Chapter Text
No one ever tells him no.
Not really.
He’d let them, he would. Might even like it, but no one ever has. Not in any way that stuck. At least that’s how it seems.
So, when someone does, when his particular brand of charm gets him nowhere, he is, to say the least, intrigued. He wants to know more, know everything.
Apparently.
After all, he does love a challenge (he said so, didn’t he).
Less so, when it begins to rain, soaking his hair flat so that his ears show, slipping under the collar of his jacket to soak into the shirt that isn’t really heavy enough. He sighs, tucks the matches back into his pocket and starts up his bike, roaring away into the night and completely missing the way the curtain twitches as he leaves.
He’ll be back. He always comes back, although she isn’t quite sure why.
Other than the ‘no’ thing.
That has to be it. She’s bruised his ego, turning down his offer of a date, but she gets enough of big hands patting her bottom during the day, and she’s not the kind of woman who…well, she’s not sure why he even asked.
Fran straightens the lacy curtains over the front window and stretches, arms over her head, up-up-up on her toes, all the way en pointe. She grimaces and drops back down. She always forgets how much that hurts her human toes. She walks into the small kitchen in her stockinged feet, pulling pins from her hair as she goes. She puts them on the counter, near the percolator, and plucks at the button at the back of her neck, then fumbles for the tiny zipper.
She loves this dress, but it’s difficult to take it off—or put it on, for that matter. Still, she manages, pushes it down over her hips and lets it fall to the floor. In her slip, she retrieves the milk and drinks the rest of it, right out of the bottle. She forgot to leave a note for the milkman, and she has no more cottage cheese after a late snack last night. She stretches again, frowning at the tension. She’ll have to wash the bottle after. She’s lost track of time, watching the biker.
Phillip.
She hisses out a breath at a cramp in her calf.
She forgot the door!
Her thigh muscle seizes, and she climbs onto the counter, perches on the edge by the kitchen sink, and more importantly, the small, open window.
Her slip and stockings slither to the linoleum floor.
He’s back the next night, but there’s no rainfall to drive him away.
Fran glances out once more then sighs and checks the doors and windows before going about her nightly routine.
It continues, almost every night for a week. He’s not doing anything, not really, but the neighbors across the street have been giving her looks again. The ones that say they know it’s her fault. The ones that plainly express their discontent at having an unmarried woman in the little house on the cul-de-sac. The little house that should be a proper family home.
Perhaps she should acquire a cat. At least that way she won’t die alone. Maybe it would eat her.
She stretches and pads into the kitchen, quietly opens the back door—just a crack.
She’ll be quick, she thinks. This time, she’ll be quick.
On Friday, there’s no sign of him, and she’s almost giddy with relief as she lifts every sash at the back of the house and props the kitchen door open, then strips off her clothes and leaves them on the porch.
The grass is still warm—comparatively—and she likes the way it tickles her tummy. She noses around the flowerbeds, careful of her pansies.
She rolls on the ground, dashes back and forth across the yard, then ventures around the corner of the house. There’s no neighbor on this side, and a tall hedge blocking in the edge of her property. Fran wanders over to the apple tree, nudges a fruit and wonders if the deer are back.
She notices it too late, the hiss and flare of a match, the hint of cigarette smoke on the night breeze.
“Hey there, kitty, what are you doing?”
Fran freezes, mouth parted to show off sharp teeth.
“Strange looking cat. Huh…your mommy at home, kitty-cat?”
Fran stiffens and topples to her side, one eye half-open.
“Oh, geez, what happened? Are you all right?”
He’s not going away. Why isn’t he going away?
“Hey little, um, opossum? I think that’s what you are. Just going to check on you…please don’t be dead for real.”
Her whiskers twitch and she curls the toes of her left hind paw, but other than that she doesn’t move, barely even breathing. He’s coming closer. She should have growled or rolled all the way onto her back and stuck her tongue out. Maybe that would have been more convincing.
His hands are surprisingly gentle, as he lightly runs his fingers over her fur then—oh no—scoops her up off the ground!
Oh, this is unfortunate.
“Hey now, come on,” he croons, carrying her back to his motorbike. His leather jacket smells of cigarettes and nice aftershave and what is she doing? She should…um…try to get away? “Listen, assuming you’re not really dead—which I’m pretty sure of considering you’re breathing, and it was the other eye that was open a minute ago—please don’t bite or scratch me. Just going to get you all checked out and make sure you aren’t hurt.”
He's rather handsome from this angle. She quite likes his nose. And he smells nice, despite the aftershave. He’s gentle.
Surprisingly kind, albeit a bit strange in his habits. Who picks up a strange ‘wild’ animal and starts talking to it?
Phillip gently scratches an itchy spot just between her shoulder blades.
Perhaps it’s not so bad, this current situation. She’ll just have to wait him out, slip away when he’s not looking. Surely, he must sleep sometime.
Fran opens her eyes and twitches her nose.
Phillip smiles and it does something to her insides, a squeezing, squishy feeling. She lets him carry her to his bike, and she doesn’t resist when he unzips his leather jacket and tucks her inside.
He smells even better this way.
He takes her, of all places, to the doctor. The human kind. Well, of course the human kind, as in he is a human, but the kind who treats humans, but maybe he won’t realize her behavior is off.
“This is a wild animal, Phillip! It could be rabid!”
How rude! Fran hisses at Dr. Grodner.
“She’s not rabid!”
Thank you, Phillip.
The doctor pokes her with something and she spins around then flops onto her back, all four feet straight up. Better, this time. She’s rather pleased with herself—excuse you, sir! What are you doing?
“I’m not a vet, and I am having serious concerns about you young man, but your little friend here seems to be fine.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Phillip says, scooping her up and scratching under her chin. They talk a bit more, something about school and people she doesn’t know—especially someone the doctor calls Charlie, and then finally they leave.
He’ll take her back now, and she can go on about her night and still have time to put out the bottles and the note for the milkman and—why are they going this way? This isn’t right! Home is the other way!
She squirms in his jacket, stretches up a paw, then realizes she’s being ridiculous. It isn’t as if he can understand her, and she’s more than proven she’s not “just a normal opossum” with her behavior so far. She’ll have to wait. He’s bound to stop eventually, and then she can make a run for it.
Yes.
That’s what she’ll do.
She yawns and shakes her head, blinking a few times as he lightly scratches the back of her neck. That’s rather nice.
She relaxes despite herself. Lets him feed her bits of fruit.
Doesn’t resist when he shoves her inside his coat again as someone comes in through a side door, but that’s just self-preservation. Really.
So sleepy. So warm.
Phillip is tired, too, though. She’ll wait until he dozes off, slip away. His bedroom window is open, and it looked like the kitchen door wasn’t quiet latched. She has options.
And good sense.
And a lovely dream, curled up on his chest.
It’s a rude awakening, when he swears and nearly tosses her off the bed in the morning.
“Fran? What…how?”
She clutches his sheet to her chest with a little eep.
Oh, dear.