Archive of Our Own

Mel likes to think that she’s got her head on straight. 

She’s been planning commutes and balancing budgets and organizing home aides since she was twenty. If Mel wants something, she makes it happen. Or convinces herself that she doesn’t need it. But there’s one thing, one golden exception to her system, that Mel can’t help dreaming about.

She wants a washing machine.

An in-unit high-efficiency washing machine. Mel wouldn’t turn down a dryer either (she’s graceful like that), but a washing machine is what really gets her excited. 

For the past nine years of undergrad, med school, and residency match moving, Mel’s budgets have been built on razor-thin margins and a prayer. Anywhere money could be saved, it was. Which meant more than a few cheap apartments. The kind where she shared a room with Becca more often than not and there were no washers anywhere in the building.

Which is good. 

Mel loves saving money.

Almost as much as she loves the idea of owning a Speed Queen TR7 Top Load Washer. In matte black. Designed for ultra-quiet performance. 

Who’s to say, she barely thinks about it.

Mel stretches her legs out into the aisle of the laundromat, leaning back in her seat as the dryers thump away rhythmically next to her. For some strange reason, her daydreams of such a glorious machine always hit a zenith when there’s twenty minutes left on her dryers.

Weird.

The bell over the door chimes quietly and Mel doesn’t bother to look up as she checks her still dead phone to see if it’s somehow become charged since she last checked. 

Her seat (because it deserves to be called that after months of visits) squeaks quietly under her and Mel fights the urge to roll her eyes. Laundry day really is her greatest trial, an accumulation of small inconveniences and unregulated noises designed to get under her skin-

“Hey stranger.” 

-and throw her off.

Mel’s head shoots up to find Frank standing just a few feet away, watching her with an easy smile. Something about it just doesn’t click, like seeing a teacher outside of school. Or running into her totally-just-a-coworker in her laundry day best. Mel desperately scrapes her brain together for something coherent to say. “What are you doing here?” 

Hmm. Not her best. 

It’s not Mel’s fault that she’s distracted though, what is she supposed to do when he’s standing in front of her not wearing his scrubs. 

There have been brief passing moments by the lockers over the last two months, but this is…new. Frank’s shirt, an old-school replica jersey for the Pittsburgh Penguins, seems determined to draw Mel’s eyes to his chest. Particularly the way that the fabric seems to be straining to cover him without bursting. 

A fact which gives Mel a normal amount of pause. A platonic amount that someone who’s just a friend would notice.

Frank doesn’t seem to notice her fumbling or her wandering eyes as he shrugs, a smile tugging at his face. “Ah, I’m just here for the ambiance.” 

“Joke?” Mel asks, already knowing the answer. Frank looks at her the same way every time he tells a joke, like they’re in it together even when Mel’s the only other person there to hear it. 

“You caught me.” Frank says, gesturing at the laundry basket propped up on his hip with an unrepentant grin. “I’m here for the same reason as all the other shmucks.”

“Have I been missing your laundry day? I haven’t seen you here before.” Mel asks, leaning forward from her slouch. 

“I normally don’t come at all.” Frank says, dropping his hamper on the top of the machine and scratching the back of his head. “I haven’t been to a laundromat since someone put gummy bears through the washer in my undergrad dorm and it clogged the machine for like three weeks.”

“How does that even happen?” Mel laughs incredulously, trying to picture it. 

“I bet they were just super drunk and forgot the bag was in their pockets.” Frank nods seriously as his eyes dance. “I mean, they were probably really sorry. Gummy bears aren’t cheap. I would assume.”

Ah. Mel fights back her own smile, matching his faux seriousness. “Of course. What brings you here today? Another gummy bear related incident? Maybe Tanner did it this time?”

“No, no. Tanner’s a fiend, he’d never let a gummy bear make it that long.” Frank says with the same proud warm tone that he always uses with his kids. Something in his expression shifts, a wince creeping through as Frank continues. “My, uh- my apartment doesn’t have a machine so I needed to find somewhere to wash my stuff.” 

Frank trails off, messing with his hamper like he’s looking for something. Or just avoiding eye contact. 

Mel, along with half the ER, had noticed his missing wedding ring. Immediately. His third shift back had left him at the center of some very juicy conversations. Mel hadn’t joined in on the gossip, she’d been raised politely enough not to poke someone when they’re down. 

She wasn’t raised politely enough to forget what she saw though.

