#i feel like its been a hot minute since ive been in my frankie feels

[pettyprocrastination]

OH you don’t have to feel obligated to write if you’ve got things to do ^^’ (I won’t say NO but just that I wasn’t trying to get sum’n out of it on my end you feel?: I did see a recent reminder for divorced Frankie though - any thoughts/thots you’d care to spare?)

IM SO SORRY ITS TAKEN ME SO LONG TO GET BACK TO YOU ON THIS BUT I HAVE SOME INCREDIBLY SPECIFIC FRANKIE THOUGHTS (that will be turned into a fic eventually i promise im writing it i SWEAR)

he is in his heart and soul, a project dad/husband. this means that this man? always fixing some shit or starting a new project around the house. You cannot stop him.

you guys get a fixer upper house when you first get married. It's below your pay with some issues here and there, but frankie worked contracting jobs with his dad since highschool and took wood shop every year so he insists he can fix it.

you'll come home to power tools scattered on the dinner table and paint covering his pants because "why would I pay somebody twice the amount it's worth when I can just do it myself?"

if you go to the thrift store with this man and point something out saying "we could fix that up, don't you think." please be prepared to come home and find him working on it in the backyard.

he's covered in saw dust and has the imprint line of his goggles around his face but he's grinning and pulling you into his arms.

"jesus christ francisco" "what? You said that dresser would look nice in our room"! "but i didn't think you were going to actually get it!"

your clothes getting covered in sawdust and wood-stain as he kisses you and claims its "workman's comp"

francisco cursing up a storm while reading the instructions on a crib your mother bought from ikea because "these instructions are like the fucking davinci code" and tossing them aside before saying fuck it and making his own.

a beautifully crafted bassinet now sits in the nursery of baby Isabella Morales :')

After the divorce, this doesn't change.

There's a moment where something breaks and you turn to tell Francisco before realizing he isn't there.

You wait until after you drop elizabeth off at school to cry.

thirty minutes later youre at home when the somebody knocks at the door.

there's a tension, sure. you open the door to see your ex-husband standing there, toolbox in hand and mouth open like he wanted to say something but it dies in your throat at the sight of your red eyes and trembling lip. 

“frankie?” 

“Isabella.” he answers. “she uh, she called me.” 

part of you wanted to be mad. That elizabeth told her father that you needed help, that you were struggling. Another part wanted to be mad that she was using her phone at school which was a whole other conversation to be had

but you simply nodded and stepped to the side, savoring the way his hand grazed yours as he walked inside. 

he doesn’t mention that you haven’t taken the photos down of all three of you together, he simply opens the cupboard under the sink and gets to work. 

its the closest thing to domesticity he’s had since the divorce. the pair of you subconsciously slipping back into the little idiosyncrasies from years ago. 

you put a pot of coffee on as he grumbles and grunts under the sink, poorly disguising a laugh as a cough when he goes to sit up and smacks his head on the pipe. 

shuffling from underneath with a now red mark on his forehead as he points a scolding finger in your direction. “you are horrible.” but you hand him a warm cup of coffee and he forgives instantly. 

you sit in silence, shoulder to shoulder on the kitchen floor. 

the job is done. he could leave, go back home with a goodbye and ‘I’ll pick Isa up this friday.” before going back to his small apartment that would feel even smaller after having a taste of what home used to be with you. 

But he doesn’t. he sits in silence, savoring the way you foot sways back and forth on the tile floor until you finally speak. 

“I’m proud of you. You know that?” Your voice is tiny and frail and you tilt your head to look at him. 

My god he could just cry. 

“I’m really proud of you, Frankie. Me and Isabella both are. You know that, right?” 

Did you have any idea? what you were doing to him? 

the love of his life, the mother of his daughter and the reason he was still on this earth, staring at him with such emotion and love in your eyes he felt like a voyeur just for looking at you. 

He looks away, down at the chipped cup in his hands, one you got on a roadtrip when Isabella was only 2. 

Francisco doesn’t trust his voice to not fail him. So he only nods. 

You look up at the clock and curse. 

“what? what’s wrong?” 

you shoot up, feet sliding on the floor as you scurry forward. “Isa! I was supposed to pick her up from school ten minutes ago!” 

you grab your keys in a mad dash, barely sparing a glance over your shoulder to the man you married. 

“You wanna come with?” 

He stares at you, slack jawed and silent. 

“You would let me-” 

“of course. We can..get lunch. I think it’d be good for her, yeah?” 

Isabella doesn’t say anything when you pick her up from school. 

She was ready to snip that you were late, and its embarrassing to be picked up late, but then she noticed frankie sitting in the front seat and smiling at her. 

“Good day at school mija?” 

she doesn’t ask if this means you’re getting back together, or why you’re both picking her up or why his hand rests on the console, occasionally grazing your arm as you drive. 

“It was okay. Can we get Burger King? I’m hungry.” 

she just enjoys it. The little look she sees you give her father as she inSIST on ordering a strawberry milkshake despite the fact she never finishes them, and the way he holds out his hand behind the seat for her to give him fries and the way you laugh when he holds one up to your mouth at a stop light. 

she should clog the garbage disposal more often.