He wakes with a jolt, but thankfully is able to stave off the rest of his usual performance. Whatever nightmare had been gearing up fizzles out as he glances around the room and the previous night's activities replay seemingly in slow motion behind his mind's eye. They must have fallen asleep before he could make up an excuse to leave or Jessica could actively kick him out. Vaguely, he recollects that she half-heartedly may have tried to, but not that hard. As evidenced by him still being in her apartment, after all, just their brief encounter gave Frank the impression if she'd truly wanted him gone she could have made him that way.
Idly, he runs the back of scarred knuckles across the delicate skin of her arm, holding his breath as he realizes she's awake. She may have awoken first, he surmises, because she hadn't moved a muscle after his dramatic gasp into the waking world. Brushing aside his nervousness, he allows his heavy head to roll onto the edge of her pillow as he keeps up the soft touching, his cool breath washing across her throat.
"How do you feel about pancakes, Jess?" he asks gruffly near her ear, pleased with himself for sounding mostly disinterested in the answer. He's definitely expecting to be definitively thrown out now that the light of day is breaking, but no one will be able to say he didn't shoot his shot when she inevitably does kick him to the curb.
She tried to kick him out. Kind of. Jess withdrew to the bathroom to brush her teeth and shit, and that's all the opportunity most guys need to get their clothes and get out. Not his style, apparently. So she told him he didn't have to stay the night, while she was crawling back into bed with him and settling in close. Intimating he didn't have to leave either. She fell asleep telling herself she didn't care.
She wakes up and admonishes herself for not caring a little more. But she's still tired, props to him, so she shuts her eyes again. What's one more mistake?
It's not long after that his even breathing breaks into tatters. In the shallows of sleep, she's slowly stirred by it. She disregards it out of hand, like a bad dream of her own. When you're in it, you can never quite convince yourself to get out. His gasp shreds that delusion and then she's awake. She sighs measuredly, so as to not be heard. She listens to her own stillness until his touch hums across her skin.
His question inspires a sleep self-effacing grin. "Like they take eggs. And milk." She rolls her head his way. "And pancake mix."
It annoys him the way her just turning towards him splits a big, dumb grin across his big, dumb face. He's comforted by the knowledge that it probably annoys her more, on account of she told him as much last night. Frank props himself up on his elbow while continuing his fluttery touches up her shoulder now that they're facing one another.
"By your tone I'm guessing... not an option, if we stay here." He tacks it on more to be a smartass than to ask her out, but then he gets so swept up in the moment he figures, 'why not?' Especially when she's looking at him that way. "I do know a greasy spoon not far."
They're in a feedback loop. He eats up the smallest scrap of her attention and his misplaced enthusiasm coaxes more out of her. Jess isn't going to dignify it by putting a stop to it. Acknowledging it was bad enough. They'll go their separate ways today and it won't have mattered.
"Greasy spoon," she repeats. This may be the first time she's heard someone use that term in real life. Her grin has faded out but her eyes narrow in amusement, albeit the skeptical kind.
If he is to stick around, she'd prefer it like this. But that's too telling. Who knows? After a bite to eat, they could end up back in bed. One more round before they say their goodbyes. That's just as good.
"Alright, fine." She pushes herself up. "If it's not far."
Frank finds himself staring at her, attempting to pick out anything he may have missed last night from the depth of her gaze. She likes to play it cool and that's fine by him, but despite every intention of his to make this a casual one-off meeting he's already daydreaming up ways they might cross paths down the line.
"Alright," he repeats with just a little too much quixotic energy.
Her begrudging acquiescence is apparently the very thing he'd been hingeing his whole mood on because he leans in to press the sweetest of kisses against her mouth before pulling back to start haphazardly detangling himself from her sheets. He takes the time to map out their clothing in the room before getting up, then he alternates between dressing himself and tossing an item her way.
She's pushing her hair back from the far side of her face when he quite literally steals a kiss. Jess brushes it off with a roll of her eyes, overcompensating for how much it knocks her off balance. Wetting her lips, she goes about getting dressed in the polar opposite fashion. Rising to her feet naked, she plucks clothing from her drawers and yesterday's jeans from the floor -- make that out of the air. She gives a gentle grunt by way of thanks. Semi-sarcastic seeing as one of the legs smacked her in the face.