Even Grace King had limits.

Mel had been waiting for Frank to bring it up himself and apparently the time is now. A missing ring and a new apartment, especially in a neighborhood this cheap, is enough of a message for her. Mel doesn’t need to know anything else. As a friend. And someone with some very…insistent feelings for said coworker. 

This change is dangerous enough for her self control already. 

Mel clears her throat gently, dragging Frank’s nervous attention back to her. “I have it on good authority these machines can handle up to a dollar forty-eight in change so I think any future gummy-bear-ing will go undetected.”

Frank smiles gently at the out she’s giving him, eyes crinkling at the corners as he looks at her. “I never said it was me. Don’t go slandering my good name now.”

“Oh yeah? Does your good name need some help with learning these machines?” 

“Watch and learn.” Frank tells her, confidence returning in a proud rush of straightened posture and a (devastatingly) cocky smile. He opens the washer door and dumps his clothes in as one big load before puttering around the machine, tapping buttons with impunity.

Long minutes stretch between them as Mel watches a familiar tension creep back into Frank’s shoulders each time the machine beeps angrily in response to a new setting. Mel’s seen Frank in the heat of a dozen stressful cases and she has a pretty good metric for how bad something is based on Frank’s reaction. She’d rank this somewhere between ‘running a trauma on an angry drunk patient’ and ‘Dana just asked if he’s free for a conversation upstairs’. 

It doesn’t help that these machines may have directly witnessed the cold war and act like the temperamental fiends that their age would suggest.

“Do you want some help?” Mel asks, wandering closer for a better view as she fights down a smile at the smile still plastered across Frank’s face.

“Of course not.” Frank denies immediately, continuing to press the settings buttons at random. “It’s laundry. I’ve done it a million times.” 

Mel stifles a laugh, taking pity on him as he opens the soap tray, again, like he’s looking for something he missed the first time. “So if I told you to stop changing those settings if you don’t want your load to take double the time, you wouldn’t be interested?”

Frank freezes, looking every inch like a kid getting caught with their hand in the cookie jar. 

His face screws up for a long moment, debating whether or not he can talk his way out of this. Frank finally breaks, scratching the back of his head bashfully as he looks at her with a sheepish smile. “Please.”

“It’s not so bad, you’re just out of practice. The good news is that the solution to being out of practice is right there in the name.” Mel tells him, leaning in to bump their shoulders together. 

Frank rocks back on his heels with the tap, still smiling at her warmly. “Huh. The more you know.” 

“First you’re gonna want to switch it from bedding back to normal since these are clothes and not a duvet.” Mel says, fighting down a flush as Frank leans in to see where she’s pointing on the dials. She can smell traces of his body soap (something heavy and masculine that probably has an examination point and several non-scented nouns in the name) and it's horribly effective at breaking her train of thought. “And you’re, uh, you’re gonna want to change the water temperature back to warm if you want to still be able to fit anything when it’s done.” 

Mel’s eyes fall to the tight fabric of his shirt, even as Frank moves to adjust the dials accordingly. 

His shirt lifts slightly as he raises his arm, fabric practically painted to his biceps. Mel swallows hard at the sight. She’s not so sure Frank forgetting that step would be too bad actually. Might even help their Press-Ganey scores. A net positive for everyone when Mel thinks about it…

The machine beeps at Frank’s new settings and Mel blinks herself back out of Frank’s chest- her daydreams. Her daydreams about a subject unknown. 

“Did you bring soap?” Mel asks, forcing her eyes away to glance in his empty basket.

Frank looks inside too like something might have appeared. “Uh…”

Mel snorts, passing Frank an extra laundry pod from her bag. “Lucky for you, I have extra. Good thing you ran into me, right?”

“Lucky.” Frank agrees, voice softer than she expected. 

Mel blinks at his tone, but Frank is already moving on to adding the pod, dropping in and waiting for a beat. 

Mel shakes off the lingering question of what that meant, leaning in with a stage whisper as she points at the card swipe. “This is the part where you give them money.” 

Frank snorts, pulling out a wallet that looks older than his kids. He swipes his card (twice, when the machine grumbles the first time) and finally, the washer beeps, filling the drum in a flush of water. 

Mel claps for him, watching him puff up and bow to an invisible audience.

“Thank you, thank you. I’m very brave.”

“The machines are hard, you did so good!” 

