Chapter Text
“Absolutely not.”
Maxwell looked between Fran and the sweater he was holding. “What? What’s wrong with it?”
Fran raised an eyebrow at him. How this man managed to get himself dressed every day, she had no idea.
“First of all, that’s not your colour,” Fran replied, crossing her arms. “And second… Well, have ya even looked at it?!”
Max looked down at the sweater again. “I mean, I suppose it is a bit…”
“Loud? Bright? Obnoxious?” Fran supplied.
Maxwell looked at her appraisingly. “This coming from the woman wearing hot pink and feathers.”
Fran shrugged. “Hey, that’s when you know it’s bad,” she replied, brushing past Maxwell as she headed over to another rack of clothes.
Maxwell begrudgingly put the sweater back on the display and followed behind Fran like a lost puppy. He knew he was being dramatic, but he didn’t care. The only reason he had even agreed to come to Loehmann’s with her was because Val was busy and she had wanted the company, insisting that he needed to “experience the joys of a department store” and that he “could find something new for the spring”. What he was supposed to find that would be better than anything he already had, he wasn’t quite sure.
Fran was flipping through a rack of dresses that looked more like a wall of sequins and sparkles than actual clothing. She pulled out a shimmering, champagne-coloured mini dress with a cowl neckline and turned to him, holding it up to her body.
“Whaddya think of this one?” She asked, turning slightly from side to side.
Maxwell’s brain conveniently decided it was time to take a lunch break, leaving him stuttering and unable to form a complete thought. Fran raised an eyebrow at him as she watched his eyes trail down the length of the dress and back up.
“Jeez, Mistah Sheffield, I’m not even wearing it yet and your eyes are already popping outta their sockets!” She turned away, tossing the dress over her arm as she continued browsing. “Definitely getting this one…” she muttered to herself, smirking with satisfaction.
Behind her, Maxwell blinked a few times, clearing his throat. “Right, yes, well, um… Right,” he managed, (un)gracefully.
Fran had moved on from the dresses and was busying herself with a rack of men’s shirts, running her hands along the sleeve of what appeared to be a sweater. She lifted the hanger and pulled it out. It was midnight blue cashmere with silver stitching around the cuffs and the neckline, which dipped into a slight V-shape. She gasped softly. It was beautiful. Fran turned around as Maxwell came up to her, holding the sweater up to his chest and tilting her head as she surveyed.
“Oh, you absolutely need to try this on,” she whispered, eyes wide.
Maxwell opened his mouth to resist, but the look in her eyes stopped him. He couldn’t quite place the emotion in them, but he suddenly decided he wanted to see it more.
“Well, alright,” he replied, taking the sweater from her and heading for the fitting rooms.
Fran trailed after him, a confusing mix of feelings filling her chest. She watched as he disappeared behind one of the curtains and she leaned against the wall outside, closing her eyes for a moment. Get it together, she thought. She heard the rustle of fabric as he changed and couldn’t stop herself from picturing his arms, the muscles flexing as he stretched to put the sweater over his head. She swallowed. Really get it together.
After another minute or two, Maxwell called out from behind the curtain. “Miss Fine, this seems like a bit much for me…”
Fran snapped out of her daydream and rolled her eyes. “What, afraid of a little bit of pizazz, Mistah Sheffield?” She teased. Leave it to her boss to be scared of silver thread.
Finally, Max stepped out from behind the curtain, looking uncertain and a bit shy.
Fran blinked at him.
She blinked at him again.
Max shifted uncomfortably. He dimly wondered if this was what it was like for her to be speechless.
He ran his hands down the sweater, smoothing it self-consciously. “Is it that bad?” He asked, frowning.
Fran took an unconscious step forward. “No, Mistah Sheffield, it’s not bad, it’s… it’s…” She was close to him now, eyes roving across his upper body. “It’s perfect.”
The sweater fit him like a glove, hugging his biceps just right and giving him the appearance of some sort of sent-from-god history professor. Fran knew she was staring, but she couldn’t help it. He looked too good.
Maxwell straightened his shoulders, looking ever so slightly pleased with himself. “Really?” He asked, turning to look at himself in the mirror.
“Really,” Fran replied, voice dreamy.
“Hmm, perhaps…” Maxwell began, turning to watch himself in the mirror as he carefully rolled up both sleeves so they ended just below his elbows. He turned back to Fran. “What do you think of this?”
Fran let out what she was pretty sure could only be described as a squeak. Her eyes trailed from his hand, up his arm, across his chest, and down to his other hand. She was pretty sure she forgot how to breathe.
“Miss Fine?” Maxwell asked, a bit concerned. She hadn’t uttered a word in at least a minute, and he was getting worried.
He moved slowly towards her, gently placing his hands on her arms. “Miss Fine?” He asked again, eyes searching hers.
Slowly, Fran reached a hand up, running it along the sleeve of his sweater. They both nearly shuddered. Her hand drifted over, coming to rest above his heart, her fingers flexing slightly into the soft fabric. Fran felt his sharp intake of breath at the contact. Standing too close to be considered even remotely professional, yet too far apart to be considered indecent, neither Max nor Fran moved, her hand feeling the steady, quick beating of his heart through the sweater, his eyes never leaving her.
It was Max who broke the silence first. He cleared his throat softly.
“I think I’ll get this one,” he said, quieter than he meant to be.
Fran blinked, feeling herself return to the present, remembering she’d had her hand pressed to her boss’s chest for god knows how long. She cleared her throat, nodding, patting his chest lamely and stepping back, pretending to adjust her blouse to avoid looking at him.
“Right, yeah, good idea, yeah,” she rambled, hurriedly putting as much space between them as possible. Her body immediately missed the warmth of his presence close to her
Max ran his hands through his hair and rubbed his face. What the hell was he thinking?
“I’ll just, er, change back then,” he said, stepping back behind the changing room curtain.
When he had disappeared, Fran sunk onto a nearby bench, hand on her chest, heart hammering. It was just a damn sweater. She needed to get a grip.
By the time Maxwell reemerged, back in his own clothes, Fran had mostly managed to calm down. They made their way to the check-out counter in a silence that was neither awkward nor comfortable, and were soon back in the limo heading home, each with a new item of clothing (or, in Fran’s case, multiple new items of clothing) and a strange ache in their chests. They didn’t speak about it again.
**********
When Fran popped into his office late one evening a week later, her eyes immediately locked on the wash of dark blue and silver across his torso. Max looked up as he heard her enter, and registered her gaze on his chest. His heart picked up the pace. It was the first time he was wearing The Sweater. He had finally felt ready, had put it on that morning with embarrassingly shaky hands and rolled and un-rolled the sleeves more times than he could count.
The way she looked at him now made it worth it.
“Can I help you with something, Miss Fine?” He asked after a moment.
Her eyes snapped up to his face. “Er, no, I was just, uh, coming by to, uh…” she trailed off, suddenly forgetting why she was there. She glanced down at the sweater again before forcing her eyes back up to his face. She smiled warmly. “Nice sweater, Mistah Sheffield,” she said softly, eyes sparkling, before slipping back out the door before he could reply.
Maxwell felt that ache in his chest again. He smiled slightly to himself. “Thank you, Fran,” he replied quietly, though she had already gone.
He spent the rest of his evening trying to work, thinking about the way she had looked at him.
She spent the rest of her evening trying to watch a movie with the children, thinking about how he had looked in the sweater.
Maxwell wore the sweater as often as he could.
Fran always noticed.