live a little, get around

Rear Window (1954)

The kitchen is a bit of a sensory nightmare, if she's honest. It's hot and loud, the sizzle of the pans warring with the shouted instructions from the cooks, and that's not even touching on the smell: thirty different spices, browning meat, stale sweat, a hint of cigarette smoke. When she showed up for the interview two months ago, she'd been momentarily overwhelmed, her body going rigid as it tried to adapt to the everything happening around her.

Now, she finds it oddly soothing. The controlled chaos feels not unlike the inside of her brain.

Whitaker is already waiting by the food window when she swings in, his arms crossed in what she assumes is meant to be a confident stance, though it just makes him look vaguely petulant. Mel doesn't bother acknowledging him, standing on her tiptoes to slide Table 12's ticket into the proper spot along the line. It reminds her of hanging laundry, the flimsy paper wavering beneath the weak A/C.

"Two burgers," she adds unnecessarily, just to see if Frank will look at her.

He does, smiling, and she feels warm down to her toes. The kitchen's fault, obviously.

"Comin' right up, King," Frank says. He adds two patties to the grill without breaking eye contact, and she wonders when that sort of thing became attractive to her. "It a zoo out there?"

Mel hums in consideration. She can feel Whitaker's eyes on her, the judgement rolling off of him in waves, but she ignores it. She's gotten quite good at that.

"It's not terrible. Last week was worse."

Frank snorts. "Glad to see you've already gotten used to the pace of The Pitt, then." He slides a finished patty onto the pre-assembled bun on his left before letting the plate clatter into the window. "Here you go, man," he adds to Whitaker, gaze fixed on the griddle.

Dennis mutters something under his breath, but dutifully scurries up and captures his table's meal. Mel glances at him sidelong just in time to catch his irritated frown, but he doesn't comment; he disappears through the swinging door, and Mel lets her shoulders loosen.

"You okay?" Frank asks, a frown puckering the middle of his eyebrows.

She smiles. "I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

"Good."

He grins at her - the easy, lopsided one that means today's been a good day - and her chest clenches. She knows she's not supposed to be loitering in here, that she has tables to check on and waters to refill and checks to cash out, but she doesn't want to.

And she doesn't think Frank wants her to, either. He flips the patties and then folds his arms on top of the window, like he has all the time in the world to dedicate just to her.

"What are you doing after this shift?" he asks.

Mel blinks. "Oh. Um." She clears her throat, trying to keep her voice even. "Nothing. My sister's with her boyfriend today, so - "

"You should come out with us."

His voice is casual, unbothered, but Mel can tell he's bouncing on his toes, and she isn't sure if it's from nerves or his general aversion to stillness.

"Us?" she repeats.

"Me and Garcia. There's a bar down the street we hit up sometimes - dingy place, but the food's decent. Better than this shit hole," he adds with a wink. "Beer's pretty good, too. Whaddya say?"

Her answer is easy, tumbling from her mouth without really having to think about it. "Yes."

Frank beams, ducking his head as he nods. "Cool. Great." He returns his attention to the burgers, serving them up for her, and she takes the plates with numb fingers.

"Princess, I'm taking a smoke break," he calls, and then adds to Mel, "Tonight, King!"