“Wait, don’t make it sound too impressive.” Frank laughs, shaking his head. “I can’t be the guy people cheer for when he washes his clothes, that’s a terrible look.”

“You’re not doing so bad.” Mel tells him, dropping her voice low and conspiratorial for a moment. “I heard of a guy who put gummy bears in a machine one time.”

“Funny.” Frank smiles as he drops into a seat. 

Mel joins him, eyes running over his profile and taking in every detail. It’s strange to see him out of the ER. Under new fluorescents and everything. At this rate Mel will be ready to see him in natural lighting in about two and a half more years. Still something about him looks more relaxed outside of the sprint of work, settled and comfortable in a new way.

It’s a good look.

Frank’s watching Mel too and she suspects he might not be having quite such positive thoughts of her- well, her outfit.

Mel’s laundromat outfit choices are a little…unique. 

She doesn’t want to lose any of her regular clothes from the rotation so she tends to dig deep to find something she won’t miss. Today that means printed overalls that Becca got her a few years back, covered in small cartoon ducks hopping around, and a short sleeve shirt declaring ‘kindness is free’ to tie it all together.

Mel doesn’t think it's too bad (it’s certainly not her worst combination), but Frank seems caught on it, eyes roaming the print up and down.

“Something wrong? You don’t like my outfit of the week?”

“No, you look great, Mel.” Frank says, shaking his head distractedly. “I’ve never seen you, uh- ducks?”

Mel looks down at the little cartoon ducks dressed in preppy band outfits complete with tiny instruments. “They’re cute!”

“Yeah.” Frank agrees, watching her with an expression Mel can’t quite decode. “They are.”

Mel swallows against the bubbly feeling in her chest. Hmm, maybe this wasn’t such a bad choice. “What about you, Mr. Penguins Jersey? How did you put your look together?”

Frank looks down at himself like he’s just realizing that someone else can see the shirt shrinkwrapped to his chest. “Hey, I’m being efficient. I can’t lose cool points for wearing a shirt from high school.”

“Cool points. Those sound serious.” Mel nods seriously. “I hear they accept those instead of cash here.”

“God, I hope so or I’m done for. Seven bucks to use one washer. That’s as predatory as my student loans.” 

“Just wait until you try to dry bedding and the machines are pay-per-ten-minute use.” Mel tells him, reveling in someone else finally understanding her pain. Evil building, full of malicious machines.

“Do you think my exchange rate is good? Not to brag but my rate of cool is pretty high.”

“I don’t know. The dad deductions are really gonna mess with you.”

“Dads are cool!” Frank protests, straightening up. “Tanner told me so when I let him have a pretzel snack before dinner.”

Mel snorts. “Aside from puns and a supernatural ability to find studs-”

“And an encyclopedic memory of my home town. Can’t forget that.” Frank says, gesturing at his shirt proudly.

“Wait, you’re from Pittsburgh?” 

“Born and raised.” Frank grins. “I know all the good spots.”

“And somehow this laundromat hadn’t made the cut before now.” Mel tuts as the air conditioner rumbles to life, sputtering loudly as it wheezes out what Mel assumes is aerosolized asbestos right into their lungs. “Weird, I consider this place a nonstop party.” 

“Somehow I missed it-” 

Mel’s dryers beep loudly in short succession, cutting Frank off in the middle of his sentence and making her jump. “Oh, that’s me.”

When did that happen?

Mel shuffles over to start unloading her laundry, far less excited than she would have been any other day. Interrupting her conversation with Frank is much less fun than when it releases her from sitting in here with a dead phone. 

Frank drifts after her to the dryers, leaning against the machines next to hers. “When do you normally come here?” 

“What? You want a laundromat buddy?” Mel asks, unable to fight a smile as she scoops her clothes into her bag. 

“I owe you some stories about Pittsburgh,” Frank tells her seriously, “And who knows what I’ll do to my clothes if you’re not here. It's for the best if I stick with you, Dr. King.”

“Dr. King?” Mel snorts, looking up at him from her clothes. “You must really not want to do this alone.”

“It’s bad. I need you.” Frank bemoans dramatically.

Mel swallows hard, swallowing down the fluttery feeling in her throat. “I suppose I better help. For the sake of your scrubs if nothing else. Next Wednesday, ten o’clock.”

“My professional dignity thanks you.” Frank grins, cheeks dimpling charmingly. 

