Daytime TV
Rating: PG
Fandom: Runaways
Characters: Frank and Leslie Dean
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: A little bit of Frank's mind.
Frank would never really admit it, but he thinks his wife is more radiant than anything when she’s just sitting on the couch. He’d never really admit that he’s got a crush on her, either.
Running away from home had seemed like a good idea at the time. Running away from home with the girl he’d grown up with had seemed just as good. Getting married was the only way to be socially acceptable when they’d hit Earth, so they had. Sometimes he feels like a fool.
She’s just sitting there and he’s wrapped around her finger, and she knows it, she knows it, and she enjoys it. Obscenely. Like, if she wanted, she could have him, but she doesn’t, so she dangles the carrot of temptation in front of his nose and just sits there.
He catches himself staring at her. She shoots him an angry glare, challenging, demanding to know what the fuck he’s looking at. His eyes and the floor meet very rapidly.
They tried the sex thing a long time ago. She’d gotten uncomfortable, though. That was when they’d stopped sleeping in the same bed.
It’s a few moments later that he catches her looking at him. It’s one of those rare blips in time when she’s vulnerable. Well, almost. Leslie’s never vulnerable, per se. But she looks almost vulnerable now, and he finds himself wishing she’d let him touch her for more than a few seconds at a time.
She bites her lip and turns her attention back to the TV.
"Les."
She frowns. Doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t respond.
"Leslie."
This time she turns embarassed eyes on him. Just the eyes. Her face stays turned to the set in the corner. But her eyes, for now, are his.
He reaches out, drops his skin, glows at her. She reaches up and yanks the blackout curtains shut and the room floods with light. She’s still off and he’s so open he’d do anything she asked and all she has to do is ask and oh, god, why won’t she look at him?
It’s a moment before he realizes that he’s jumped out of his chair and started across the room toward her. The last time he did that, she sent him through a wall and the neighbors had called the cops. This time she glares at the set and pretends not to notice him.
"Leslie."
She whispers something, he’s not sure what. Then it hits him. He knows exactly what she’s said. It’s just been so long since he’s heard their language. The soft, hissing, breathy words that flow from her lips are the same ones she’s said once a year since they touched down.
"You know better. I knew better. Why the hell not?"
Every time it’s been a different reason. Every time it’s been a different result. She’s never said it when he’s done this before. He pulses, shocked, and he’s suddenly very grateful for the heavy black fabric covering the windows.
He reaches.
Touches her.
Just barely.
Enough to get her attention.
She slides into him, into her own glow, and the merge, slowly, carefully.
It’s been too long and the angle’s odd and she’s still on the couch and he doesn’t know if she’s really into this, but he’s willing to keep going.
"Leslie."
She snaps her head up, searches his eyes. Her own are wide and questioning. Terrified and open. He’s not seen her like this since they ran off, and he’s a little afraid of what’s going to happen now.
Last time, he’d been near crushed.
By a Skrull warship.
How the hell had that happened?
He pauses at that thought, feeling her draw back a little. She turns away from him again.
"Les, I’ve got a crush on you."
She turns a pleasant shade of lavender.
"First you have to be named after James Dean, now you’re singing Sinatra."
He sits down beside her and wraps his arms around her. They flow together. Pulsing and sliding together.
She snorts. He laughs. Then he starts singing.
"I’ve got a crush on you, sweetie pie."
"You stop."
"All the day and night-time give me sigh."
"Quit!"
She smiles and blushes that nice shade of lavender and leans against him, reaching up, trying to cover his mouth and failing.
"I never had the least notion that I could fall with such emotion."
"Frank!"
He grins at her. Pulls her a little closer.
"My favorite singer and my favorite actor. I’m surprised you let me get away with it."
She pulls away in a huff. Stands up.
"You are a cheesy man."
He smiles, watches her move, tangles a tendril around one of hers.
"You are a beautiful woman. I blame you."
