breakfast for dinner {frank castle}
daydreaming about what the first time frank has you over for dinner looks like.
it was a jumble of emotions, right? where most men had succeeded in putting you off of the xy chromosome entirely, frank tended a garden in you that you never realized you had until he showered you with sunshine. seeds of what if sprouted in his wake instead of seeds of doubt, and fear.
and it certainly wasn't a perfect first dinner by any means. a set of train tracks ran behind his apartment so it was loud, and the whole building tended to shiver and shake when a train rumbled by, but it was so inherently him that it just didn't matter.
"wow," he murmured when he opened the door to you. "you look like a million bucks, boots."
"ha," you exhaled a lungful of pent-up air. "that's very kind of you."
it never mattered what he was doing, but he always looked handsome. his dark hair hung in damp curls now, and while his sweater looked great on him, you imagined it'd look even better pooled on his bedroom floor. you cleared your throat in an attempt to ward off the images that succeeded that thought, and spied a bouquet of pale pink peonies on his kitchen counter and smiled.
"i brought wine, for the pasta." you wiggled the bottle in your grasp for emphasis. "a friend of mine, who's a chef in chicago, told me this one pairs well with pasta."
as you glanced around the small space, you couldn't help noticing the acute lack of personal touches. there were no photographs or artwork; only a hand-crafted wooden bookshelf, filled to the brim with paperback novels and vinyl records. an old player sat on an end table opposite the shelf.
he braced himself against the counter and sighed in defeat. "the pasta's a bust." silence ticked between you before he spoke again. "and I know you're probably wonderin' what kind of italian-american man worth his weight can't cook pasta, but it just wasn't in the cards tonight."
you shook your head, your tone firm. "that's not what i'm wondering at all, frank."
you wandered over to the stove and peered down at the pan of now-congealed spaghetti, cracked pepper, and pecorino romano cheese. you turned back to him with a wry smile, and gave the bottle in your hand another small wiggle. "what i'm wondering is, where are your glasses?"
he huffed out a gruff laugh and joined you at the stove. while he reached into the cupboard above you, his sweater rode up to expose a section of his impossibly toned abdomen. he was so close that you could smell the fresh, clean scent of soap on his skin, and all of it combined made you momentarily dizzy with want. you had the sudden, inexplicable urge to reach out to him, but then he dropped back onto the balls of his feet with two mugs in hand. "will these do?"
you cleared your throat and shrugged. "beats swilling wine out of paper cups."
it was silent in the kitchen while he worked on uncorking the bottle, so you wandered over to the peonies and lifted them to your nose, inhaling the pretty floral scent deep into your lungs. on the very first night you crossed paths with him, you'd mentioned they were your favourite. the realization that he'd remembered the small detail caused a warmth to pour into you like sunshine through a stained-glass window.
"these are gorgeous, frank, thank you."
"'m glad you like 'em." he hummed, before sliding your mug full of wine over. he poured himself one next, and tilted it towards yours in a cheers, the only sound in the kitchen being the muted ting of the ceramic meeting.
you took a deep sip, savouring the pinot noir on your tongue, and cleared your throat. "now about this pickle we find ourselves in, dinner-wise," you leveled your gaze with his. "are you in possession of any bacon?"
he nodded.
"what about eggs?"
he nodded again. "think so."
"then it's settled," you declared triumphantly. "we'll have breakfast for dinner."
he seemed dubious about the whole ordeal.
"c'mon castle," you simpered. "let's get started, hm? i'm starved."
he smiled softly to himself, and it ocured to you then that you wouldn't mind being the cause of that smile for the rest of your days.
"yes ma'am."
there was an unexpected ease in the way you two maneuvered around each other. it felt inexplicably like muscle-memory with him; like somehow this wasn't the first time since the beginning of everything that your souls had crossed paths.
"whaddya thinkin', over there?" he murmured, once the dust had settled on dinner.
you exhaled a lungful of air. "that was a fantastic, frank. i reckon the diner down the street's got some fair competition if that's the way you always cook your eggs and bacon."
"yeah?" he mused. "think i could make a career out of it one day?"
you clicked your tongue and shook your head. "i think you and i both know that particular line of work would not be very satisfying for you."
it was silent while you two regarded each other, and when he finally spoke again, it was to let you know that he was going to start tidying up. "but please make yourself at home." he urged.
"you don't want any help?" you asked.
he shook his head. "nah, i'll come find ya when i'm done."
you wandered over to his bookshelf, topped-up mug in hand. the wine consumed was only partly to blame for the growing warmth in your neck and cheeks, and you smiled to yourself as you surveyed his collection. he was in possession of everything from the old man and the sea, to a clockwork orange, to tess of the d'urbervilles.
"this is quite the selection you've got here," you mused, when he eventually sidled up beside you. "i confess i'm a little jealous."
he cleared his throat. "i uh... i've had a lotta time on my hands over the years, and books help to pass it." he gently brushed shoulders with you. "i'm just a phone call away if you ever wanna borrow one."
you stroked a fingertip down the tattered spine of the great gatsby, and smiled. "i may just have to take you up on that, frank."
your gaze traveled to the record player and you wandered over to see what was in his current rotation.
"no judgements," he murmured from somewhere behind you.
you elicited a breathless laugh. "i would never. besides, if your taste in music is anything close to your taste in literature, don't be surprised if i propose tonight."
he'd last been listening to nebraska by bruce springsteen.
"almost as good as darkness on the edge of town," you mused, and gestured to the lid of the player. "may I?"
frank nodded.
you lifted the needle into place and lowered it down onto the vinyl record. static crackled to life and then the sharp, clear sounds of a harmonica breathed noise into the otherwise quiet apartment.
"'m glad i didn't scare ya off tonight," he hadn't moved from his spot behind you.
you turned to him in the waning sunlight that shone through his window and cloaked him in a golden glow. "it'd take a lot more than ruined pasta to scare me off, frank."
he pushed himself from his stance against the wall and walked to where you were.
"will you dance with me?" he asked.
you swallowed hard and nodded your head, knowing wholeheartedly that the moment you let him gather you into his arms, there would be no going back, ever.
and that was alright with you.
