ||| SDCC 2024 to @iamasaddie 💞

[intheorangebedroom]

Oh Fanna darling...

Thank you so much for all this... I can't possibly admit to how many times I've read your two reblogs... They get me emotional every single time. Thank you for taking the time to read, and to write all this!! Plus, you make me feel so seen 🥺

That's exactly the point I was trying to make in this chapter: despite the time and distance, and even though she's a fully grown woman now, he still reads her at an organic level. And yes, better than Benny. The way Frankie senses her nervousness at the dealership and gives her physical reassurance is supposed to mirror the same gesture, on the very first time, when they leave the party, and he wraps his arm around her. Something that is lost on Benny when they arrive in the bar, for instance...

Don't get me wrong, Benny is the perfect boyfriend. Remember what he did for her on New Year's Eve? I mean, yes please! But Frankie and Reader are the stuff of... well, fairy tales 🤷🏻‍♀️ Soulmates. And so, likewise, she pushes him to open up and give her his darkest regrets, because she'll take them all and carry them with him (and will still love him).

As for the code names... I had been thinking about it ever since I first watched this movie, but @the-ginger-hedge-witch, this absolute queen, has a sassy/smart (her brand) explanation for them that you can read here. Just like my Reader, I had never heard the word Catfish before and had ZERO idea about what it meant in this context (still don't, tbh). So Ren's answer inspired me for what you know, since we've talked about it 😉 But my favourite has to be Tom's Redfly!

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING and for your investment in this story, Fanna, I LOVE YOU 💕💕💕

Pleased to meet you, chapter 12

Summary: You gave in to Benny, sort of, and now you have to go buy a goddamn car. You and Frankie find yourselves alone together for the first time in nearly 16 years.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x French fem!Reader.

Rating: Explicit 🔞

TW: cryptic mention of self-harm.

A/N: Voilà, they're talking. Jfc the struggle... I'm still in a state of shock (and exhaustion). I think I'm satisfied about the substance of this chapter, not so sure about the form. Some of you might recognise some lines from the movie... I'm insanely grateful for anyone who interacts with this story, for your support and for sticking with them this far! *presses post now and goes drink a tall glass of Bailey's*

Word Count: 7.1k (oops)

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Chapter 12: The Drive Home

The two of you didn’t talk much over the course of the weekend because there was no need for words. The synchronicity between you was evident, if one that he couldn’t explain. The implicit trust and shameless want he saw in your wide eyes was a high he never found anywhere else, no matter how many drugs he tried.

You were you, and you craved him.

Most of the talking had been done on the fire escape. Favourite books, favourite movies, favourite musics. Politics and values, dreams and allegiances. The differences welcome, no real divergence, only promises. 

In retrospect, this was another regret. So many questions he should have asked. He never forgot your reaction when he called you baby. How you tensed up in his hold like a wild animal, like you’d never known love, or you had forgotten that life could be sweet. Your sadness had torn a gaping hole in his chest. How many times had you say, “sorry”? The first night, at least. He’d spent the following days erasing it, thoroughly, lovingly. There was what you were, and what you’d been taught. Who had done this to you? 

And yet, in spite of your apparent wounds, you had let him in. Your softness towards him all the more special. Uncertain, at first, and suddenly all in. Resolutely unguarded, a strength in its own right. He wasn’t sure, then, if he possessed that kind of courage. But he knew what he felt, this consuming urge to right all the wrongs. He would gladly unleash hell on anyone trying to hurt you again. 

Is Benny good enough to you? Most probably. And he should bottle up his questions and leave you the fuck alone. Turns out you didn’t need him to flourish.

He understands clearly now, with enough years behind him to name the feeling, why he’d been so eager to feed you, to get you cleaned up. He remembers that shower together, before you started fooling around again, he had come in your mouth less than an hour before, fuck he’d been relentless, and you’d taken it all. 

Standing behind you in the narrow tub, he had washed your body, lathering soap with the palm of his hands on your shoulders and your back, the curve of your hips, along your thighs, his satisfaction tinged with regrets for you’d lose his scent, but he would imprint it on you again later, deeper, definite, and you kept leaning into his touch, eyes half closed, humming quietly to yourself, your skin a constant thrum. Like you’d been starved of any form of attention, of affection. He could tell. Yet he never asked. 

And perhaps it had played into what had happened next, how he had lost it completely, when he took you on the bathroom floor, after nearly two days restraining himself, his arms caging you with an iron grip, his teeth sunk into the soft flesh at the base of your neck, pinching your nipples so hard you had cried out his name. Your body vibrating endlessly with it. He had to carry you back to bed. 