Once she's decent, she wordlessly heads to the kitchen at the end of the hallway. Jess fills a glass with water and chugs it empty. She contemplates getting a glass for him too but fuck that. Despite how he's acting, he's not her boyfriend. She leaves the cupboard open and he can get one himself if he needs it that bad.
In the office, the tracks down a bottle of Jack and stuffs it into her bag. A hair tie lying on her desk is snatched up and her hair wrangled into a lazy bun. When she's ready to go, grabbing up her jacket, she finally takes stock of where he's at.
He tracks her with one eye while pulling his shirt on, finding himself strangely invested in what she's doing. He hears the familiar clink of a bottle and it gives him the tiniest twinge like - maybe they shouldn't be doing this. More specifically: him, since he knows on some level she'd rather do anything other than share a meal with him. Unconsciously mimicking her actions, he also stops in the tiny kitchenette and pours water from the taps into her same glass before draining it once and following onto the door.
Jessica Jones... okay, they're doing this. (He is.) Frank smiles at her sidelong as he travels back to the door where he'd left his leather coat hanging last night. He nudges the door with his elbow but lets her open it out rather than doing the obviously chivalrous thing. Instead, he trails after her in the hall with his head ducked low to the ground.
She has to wonder if he does this with all his one night stands, or one night stands are an atypical indulgence of his and habits don't apply. She's going to ask, then he has the tact not to hold the door open for her. Jess reserves her curiosity and locks the door.
Inside the elevator, she pushes the ground floor button and tucks her hands in her pockets.
"So, serving or vet?" They haven't talked about it but after spending the night with him, she can put two and two together. You don't rack up that many scars without getting knee deep in the shit.
Edited (google i dont know army stuff, stop being confusing about it when i ask you) 2022-01-16 02:09 (UTC)
He bristles slightly at the question, for no particular reason. Frank is one of those people who wears his tours on his face and he knows it, without mentioning the barely-outside-of-regulation haircut he's sporting.
"I... I'm done," he settles on with a near-silent sigh, leaning up against the railing at the back of the elevator car as he glances her way. "I got back from that sandtrap a while back and decided... that it was over."
Good. Jess doesn't look at him but she can feel the edge cut into his composure. He was getting a little giddy for her taste. She needs some booze in her system before that goes down too easy.
"Sounds like me and my last relationship." It's a brief ride, uninterrupted by other tenants. The beauty of short buildings: Minimal small talk. The cab judders to a standstill and the doors slide open, allowing them into the lobby. Jess heads out first, letting him fall behind until they're on the street and it's his turn to lead the way.
He laughs dryly at her follow-up, nodding lamely as she leads him out into the street. Frank nudges her shoulder gently with his before heading the opposite way towards pancakes, smiling softly all the while without realizing it.
"Leaving the military is a lot like a bad breakup," he admits belatedly, though not concerned if she wants to change the subject or bring back the silence. Something about Jess makes him comfortable with her, even when discussing less than comfy topics.
In this case, it's a lot more like it than he realizes it. Lies, gore, PTSD. Unsavoury glorification. Even if he's read about her, he won't have gotten the full scoop. Hogarth spun a good story for the reporters. Too good. Made her out to be someone she's not.
Maybe he read it. Maybe that's the person he thinks he's taking to breakfast.
"I thought about signing up, once or twice." Very, very fleetingly. Usually after reading some new Captain America anecdote from the people who actually knew him. "But it never would've worked out. Problems with authority."
Maybe he had read it - skimmed it more like. He's more curious about the rumors of her association with Matt, the rest seems like media fabrication to him. He'd been a stark example of that himself.
"I wish I woulda been more skeptical, honestly," he admits, appreciating her rebel attitude even without knowing something about her past. Which he doesn't really, he knows he couldn't know what she's been through any better than someone could understand his ordeal from the news coverage. "But the jarhead cliché is there for a reason, right?"
"Or several." None of which she feels like discussing before 10AM with a relative stranger, or, you know, anytime with anyone.
"What do you do now?" She wasn't interested last night. She's half interested now. Mostly because the last ex-military man she met set a really terrible precedent and she needs a little more than a first name to effectively google this one, clear him of any association with Simpson or Koslov. Unfair to him, maybe, but it's not personal. What's personal is letting herself be convinced by that handsome grin and those broad, rough hands to get breakfast with him in spite of that whisper of paranoia. He's lucky she's lonely.
Frank snorts at that dig, starting to remember flashes of last night and just how quick-witted she is. It's refreshing, even when she's using it to essentially put him down.