Mel zips up the last of her clothes. “Next week it is.” 

“I can’t wait.” Frank smiles, eyes bright and warm as they watch her. “It’s a date.”

If only. Mel leaves the laundromat with a wave as she fights down a wicked blush. She can feel Frank's eyes on her as she leaves, even through the window as she makes her way down the street.

The sticky heat of summer is (thankfully) cloyingly distracting from the heat building in her chest, clinging to her skin as soon as she steps outside. Mel hoists her laundry bag higher on her shoulder as she turns towards home, weaving between sidewalk traffic. 

The growing heat between the strap and her back is a good reminder of why exactly scheduling regular laundry appointments is so crucial. By next Wednesday, everything she just washed will need to be run again promptly or risk facing the wrath of a Mel King cleanliness meltdown (yes she’s the one doing it, no she’s not in control of how long it pisses her off. It’s best for everyone if she doesn’t let it get that far in the first place.)

She’s never had a laundry day buddy before though. 

Mel bites her lip, not bothering to fight a very incriminating smile now that she’s a safe distance away (a minimum of three city blocks from the latest known Frank sighting).

Next week will be…very interesting, Mel admits to herself through a rising bubble of excitement. She can’t wait.

- - -

Mel can wait. Mel can wait a very long time actually.

All morning Mel’s stomach has been in knots about her up-coming laundry…arrangement? Event? Execution? Execution feels like the right word, but Mel’s not sure if that’s the anxiety talking. 

She just really wants this to go well. 

She lets out a careful breath as she steps into the laundromat, eyes immediately finding Frank over by the washers. The sight of him sends her stomach flipping dangerously. This is fine. It’ll be fine. This is just two friends hanging out and doing laundry together. And Frank’s new solo apartment is something Mel’s barely thought about every single day since Frank told her.

Frank’s head pops up as soon as the doorbell dings, already smiling as his eyes find hers. 

Be normal, be normal, be normal-

“I’m here for my lesson.” Frank says, waving her over with a grin like she might have missed him standing there, somehow. “I’m ready to earn that coveted Mel King Handshake of Approval.” 

The nerves in her chest fizzle out of existence at the sound of his voice.

Right. It’s Frank. 

The same person who saw her snort iced tea out of her nose after he did a particularly terrible impression of Robby and who’s reached a hand out to her every time she’s needed one, regardless of whether or not she even realized she did. 

The week-long mythology of ‘laundry day with Frank’ slips sideways and something falls still in Mel’s skin, finally relaxing. It’s just Frank, her Frank.

He’ll never leave her hanging.

“I had no idea my handshakes were so valuable. Paul Hollywood, stand aside.” Mel says with a swooping laugh, dropping her laundry on top of the machine next to Frank. She’s not sure how Frank’s so good at saying just the right thing, but he is. The least she can do is pay him back with some excellent laundry advice. “Are you ready to rock and roll?”

“I was born ready.”

“First things first, did you bring detergent?”

“Brand new and ready to go.” Frank nods proudly, gesturing to what looks like a Costco-sized box of laundry pods. Mel smiles seeing that they’re the same brand as the one she lent him last week. What a funny coincidence. “And I saved us a couple machines together.”

Mel blinks, looking down at the machines in front of them to see that they are, indeed, empty. Usually she comes in late enough in the morning (Becca refuses to sacrifice sleeping in for chore day) that every other machine is already in use and she has to watch her machines from halfway across the room just so no one moves her clothes. 

She’s never had someone to help get machines together before. 

“You didn’t have to do that.” Mel smiles, already relishing in the convenience. 

“It was no trouble.” Frank grins, oblivious to the looks being shot at his back by the other laundromat patrons.

Mel’s not a gambler, but she’s pretty confident it was more than a little trouble. Still, it makes her life easier and Frank won’t hear any complaints from her about that. “Okay then, clothes first. We need to figure out how many loads in how many machines.” 

Mel opens her bags as she talks, getting to work splitting up her clothes into familiar piles. With Mel’s scrubs, undershirts, and pressure socks, at least one load a week is just work outfits. Then Becca’s clothes get their own load with her non-scented anti-starching soaps (priced as luxuriously as they sound). And finally Mel rounds the lot out with her comfy clothes lumped in together at the end.

Towel and bedding days happen at the end of the month and without fail make Mel want to scream. Thankfully it's only the middle of the month so this laundry session gets to be scream-free.