You were still laughing from that disastrous attempt at a romantic fuck when he stepped out of the bathtub behind you. His cock felt heavy as he palmed himself through the discomfort of the condom, and he was about to take it off when his eyes flickered up to you. You were wiping the steam off the mirror above the sink with your right hand, and you turned around to face him, radiant, with a candid smile. The yellow light from the bare bulb hanging above the mirror ricocheted on every single droplet of water clinging to your body, your skin glinting in a golden hue. 

You were golden. 

Something snapped in his brain. His breath caught in his chest, and he shut his eyes quickly, but the vision was dancing under his eyelids and when he reopened them, his gaze had turned dark and wild. He was on you in one step, his right hand curled around your nape. He pulled you in with all of his strength, tilting your head up with a tug of your hair, his mouth crushing your mouth, his tongue forcing you open. You responded immediately, his hunger bleeding into you through the kiss and you sank your nails in his back and his shoulder. It felt more like wrestling than kissing, your bodies slippery and wet, and he laid you down underneath him on the rough rug as you whispered a needless plea he couldn’t hear, with the thunderous noise of the blood rushing in his ears. 

He had fucked into you at a punishing pace, with the maddening thought of ripping that damn condom off his cock to have you bare and paint your slick walls with his cum, his blunt head bumping against the cup of your cervix and it still wasn’t enough. He had to possess you, encase every part of your body with his, crush you with his weight, mark your skin with his mouth and his teeth and his spit and his cum, fuck your cunt, your mouth, your ass, your tits with his cock, his fingers, his tongue. Ruin you for other men. You were his. He was yours. 

He should have been terrified by the intensity of it, and perhaps he was, but your every movement spoke that confession.

There hadn’t been anything to fear within the realm of the orange bedroom. But then, how to explain the deafening silence that came when he never heard your voice again?

He waited. He waited on the car ride with his sister to basic training, realising in a panic that you two hadn’t even exchanged last names. He waited the following hours, days and weeks. He waited as he helplessly observed the quick fading of the red crescents your nails had left on his skin. He waited all through the pilot training program, his first tour and the second. He waited, patient and focused and cool-headed, and with each passing year, the certainty waned. He waited until one day his phone got stolen, and a Verizon vendor who looked like a drowned rat flatly told him he had to change his line. He had remained perfectly calm, but he could have murdered the man.

What began after that was a brand-new kind of hell. One morning he woke up and he couldn’t convoke the memory of your taste. That was when he started fucking all these random women, their faces and bodies morphing into a blurry composite of anonymous features. The doubt drove him insane, but he could no longer find it in himself to believe it had really happened. Maybe he had dreamed you. A filthy fever dream that had meant everything. Finding the book with your red lips etched on the page barely helped, only adding to his confusion, edging on resentment.

But when he saw you, when he saw you walking into the familiar setting of the bar where he meets with his friends every week, holding Benny’s hand, beyond the fury of those years, beyond the anger and the pain, he looked into your eyes and found hope again.

So now he’s back to waiting. Back to that goddamn piece of plastic burning through the back pocket of his jeans. But waiting is fine. Waiting is seven years of his life. Nearly a sixth of his years. He knows how to handle that. Waiting is what was before everything went south, before his phone got stolen, before his first kill, before Al-Qa’im, before the brothels and before the doubt. 

And so, he waits. He waits as April slowly dies, as May drags by and as June blossoms under a thin drizzle. He waits until, one perfectly mundane Thursday morning, you text him. Three messages sent in quick succession. 

Hey. Is this coming Saturday at 10am ok for you?

It’s me by the way. 

He stares at your name. It’s been 16 years since he’s said it out loud. His thumb hovers over the screen. He tells himself the burning sensation from the scar on his left side isn’t real. It’s not pain. It’s guilt. 

—

Yea. I’ll pick you up outside your building. 

Frankie 

You never gave him your address and he hasn’t asked, you have to assume Benny gave it to him. Have to. 

Nine weeks and four days since you last saw him. Since he walked in on you in Will’s spotless kitchen, basking you in his scent and his heat and his strength, and demanded that you let him come with you to buy a car you don’t even want. A goddamn car. Not a table, or a plant, or even a TV, a goddamn car. And you didn’t even think twice. You straight up consented without taking a second to think about the consequences, just like you had instinctively and consistently reacted to everything he had ever asked. 

