It’s Secret Springs Week 1 Time!!
My contribution for the first week of @secretelephanttattoo’s excellent summer challenge. In keeping with the food and drink theme of the week, please enjoy Floating, a super sweet (and plenty sweary and a little angsty) one shot at Morales’ Ice Cream Parlor and Soda Fountain with Frankie, the nicest jerk in town. I hope you love him as much as I do!!!🍦
Main Masterlist - AO3
Rating: M 💖⛈️
Pairing: Frankie x gn!Reader
Warnings: no minors, no betas, no proofreading, no problem; one shot - infidelity, cancelled wedding, dog poop/Roomba catastrophe as metaphor, vacationing with a slutty brother, Frankie’s drug history, Triple Frontier trauma (shooting, heli crash, death, not in explicit detail), sobriety from drugs and alcohol, spilling your guts to empathetic strangers because life is short and we can’t be fucked to maintain appearances anymore, ice cream romanticism, Frankie wears a cute little hat omg, he’s also wearing that white Henley tee YOU KNOW THE ONE, just freaking fluff, Frankie is a sweet angel, stupid soda jerk joke, maraschino casualties, and one suspiciously sneaky mayor
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Floating
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This stupid fucking heat.
This stupid fucking town.
This stupid fucking trip.
Your stupid fucking life.
Of course everything around you was BEAUTIFUL and FLAWLESS. Of course everyone you met was LOVELY and WARM and FRIENDLY.
It made you furious.
Secret Springs was a dream holiday spot, of course. You could admit it begrudgingly; you’d been excited to be here once. Every inch of the resort town was designed with luxury, charm, and comfort in mind. Every staff person you encountered was thrilled to see you, incredibly helpful, unerringly delightful. The mayor (an elected position? A themed, invented title? You weren’t sure) greeted you personally when you arrived, didn’t bat an eye when you introduced your brother as the second guest on the newlyweds package reservation in place of your husband.
Would-be husband. Fiancé. Ex-fiancé. Dirt bag. Sewer rat. Shower drain slime with weird hair in it.
So, yeah. What should’ve been an incredible honeymoon went all to hell when your fiancé told you he’d been having an affair 12 weeks before the wedding. Dropped a huge metaphorical pile of dog shit in the living room of your heart. Then let loose the proverbial Roomba with a she really makes my heart sing, I know if the roles were reversed I wouldn’t want you to miss out on the love of your life even if it hurt.
You’d spend the past three months mentally scrubbing crap tracks out of the area rug of your soul, making calls and cancellations and apologies nonstop, but of course, OF COURSE, the trip was non-refundable and you couldn’t reschedule.
Now you were sweaty and gross and sunburned and chafing and swamp-assed and really fucking angry and really fucking sad and your emotional support big brother was probably wrecked on Aperol spritzes getting railed poolside by one of the very attentive young men on staff and you were alone in the most beautiful place you’d ever seen, cursing every quaint fucking cobblestone.
Sigh.
“Enjoying your stay?” came a too-chipper voice from behind you. You hadn’t heard anybody coming over the sound of your own heavy breathing. It was Mayor El, and they were waiting expectantly for your response.
“Couldn’t be better,” you deadpanned, wiping your forehead with the back of your hand. You thought something almost darkly mischievous flashed across the mayor’s eyes for a fraction of a second before they plastered on a megawatt smile. Might’ve just been the sun. Maybe you were losing it.
“Unconvincing at best, my dear!” crowed Mayor El, clapping a hand on your shoulder. “I’ve heard from some of my employees that your travel companion is taking advantage of all the perks of our little resort.” The mayor gave you a knowing wink.
“Oh, I’m sure he is. He’s always been quick to let loose and have a good time. I’ll… well, I’m not sure I’ll get there under the circumstances, honestly. Nothing personal — your place is great.” You shrugged apologetically.
Mayor El nodded with understanding. “Not exactly in the vacation mood. I don’t blame you.”
