#hes a soggy Scottish fold in my mind

[floral-pigeon]

tiny soggy cat misha

[prolix-yuy]

Olive Branch

Pairing: Francisco Morales x F!Reader

Summary: If Frankie doesn't like olives, then what does he like?

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: T, alcohol consumption, mention of drug use, incredibly tame for me, hints of spice. While this story is not explicit, my blog and the content shared on it is 18+ MINORS DNI.

Notes: I was challenged by @happypedrohours to write a story involving Frankie and olives, and what do you know, these are two of my favorite things! I was snickering to myself the entire time as the olive metaphor rolled out, but what the hell, we're gonna keep it in! Enjoy my friends, and Happy Pedro Hours!

Cross-posted on AO3

When it slides in front of you, you know it’s a good one. You watched the bartender make one at the end of the bar and it was just how you like it. Dry, cold, three olives on a hardy metal toothpick. You were practically salivating by the time you ordered your own and it slid in front of you, shining like the Holy Grail.

“Didn’t know you liked martinis.”

Head whipping around, you stutter out a laugh as Frankie slides in next to you. He perches an elbow on the bar, free shoulder coming close as the crowd tucks you into each other. Your eyes dart to his crinkled brown ones, then to your drink, and back again to distract from the proximity. His hand is tucked into his faded jeans, but it wouldn’t take much to cup your elbow or wrap around your waist. 

“On special occasions,” you quip, tossing your head at Will and Tatiana surrounded by your friends. She’s showing the girls the ring, the men clapping hands on Will’s back and making him laugh. The air holds the fresh taste of new beginnings.

“Never had much of a taste for ‘em. Just gasoline in a glass,” he replies. Your face must be ten levels of indigent with how quickly his eyebrows shoot up.

“Do I look like a car to you?” 

Frankie’s eyes twinkle, and it flips your stomach.

“Definitely a hot rod.”

You laugh it off, rolling your eyes. He’s never serious, after all. He likes to ply you with compliments just short of flirty and leave you high and dry at the end of the night. The first time it stung so hard you didn’t go out with the boys for weeks. 

“He’s just a little fucked in the head, don’t take it too personal,” Santi told you when he finally wrestled the reason for your absence out. “Can’t stop chasing anything messy with two legs. Last girlfriend was a cokehead, even worse before that. He likes ‘em pretty and crazy, and he bags ‘em left and right. They always leave him worse for wear.” Santi’s eyes narrowed over his knowing smirk. “So now you like him?”

“Fuck no,” you spat out, arms folded tight. “I don’t deal with boys who play games.”

Yet here you are, again, with Frankie, ready to roll the dice yet again. At least he doesn’t know you’ve still got a soft spot for him ready to land.

“I’ll ignore the fact that you called Hendricks gasoline,” you scold, sliding your gleaming prize closer on its soggy black napkin. “There’s also vermouth, and olives.” You take a sip, the warmth of the gin and sharp salt of the charcuterie mainstay sweeping across your tongue. Frankie’s eyes drifting down to your lips on the rim of the glass.

What a cocktease. At least most men who eyefuck you actually follow through.

“Shaken, not stirred?” he quips in a rough approximation of a Scottish accent. You snort, instantly regretting it as the burn of brine and alcohol decimates your sense of smell. Trying to hide it under a tiny cough, Frankie’s face turns to the bar.

“Not much of an olive guy either, so you're 0 for 3 on convincing me.” 

You don’t know why, but your stomach sinks briefly as you gingerly twist the glass stem between your fingers. 

“Perfect, more for me then,” you shoot back brightly, but he looks back a fraction too soon before the disappointment flits away. 

“C’mon, you know you were never gonna change my mind,” he teases, jostling you with his shoulder as he motions for the bartender. 

“Never said I was,” you add absentmindedly. 

Frankie will never be an option. He’s made it clear time and time again that he doesn’t choose you. But sometimes, when you let your mind drift, you think about how it could happen. Some dark room where he finally finds something he’s been looking for. The brushing of noses and near-misses before one of you finally acts and you’d know what his lips feel like. Then he would lick into your mouth and his flavor would dance with acidity and botanicals on your tongue and he’d moan at how good you taste.