In the course of those nine and a half weeks, you’ve reverted to the proven ways of your former life, doing what you do best: act normal amidst the rumbling storm inside your brain. Constantly, expertly compartmentalizing, your mind an oversized closet of neatly folded fears and neurosis. Immediate pleasures and comforting memories. Sadness, fondness, regrets, remorse. Restless with your time, headstrong against your anxiety, no pause to reflect. The great escape. 

The very next day, you started to fill up your boyfriend’s house with your belongings, scattered across every room. Panties, bras, socks and t-shirts in the newly emptied chest drawer by the bedroom window. Books he never gives you time to read on the nightstand. Deodorant, creams and shampoo in the bathroom cabinet. An umbrella by the front door. Records stacked by the vinyl turntable. A tin mug in the kitchen. You stay there four to five nights a week, now. He is delighted. 

On three separate occasions, Benny had to go away for a fight and remained out of town for a couple of days, which is not uncommon, and you ordinarily welcome the time alone. 

The first time provided you with the perfect opportunity to get together with Yovanna, the two of you meeting in a downtown Russian restaurant of her choosing, sharing copious appetizers and laughs and strong liquor, along with your respective backstories, yours carefully redacted. She recounted the first twenty years of her life, traumatic by any standard, matter-of-factly and without bitterness. She defines resilience, and the following morning you woke up revived, if a little hungover.

By the time Benny had to leave again, however, an indistinct, murky dread had settled in your chest and between your shoulders. You proceeded calmly, with resolve, asking him if you could spend the evening at his place in his absence, which implied him giving you a set of keys. You trusted him not to make a big deal about it, and sure enough he didn’t, but you did not anticipate the way he made love to you that night. With an unusual softness, and intent, as if to communicate how much he had no desire to be away. 

And when the time came, a Saturday, you curled up on the empty couch in the silent living-room, hunched over a book you could not focus on, eventually falling asleep on his side of the bed. 

The third time had been rough, perhaps because you chose to stay at your apartment, chain-smoking again, drawing from your experience the necessary resources to hang on until dawn, when you know the morning light will dissipate your darkness. The morning always comes. All it takes is for you to bite the bullet and await. You know the dance. 

You haven’t told anything to Rosie, even though you’ve had several opportunities to do so. You know what she’ll say, and you don’t care to hear it. You’re getting a car, not a room. You’re an adult. You’ll be fine. 

And anyway, Rosie knows something’s not right. You haven’t missed one single Taco Tuesday since you skipped that first one, back in April, and you’ve done your absolute best to act natural, like it means something, but she’s been closely observing you ever since. Like she used to when you first arrived here, after she’d dragged you out of your isolation, like you’re a saucepan of milk over the stove, ready to overflow. You don’t know how she does it, but she knows something’s askew. 

Seemingly innocuous questions of “everything good with Benny?”, “Still happy with your job?” cue you in. Sideways glances. Her dark eyes overshadowed. 

And if she only had doubts, your behaviour on her 36th birthday probably confirmed them all. 

She had made plans to celebrate with a girl’s night out, inviting some of her friends from work, along with Yovanna, to her favourite place, a Mexican restaurant with a garden room in Boerum Hill, Brooklyn, which brought you way too close to Greenpoint for comfort.

You didn’t just get drunk, you got blackout drunk, downing shots of tequila, knowing very well your body doesn’t tolerate those, polishing off everyone’s drink until you got sick and just about passed out, and Rosie had to take you home, where you woke up with your head split in half to a handwritten note on your kitchen table that read, simply, “call me.” Which you haven’t done.

You spent the next day glued to your sheets, only crawling out of it to stick your head down the toilet bowl, throwing up, seven times, grand total, your body painfully collapsing on itself, getting rid of the alcohol, but not of the guilt, and not of the pain. No, those remained, sticking to your clammy skin, weighing down your soul.  

You know this road, been down it many times. The automatic deflection through invisible, self-inflicted physical pain. You recognise the symptoms, the warning signs for that shifting cloud of thick black smoke swelling in your chest, like a fast-growing beast made of nothing tangible but two glinting, yellow eyes. 

So the following day, when you got to work, you picked up your phone, and texted Frankie, at long last. When his answer came, immediate, as if he had been waiting all along with his phone in his hand and did not care in the least if it showed, you informed Benny, and asked Suzanne for your Saturday off. 

A sequence of events that has you standing in front of your bedroom mirror, now, applying mascara, nervously fiddling with your hair, unsure whether you’re wearing the proper outfit. You’ve been up since dawn, and as you gulp down your third cup of coffee along with your fourth cigarette, ignoring your throbbing throat, you tell yourself it’s not really stress, it’s only the morning light, because you still haven’t installed the curtains you bought over a year ago. 