“Firmly in a ‘I’d rather be anywhere else than getting heat stroke on my aborted honeymoon with my slutty brother’ mood, yeah,” you chuckled in spite of yourself, feeling somewhat lighter. You had to admit, they were good at this. You were sure Secret Springs would be swimming in customers (and cash) with the mayor’s keen sense.
“You know what always gets me through a soul-crushing experience?” Mayor El asked, prompting.
“What’s that? Because I might be beyond crushed. Like I’ve been through a fucking recycling center, spiritually.”
The mayor smirked, and again you caught a tiny glimpse of something sneaky, deviant, on their features. “Ice cream.”
You huffed. “A little cliche, don’t you think, Mayor?”
“Maybe, but aren’t those usually rooted in some bit of truth? And lucky for you, Secret Springs boasts its very own old-fashioned soda fountain and ice cream parlor. Floats and malts and sundaes. They wear the cute little hats and everything - that was my idea.”
Ice cream did sound good. Like, crazy good. Suddenly you couldn’t imagine doing anything else but crying into a mountain of whipped cream while you cooled down your cooked body from the inside. Damn, Mayor El knows their shit. “Okay, yeah, that… that sounds perfect actually. And where…”
You didn’t have to finish your thought before the mayor was taking you by the elbow and pulling you down the street toward a shopfront with a small bistro table and chairs under a striped awning. A lush pink bougainvillea climbed the wall and trailed its tendrils around the front window, which was painted with white swirling letters — Morales’ Ice Cream Parlor and Soda Fountain. You turned to thank the mayor and found they’d disappeared as silently as they’d arrived. You didn’t linger on the weirdness because immediately you were distracted by the smell of fresh waffle cones hooking into your nostrils and yanking your body towards the door, inside the shop.
A tinny bell rang when you pushed open the door. It was darling inside. Checkerboard floors, polished wooden shelving, mint green bar with a chrome and black countertop and matching stools. An old-fashioned citrus juicer was mounted to one side of the counter, a soda dispenser on the other, and pumps for different syrups lined the length of it. Several pastel Hamilton Beach mixers and stacked curvy glasses filled the back wall. The air conditioning buzzed, and you could barely detect faint music coming from an open door at the back of the store, but the place was otherwise quiet and empty.
Are they even open? If I don’t get ice cream now I might cry. I might throttle the mayor.
“Welcome to Morales’! Grab any seat, I’ll be with ya in a minute!” called a voice from the back. Oh thank God. You desperately needed this treat (and you suspected the mayor knew how to fight). You slid onto the stool closest to the cash register and peered around for a menu without luck.
“Sorry ‘bout that, dropped a case of maraschino cherries. Real bitch to clean up. I mean, god, apologies for the language. What can I do ya for?” A man in a tight white Henley and blue jeans — and a little white paper hat, as promised — walked behind the counter, rolling his shoulders (BROAD shoulders), eyes down as he wiped sticky pink hands (BIG hands) on the red-and-white striped apron tied around his waist (TINY waist).
You squeaked? Since when did you squeak? But you squeaked. And coughed, to try to cover it. The man looked up and locked eyes with you, big bright brown eyes, a lopsided grin dimpling his scruffy cheek. Can you get brain freeze without actually eating the ice cream?
“I need help? I need… ice cream. I need ice cream help?” you tried.
“You’re in luck, then,” the man grinned. “Just so happens that ice cream help is exactly what we do here at Morales’. Do you need help with ice cream or help from ice cream?” His eyes honest-to-god twinkled. TWINKLED.
You returned his smile with not a small flush of mortification. “Yes,” you replied with a chuckle. “Both. I need a lot of help. And a lot of ice cream.” You offered your palms in plea.
The man flipped on the sink faucet and gave his hands a quick soapy scrub, then dried them on a towel slung over his shoulder before reaching over the bar and taking your hands in his, giving them a quick squeeze.
Oh.