But he doesn’t even like olives. Or you.

Frankie’s drink is a golden lager, malt rising to your nose. You like beer too. You like a lot of things. You could sit at this bar and talk about your favorite drinks for hours. You’re not just the martini girl. You’re so much more. 

You need some air. Your daydreams are getting in the way of enjoying the night and Frankie’s none the wiser, so best keep it that way.

“I’m gonna bring my gasoline olives back to the party,” you say, ducking out from Frankie’s body without waiting for a reply. Maybe catching a glimpse of surprise, you strut back to the girls. The warmth of their excitement and enthusiasm reinvigorate your tight throat. 

Your drink dwindles slowly, savoring the clean flavor and crushing the olives one by one between your teeth. One of the girls tries the dregs of your glass and wants one of her own, so you weave back to the bar so you can help her order. A holler rises from the boys around Will, and when you look you catch Frankie’s face again. He’s all beaming smiles, eyes barely visible from behind his crows feet and gleaming teeth. He catches your eye and his smile softens, and over the din of the bar he mouths “you good?”

You nod. Of course you are. What would Frankie know about that?

The drinks come, followed by cheers and hums of contentment. You will definitely be tipping well tonight. Before you can make it back to the group Benny cuts off your path, swooping one arm behind your back and your free hand into his. 

“No no no, Benny, I’ll spill!” you shriek, feeling the telltale wetness of a sloshed drink over your fingers. “Shit, I think I got it on the back of your shirt…”

“Ah, I’ve had worse,” Benny says, mock-dancing with you to the barely audible music. 

“How’s Will?” you ask, leaning over his shoulder to snag a healthy sip of the martini. Now a more manageable level, you let Benny lead you away from the bar.

“So in love it makes me sick.” You raise an eyebrow. “In a good way!” he adds, turning you so the man in question is visible. Tatiana’s tucked under his arm, and his mouth drifts to kiss the top of her head.

“You know what, I get it,” you agree, the both of you snickering as the tempo of the music changes. It might be a Hozier song? It’s hard to tell over the babble of voices.

“How are you?” he asks, feigned innocence a red flag flicked in front of your eyes.

“Peachy. Why?”

Benny’s hand squeezes yours in a soothing rhythm.

“Hey, don’t bite my head off. Fish mentioned you seemed down. Something about olives?”

The flash of heat rocketing to your face has to be combatted, so you choose comedy.

“Oh yeah, the fact that they never give me enough in my damn drink. Could drive a woman to tears!” Your put-on mid-atlantic accent doesn’t sell it. Benny chews on the inside of his cheek before leaning to bring his mouth to your ear.

“I know you’re gonna tell me to fuck off…”

“Then you don’t have to say anything.”

“...but you and I both know this ain’t about olives.”

You lean back, jaw set and eyes cool.

“You’re right. It’s about absolutely nothing.”

“Hey…”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

Benny lets go and you down the rest of your drink. It burns and you hate yourself for it, but it feels good to let liquid frustration carve through the center of you. 

“It’s late, and bar snacks aren’t gonna soak up the hangover I’ll have tomorrow. I’m gonna say bye to Will and Tatiana, get a cheeseburger, and go home.” Benny puts his hands on his hips, blue eyes filled with a brotherly care you know better than to try and tamp down.

“And it’s not about olives?”

Plucking the toothpick full of metaphor out of the glass, you point it at him.

“It’s not about olives.”

Benny relents, and walks you over to the happy couple. Promises of more drinks and a bachelorette party are half shouted before you pick through the crowd and exit the front of the bar. 

The air is just starting to get cool, alcohol thrumming in your blood. You love the way a martini buzz feels, your mind crystal and your body sharp as glass. It’s different from the smoky haze of scotch or the sluggish thudding of beer. Martinis make you diamond.

Which is why you notice Frankie immediately upon his exit, even though you can tell he wanted to go unseen for a few moments longer. He fumbles his hands into his pockets, ambling up to stand beside you while you glare at the Uber app.

“Got a ride coming?” 