You can feel a contraction building up in your left calve. It would be wise to drink some water. But you don’t.

The smell of nicotine clings to your hair and your clothes, but it’s too late to shower again, or even to change, and it doesn’t matter anyway. You’re getting a car. Not a room, after all.

Your eyes flick down to your watch for the umpteenth time. 9.55am. You peer out at the sky, through your bare bedroom window. It hangs low and overcast, the temperature chill, for mid-June. It all adds up and lies heavy on your lungs. You don’t know the first thing about buying a car, but you’re not exactly eager to take a test drive on wet asphalt.

When you pull open the front door of your building at 10am sharp, you notice the pattern formed by the wet dots as they agglomerate on the pavement. 

Frankie’s here, parked just in front, as promised. Faded red t-shirt and light-coloured jeans, he’s standing on the sidewalk, leaning against the hood of his red truck, arms crossed over his chest. The vehicle is ridiculously massive but his broad figure and square shoulders look perfectly on scale. He’s been waiting for a while, judging by the dampened patches on his shoulders, but his face doesn’t show any sign of impatience. The deep lines between his eyebrows only giving the slightest hint of tension under the brim of his cap. 

“Hey,” his voice sounds rusty, as if he hasn’t spoken in weeks.

“Morning,” yours is too breathy, and impossibly high.

You don’t stop and walk straight to the passenger side of the car, ignoring the way his head tilts to the right to follow you, instead cringing at how inelegant you must look, as you climb awkwardly into the high cab. You drop your bag on the floor and fasten your seatbelt, admonishing yourself, one more time, that none of it matters, not how you move, nor what you wear, nor what you smell like, because you are only getting a car. 

He waits until you are settled in to join you inside and when he shuts the door, his scent fills up the space, brushing against your skin, and you pinch the side of your right thigh as hard as you can. His moves are measured and deliberate, and you will your heart to slow the fuck down and align its erratic rhythm to that of his movements.

You risk a glance in his direction when he lifts up his cap and combs his fingers through his thick dark curls. You remembered them a lighter shade of brown. During the few hours you’ve spent observing this older version of him, you’ve come to decipher the gesture. He readjusts his thoughts, just like he does his hair. Once the cap is firmly deep-set on his head, the mountain that is Francisco Morales is set in motion. 

But you don’t know him anymore, not like you did. Years after years, unwanted layers of separate lives, wounds, and emotions have altered the fabric of your innate connection. He has become a guarded man, remote, distant. To you, at least.

Then why are you here?

There’s a pause and the air hangs still for a moment, save for your uneven breathing, louder than the few street noises. Frankie’s perfectly poised when he turns towards you and asks, “So where are we going?”

You blink wildly, your mouth falling open at the one question you didn’t anticipate. 

“What– what do you mean, where are we going?” you stutter. 

“To what dealership?” he offers patiently. 

“I don’t know,” you breathe out, with a shake of your head, “you said ‘let’s go get a car’ and I–” you trail off, you don’t know how to end this sentence. 

“I said, ‘let me go with you to buy a car,’” he corrects, and you sit there, dumbstruck, and exposed. 

“What kind of car do you want?” he tries again, and as you remain silent, rubbing your palms on your thighs in a subconscious attempt to dry them of the sweat your entire body is breaking into, he averts his eyes, looking down at the steering wheel. A smile tugging at his lips. 

“How about we go somewhere, get a drink, first?” he finally proposes. “We can talk about it, see what are the options?”

“It’s 10am,” you reply blankly, as if it makes any difference. 

You immediately wince and his smile broadens. 

“A coffee, then?”

—

Your nervousness drives him mad. You stare out the window as he drives, refusing to look at him and he can see your fingers compulsively fumbling along the side of your thigh when you think he’s not watching.

He put you in that impossible situation. You look pale and tired, there’s a faint smell of cigarette about you, and what’s worse is that he can’t help but smile like a fucking idiot, no matter how hard he tries to bite it down or cover it with a grimace. You’re sitting next to him in his truck. Once more, all he had to do was ask.

You look like a misplaced stereotype of a French girl in your stripped boat neck shirt, and he struggles to focus on the road, scanning the exposed skin of your neck, where it meets your shoulder, searching for a mark that has long faded. 

By the time he pulls into the empty parking lot in front of the Dunkin’ on Tonnele Ave, fat raindrops are splattering on the windshield. 