She crosses her arms and turns away, cocking a hip to the side, and running her fingers over her ribcage.
"Don’t blame me because you are a cheesy man."
Frank stands up and kisses the back of her neck. She sighs.
"About the kid thing," he begins.
"I don’t want to."
"I know."
Her hands are warm against his. He’s never noticed that before. She’s warmer than he is all over, by at least a few degrees.
"Les."
"Huh?"
He hesitates, not sure if he should ask. Ah, well. Sink or go flying through another wall.
"Will you come to bed with me?"
She shuts the glow off. Completely. Back to Leslie the Human Woman.
"Frank."
"Just, please. Come to bed with me."
"Frank. You’re asking me to do something we’ve already established is a bad idea."
He spins her around, catches her in the crook of his elbow. Leans her back. Runs fingers through her hair.
"Come to bed with me."
She frowns. Watches him. Debates.
"Carry me."
Wraps her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, hopping up to reach, and almost missing. He catches her and holds her to him, letting the light around him dissipate into a million shiny particles. She presses her face to the side of his neck.
"Hey, Frank?"
He makes his way to the bedroom and drops her on the bed, watching her sprawl out over the covers, like the most erotic pin-up, without having to be.
"Yeah?"
She smirks at him. "Fly me to the moon."
"See, I knew you liked Sinatra, too."
"Let me play among the stars."
"Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars."
He suddenly feels self-conscious. Like someone’s watching him. He decides it’s because he’s used to the cameras, but sometimes, he’s not so sure.
The thought of their directors’ reactions if they could see them right now makes him chuckle. She catches his train of thought, with some inexplicable sixth sense, and joins with soft laughter he’s only heard a few times in his life.
He crawls up, leans over her, presses his lips to hers, and feels like daytime television has really gotten to him. They separate. She pants.
"Where’d you learn that?" she asks, breathless still.
He cocks his head, studies her, watches the light start to show at the tips of her hair.
And gives her the simple, honest answer.
"You."
It’s an odd moment and neither one of them is sure what to feel. He moves off of her, sits on the edge of the bed next to her. Stares off into space. Knows she’s doing the same.
"Les."
"Yeah?"
He debates for a second. He’s not sure if he should hop onto this path. Knows he’ll do it anyway. He doesn’t look at her.
"I think I’m in love with you."
There is a very heavy silence. She doesn’t answer. He knows better than to expect one. She runs a hand over his hip. Hooks her fingers on the back pocket of his jeans. That’s the best he’ll get, and he knows it.
It takes one look at her face, turned to the far wall, to know what she’s thinking, though.
The colors on her face have converged to a deep blue. She’s not quite frowning, but not quite smiling, either. She looks worried. He fills the silence with his own thoughts.
When she sits up, he almost thinks she’s going to leave. Almost thinks she’s just going to walk out of the room and never speak to him again. But she doesn’t.
She pulls the covers down and slides underneath them, kicking her pants off and shoving them onto the floor from under the sheets.
He whips his shirt off and slides in next to her.
He’s so afraid she’s just going to disappear if he makes the wrong move, and he almost doesn’t make one after that.
"Well," she says, "you wanted me to come to bed with you."
He feels a bit foolish when she says this. Hopes daytime television isn’t pervading into his real life. Doesn’t care, though, when she slips into his arms and just lays there.
He presses his face to the top of her head. She smells like fireworks.
"I think we’re channelling ‘All My Children,’" he says.
She grins against his chest. "Shut up."
Adjusting to her body is a little awkward after going so long in the bed by himself. But he manages, hopes he can get used to it.
Hopes she sticks around long enough for that.
She nestles against him in the middle of that thought and runs her fingers over his backside. They slide together, halfway merging. Light whips around them and cocoons them.
Frank decides he could definitely get used to this.
Also, the songs are 'Fly Me To The Moon' and 'I've Got A Crush On You' by Frank Sinatra.