"You know the story. Construction, odd jobs, anything the VA wants to throw at me no one else wants." He smiles to himself like it's a private joke, mostly because it is. Curtis keeps him busy during the day so he can do what he does by moonlight... Now that by the light of a whiskey hangover he's realized who she is, he has to wonder how long it might be before she recognizes him. She is a PI, right? He shoots her a quizzical look sidelong and holds it for a beat longer than average before continuing. "Could I be more predictable, right?"
She is a PI, who wasn't working during his trial, and gets most of her news from a radio show. The months after Kilgrave's death, she went on a bit of a bender, and didn't see much of Trish to discuss this Punisher guy and his scrappy legal team. She got her head (arguably) above water just as the media was moving on.
But the way he looks at her makes her think there's something to him she's missing. And she's not crazy about that. She'd like to believe it's nothing but presumption on his part and mistrust on hers. Jess doesn't pick the eye contact back up once it's dropped. She scans the storefronts coming into view, looking for this hole-in-the-wall diner of his.
"I've got no problem with predictable. These days I've even come around to boring."
That makes him smile, though it's toothy and empty in the end. He lets it fall off his lips quickly, not wanting to fake more than his name in this interaction, but old habits die hard. Put the tiger in a cage, lock it up until it gets real hungry...
"There," he says unceremoniously, nodding to the corner joint ahead with a sign that's rotted off and no one bothered to replace it. It seems they don't thrive on new customers, or they've just made due with the old ones. Either way it's like stepping back in time when they do make it across the life-threatening crosswalk and inside the dark little diner. "This is my little slice of boring right here in the city."
Frank slinks his way to the corner booth and waits for her to follow. It will be a long time before anyone deems to acknowledge them, let alone take their order.
There. Huh. Jess recognizes it as a background detail brought to the fore. She passes by it frequently. Once, a long time ago, she must have passed a judgment on it similar to the one that occurs to her now: Too empty to people watch in, not the kind of place she'd stop to have a meal. And possibly a front for something.
With her eyes adjusting to the light, it's brighter inside than it appears from the street. The vinyl seats are cracked and peeling; the ones that aren't don't match the others. The grime between the tiles behind the counter must have several years of history to it. The smell wafting from the kitchen could ease a hangover all on its own.
Jess slides in across from him. She focuses on him despite the atmosphere still soaking into her. Doesn't want him to think she's impressed or anything.
He is studying her for any reaction, positive or otherwise, but ends up settling into a comfortable staring contest by the end.
"If I told you that, I'd have to kill you," he jokes lamely as a waitress finally takes pity on them and approaches with a carafe of coffee and her best resting bitch face. Frank is pretty sure she practices. He thanks her with a bright smile, the ancient menus she deposits on the table are as generic as they come and won't help Jess in her pursuit of knowledge in this instance. He takes a sip of his black coffee like it's the greatest thing he's ever tasted though it's burnt yet somehow not even hot - without ever taking his eyes off of her.
The waitress's unflappable disinclination toward hospitality positively captures Jess's heart. Her inert "thanks" glances right off her and that's all it's meant to do. Once she's fulfilled her obligations, she walks away, somehow making it feel like they're the ones leaving her alone. God damn, where was this place when Jess was in her deadend job phase? She could have lasted a while, if that's the service they shoot for. Not shade.
Her eyes swing from her back to Frank as she sips some room into her mug. "Wow," she muses judgmentally as she pulls out a flask and tops her coffee off with whiskey. "You definitely have a type."
It actually startles a laugh out of him and he ducks his head over his coffee to contain it before looking back over at her with mirth sparkling through his gaze. What an idiot.
"I can tell you like it too," he points out teasingly, not sure if he's trying to goad her into denying it, but he thinks he likes when she gets indignant. He finishes off his dumb, smug statement with a canine head-tilt before slurping down more awful, burnt coffee that's still somehow too hot just to sip.
Edited (one letter edit i know you missed me) 2022-02-09 23:29 (UTC)
Her glare glints, hardened but allowing a light through nonetheless. Damn feedback loop. The corners of her mouth take on a tautness as remaining expressionless now takes effort. He's goading her and she's allowing it. Because it's good kindling for a quickie, undeniably. Because her mornings, when she's awake for them, are all one dull blur lately, and this is something different. Interesting. That's as much as she'll knowingly refuse to admit. Calling it fun is just over the line.