“Eventually.”

He nods and stares at the toes of his boots, which you observe surreptitiously. The progress bar keeps filling and emptying as the silence stretches. 

“I’m sorry for shitting on your drink.”

You can’t help but snap your face to him, eyebrows raised.

“I sure hope you didn’t shit on my drink.”

The poor choice of words quirks the corner of your mouth as Frankie tries to recover.

“Jesus Christ, I mean…you know what I mean! I didn’t mean to be a dick,” he says, now contemplating the sky with resignation. There's still a fight in you, but you try to meet halfway.

“S’all good, I shit on your terrible beers all the time. We’re even.” You glance back at the app and shut it out of frustration. You’ll try again in a minute. 

“I don’t hate olives, either,” he rushes out. You roll your eyes, shoulders slumping. God, could they just let this go? You’re embarrassed enough about it. Before you can make another joke, another deflection, he barrels on.

“To be honest, I’ve never tried…olives. I see them all the time - at parties, at the bar, at friend’s houses - and there always seems to be some reason not to try them. I’m always having something else, or just had something, and I don’t want to…I’m afraid if I try the olives, I’ll really like them. And I don’t know what I’ll do if that happens. And that’s been scaring me off from even trying.” 

Frankie looks up at you, mouth parted and brow furrowed, as realization rises slow and fizzy.

“Because I think I could really, really like them. Enough that I’d want them all the time. But I’ve never had anything like that before. And I don’t want to hurt the…olives.”

Your heart is thudding in your ears, lower lip close to a betraying tremble before you force it between your teeth..

“You don’t want to hurt…the olives,” you parrot back and Frankie sighs, lifting his cap enough to rake his fingers through his hair before resettling it. 

“Fuck it, you know what I mean, right? It’s not about…it’s not about the fucking olives,” he says, and one of his hands wraps around your shoulder. It’s hot and strong and your chest swells at the touch.

“If it’s not about the olives,” you say, tentative, voice dropping into a lower register. He’s closer, almost as close as in the bar, thumb worrying back and forth over your shirt. “Then why don’t you show me what it is about?”

You expected more hesitation, but with that permission he lunges for you, cupping your face with both hands as he crashes your lips together. It’s fast and messy, teeth pressed against your lips and his tongue slipping in to taste. He groans and your knees go weak, head spinning worse than any drink could hope to do. You clutch the lapels of his canvas jacket and pull him closer, sweeping strokes of your kiss filling your mouth with bitter hops. With a lurch he pulls back.

“M’sorry,” he mumbles against your lips, but he continues to clutch at you, arm banding around your waist to keep you snug against him. 

“For what?” you tease, sliding your nose along his proud profile. 

“Takin’ so fuckin’ long.” His teeth graze your jaw lightly, heat pooling in a place that’s demanding a more private location for proper penance.

“I think you owe me a lot more than one very good kiss, after everything you’ve put me through,” you contemplate, his grip tightening. 

“Still waiting for your ride?”

Your fingers wander to the nape of his neck, and his curls are just as soft as you imagined.

“No.”

A gentler kiss follows, broader, somehow still able to make your head spin.

“Good, you’re coming home with me so I can properly apologize.”

The next morning as Frankie opens his front door for his breakfast delivery, he finds a pristine jar of olives resting on his welcome mat. The scrawled note - better start getting a taste for these! - is clearly in Benny’s handwriting. The memory of your body, soft and sleeping in his bed, pulls him back inside. 

After everything that got him here, he could learn to like olives.

END

"This is where righteousness ends It’s a relief to wave this overdue white flag and My blind spots have tortured you enough How much salt could I pour in To think that I called myself a friend."

Alanis Morissette, Olive Branch

[imagineclaireandjamie]

When discussing what they missed about the 20th century with Brianna Claire mentioned messy cheeseburgers with all the fixings. Can we get a scene of Claire and Bree enjoying the previously mentioned meal together in Boston?

Missing moment in 4x10.

Claire tried like hell not to think of what she had left behind in the twentieth century.

Her daughter. Their daughter.

Plumbing.

Motor vehicles.

Radios.