“You wanna stay here? Or sit inside? I can go get our orders and–”

“Oh yeah, here is nice”, you acquiesce, apparently relieved at the thought of not having to go out, “I mean it’s fine. Please.”

You say “please” like you used to say “sorry.” 

“Milk, no sugar?” he asks quietly, immediately regretting it. He shouldn’t let on how much he remembers. He’s going to freak you out.  

You draw in a deep breath and answer, “Please.”

—

It all begins with small talk. Absurd and mundane. The weather, the traffic, the coffee that’s never strong enough. And before either of you realise it, the parked car feels like an island, the paper cup nicely warming up your stiff hands. 

You’re the first to chance a diverted evocation of your shared past, inquiring about his sister. She’s fine, he tells you, not without pride, a well-established professional photographer, whose work you’re likely to have seen in news magazines and art catalogs.

Your left knee propped up on the seat, your back leaned against the door, you’re finally facing him, your posture relaxed. His broad frame doesn’t allow him that much space, but he too seems at ease, his legs stretched as far as they can, his left arm resting on the wheel. Still, you recoil imperceptibly at his next question. 

“What about you? Are you an archaeologist?”

You take the involuntary hit and think about the best way to present that part of your life, so you don’t come across as worthless as you systematically feel every time you have to discuss that particular subject. 

“No,” you eventually sigh, “I failed.” Ignoring the tick of his jaw, you carry on, “I mean, I graduated, got my BA degree. But I couldn’t get any internship, just like they said. So I moved on to a master’s degree, but in contemporary history,” you chuckle at the nonsensical turnaround in your resume, easing into the topic, “and then I got tired of starving,” you laugh, lifting your palms upward, “so I became a civil servant. Got a position with the historical library of the Hôtel de Ville de Paris. I mean the Paris City Hall,” you shrug, uncertain with your whole translation. 

“Did you like it? The job?” he asks.  

“Well, it’s not what I had set out for. But I think it fitted me better. No pressure, no deadlines. Old books, manuscripts, first editions–” you start to enumerate before your voice fades.

“Do you miss it?” 

You nod wordlessly, your throat suddenly a little tight. His voice is so low you struggle to hear him when he asks again, “Why did you leave?”

You take a brief moment to gather your thoughts, looking vacantly at the neon letters spelling Dunkin’, blurred by the rain running off the windshield. You’ve been asked this question about a million times since you’ve landed here a little over two years ago. Offering countless consensual variations of the same explanation, none of them ever sounding quite right. 

Next to you, Frankie’s waiting, hung from your lips. 

“I think it’s because I had a purpose, but no goal, you know?” you say as you turn toward him again, in time to see him gritting his teeth. 

The crease between his brow deepens before he says, barely audible, “Do you have one, now?”

Somehow, you find it easy to maintain eye contact, and your own voice is steady as you tell him, “Yeah, I think I have.”

Frankie wants to follow up on your answer but he finds himself incapable of speaking. He doesn’t think he’d be able to bear it if you told him that the life you share with Ben provides you with both. Yet, your eyes tell a different story. Your eyes tell him this is not about a man. It is not about him, or his friend. This is entirely about you. 

“None of it sounds like a failure to me,” he eventually says softly. 

There’s no sign of the stress that tensed up your body earlier. He likes the sight of you sitting comfortably in his truck, absentmindedly playing with the empty paper cup in your hands. Perhaps you’d like another coffee, but he fears that if he leaves the car, he might find you gone when he returns. 

Outside, a tall blond woman is running on high heels towards the front door of the Dunkin’, her gait cloddish and imbalanced has she tries not to slip. You watch her until she makes it inside.  

“I don’t know. Anyway, nothing much I can do about it, anymore,” and perhaps for the first time ever, you’re ok with it. “But you, you made it! You became a pilot.”

He shakes his head, and before he can stop himself, mutters under his breath, “Yea, at what cost.”

Uncertain if you heard him right, you sit up straighter and ask, “How was it?”

“How was what?” he frowns. 

“The army. Was it what you thought it would be?”

“Yes and no,” he sighs. He has never given himself the time to reflect on that before. Rather rushed in the opposite direction. “I never expected it to be easy, but– I joined so I could get my pilot’s license. And I ended up doing stuff I hadn’t really signed for.”

“Did you ever kill anyone?”

“Why the fuck you wanna know that for?” he narrows his eyes at your face, his voice an angry rumble. 