"I always figured I didn't have the personality for waitressing." She lifts her mug, swirling it carefully. "Turns out I was just looking in the wrong places." The coffee and whiskey are barely mixed when she has a drink. It's awful and perfect and she sighs as she swallows.
Frank watches her with his own lips twitching, and though he's less concerned about acting goofy she's making it almost impossible not to fall in love on the spot. And that's definitely something he doesn't need to do. That sobering thought slowly widdles away his mirth even as he considers her point, trying to picture her working in this very diner.
"Not a chance," he comes down on, realizing just how ridiculous it is, Jessica Jones working as a mindless automaton among the rest. "You'd get bored, wouldn't you?" Get involved, more like. He narrows his eyes as he tries not to draw parallels between them.
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morning after meetcute, morning BEFORE meetspooky👻
Idly, he runs the back of scarred knuckles across the delicate skin of her arm, holding his breath as he realizes she's awake. She may have awoken first, he surmises, because she hadn't moved a muscle after his dramatic gasp into the waking world. Brushing aside his nervousness, he allows his heavy head to roll onto the edge of her pillow as he keeps up the soft touching, his cool breath washing across her throat.
"How do you feel about pancakes, Jess?" he asks gruffly near her ear, pleased with himself for sounding mostly disinterested in the answer. He's definitely expecting to be definitively thrown out now that the light of day is breaking, but no one will be able to say he didn't shoot his shot when she inevitably does kick him to the curb.
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She wakes up and admonishes herself for not caring a little more. But she's still tired, props to him, so she shuts her eyes again. What's one more mistake?
It's not long after that his even breathing breaks into tatters. In the shallows of sleep, she's slowly stirred by it. She disregards it out of hand, like a bad dream of her own. When you're in it, you can never quite convince yourself to get out. His gasp shreds that delusion and then she's awake. She sighs measuredly, so as to not be heard. She listens to her own stillness until his touch hums across her skin.
His question inspires a sleep self-effacing grin. "Like they take eggs. And milk." She rolls her head his way. "And pancake mix."
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"By your tone I'm guessing... not an option, if we stay here." He tacks it on more to be a smartass than to ask her out, but then he gets so swept up in the moment he figures, 'why not?' Especially when she's looking at him that way. "I do know a greasy spoon not far."
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"Greasy spoon," she repeats. This may be the first time she's heard someone use that term in real life. Her grin has faded out but her eyes narrow in amusement, albeit the skeptical kind.
If he is to stick around, she'd prefer it like this. But that's too telling. Who knows? After a bite to eat, they could end up back in bed. One more round before they say their goodbyes. That's just as good.
"Alright, fine." She pushes herself up. "If it's not far."
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"Alright," he repeats with just a little too much quixotic energy.
Her begrudging acquiescence is apparently the very thing he'd been hingeing his whole mood on because he leans in to press the sweetest of kisses against her mouth before pulling back to start haphazardly detangling himself from her sheets. He takes the time to map out their clothing in the room before getting up, then he alternates between dressing himself and tossing an item her way.
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Once she's decent, she wordlessly heads to the kitchen at the end of the hallway. Jess fills a glass with water and chugs it empty. She contemplates getting a glass for him too but fuck that. Despite how he's acting, he's not her boyfriend. She leaves the cupboard open and he can get one himself if he needs it that bad.
In the office, the tracks down a bottle of Jack and stuffs it into her bag. A hair tie lying on her desk is snatched up and her hair wrangled into a lazy bun. When she's ready to go, grabbing up her jacket, she finally takes stock of where he's at.
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Jessica Jones... okay, they're doing this. (He is.) Frank smiles at her sidelong as he travels back to the door where he'd left his leather coat hanging last night. He nudges the door with his elbow but lets her open it out rather than doing the obviously chivalrous thing. Instead, he trails after her in the hall with his head ducked low to the ground.
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Inside the elevator, she pushes the ground floor button and tucks her hands in her pockets.
"So, serving or vet?" They haven't talked about it but after spending the night with him, she can put two and two together. You don't rack up that many scars without getting knee deep in the shit.
google do your job!!
"I... I'm done," he settles on with a near-silent sigh, leaning up against the railing at the back of the elevator car as he glances her way. "I got back from that sandtrap a while back and decided... that it was over."