Fandom: Runaways
Characters: Frank and Leslie Dean
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: A little bit of Frank's mind.
Frank would never really admit it, but he thinks his wife is more radiant than anything when she’s just sitting on the couch. He’d never really admit that he’s got a crush on her, either.
Running away from home had seemed like a good idea at the time. Running away from home with the girl he’d grown up with had seemed just as good. Getting married was the only way to be socially acceptable when they’d hit Earth, so they had. Sometimes he feels like a fool.
She’s just sitting there and he’s wrapped around her finger, and she knows it, she knows it, and she enjoys it. Obscenely. Like, if she wanted, she could have him, but she doesn’t, so she dangles the carrot of temptation in front of his nose and just sits there.
He catches himself staring at her. She shoots him an angry glare, challenging, demanding to know what the fuck he’s looking at. His eyes and the floor meet very rapidly.
They tried the sex thing a long time ago. She’d gotten uncomfortable, though. That was when they’d stopped sleeping in the same bed.
It’s a few moments later that he catches her looking at him. It’s one of those rare blips in time when she’s vulnerable. Well, almost. Leslie’s never vulnerable, per se. But she looks almost vulnerable now, and he finds himself wishing she’d let him touch her for more than a few seconds at a time.
She bites her lip and turns her attention back to the TV.
"Les."
She frowns. Doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t respond.
"Leslie."
This time she turns embarassed eyes on him. Just the eyes. Her face stays turned to the set in the corner. But her eyes, for now, are his.
He reaches out, drops his skin, glows at her. She reaches up and yanks the blackout curtains shut and the room floods with light. She’s still off and he’s so open he’d do anything she asked and all she has to do is ask and oh, god, why won’t she look at him?
It’s a moment before he realizes that he’s jumped out of his chair and started across the room toward her. The last time he did that, she sent him through a wall and the neighbors had called the cops. This time she glares at the set and pretends not to notice him.
"Leslie."
She whispers something, he’s not sure what. Then it hits him. He knows exactly what she’s said. It’s just been so long since he’s heard their language. The soft, hissing, breathy words that flow from her lips are the same ones she’s said once a year since they touched down.
"You know better. I knew better. Why the hell not?"
Every time it’s been a different reason. Every time it’s been a different result. She’s never said it when he’s done this before. He pulses, shocked, and he’s suddenly very grateful for the heavy black fabric covering the windows.
He reaches.
Touches her.
Just barely.
Enough to get her attention.
She slides into him, into her own glow, and the merge, slowly, carefully.
It’s been too long and the angle’s odd and she’s still on the couch and he doesn’t know if she’s really into this, but he’s willing to keep going.
"Leslie."
She snaps her head up, searches his eyes. Her own are wide and questioning. Terrified and open. He’s not seen her like this since they ran off, and he’s a little afraid of what’s going to happen now.
Last time, he’d been near crushed.
By a Skrull warship.
How the hell had that happened?
He pauses at that thought, feeling her draw back a little. She turns away from him again.
"Les, I’ve got a crush on you."
She turns a pleasant shade of lavender.
"First you have to be named after James Dean, now you’re singing Sinatra."
He sits down beside her and wraps his arms around her. They flow together. Pulsing and sliding together.
She snorts. He laughs. Then he starts singing.
"I’ve got a crush on you, sweetie pie."
"You stop."
"All the day and night-time give me sigh."
"Quit!"
She smiles and blushes that nice shade of lavender and leans against him, reaching up, trying to cover his mouth and failing.
"I never had the least notion that I could fall with such emotion."
"Frank!"
He grins at her. Pulls her a little closer.
"My favorite singer and my favorite actor. I’m surprised you let me get away with it."
She pulls away in a huff. Stands up.
"You are a cheesy man."
He smiles, watches her move, tangles a tendril around one of hers.
"You are a beautiful woman. I blame you."