Frank nods at her instructions, turning to his laundry basket to scoop up all of his clothes in one large lump and move towards the open washer door.

Scratch that, there may need to be some mild screaming.

“What are you doing?” Mel asks, glancing from his face to the pile of clothes to the washing machine like she can make it make sense. 

“What?” Frank blinks as he looks around for what could cause her reaction, before he finally looks down with a confused frown. “It’s…clothes?”

“Why aren’t they separated?”

“Separated into what?” Frank says, holding the clothes up a little higher like Mel’s not seeing what they are. “They’re not silk. I’ll just put them in together.”

“Oh no…no, that won’t do.” Mel gasps quietly, almost instinctively shaking her head. She could forgive it when it was a one time thing, but it’s important to cut off bad habits before they can solidify. It’s a duty Mel takes incredibly seriously as Laundry Captain. “Half those clothes are white.”

“Yes.” Frank agrees, squinting at her like he's trying to figure out if he’s about to lose an argument by admitting that. He already has, but that's not the point.

“White clothes need hotter water cycles to keep from looking dingy, but that can shrink the other colors.” Mel says, closing the door of his washer like she’s diffusing a bomb. Once the danger is gone, she points at a clear spot on top of the machine. “Separate out the whites and make two new piles.”

That’s reason enough for Frank who drops the lump again and starts separating diligently. “What would I do without your expertise?”

Probably improve our survey scores, Mel thinks, although she has enough control to swallow that response down.

“Hopefully your wallet never has to find out.” 

Frank laughs, shaking his head at her teasing. It’s warm and comfortable and everything Mel hoped that today could be.

When he’s finally done deciding how white a sock needs to be to be sorted into the whites pile, Mel gives him a steady look. “Ready for the next step?”

“Show me how it’s done.”

- - -

Frank seems determined not to talk about work during their laundry meet-ups. 

Well. He seems determined not to talk about it during the dryer cycle of their laundry meet-ups.

It took Mel a few weeks to pick up on the pattern, but now she’s almost sure of it. They’ll talk about work and coworkers and the vaguely de-identified patients from the last week that they haven’t had a chance to ramble about yet. But without fail, Frank always seems to change the subject to something more personal just as they’re starting the dryers.

It’s a pretty clever maneuver.

The drying takes almost an hour per load, easily double to washer time. They beat away steadily, but they only have one speed. Which leaves Mel and Frank a long, unbroken hour to fill as they please. 

Laundry days have lost their mystery and Mel has found herself almost looking forward to chore day when she knows that Frank will be there waiting for her with a smile (and several reserved machines). Their system just works. Mel might be king of all things laundry (pun intended), but she happily follows Frank’s lead every time he turns to her with a grin and an unending list of icebreakers. 

“Top three musicians, go.”

Mel blinks, pulling her leg up under her to make sitting sideways more comfortable as she looks at Frank reclining in his own seat. “What genre?”

“Any genre, every genre. Who are the all timers on the Mel King list?” Frank says as he gestures at the air like there’s an invisible billboard for her to lay them all out.

“You can’t compare them all!” Mel whines, shaking her head as she tries to picture her playlists. There are too many moods, let alone individual artists, to judge them accurately. “I bet you don’t even have an answer, you’re just trying to steal my highly-calibrated list.”

“I can do it right now. Top three: The Killers, Rihanna, and the one, the only, Frank Sinatra.”

“What?” Mel laughs, watching Frank puff up his chest proudly. “How did you come up with that list, I mean The Killers?”

“I’m the man, come round-” Frank warbles in a surprisingly accurate impression.

“I didn’t know you could sing.” Mel laughs incredulously, watching Frank flush slightly. It’s a nice color on him, but Mel’s opinions aren’t to be trusted with things like that. She thinks everything looks nice on him.

“That’s what my choir teacher said on my last day in the class.” Frank shrugs under the attention, trying to play it off. “I don’t do it very often.”

“I think you sound nice.” Mel tells him, shifting to bump their knees together. She likes learning things about Frank other people don’t know. It always makes her chest light up, warm and fuzzy. “An official ten out of ten on the Mel charts. For however much that counts.”

“I think it counts for a lot.” Frank says, giving Mel a warm smile. “Thanks.”

