Chapter Text
Phillip sits on the floor.
He’s at Clyde’s feet, the other man absently petting his hair, and somehow as she watches they look less and less alike to her. Yes they favor, both tall with dark hair and even their facial features are shaped almost the same, but their individuality shines.
She wants to laugh at her own confusion in finding out they weren’t related—
(they’s family but not like you’re thinkin’, Earl had told her at the bar that night as she watched the local librarian kiss the bartender hello and then been spun into a laughing dance that was just a little too intimate with a man who looked like a younger version of the bartender).
Apparently, everyone in Boone County knew about the Logans and ‘that Altman boy’ who had to be over thirty at the least. Clyde Logan and his wife Ophelia—Phee—have been happily married for a few years, now, and Phillip who lives with them near on six months now—no, no, closer to eight.
A…threesome?
Triad?
She makes a mental note to ask because she still isn’t sure if they prefer one over the other or a different word completely.
Maybe they eschew labels altogether.
She’s startled from her thoughts when Phee comes out of the kitchen with drinks and pauses in front of her. “You can sit with us on the couch, there’s room.”
“I’m fine,” Fran says a little too quickly, tense in her perch on the edge of a chair.
Phee frowns, eyes narrowed, and her mouth pulled tight. “Gonna be hard to see but if you’re sure.” Fran accepts a tall plastic cup with a nod and a murmured response in the affirmative, although even she can’t remember what she just said.
Phillip glances up and he and Clyde both watch Phee approach, a soft sort of appreciation for her in their gazes. It feels intimate, like something she shouldn’t witness, and yet Fran herself is distracted, absorbed in watching soft curves and a waterfall of red hair sway with every step. Her fingers tingle and she rubs absently against the edge of her seat with her free hand, the one holding her drink clutching tightly at the cup.
Phee settles on the couch, pressed close to Clyde, and Phillip turns slightly, leaning against Clyde’s legs at an angle and hooks an arm around Phee’s calf, hand covering her foot and fingers absently rubbing at her ankle, like he just needs to touch her. A comfort object.
But then, Phillip is a toucher.
Unbidden, the memory of his fingertips at the small of her back as he met her at her car and walked her in, as if they were on a date, flutters across her mind, and her lower back tingles as if she can still feel him. Clyde picks up the remote and brings up the menu on an actual DVD, a looping clip in the background.
“Wait,” Phillip says, “We need snacks!”
“Phillip we just had supper,” Phee grumbles.
“Yeah, but it’s movie night and we need snacks,” he insists, bounding to his feet and striding into the kitchen. He reaches for a cabinet over the sink.
“In the ‘frigerator,” Clyde says, and Phillip spins 180 degrees and flings the door open so quickly that some bottles or jars in the door rattle. There’s a shuffling sound, and he mumbles something she’s pretty sure none of them are meant to even hear. He comes back carrying a stack of plastic boxes.
“Snacklebox, Fran?”
“What?”
In answer he just holds the stack out and she takes the one off the top. There’s a clear lid with handles, and inside are little…cups? Boxes? Bowls? Whatever they are, there are eight of them, filled with an assortment of snacks. Carrots and celery with a smaller reusable container of hummus for dipping, flat pretzel cracker things, berries, a few types of candies, and cottage cheese.
“Gummies are gonna be all hard,” Phillip complains and Clyde kind of pushes on his shoulder.
“It’s been twenty minutes, Pup,” the older man says, and Phillip for all the world looks like a chastised golden retriever when he angles his chin and rolls his eyes up to pout at Clyde. Fran’s face burns, and again she wonders if she should just make her excuses because surely, they’d rather she not see…this.
Phee pops the lid off her own snacks and her nose wrinkles adorably as she reaches out then pulls her hand back before selecting something different, dipping a strawberry in what appears to be yogurt and popping it into her mouth. She swallows and licks her lips then looks at Fran. “We gave you cottage cheese but if you’d rather have yogurt or cream cheese we can switch it out.”
Fran blinks rapidly, a little overwhelmed, and she looks at her snacks again. Veggies. Berries. Peaches. Pretzels. Crackers and pita chips. Cottage cheese. Gummi bears. And the little chocolates she recently discovered at the local drug store, the one that isn’t a chain with the homemade candy counter run by the pharmacist’s husband, using family recipes.
She’s mentioned it in passing, and she knows they all get their prescriptions filled elsewhere due to insurance restrictions.
“We should have asked, I’m so sorry,” Phee babbles, snapping the lid back onto her own box and wringing her hands. Phillip leans forward, kind of rolls up onto his knees like he’ll leap over the coffee table any moment.