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"Sounds like me and my last relationship." It's a brief ride, uninterrupted by other tenants. The beauty of short buildings: Minimal small talk. The cab judders to a standstill and the doors slide open, allowing them into the lobby. Jess heads out first, letting him fall behind until they're on the street and it's his turn to lead the way.
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"Leaving the military is a lot like a bad breakup," he admits belatedly, though not concerned if she wants to change the subject or bring back the silence. Something about Jess makes him comfortable with her, even when discussing less than comfy topics.
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Maybe he read it. Maybe that's the person he thinks he's taking to breakfast.
"I thought about signing up, once or twice." Very, very fleetingly. Usually after reading some new Captain America anecdote from the people who actually knew him. "But it never would've worked out. Problems with authority."
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"I wish I woulda been more skeptical, honestly," he admits, appreciating her rebel attitude even without knowing something about her past. Which he doesn't really, he knows he couldn't know what she's been through any better than someone could understand his ordeal from the news coverage. "But the jarhead cliché is there for a reason, right?"
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"What do you do now?" She wasn't interested last night. She's half interested now. Mostly because the last ex-military man she met set a really terrible precedent and she needs a little more than a first name to effectively google this one, clear him of any association with Simpson or Koslov. Unfair to him, maybe, but it's not personal. What's personal is letting herself be convinced by that handsome grin and those broad, rough hands to get breakfast with him in spite of that whisper of paranoia. He's lucky she's lonely.
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"You know the story. Construction, odd jobs, anything the VA wants to throw at me no one else wants." He smiles to himself like it's a private joke, mostly because it is. Curtis keeps him busy during the day so he can do what he does by moonlight... Now that by the light of a whiskey hangover he's realized who she is, he has to wonder how long it might be before she recognizes him. She is a PI, right? He shoots her a quizzical look sidelong and holds it for a beat longer than average before continuing. "Could I be more predictable, right?"
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But the way he looks at her makes her think there's something to him she's missing. And she's not crazy about that. She'd like to believe it's nothing but presumption on his part and mistrust on hers. Jess doesn't pick the eye contact back up once it's dropped. She scans the storefronts coming into view, looking for this hole-in-the-wall diner of his.
"I've got no problem with predictable. These days I've even come around to boring."
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"There," he says unceremoniously, nodding to the corner joint ahead with a sign that's rotted off and no one bothered to replace it. It seems they don't thrive on new customers, or they've just made due with the old ones. Either way it's like stepping back in time when they do make it across the life-threatening crosswalk and inside the dark little diner. "This is my little slice of boring right here in the city."
Frank slinks his way to the corner booth and waits for her to follow. It will be a long time before anyone deems to acknowledge them, let alone take their order.
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With her eyes adjusting to the light, it's brighter inside than it appears from the street. The vinyl seats are cracked and peeling; the ones that aren't don't match the others. The grime between the tiles behind the counter must have several years of history to it. The smell wafting from the kitchen could ease a hangover all on its own.
Jess slides in across from him. She focuses on him despite the atmosphere still soaking into her. Doesn't want him to think she's impressed or anything.
"What's this place even called?"
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"If I told you that, I'd have to kill you," he jokes lamely as a waitress finally takes pity on them and approaches with a carafe of coffee and her best resting bitch face. Frank is pretty sure she practices. He thanks her with a bright smile, the ancient menus she deposits on the table are as generic as they come and won't help Jess in her pursuit of knowledge in this instance. He takes a sip of his black coffee like it's the greatest thing he's ever tasted though it's burnt yet somehow not even hot - without ever taking his eyes off of her.
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Her eyes swing from her back to Frank as she sips some room into her mug. "Wow," she muses judgmentally as she pulls out a flask and tops her coffee off with whiskey. "You definitely have a type."
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"I can tell you like it too," he points out teasingly, not sure if he's trying to goad her into denying it, but he thinks he likes when she gets indignant. He finishes off his dumb, smug statement with a canine head-tilt before slurping down more awful, burnt coffee that's still somehow too hot just to sip.
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"I always figured I didn't have the personality for waitressing." She lifts her mug, swirling it carefully. "Turns out I was just looking in the wrong places." The coffee and whiskey are barely mixed when she has a drink. It's awful and perfect and she sighs as she swallows.
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"Not a chance," he comes down on, realizing just how ridiculous it is, Jessica Jones working as a mindless automaton among the rest. "You'd get bored, wouldn't you?" Get involved, more like. He narrows his eyes as he tries not to draw parallels between them.