puking rainbows

Frank stands, circling to her side of the table. “C’mere,” he says, arms open, and Mel inhales deeply before stepping into his chest.

His arms wrap around her, warm and sturdy, and Mel sinks into his embrace as she exhales. Melting into him, she feels his body surround her, the weight on her shoulders slipping away. One of his hands is heavy on her spine, fingers tracing circles, while the other slips into her hair, keeping her head still. Her fingers tangle into the soft fabric of his shirt, inhaling his scent: cinnamon, like his cologne, and a scent-free sense of clean from their shared laundry detergent. She buries further into his chest as his chin rests on her head.

“That’s it,” he whispers, pulling her tighter, like he’s encouraging her just to hold on. Reassuring her that he has her, he’ll hold her. That when he breaks her apart, he’ll put her back together again, never wavering, never failing. It’s heady, this bone-deep reassurance that Mel knows she can trust him. That even as he just holds her like this, just a hug, Mel can feel her blood soaring and her cheeks heating and a persistent ache right in her center, begging for something only he can fulfill. 

“Frank,” she whispers—whimpers, really, because she’s horny, just from a hug, and she feels herself rubbing gently against his thigh. “Sorry,” she says quickly, almost pulling away, but Frank holds on tighter. “I just—”

“I’m not done,” he says instead. His fingers are tangled in her hair now, slowly stroking, but with a gentle tug too. This time, she does whimper, and she thinks she hears him grin. “I love knowing you’re so turned on just by being in my arms.” Without thinking, she nips at his chest, and he tugs hard on her hair. She moans. “You’re a biter.”

“I’ve wanted to bite your arms for months,” she mumbles into his chest, her fingers lowering, hovering at the hem of his shirt. When another pass of his hand ends with his thumb resting heavily against the bottom of her spine, Mel lets her hands sneak onto the bare skin of his back. He groans into her hair. “You feel so good.”

“Imagine how good I’ll feel inside you.” Mel feels her cheek grow hot. She’s ready for him—they’ve talked, they’re on the same page, he knows what she wants—but instead of pressing further, of pulling back and kissing her, Frank keeps holding her, just like that.

Mel isn’t sure if they stay that way for minutes or hours.

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!"

just tell me what you like (and i'll make it good)

“You wanna sext me at work?” He leans back, raising his eyebrows. “That’s part of your plan to help me deal with keeping my hands to myself there?” “I-I guess you’re right. I just thought it’s one of the only times we’re not— well, we’re not like this. Maybe that isn’t— I mean, if it’s a problem we can just—” “It’s not a problem,” he cuts her off with his mouth. Or: Practicing dirty talk via text messages at work might not help keep a secret relationship all that secret.

She’s counting down until Frank’s one year sober. She’ll give them until he hits the milestone to figure themselves out without her (actively) meddling. But once Frank’s lost that justification, she’s not letting him find another reason to not be happy.

I usually don't love misunderstandings in fiction, but I do kind of enjoy the fact that Frank and Mel keep missing out on learning things about each other, that maybe their coworkers now know, but the flow of information between them is interrupted, so their getting together is delayed.

Like the fact that they're both history nerds, they don't know this about each other yet, they don't even have a single coworker who knows this about them both, so when will they find out.

Similar thing with Frank's sobriety. I'm currently dying on the hill that Frank, in order to get a good grade in recovery, will adhere to the 'No big life changes in your first year of sobriety' rule like it's law.

I think that's why he sounds so defeated when he says 'but Abby stayed', because if Abby had made the decision for him, if Abby had forced that change, he'd have been sad, but they'd have figured out a schedule with the kids, and he'd be able to rebuild his life.

Instead, by staying, Abby has put him into limbo, because he has realised that this life isn't working for him, that Abby and him are strangers, that she doesn't really like him all that much, and now he's stuck. Because he's not meant to get divorced in his first year of sobriety, that's a huge decision you shouldn't make in this state of mind. So he makes amends and tries to be a good husband, an endeavour he has been failing for years, and he's miserable.

Abby stayed, so he has to stay.

Even if Abby had left, he shouldn't get into a new relationship during that first year. So Mel is double off-limits.

In a world where Frank isn't already sleeping on Yolanda's sofa, he's sleeping in the guest room of his house, trying to figure out if he wants to earn his way back into his marital bed, or if he should just let the clock run out until big decisions are allowed again.

One night, when Abby and the kids are with her parents, he ends up on Yolanda's sofa anyway, and maybe it's because he hasn't talked to her properly in over a year, but it all comes pouring out, he feels drunk just letting go of the pressure, even though neither of them are drinking. And he admits what he wants. He wants a divorce, and he wants Mel, and that's not necessarily the order of priorities here.

Yoyo listens, and calls him tragic, but she does hug him and she tells him to please please please talk to his therapist and his sponsor about this, because he admits he hasn't dared to, because she's sure (and she's right) that those recommendations are based on experience and circumstances, but not every piece of advice about rehabilitation fits everyone. In fact, with all this pressure and misery, he's putting himself at a higher risk of relapse, because the urge to escape is so bad.

So he does, and his support system mostly agrees with Yolanda, and they're glad he said something, and Frank ends up asking for what he wants. Abby is almost as relieved as he is when he says he wants this to be over. She stayed because it's what you do, but she doesn't want to be there either. They work things out, they sell the house, they work out a custody agreement, they go their separate ways as much as they can while coparenting. Frank still struggles, with money, with sobriety, with his schedule, with the pressure of it all, but at least this one big thing is off his plate, and he feels infinitely lighter for it.

"So when are you asking Mel out?"

"No new relationships during the-"

"---first year, I know. Sooo... in time for a New Years kiss?"

"Since when are you a romantic?"

"Since you've started pining after a girl who I'm pretty sure has a group of woodland creatures commuting across town to help her get dressed in the morning. I'd be less invested if your heart eyes weren't this severe. Does she know why you're not making a move?"

"No, and don't fucking tell her. She might not be interested at all."

"You're tragic."

The chat pops up the next morning. 'Mel and Yolanda' it says at first, and then the group name changes to 'Count your days' and a picture of a firework.

"Is Doctor Garcia going to murder us?" Mel asks him the next day.