Fran shakes her head and tries to surreptitiously swipe at her eyes. “One of the nicest things anyone’s done for me in…a long time,” she says, maybe a little too quickly.
Clyde frowns. All of them do, really.
But they don’t push. Don’t say anything, yet she knows they aren’t ignoring it.
“Mostly stuff we already had, or would eat anyway,” Clyde finally says. “Ain’t gotta finish it,” he adds. “Can take it home or feed the scraps to Phillip.” She sees a flash of dimple from Clyde as Phillip begins to protest and then just shrugs and leans back against Clyde’s legs again.
Clyde starts the movie, and about fifteen minutes in, Fran gives in to the crick in her neck and moves to the very end of the couch, almost an entire cushion between her and Phee where she’s half draped over Clyde’s lap. Phillip has a pillow he pulled from somewhere and he stretches out in front of the couch, pushing the pillow along the floor until his head and torso are at Fran's feet.
He’s as long as the couch, arms included.
She crosses her ankles and turns to the side, almost sinking into the small gap between cushion and arm. Phillip grasps her ankles and she sucks in a breath, peering down at him. He doesn’t say anything, actually lying on his side with his eyes on the screen, but he hugs her feet and lower legs against his chest so that she has no choice but to either kick him or use him as a footrest. She wishes she’d taken off her shoes earlier, and she probably could now only she’s sure her feet are sweaty.
The thought makes her notice that it is, in fact, true, and she wiggles her toes. Phillip loosens his hold, but doesn’t acknowledge the movement otherwise.
Clyde puts his feet on the coffee table and Fran leans back against the cushion, tries to relax.
About halfway through the movie, Phillip sits up again, long legs stretched out in front of him and disappearing under the same coffee table Clyde is using as a footrest. Phee sits up and stretches, then lies down with her head on Clyde’s thigh, knees drawn in. She flexes her feet, toes brushing against Fran’s thigh. “Sorry,” she whispers, and Fran shakes her head and tries to smile.
“You’re fine.”
Taking a cue from Phillip earlier, she rests her trembling hand on Phee’s ankle, butterflies in her stomach and what feels like angry wasps in her throat. Phee yawns and burrows her face against Clyde’s thigh, her hand at the edge of the cushion near Phillip’s shoulder. Fran watches as Phillip grabs Phee’s fingers, flips her hand over to kiss her palm until she giggles, and then holds her hand on his shoulder.
Something cold inside her cracks a little bit.
No one has ever touched her so easily.
She tries to turn her attention back to the movie, glad there’s not a complex plot to try and follow like so many of the films Robert always insisted on watching.
Robert…
She’s hasn’t really thought about him in…she frowns.
Weeks? Months?
Phillip stands up with a groan and pads to the hall bathroom, and she realizes with a start that she hasn’t thought of Robert and what they never really had since the night she met Phillip.
And Phee.
Technically she’d already met Clyde, having stopped into the bar—The Duck Tape—a few times since relocating for a new job and a fresh start where she might see the sun a little more frequently.
She wonders if it’s mere coincidence, or if maybe she’s so desperate for…for…for something she can’t define…
Phillip comes back and stands in front of the couch. Phee hums and sits up so Phillip can slip in next to her.
He’s careful not to touch Fran. She knows it because he glances at her, watches carefully how he positions his knee, keeps his hand decidedly on his thigh. Her eyes sting and she’s not quite sure why, unless its some kind of jealous longing over the easy intimacy the three of them have, the casual touches and the—
Phillip flips his hand over, palm up, and glances at her with a smile she thinks is a little nervous.
Fran relaxes enough their thighs touch and then cautiously lifts her hand, hovering for a moment over Phillip’s palm until his fingers curl up to meet her.
They spend the final third of the movie holding hands on top of Phee’s shins as she perches in Clyde’s lap with her legs thrown over Phillip’s.
After bathroom breaks and refilled drinks, they even start another movie, though Phee falls asleep less than twenty minutes in despite the screams and explosions (Phillip’s pick ‘to balance Clyde’s boringness’ he insisted).
Fran thinks Clyde made the superior choice, but Phillip’s pick is surprisingly fun. Fran’s own eyelids are heavy when Phillip nudges her and tilts his head. She leans around him and sees that Clyde has also fallen asleep, his forehead pressed to the top of Phee’s head. Phillip grins and then slowly slides his arm across Fran’s shoulders as Clyde begins to lightly snore.
She doesn’t remember much else for a while, likely awakened by the sudden quiet as the movie ends. It returns to the main menu and the theme music roars to life, startling Clyde awake with a snort.