You want to crawl onto his lap and wrap your body around his, knock off that damn cap and run your fingers through his curls, get a glimpse of the lighter shades they used to shine with. You want to press your lips against his forehead, ease the crease of his brow with your thumb, let your skin reach out for him, like it used to, when words were unnecessary, you want him to hear it, because I care, because I wasn’t there, because I wish I could carry it with you. Because I spent too many nights awake, wondering where you were. Because, even when I thought the morning would never come, I hung on, in hopes that the thread between us would keep you safe and sound. Hear everything you cannot pronounce.

You lean back against the door, cranking your brain for another approach. “Did you know that Will kept a ledger of his body count?” 

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, before running a palm over his face. “Jesus… No. But I’m not surprised. Did he tell you how many?”

“Yes, but I don’t think it’s for me to tell you. Although he’d probably tell you too, if you asked him,” you reply in a casual tone. 

“You two really talk about everything,” he says with an empty smile.

“No, not everything. But we do talk a lot,” you offer no further insight into your relationship with the older Miller brother.

“And did he tell you how’s his sleep?” he snarls.

“He says it’s better than it should be,” you shrug as if you were still discussing the weather. “You haven’t answered, Frankie.”

He presses his back into the back of the seat to crush down the shivers that run down his spine when his name passes your lips. A lot may have changed. But not this. 

He knows what you're doing. At least he thinks he does. And anyway, that’s another thing that hasn’t changed. To your voice, he complies. 

He runs his knuckles under his chin, seemingly weighing his next words. “I did what I had to do. I was– I was often too quick on the trigger. I didn’t count them.”

Between his spread thighs, his hands have joined, his left thumb scratching the small tattoo on his right hand. 

“Were you ever scared?”

“No,” he says firmly, shaking his head, “not for myself anyway. For Izzy. Anything happens to me, she’s alone.”

The leather seat creaks when you scoot closer to him, seeking his heat. He rubs his skin harder, so he won’t think about yours. The rain has become a heavy downpour, the drops falling onto the roof of the truck in a loud racket that nearly covers your voice when you speak next. 

“What about that thing Tom mentioned, that night at the bar? About you being grounded. Does that mean you can’t fly anymore?”

His hands still. He turns his head and glares at you, his eyes black and cold. Your face is so soft. You said you’d take anything. But that was long ago. That was before.

He licks his lips, clears his throat. You won’t back down. So he tells you.

“I was suspended. They ran a random drug test at work,” he leaves Giovanni out of the picture, the last thing he wants is for you to think he’s not taking full responsibility for his own fuckups, “it’s a flight school for rich assholes over in upstate New York, and– they found traces of coke in my system.”

“Coke?” your eyes widen with shock as the image shoots through your chest, and he can’t stand the way you look at him right now, like you don’t know him, like you never did. 

“Does it help you? With your– sleep?” There’s no judgment in your voice, and you hope it gets through to him, pass the thick skin and the shame. And, perhaps, he’s more surprised than you that it does. 

“Yea,” he says, looking down at the little tattoo again, shifting in his seat, “it did, yes. And with the rest, I guess. But I’m not using, anymore. Izzy would bite my head off. She found me a good lawyer, the case got dismissed, somehow–” he shrugs, “I got my license back. I’m clear.” 

“What are you going to do, now?”

“I think they’re going to take me back. I gotta go there Monday, actually.” 

“I mean about your sleep, Frankie.” 

God, your face is so soft. 

“You don’t worry about that.”

As if it were that simple.

—

Cars have come and gone in the small parking lot. A composite Saturday morning crowd of busy moms and weekend workers hurriedly flowing in and out of the coffee shop, holding white paper bags and cardboard trays with tall paper cups. 

The outside world resurfaces around Frankie, as you two sit in silence side by side in his truck. 

You peeled him open. Picking out the jagged pieces of his life one by one, with infinite tenderness, and methodically reassembled them. Sought him out in the darkest confines of his existence. Left him with no place to hide. Weaved back the thread. 

“I think I need another coffee,” you stiffen a yawn. 

“Yea.”

The rain abated, without your realising it. You walk in together this time, and when you return to the car, you pull out your phone from your bag, to find Benny has texted you. Your eyes are heavy and your movements slow, you’re suddenly exhausted. 

You answer Benny’s question, “Are you guys done?” with a half-truth about waiting for the weather to get better, inwardly smiling at his abusive use of emojis. 

The conversation resumes, with more trivial topics. You mention the curtains laying untouched in a bag on your apartment’s carpeted floor. 

Eventually, Frankie asks about the car again. Secondhand, you say, and small, preferably European, although you can’t say why. An expression of your homesickness, perhaps. An extra comfort.