“I’ve been preparing for this my whole life. I’ve got you,” he laughed. “Shake? Malt? Scoop? Sundae? Float? I’ve got options.” His eyes roamed the counter and he murmured an ah hell before ducking down out of view, reappearing a second later with a laminated menu. “I guess you might need one of these.” The tips of his ears went a little pink and he worried his plump lower lip with his teeth. “I’ll give you a minute to think.” He turned away and set to wiping over the countertop with his towel.
You stared at the menu, not processing. You knew you’d walked into the ice cream parlor, you knew you’d sat down at the counter, you knew you’d been knocked the hell out of your body Dr. Strange style when you made eye contact with a beautiful boyish stranger who was eager to give you “ice cream help.” Jesus fuck, ice cream help.
The man cleared his throat to catch your attention and you startled. “Sorry! You looked a little… lost in thought, there. If you’re craving something you don’t see on the menu, I might be able to make it happen anyway.” He smirked, that dimple absolutely criminal. “Wouldn’t want to leave you unsatisfied.” Christ.
“God, sorry. I was spacing out. Didn’t bring my brain with me on this trip, I guess.” You frowned and looked at the menu, tried to will your eyes to read harder, somehow.
“How’s it been going? Your trip, I mean,” the man asked, leaning onto the counter onto his tan forearms and resting his chin in his hand.
“It’s great!” you pipped, too fast. He raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips. You revised. “It’s… not great. It’s not great. It blows, actually,” you admitted, barking out a sharp laugh of relief. “It fucking sucks.”
“No wonder you need ice cream help, then. Sounds critical.”
“It really is…” you scanned his chest (and wow, what a chest) for a name tag, coming up empty.
“Francisco Morales.” He reached a hand out to shake, which you did. “But if you call me by my full name like that I’m gonna worry I’m in trouble, so please, Frankie.”
You gave him your name and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Do you get in a lot of trouble, Frankie?” You didn’t mean for your voice to take a flirtatious edge to it. Maybe you were getting high off the waffle cone fumes.
Frankie mirrored your movements, coming closer, and whispered loudly, “Whatever you’ve heard, don’t tell the mayor on me.” He winked. “But no, not anymore. Sure used to, though. Not a lot of trouble to be had at a soda fountain.”
“Except for dropping crates of maraschino cherries.”
“Damn, you got me. Yeah, except for that. And the occasional hot fudge burn.
“Yikes!”
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and quirked his lips. “Yep. Not too bad though. I can handle a little pain with my pleasure.”
Lord.
“I’m sorry Frankie, I have no idea what to order. Can you recommend something? I’m a mess.”
“Sure can. Need a little information first.” He clapped his hands together. “Allergies?”
“Nope, none.”
“Any particular likes or dislikes?”
“Don’t hate me, but I love maraschino cherries.”
He cackled. “OF COURSE. Well, I think I managed to save at least one jar. Classic or cutting-edge?”
“Hm. As intrigued as I am by an avante-garde soda fountain, I think my soul needs more comfort today. Classic.”
“I can work with that,” he hummed thoughtfully. Then, more softly, “how much comfort are we talkin’? Mending a little hurt or a big one? If I’m being too nosy, just tell me to shove it. I’m a professional jerk but I don’t want to be an asshole,” he snorted.
“Absolutely awful joke aside,” you groaned, “you’re good. I’m not sure how to even quantify the size of it, honestly.” You sighed and scrubbed down your face with your hands. “Well, I’m here on my honeymoon, but without my husband, because I don’t actually have a husband, because the wedding got called off, because my fiancé was cheating on me, and he made sure to tell me he was cheating on me with somebody he is madly in love with, which feels worse I think, but the trip was nonrefundable and so I came here anyway with my brother instead, and now he’s getting plowed by a pool boy while I…” you trailed off as your eyes glossed with tears, and you looked away while you tried frantically to blink them back.
“I see,” said Frankie quietly. “Well, shit. Yep, that’s a big hurt. Hate to admit it but I’m not sure my ice cream can fix that,” he tutted. “And, trust me, it’s really fucking good ice cream.”