Cinemas.

Electric kettles.

Furnaces.

Toilet roll.

Tampons and sanitary napkins.

Diner food.

Well-constructed undergarments.

But she could not help her mind from drafting a litany of these things when faced with some ordinary task or another.  

As they attempted to slice a piece of roast pork, she could not help but call to mind the ease with which modern cutlery or an electric knife could accomplish the task.  But she would never say it aloud.

Catching Ian’s curious eye when she unconsciously reached for the tap on a faucet that did not exist over the bowl of dishes at the end of a meal, she smiled, shrugged, concentrated on the washing up.  She never provided an explanation.  

As she doubled over in pain, melting into Jamie’s thumbs as they massaged away cramps, she mumbled a plea for a heating pad and an aspirin.  He made a sound, low but sweet, and continued kneading the muscles.

It had been easy to set aside these conveniences on her first trip to the eighteenth century.  

Adrenaline had coursed through her then as she engaged in a series of machinations to maintain her lie (my-husband-he-is-dead-and-I-am-traveling-to-France-please-pass-the-potatoes), and endeavored to stay alive.  For her safety (her brush with a Scottish witch trial had been more than enough incentive to think fast) and Jamie’s, she had tended to keep outward indicia of her modernity under cover.

However, on her second trip to the eighteenth century, her lips were infinitely looser.  With age, isolation on the Ridge, and the sheer boundlessness of the space around them and from others, she let slip seemingly harmless perks of modern life.  Ian’s fascinated, though sometimes doubtful looks, spurred her on.  Emboldened by her nephew’s thousand mile stare, she described such fantastic things as:

Ice cubes in freezers right in the kitchen, produced with abundance.

Matches, their easy strike along the pad and the tangy, elemental burn of them in the sinuses.

Fans on hot days, maintaining an artificial breeze that could wick sweat from the skin.

Stores with everything imaginable in profane volume – meats and cheeses, pickled vegetables and fresh produce, cans of food for family pets (eyes going wide at the thought of Rollo eating dog food from a tin).

Deodorant in pre-formed sticks or aerosol cans.

Showers with seemingly infinite hot water and soap that smelled like springtime or the ocean or tropical fruits.

Produce all year long.

However, Claire again became more circumspect in her mentioning of these things over time.  

The last thing she wanted was for Jamie to think that she prioritized things and stuff and modern conveniences over her connection with him. After all, he was the bedrock of the epic kind of love that she had returned through time to find. She saw the periodic twitch in his upper lip as he fought the inclination to ask if she wanted to return to her time when they argued, woke cross with one another over some misdemeanor or another, or she cursed hotly about this or that being a bother.

But when Bree appeared on the Ridge, Claire felt a certain freeness in letting slip these small things.  At least to their daughter’s ears.  She was particularly loose about the future and their past when she saw distance unfurl in her daughter’s eyes. All that had happened was an extinguishing Bree’s very life. She could see it in her daughter’s eyes (her husband’s eyes). A pain that had gone bone deep, that she had cause to know intimately. Bree’s mind was meandering on a path far, far away.  

One chilly afternoon shortly after Bree arrived at the Ridge, when the air was not quite crisp enough to make their cheeks sting and go pink, mother and daughter folded linens outdoors.  Then, Claire saw it plain as day in Bree.  The way her daughter’s eyes were weighted, pulled as if by gravity to the task of folding instead of up and into a study of the world around them. After observing her for a series of long moments, Claire made a choice.

To indulge in talk of the home that they had known together.

“Hamburgers,” Claire said plainly, lining the edges of a sheet.  “Messy cheeseburgers. With all the fixings. From Carmie’s.”

Bree looked wistful for a moment before offering, “Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”

Their game went on for only a minute, but the change in Bree at Claire’s acknowledgment of her longing for home was palpable. 

That night as their dinner wound down (candles close to the nub, bellies full, the glow of intoxication apparent in the apples of Jamie’s cheeks), Bree speared one of the fragrant, bulbous canned tomatoes left on her plate. Closing one eye, she held it up to the low, flickering light.  