Mel smiles back, letting the moment linger. Frank outside of the ER is much warmer than the version of himself he lets out at work. Mel had no idea how much she’d been missing before. It’s never more clear than in the creases pressed into the corners of his eyes as they talk, always a little visible, like proof that he likes spending time with her as much as she does.

Frank breaks their small moment first, looking away from her and clearing his throat. “What else did you want me to defend?

“Rihanna?”

“Come here rude boy, boy, can you get it-“ Frank leaps into immediately, a shoulder wiggle creeping out as his previous embarrassment is all but forgotten. The power of Rihanna.

“Are these picks just from artists you listened to in college?” Mel asks, bobbing her head with his singing. Just because she has questions about his qualifications doesn’t mean she disagrees with his tastes as a whole.

“Sometimes I just wanna be a bad bitch.”

Mel snorts (according to Becca, Mel could call it a short dignified laugh). “And Sinatra?”

“Easy. As you can tell from all of my choices, I’m a man of culture.” Frank says, eyes bright as he waits for her to smile at his joke.

“You’re something.” Mel laughs, shaking her head at him.

“You gotta give me yours, at least your best attempt.” Frank presses again, knee bouncing absently. “Top three artists you have on loop.”

“Fine, I suppose you did share a list.” Mel sighs dramatically. “For one of them, uhh, I guess I have to say Megan.”

“Megan?”

“Thee Stallion?” Mel tells him, imitating a body roll. “You know, body-ody-ody-ody-“ Mel sputters out of her own rendition as Frank chokes, coughing harshly. “Are you okay?”

Frank shoots her a thumbs up, head dropped down between his legs for a moment. 

Mel pats his back sympathetically, watching a pink blush burn across the back of his neck. He must have swallowed wrong and it went down the wrong pipe.

It takes Frank a long minute to clear his lungs again, straightening up with a red face and wide eyes.

“Are you okay?” Mel asks, watching Frank cross his legs awkwardly.

“I’m, uh, I’m great.” Frank agrees, clearing his throat for a second. “What were we talking about?”

“Music?”

“Yes. Music. Which I love.” Frank nods emphatically.

Mel gives him a look, but Frank doesn’t waver. “I think she’s my favorite.”

“And mine.”

“Joke?” Mel asks with a smile, already expecting his answer.

“Eh, I’m warming up to her rapidly.” Frank says with a shrug, glancing at Mel with a complicated expression.

Mel snorts. He loves to joke.

It’s part of what has made laundry day start to feel so different. Less a day of the week where Mel trudges through her most beloathed chore and more like something to look forward to. 

Becca even asked about it this morning when Mel didn’t groan about it being sheet day and Mel hadn’t been sure what to say (She’s pretty sure that her excuse of just really missing one of her scrub tops didn’t work). Knowing that Frank will be here waiting for her with washers at the ready just makes it all just feel…better.

Their conversation drifts from Frank’s initial icebreaker (as it always seems to) and the time seems to fly until twin buzzing timers go off on their dryers.

“Same time next week?” Frank asks, hefting his basket up into his arms and pausing as he watches Mel grab her own. Something about the motion, the unspoken patience of it, thrums in Mel’s chest. Frank seems to know how Mel will move before she even does, filling the gap as easily as breathing.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

- - -

The other customers who call the laundromat home for the morning hours on Wednesdays are just as constant and unchanging as dryer four’s broken lint trap (going on three months unaddressed) and the strangely sticky floor tile at the end of the washers.

Frank seems to learn their names faster than Mel does. 

She’s been coming in for months and quietly sticking to her own corner, but when she comes in Frank always seems to be talking to someone, gesturing at the washers pointedly. He cuts it off when she walks in, waving her over to their connected machines with a new name in his head.

He’s so friendly.

The most regular companion for Mel and Frank’s meet-ups is George, the laundromat manager who likes to prop the door to the office door open. He glances out once in a while, scanning everyone for a long moment. Mel’s not sure what laundry crimes people are trying to get away with, but George certainly looks like he’s on the case. 

She’s pretty sure that’s how he justifies spending approximately ninety-eight percent of his shift listening to sports radio.

Mel’s never been the type, but she’s become acquainted with the never ending buzz of podcast-types lecturing each other about if the Mavericks are done for (yes) or if Sidney Crosby should receive tribute from everyone else in the league (perhaps). 

Baseball seems to be George’s true love though. 

