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Cait’s seen this ritual hundreds of times by now but it still fascinates her. Frank sits across from her on the couch, the usual mess cleaned off of the table and replaced with various plants, salvaged makeup, other materials Cait can never remember the names of, plus several bowls, whisks, and spoons. She watches them mix the ingredients together, brows furrowed and good eye squinting with a level of concentration that’s rarely seen. They mumble something about the color being off and adds more – as far as Cait can tell – green goop. Frank insists it’s not radioactive and Cait smirks, resting her chin on her hand.
She likes watching this. Frank’s good with their hands and they make this sort of thing – mixing their war paint, modifying their armor and guns, even making chems – look easy. Graceful, really, which is not a word generally used to describe Frank. It’s relaxing as well, for reasons Cait can’t quite place.
“There,” Frank says, sitting up straight. They dip their fingers in the paint, smear it across their forehead, and check it in a half-shattered hand mirror.
“You look ridiculous with that shite on your face.”
Frank sets the mirror down. “What, it’s not intimidating?” They scrunch up their face and snarl, clawing at the air with a paint covered right hand.
Cait laughs and steps over to Frank, who waves the aforementioned hand at her. She catches their wrist, holding it away as she sits on their lap. “Don’t you dare.”
Frank gasps in mock shock, “I would never.”
Cait rolls her eyes, cups Frank’s cheek with her free hand, and leans in. Their lips meet and Frank smiles into the kiss, left hand resting on Cait’s lower back, fingers brushing against the small amount of exposed skin between her vest and pants. Cait presses herself closer, thumb sliding over Frank’s scars. She soon forgets about Frank’s paint-hand and lets it go to rest that arm on their shoulder, nibbling their lower lip as their hand wanders down from her lower back to her ass and squeezes. She grunts, breaks the kiss, and leans back with a playful glare. Then she glances over at their right hand.
Frank grins ear to ear, wiggles their paint-fingers, and draws a line vertical line on the bridge of Cait’s nose.
“You little…” Cait mutters, climbing off of Frank’s lap.
Frank brings their legs up onto the couch, getting ready for an escape. “It brings out your eyes!”
Cait grabs the can of paint that Frank made, eyeing them, “Oh, it brings out somethin’, alright.” She coats her hand in paint, smirks, and cocks her hips. “You’re gonna get it.”
She lunges forward and Frank springs backwards, rolling over the back of the couch. They land in a crouch and bolt into the bedroom, laughing. Cait’s right behind them – she vaults over the couch, leaving a green hand-print in the process, and saunters into the bedroom with the can of paint in hand. Frank sits on the bed, catching their breath but still grinning.
Cait shakes her head and clicks her tongue, “What’m I gonna do with you?” She sets the paint down and moves towards the bed, kicking the door shut behind her.