đź’¦!! //from fred... he's going to be her hairdresser~
My Muse broke their wrist recently and can’t do much. Send 💦 to help them wash their hair
Another day, another grunt sent to help her out while she’s still in recovery. Clarissa’s patience is starting to wear thin: blasted arm, freaking ribs… What she needs most in the world (more than a pay-rise and that sweet new pair of gold-and-white boxing gloves) is to get struck with green lightning, or bitten by a radioactive Spinarak so that she gains super-neato, super-human healing powers. The sooner her bones heal, the sooner she can go back to caring for her own damn self, in place of the “services” of her sulky coworkers who huffed about their job as if they’d rather be sweeping the Pokémon cages than lending a higher-ranking agent a hand.
She’s fuckity-done with being manhandled, but her interest piques just a little when she winces her way to the door and finds this particular grunt—Frank? Ferdinand? Fred—standing on the welcome mat. (Note: a welcome mat at a Rocket safe-house is pretty oxymoronic, ain’t it?)
Clarissa knows this grunt. Well, sorta. To the extent that she knows his name and rank. She’s pretty sure they musta worked a couple of the same missions back when she was at the same level, albeit under different directives. At very least they’ve collided in the hall a couple times—but they’ve never actually hung out.
“Yo Frank, we’ve never actually hung out.” Clarissa muses her previous thought aloud over the splatter of the shower-head being directed across her scalp. “Why not? You seem passably not-an-asshole. Figures that this’d be the first time, right?”