It’s a ten-minute drive to Autoland, a dealership on Communipaw Ave that Frankie pretends to know but really only googled the previous day. 

He parks in a lot across the street from the dealership, and gets out of his truck with a spring in his step. 

This time, you circle the vehicle over to Frankie’s side and wait for him, uneasy and apprehensive, seeking the reassurance of his tall figure before you can take one more step. The place looks reasonably sized, for once, you’ve seen bigger ones in Parisian suburbs, but you’ve never bought a car in your life and you’re utterly out of your depth. 

He looks at you as he tucks his t-shirt in his pants, and smiles. Before the two of you cross the busy road, he places a large hand on the small of your back, his fingers splayed, and gives an imperceptible squeeze. You lean into his heat, let it seep in and run through you. You’ve spent years worth of sleepless nights trying to imagine how it would feel like if he ever touched you again. Like electricity, like a dam that gives, like the end of your world. It’s none of it. It’s quiet relief. It’s a close circle. 

The cotton of your shirt feels warm under his palm, it catches at the calloused pads of his work-worn fingertips. Your skin, just underneath it. It’s not it, not yet, and it can’t be. This would be the end of everything. 

True to his profession’s stereotype, the salesman jumps you the very second you step into the lot and introduces himself as Gary. But the cliché ends there. Gary is a lean man of average height, in his late twenties-early thirties, with olive skin and strands of straight black hair that frame his face like a stage curtain. Shiny buckle shoes, skinny black jeans and a tight button-up shirt in a loud pattern, he looks just as misplaced as you in the somewhat depressing dealership.

Gary speaks with a quick flow you struggle to understand and swallows half his words, and when you discreetly peer up at Frankie, you catch him trying to repress a mocking smile. He tilts his head down and raises an eyebrow as he mouths, “I think he’s high.”

You’ve clearly stated what you were looking for, yet Gary keeps walking you towards sedans the size of your living-room. European, alright, Volvo and Volkswagen you wouldn’t know how to maneuver on an empty racetrack. He keeps addressing Frankie, who tries his best to suppress the scoffing off his tone every time he has to remind him that you are the client, and when Gary, at long last, takes note, he punctuates his well-rehearsed speech with a “sweetheart” that send Frankie’s shoulders heaving with a soft chuckle. 

After ten minutes that feel like an hour, you lose patience and cut him mid-sentence. 

“Hey listen, Gary, let’s forget about the European thing, ok? I want a small car. Small, you know, like three doors?” 

“Oh yeah, right, small car, got it!”

He turns on his heels and start walking briskly. You turn to Frankie, eyebrows disappearing into your hairline as you tell him, “Is he fucking serious?” and revel in the sound of his breathy laughter.

You join Gary at the rear of the dealership, where half a dozen compact cars are parked, when his cellphone rings. Raising a heavily bejeweled index to excuse himself as he picks up, he steps away from you. 

Hands on his hips, one leg extended to the side, Frankie watches you impatiently checking the time on your wristwatch.

“Hey,” he starts in a husky tone, “you know, I did fly over the Andes.” 

A wildfire flares up in his chest as you lighten up with the first genuine smile he’s seen on your face since you came back into his life, one that reaches your eyes, that has you beaming, and that he recognises, and you too recognise him when he smiles back, his dimple deeper in his fuller cheek when he adds, wiggling his eyebrows, “Twice.”

You let out a thrilled little gasp, your voice failing you, a little hoarse when you whisper, “How was it? Was it what you expected?” 

“Almost,” he answers. 

You’re so close, so fucking close he can smell that new perfume, and it doesn’t matter that it’s not the same, your eyes are, what if he leaned in a little closer and brushed your lips with his, what if he asked you to leave with him? Would you follow him, again?

Your gaze fall on his plush lips when he licks them, but you back away at the sound of Gary’s voice, standing in front of you.

“Ok guys, sorry about that! So, small car?”

Frankie’s mouth twitches and he stares daggers at the salesman.

“Hey Gary, would you mind giving us a minute?”

He doesn’t wait for his reply to place his hand on the small of your back again, and you take a few steps with him, on shaky legs. 

“Look,” his dark eyes plunge into yours, “if you don’t want a car, we can just go. Tell Benny there wasn’t much choice, which is kinda true,” he gestures towards the yard. “Just– please, promise me you’ll take a cab, when you go out at night.”