You breathed out a wet, snotty laugh-adjacent sound. “Damn.”
“Right?” Frankie lamented playfully. “I did promise my help, though. Maybe it won’t solve your problems but it could lift your spirits a little. Worth a try?”
“Worth a try,” you agreed, snagging a napkin from the metal dispenser and dabbing at your eyes.
Frankie spun on his heels and went to work, brow furrowed in thought and pink tongue poking out between his lips like he was working on something critically important rather than on assembling a confection. It warmed you in a way you didn’t expect, to see him being so thoughtful about his work, like your hurt was an important thing. You let the feeling snuggle its way into your chest, curl up there, start purring.
After several minutes Frankie resumed his place at the counter in front of you, now with two tall glasses of something foamy and red-pink and creamy and delicious-looking, topped with three cherries a piece. “Mind if I join you?”
You shook your head no and Frankie slid you one of the glasses. “What am I about to drink?”
“Poison,” he replied flatly, smile teasing at the corner of his mouth. His lovely, lovely mouth. “Taste first. Then I’ll tell you.” He crossed his arms and watched expectantly. “Go on, hermosa.”
You eyed him suspiciously at the endearment but took a sip. Grenadine goodness bubbled on your tongue, melding with rich vanilla and decadent whipped cream.
In a flash, you were a small child, sitting between your parents at a fancy brunch, a tower of waffles in front of you. “I think we have something special just for the coolest kids,” whispered the waitress into your ear. You squirmed excitedly in your seat, sneakers swinging. She set down a tall glass of something the color of hummingbird nectar and plinked a cherry in alongside a stripey paper straw. “It’s called a Shirley Temple, and it’s extra sweet, just like you.”
Frankie cut into your reminiscing. “My turn for a story.” He tilted his head like a puppy, asking without asking if you were interested in hearing it.
“You’ve earned it, Morales. I’m all ears.”
His smile softened a little around the edges, turned down slightly, and he sighed. “Believe it or not,” he began, “I wasn’t always a soda jerk.”
“Just a regular one, then?”
“Ha! More than I care to admit. I… uh…” he looked down, rubbing his neck again, looking nervous for the first time since you’d walked in. “I was in the military. Army, special forces. Pilot, helicopters.”
“Oh, no shit?”
“No shit. It was… it was a life. I was good at it. Really good, too good probably? I’ll spare you the gory details — and most of what I did is gory details,” he winced. “Got out, was flying commercial helis, got into some of that trouble I mentioned earlier. Not a lot of support for vets, especially not the ones who did the most fucked up stuff, you know. So I coped the best I could, which was badly,” he admitted with a chuckle. “Coke. Got busted at work. Lost my job. Lost my license. Lost my girl.” Frankie swiped a thumb across his lip absently, swallowed.
“Then, because I was on a fucking roll with good decisions, I took a job flying for my old Delta Force buddies in South America. Unofficial, not technically illegal US muscle against a big drug lord, bring back his cash stores. Didn’t go well.” He took a deep, pained sigh. Took off his little hat, tossed it onto the counter. “It’s… this next part is a lot.”
Your heart ached for this man you’d only just met, who seemed so warm and gentle. “It’s okay. You can keep going.” You reached to him and rested a hand on his arm, and he looked heartened as he continued.
“We had to drop our haul. The whole thing. It was too heavy, but it was also too late. Crashed trying to clear the Andes. Landed outside a farming village and… I still don’t know exactly why, but shit went sideways. There was shooting. Villager died. We tried to clean up our mess, be diplomatic, but you can’t come back from something like that. Had no choice but to try to walk the mountain pass and get to where our pickup was waiting at the coast on the other side. Cold as fuck, exhausting. And… we were followed. Guy from the village, looking for revenge. Justice. I don’t know. Can’t blame him. He… uh, he shot one of my buddies. He died, and we had to…”
Frankie’s voice cracked. “Sorry.” You squeezed his arm, nodded wordlessly.