“Shit, sorry, you okay?” Phillip murmurs, voice low and leaning close to Clyde.
“Yeah, I’m good. Just resting my eyes,” Clyde insists, followed up with a jaw-cracking yawn. He lightly shakes Phee who just grumbles and smacks her lips. “Come on, Darlin’ let’s get you to bed.” He presses a kiss to her forehead and she whines but opens her eyes and shakily stands so that Clyde can also rise. Phee sways then gasps, eyes focusing on Fran.
“I should g—”
“Ought to stay the night,” Clyde says even as Fran says she should go. “It’s late, calling for rain, roads out here get bad sometimes.”
She feels the panic closing in, spiraling down.
“I changed the sheets in the guest room,” Phee says.
At the same time Phillip offers, “You can have my bed, I usually sleep with Clyde and Phee anyway.”
Fran looks at them all, gazing at her kindly, almost hopeful, and she nods.
Because they aren’t expecting anything, aren’t pushing.
Because she wants to stay.
“Let me get you some stuff,” Phee says, slipping into the master bedroom and rummaging around. Clyde puts all their drinkware into the dishwasher as Phillip leads Fran down the hallway. The guest bathroom is at the end, by the laundry room and back door, past Phillip’s room and a closed door she assumes must be the guest room.
Phillip ducks into his room and pulls something from a dresser drawer. He offers a bundle of fabric—t-shirt, it’s a t-shirt. “If you want.”
Phee bustles past and deposits what sounds like a collection of bottles in the bathroom and comes back out. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want to shower or anything, but there’s shampoo and conditioner and body wash, and there should be a loofah under the sink if you want. Oh, and I put a new toothbrush and toothpaste in there, and a nightgown if you want something longer,” she says with a nod at the Phillip’s t-shirt in Fran’s grasp. “Make yourself at home, whatever you need,” she adds in a rush before yawning. She swipes at her eyes and smiles. “I’m so glad you came tonight.”
“Oh!” Fran yelps in surprise when Phee hugs her and busses her cheek, then dimples up at Phillip as he frowns.
“You know you love me,” Phee says, saccharine sweet, and Phillip glares then shakes his head and laughs before leaning down to kiss her lightly on the lips, and Fran thinks maybe she shouldn’t like that the way she does.
They both watch Phee until she disappears from sight and then Phillip turns back, looming over Fran as the air between them is suddenly charged.
Fran feels more awake than she was after her second coffee and Phillip’s smile sends a little thrill through her. Danger but not.
Anticipation?
“Let me walk you to your door,” he says, then puts his hand at the small of her back, fingertips lightly pressing the way they did when he walked her in from the car, and her whole body is suddenly electrified. They stop at the closed door, and Phillip kind of leans around her to twist the knob and push it open. “Here we are,” he says softly, and he’s very close, enough she can feel the little puffs of his breath ruffle her hair and ghost over her skin.
She swallows, mouth suddenly dry.
“Well, good night, I guess,” Phillip murmurs, and it’s all she can do to watch as he leans in, lips pursed, and presses a slow kiss to her forehead. “Get some sleep Frannie,” he whispers, "and we’ll all have another date in the morning for breakfast."
He’s already gone when the word date registers in her consciousness.
Was that…
Was tonight…
Was this a date?
She looks into the guest room, hovers in the doorway for far too long before she makes her way into the bathroom. Too tired for a shower, she washes her face and brushes her teeth, and debates for far too long between Phee’s nightgown and Phillip’s t-shirt, before realizing there’s a set of pajamas as well: a pair of drawstring shorts and a tank top in soft microfiber.
She slips on the shorts and Phillip’s T-shirt and returns to the bedroom, stopping short when she realizes there’s a weighted blanket folded neatly at the foot of the bed.
The pillows are new, too.
Memory foam.
And she’s almost sure the linens have been sprayed with one of those “relaxing lavender” mists that are supposed to promote sleep and relaxation.
She slips beneath the covers, and listens to the small sounds of movement, the rush of water as a toilet flushes, the thump of footsteps, maybe even the creak of a bedframe as someone settles in for sleep.
Fran presses both hands over her mouth, suddenly desperately alone, and resists the urge to join them. She grabs the stuffed animal that was against the pillows and clutches it to her chest.
It smells like strawberries and vanilla, and something crunches lightly.
There’s a tag.
For Fran in Phee’s rounded handwriting.
I’m glad you’re here.
All three of them signed it.
She pulls the weighted blanket over herself and clutches the stuffie tightly, and actually manages to sleep a few hours.