She crosses her arms and turns away, cocking a hip to the side, and running her fingers over her ribcage.
"Don’t blame me because you are a cheesy man."
Frank stands up and kisses the back of her neck. She sighs.
"About the kid thing," he begins.
"I don’t want to."
"I know."
Her hands are warm against his. He’s never noticed that before. She’s warmer than he is all over, by at least a few degrees.
"Les."
"Huh?"
He hesitates, not sure if he should ask. Ah, well. Sink or go flying through another wall.
"Will you come to bed with me?"
She shuts the glow off. Completely. Back to Leslie the Human Woman.
"Frank."
"Just, please. Come to bed with me."
"Frank. You’re asking me to do something we’ve already established is a bad idea."
He spins her around, catches her in the crook of his elbow. Leans her back. Runs fingers through her hair.
"Come to bed with me."
She frowns. Watches him. Debates.
"Carry me."
Wraps her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, hopping up to reach, and almost missing. He catches her and holds her to him, letting the light around him dissipate into a million shiny particles. She presses her face to the side of his neck.
"Hey, Frank?"
He makes his way to the bedroom and drops her on the bed, watching her sprawl out over the covers, like the most erotic pin-up, without having to be.
"Yeah?"
She smirks at him. "Fly me to the moon."
"See, I knew you liked Sinatra, too."
"Let me play among the stars."
"Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars."
He suddenly feels self-conscious. Like someone’s watching him. He decides it’s because he’s used to the cameras, but sometimes, he’s not so sure.
The thought of their directors’ reactions if they could see them right now makes him chuckle. She catches his train of thought, with some inexplicable sixth sense, and joins with soft laughter he’s only heard a few times in his life.
He crawls up, leans over her, presses his lips to hers, and feels like daytime television has really gotten to him. They separate. She pants.
"Where’d you learn that?" she asks, breathless still.
He cocks his head, studies her, watches the light start to show at the tips of her hair.
And gives her the simple, honest answer.
"You."
It’s an odd moment and neither one of them is sure what to feel. He moves off of her, sits on the edge of the bed next to her. Stares off into space. Knows she’s doing the same.
"Les."
"Yeah?"
He debates for a second. He’s not sure if he should hop onto this path. Knows he’ll do it anyway. He doesn’t look at her.
"I think I’m in love with you."
There is a very heavy silence. She doesn’t answer. He knows better than to expect one. She runs a hand over his hip. Hooks her fingers on the back pocket of his jeans. That’s the best he’ll get, and he knows it.
It takes one look at her face, turned to the far wall, to know what she’s thinking, though.
The colors on her face have converged to a deep blue. She’s not quite frowning, but not quite smiling, either. She looks worried. He fills the silence with his own thoughts.
When she sits up, he almost thinks she’s going to leave. Almost thinks she’s just going to walk out of the room and never speak to him again. But she doesn’t.
She pulls the covers down and slides underneath them, kicking her pants off and shoving them onto the floor from under the sheets.
He whips his shirt off and slides in next to her.
He’s so afraid she’s just going to disappear if he makes the wrong move, and he almost doesn’t make one after that.
"Well," she says, "you wanted me to come to bed with you."
He feels a bit foolish when she says this. Hopes daytime television isn’t pervading into his real life. Doesn’t care, though, when she slips into his arms and just lays there.
He presses his face to the top of her head. She smells like fireworks.
"I think we’re channelling ‘All My Children,’" he says.
She grins against his chest. "Shut up."
Adjusting to her body is a little awkward after going so long in the bed by himself. But he manages, hopes he can get used to it.
Hopes she sticks around long enough for that.
She nestles against him in the middle of that thought and runs her fingers over his backside. They slide together, halfway merging. Light whips around them and cocoons them.
Frank decides he could definitely get used to this.
Also, the songs are 'Fly Me To The Moon' and 'I've Got A Crush On You' by Frank Sinatra.