“We had to bring him home. So, we carried his body back, the other four of us. Returned him to his widow, his kids. Signed over all our payment for the job to them, got sent on our merry way,” he gritted bitterly. He dropped his head in his hands.
“Jesus Christ, Frankie. I’m so, so sorry,” you rasped. “I… fuck, what do you even say to that. I’m so sorry you went through that. It’s… it’s so fucked up.” You felt tears welling up, for him, this time, instead of yourself. For his pain. For his grief. For his strength. “That’s way beyond ice cream help.”
It was Frankie’s turn to wet snot laugh, and he wiped his face on his shoulder. “Big hurt for sure. But it was a real kick in the ass for me. I couldn’t live like that. Decided no more military anything, no more tough guy shit. Threw myself into therapy, leaned on my family. I’d quit coke after I got busted, but when I got home I quit drinking, too. First time I went out after getting sober, I immediately got overwhelmed, on edge from the noise and the crowd, nothing dulling my senses. Stupid choice, in hindsight. Found myself at the bar trying to convince myself not to order a beer, not to find someone with blown out pupils and follow them to the bathrooms. Bartender was a friendly old woman who took one look at me, itching for a fix, and came back with a drink. Not booze, a Shirley Temple. A big fucking Shirley Temple.”
“Cherries?”
Frankie dipped his chin in confirmation. “You know it. Three of ‘em. And I was mortified. Genuinely. I was still working through a lot, machismo bullshit and all that. But she gave me this look like I better not even think about leaving that drink on the bar, so, I drank it. And I kid you not,” his eyes widened and gleamed, “it was the best damn thing I’d ever tasted. And more than that, it was… healing? I didn’t feel like I was sitting in this angry storm cloud for a minute. I could just enjoy something, feel a little lighter. It looked fucking silly, but it felt like the first nice, easy, simple thing I’d done in decades. And I realized that I wasn’t even thinking about wanting a bump of coke or a beer; I was just content to be in that small moment, sipping my fruity little soda. Made the decision right then that when I started to feel hopeless, torn up again, world going dark, I’d try sitting with a Shirley Temple first. Probably the one choice I’ve made in life that truly served me well. I mean, besides chasing my sweet tooth into starting up this place.” His face was pure sunshine.
“Is that why you made me a Shirley Temple float?” You didn’t even bother trying to hide your tears this time.
“It is. Tried and true healing powers of a Shirley Temple with extra ice cream magic. Can’t solve all your problems, but makes them feel a little more manageable, at least in my experience.” He took the hand you still had clasped around his forearm and brought it up to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles, and sat it back on the counter with a slow smirk before stepping back and rounding the bar to you.
You stood from the stool and when he opened his arms you stepped into them, letting him pull you into him as he wrapped around you tightly. You breathed deep, eyes closed, cheek pressed to the warm patch of bare skin where his shirt buttons fell open. You felt the tip of his nose nudge into your hair, another soft kiss at your crown.
“Thank you, Frankie. Thank you for this. For the float. For the company. For the help. For the… hope?” You murmured the words against his body, pressing your gratitudes into his chest and hoping they went right through his ribs and stuck there inside for him to keep.
“I told you it was good. Ice cream is magic.” He looked down at you in the cradle of his arms, brown eyes glowing coffee warm with affection.
You reached up and twirled a glossy brown curl and let it fall, then traced your fingers down among the curve of his stubbled jaw. Frankie nuzzled into your touch.
“Does feel like something magical happened,” you hummed, taking his face in your palm, threading your fingers through his soft tousled hair. Frankie quirked an eyebrow at you. You pulled him closer, bending his neck down until your nose tucked into the soft fuzzy shell of his ear. Your whisper was warm and low against his cheek. “Don’t think it was the ice cream that did it.”
And when he kissed you, God, when he kissed you, it was the sweetest thing you’d ever known.
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