It spills out of the radio in a mess of live narration every Wednesday as George kicks his feet up on the desk and locks in. It feels like enrichment for middle aged dads, based on how excited George seems to get, fussing around before the start of each game so he doesn’t have to get up during. 

What Mel didn’t expect is how effective it is at distracting all dad-age men. A group that Frank finds himself right in the center of as a random Pittsburgh Pirates - Cincinnati Reds game brings it all to light.

Frank gestures as he tells Mel about a particularly forward geriatric patient he had in his second year. “I was talking to her about her cholesterol when she put her hand on my-”

“-Callihan coming up to bat for the Pirates at the bottom of the eighth. Two outs on the board with Flores on first and Griffin on third. Greene is looking to strike him out and keep the game at nil-nil.”

“-she put her hand on…on my…” Frank trails off halfway through his own story, eyes drifting toward the office radio even as his arms stay hanging in the air like Mel won’t notice he stopped talking if he doesn’t move. 

Mel muffles a smile at the look on his face. He’s been losing track during the particularly big plays all afternoon, eyes darting away and words coming slower every time he tries to multi-task. It’s adorably unfiltered, an earnest attempt at having it both ways. Mel may have been egging it on, asking Frank follow up questions so he’ll keep talking.

It’s fun to see him so excited, in his element in a way that doesn’t involve someone’s life hanging in the balance.

“Fly ball out to center field and Myers- drops it!”

“Shit!” Frank says almost instinctively, twisting to look at the radio fully now that the game is doing…something. Mel’s not quite sure what it is, but from the jittery tension invading Frank’s shoulders, it’s a capital-B big deal.

“Griffin is in! Flores is past second, making a shot for third. Callihan at first, moving for second. Myers throws the ball to McLain- and it slips! The Red’s defense is scrambling!”

The jumble of names and positions coming out of the radio seems to speed up impossibly faster, streaming out of the radio in an unbroken wave of lingo and proper nouns. Mel finds herself losing track even as the die-hard fans around her only get more invested.

Frank half-stands as the radio reaches a fevered pitch. “God, go- come on!” 

George seems to be in a similar state, feet finally dropping from the corner of his desk so he can lean closer to the radio itself. “Get there, just fucking get there!”

“Flores is safe at home! Callihan is coming around third and the coach is waving him on. He’s going for it! McLain throws home trying to catch Callihan, does he have it in him-“

Mel would describe the tone around her as near religious as the focus of every true Pittsburghian inhabitant hums together in a single sacred note focused towards supporting this one baseball boy.

“Callihan is…safe! The ump is calling that safe for a three-point in-the-park home run!”

“Let’s go!” Frank shouts, clapping like he’s at one of Tanner’s junior soccer games (he has a very elevated presence at the games according to the videos he sends her of Tanner’s shots on goal).

“That’s how you play, that’s how you do it.” George nods to himself seriously, legs kicking back up again. The energy of the room subsides now that whatever just happened finished happening. The announcers recount it in flurried words, but it no longer holds the same gripping interest as it did in the moment.

“I can’t believe they pulled that off.” Frank gushes, turning to look back at Mel. There’s an electricity in his eyes, bright and sparking, that kicks up her heart until it’s pounding away in her chest. Frank’s attention is special like that.

“Yay!” Mel offers, staring into his eyes (soaking up the warmth pouring out of them-) to see if she’s sufficiently excited. “I don’t know what happened.”

“What?” Frank gasps. 

“I don’t know baseball. Did we…score? Or is it like golf and points are bad?”

That question is an affront to Frank’s person and there’s only one solution to rectify such a thing.

Re-creation.

Frank waves his arms as he moves up and down the lines of the washers, trying to point out relative positions and players. “Okay so the catcher and the pitcher are on the same team and they’re trying to figure out what kind of throw to use to get the batter out.”

Mel nods seriously as he jogs down the aisle to first base. 

“There’s also someone here that the pitcher doesn’t want to have to second if they can help it.” Frank explains, pointing at the door that he established as second base. “Let alone the guy on third getting home.”

“Of course.” Mel agrees, watching Fran transform the laundromat into his own makeshift pitch.

“So the batter is up with two outs already on the board. That means if he doesn’t hit the ball and get to a base, they don’t get any points for anyone on the bases.” Frank pauses for a moment, glancing at Mel. “Are you still with me?”

“I’m there, paint the scene.”