“This,” she declared. “Only sliced and fresh.  Grilled mushrooms.  Swiss cheese so thick you really have to chew it or it’ll be all down the front of your blouse.”

A breath, closing the other eye then.  

“And caramelized onions that are almost too sweet.” She hummed, low and content. “Mayonnaise. A thick glob right from the giant, mass-produced jar of it.  And a pickle spear. Two of them. I’ll have yours, mom, you always leave it anyway.”

Tilting her head, she opened her eyes and surveyed her audience. 

“French fries. Lots of ketchup with black pepper shaken into it, stirred with the tip of my fork.”

Claire made an ecstatic sound, sinking back into her chair with her mug of water.  “Keep the Swiss and mushrooms, add lettuce and cheddar.”

“The good white cheddar?” Bree inquired. 

Claire grimaced, rolled her eyes. “Of course. Nothing but. And the chips must be extra crispy. I hate soggy fries.”

“Cheeseburgers,” Bree sighed, eyes almost cloudy with food lust.

Jamie looked between his wife and daughter, brow furrowed, before shaking his head.

That night, Jamie took his wife by the waist as she stripped down to her shift, fingers insistent at her hipbones.

“Cheese burr-gurrs?” he asked, voice halting with unfamiliarity at the words being joined together.

Snorting, Claire turned in his arms. She smoothed the ditch of a furrow from between his brows, carefully gathering her encyclopedic explanation. “Ground meat, either seared on a flat top or grilled over a flame.  Bread.  Melted cheese. Ketchup.  Mustard. Mayonnaise…”

(He had tasted mustard. He had heard of course of mayonnaise – cream and eggs, tangy on the finish - but never tasted it. He let slide Bree’s mention of “ketchup” without a request for further elaboration.  He had seen enough of his daughter to know when lightness was acting as a barrier for some other pit of emotion.  He had been there intimately enough to know the purpose of diverting oneself from what really laid beneath meaningless banter over this or that.)

“Eating that kind of diner food… it’s a nostalgia thing for Bree.”

Raising an eyebrow, he said, “Oh, aye?”

“Every time she got a good report card from school with good marks, the two of us would go to a diner down the street from our house.  We would sit at the counter and order cheeseburgers, chips, and ice cream sundaes.”

Claire’s heart skipped a beat before she said what she said next, but she had to say it to put the experience into context for him.

“Frank never came along.  It was our time. We bonded.”

Jamie pushed aside the curls that were acting as a veil over her neck and nestled his face close to her throat. It was as if by absorbing with his lips the vibration of his wife’s words, he would have the memory for himself, feel the nostalgia bubble in his veins at the mention of cheeseburgers.

“Bree would tell me about school, what she wanted to be when she grew up.  It varied significantly over time, of course, as young children are wont to change their young minds.  A pediatrician.  A veterinarian.  A violinist.  A race car driver.  A physicist.  A historian.  When she was older, we talked about her plans for university.”

“Ye think fondly of those times.”  

“I do.” A pause, a breath, her pulse flickering under his mouth. “She talked about boys only once. I told her about the birds and the bees.  She grumbled and rolled her eyes and hissed, insisting she already knew all of it.”

Claire faded away for a moment before Jamie took her chin.  “Those moments are dear to ye, are they no’? Ye’ll no’ ever forget the times with her at the diner with the… cheese-bur-gers.”

Claire could almost taste hot fudge and whipped cream, the cherry on top. She could sense her teeth breaking through the light char of the meat and tongue absorb the grease exploding across her tongue. She could see Bree clutching the yellow slip of paper on which a series of A’s were listed with comments about her meaningful contributions in Social Studies and her thoughtful commentary on a Robert Frost poem in English Literature.  She could feel the chrome of the counter against her bare knees and smell the hot oil.  She could picture Bree.  Her toothy grin, locked down in a cage of orthodontia, and a pimple quietly growing under concealer filched from Claire’s cosmetics bag.

Claire turned and carded her hands into Jamie’s hair, drawing his face close.  She studied him for a time, the blue earnestness in his eyes.  He wanted to know, even if it meant that he would never have those moments.  

“I’ll never forget.”