Your mind’s racing, going through the options, you need more time to think, so you stall and retort with your usual argument, “I’m a big girl–”

“From a big city, yea, I heard you the first time. Please.” There’s no scorn in his tone. You’re a big girl. He does believe that. But he needs to hear you say it. 

To you, however, it doesn’t sound like a request, most definitely like a direct order, and your mind reels unwillingly as you picture him on the field, in his military uniform, a gun in his deft hands, shouting instructions in his assertive, deep tone, his force and temper barely contained. You’ve seen his control slip. Experienced it firsthand. And you’ve no business being this aroused right now.

You let it ripple down your limbs before you push it away, before you sigh, “Ok. Let’s go, then. I’ve had more than I can take.”

Getting rid of Gary proves itself challenging. He follows you all the way back to the street and hands you a business card you politely decline at first, before changing your mind, in hopes it will shake him off faster. 

His nasal voice is still ringing in your ears when you climb back into the safe-haven of Frankie’s truck. He turns on the ignition and merges into traffic, taking the direction of your apartment, the only possible destination, the decision tacit and unspoken. 

This time, you watch him drive. In fact, you can’t stop staring, the lean muscles undulating under the freckled skin of his forearms, the shape of his solid shoulders, the line of his throat, and the curls on his nape, the sharp edges of his profile, the bare patch in his beard, the thin wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. For the first time, you notice his watch, big, square, utilitarian. 

You jolt yourself out of your trance and decide to call Benny. You can hear his disappointment through the phone, and you feel terrible, like you haven’t tried hard enough, before it occurs to you that the last time you placed your own needs below those of the man you shared your life with, it didn't end up so well. Granted, Benny’s not Éric, not by a stretch, which might be the very reason why it affects you now. So you repeat your promise to take taxis at night, Frankie’s eyes flicking between you and the road. 

He steers slowly through midday traffic, praying for red lights. The silent stillness between you hangs heavy when he double-parks in front of your red brick building. You can’t move. Not when you don’t know if you’ll see him again. 

Drawing in a shaky breath, you gather your strength and unfasten your seatbelt, Frankie once more lifting his cap to readjust his hair. 

“I never thanked you. For coming with me, today. For your help–” you trail off.

The sun has come out and you feel hot in your jeans and thick t-shirt. He doesn’t look at you, his head down, his brow once more knitted. 

“I– I guess I’ll see you,” you murmur. 

You want to wish him good luck, for Monday, ask him to call you afterwards to tell you how it went, but it all gets stuck in the back of your throat, so you grab your bag, instead, and put your hand on the door handle. 

He moves fast, gripping your arm, unclenching his jaw to ask you to “Wait.”

You face him, resigned. If not ready. You know what’s coming. 

Funny how, when the opportunity finally presents itself to get an answer to the one question that has obsessed him his entire adult life, the words won’t come out. And Frankie struggles to look at you as he whispers, “Why didn’t you call?”

You take the punch, breathing in deeply, thinking that the question you so dreaded wasn’t that terrible, after all, when you register the tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. 

“What’s it gonna change, now?”

He lets go of your arm. “Please,” he breathes out. 

Images overlap as your vision blurs, your last kiss, not far from here, so long ago, you cupped his face with both hands and sought his eyes with yours. 

You blink back the memory before you open your bag and pull out your wallet, moving slowly, as if in a dream, your body rebelling against the injunctions from your brain. You take the rectangular note, and with a trembling hand, place it on his lap. Frankie tilts down his head, narrowing his eyes on the little piece of paper, ink-stained and torn out. You’re not sure that he understands what he’s looking at. 

“I got caught in a rainstorm on my way back to Rosie.” It’s hard to speak with the heavy lump in your throat. “I– I was going to call you, that night, but that’s all that was left of your number.” You pause to aggressively brush off a stray tear rolling down your cheek. “I went back to your place, I thought I might catch your sister. I was too late.”

Look at me, Frankie. I tried. I swear.

Frankie hasn’t moved. He’s glaring at the paper, teeth clenched, breathing heavily through his flared nostrils. 

Wiping another tear from your cheek, you open the door and get out of the car. Your strides are long and hurried as you walk toward the front door of your building. 

****

Additional note: Thank you for reading this far 💕

I have no idea when I'll be able to work on and post the next chapter. Good news is, it's already half done, and entirely outlined. However, it is also my favourite, so I want to make sure I get it right. I am truly exhausted and clearly need to refill. Plus the holidays are never easy on my mental health... Everyone, be gentle to yourselves in this time of year ❤️ I'll keep you posted (bad pun always intended). Never hesitate to drop me an ask, I really love those. Love ♥

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