“Yeah?” Frank double-checks, hesitating for a moment like she’ll take it back. 

“Yeah, I’m ready.” Mel promises. She didn’t have any intention of learning baseball during chore day, but Frank’s standing here right now offering her a world class education in the subject and Mel’s never been one to half-ass a learning opportunity. She’s locked in. She’s learning baseball today, it’s been decided. “Hit me.”

Frank grins, eyes brightening impossibly with a familiar excitement. “Okay, so the Red’s defense has been working like they’ve never worked before all game, somehow-”

“Because they’re the worst?” Mel offers, remembering something about a rivalry.

“Exactly.” Frank says, pointing at her proudly. “That’s my girl.”

Mel straightens up as the term sends a jittery wave bubbling through her stomach, hot and entirely inappropriate. That’s her. Frank’s girl. 

Frank keeps going, talking about batting boxes, and Mel forces herself to keep tracking what he’s saying and where he’s pointing (she’s going to get an A in learning baseball) even as her mind keeps echoing one very important slip of the tongue.

Frank’s girl.

Frank’s girl.

Frank’s girl.

- - -

Mel shifts in her seat, smothering a smile as she watches Frank gesture to his patient through the glass separating Central Five from her charting desk.

Shifts in the ER have been different since Operation Teach Laundry started a couple months ago. Fall has crept into the city, still carrying the warm tinge of summer most days even as the evenings get a bit of a bite back to them. The shift reminds Mel of exactly how much her world has changed in the past year. 

Becca is happily settled into life at the center now, Mel finally found a grocery store that stocks her favorite brand of crackers (cheese twists!), and now Frank is there at work, ready with a joke every time they cross paths. 

Every time Mel leans towards Frank with a joke or a question or just to talk, he’s already there, reaching back towards her with the same bright anticipation. 

Like good old friends. 

It’s the only way Mel will allow herself to talk about them. Because that’s what they are. Line in the sand, do not pass go. Sometimes Mel can almost convince herself that it fits.

She’s been trying to stay good, she hadn’t even planned to watch Frank when she sat down here to chart. Frank had just happened to take a case that put him in the room directly in front of her and what is she supposed to do? Not watch his cheesy smiles as he talks to the patient?

No, that’s simply not an option.

Mel catches Frank glancing at her through the glass as the patient’s parents seem to complain about something, their faces hard in every way that his isn’t. 

“How’s our patient in South Eight looking?” 

Mel jolts in her seat as Dana swings around the desk to stand in front of her (accidentally breaking her line of sight to Frank). Mel blinks, bringing herself back to Earth. She’s definitely going to need to reread her chart before she saves it. 

“Uh, he has what looks like a very average case of seasonal allergies.” Mel relays, faltering slightly at her own words. He shouldn’t even be in the ER for something like that, let alone having Dana check-in about him. 

“That sounds like him.” Dana nods knowingly. “He’s a regular. He comes in every time the weather changes. Nothing’s ever wrong, I just like to see how he’s doing.”

“Oh, well he looks good. Stats are all in range.”

“Look at that, some good luck.” Dana cheers. “I appreciate the run down, hon. He’s an institution, you know? Like bad satisfaction scores or that stain in the breakroom microwave.”

“Who’s an institution?” Frank asks, suddenly appearing in Mel’s Dana-induced blindspot. There’s no rush to his movement as he settles in next to them, easy and calm. Mel wonders what happened to the patient he was checking out.

“Markie’s in today for his bimonthly check-up.”

“Fun guy. He told me that I spend too much time on my hair.” Frank nods, immediately picking up on the name. “He thought I should just shave it all off.”

“Aw, why didn’t you take his advice?” Dana laughs, moving to take a chart from Perlah for a moment.

Mel politely bites her tongue to prevent any undue reactions from escaping her at such a suggestion. Thankfully Frank is just as uninterested in the advice. 

“Ha ha.” Frank deadpans as he slides over to take her place, leaning on the desk in front of Mel’s charting station comfortably. He turns back to Mel with a smile. “How’s our guy doing?”

“He’s fine, kiddo.” Dana calls over before Mel can speak, waving him off. “Go do your job and stop worrying about someone who’s biggest concern is whether or not we’re having a particularly wet summer.”

“I don’t know about that. He was very insistent that the Steeler’s roaster is making him sick.” Mel chimes in, remembering Markie’s particularly spirited rant.

Frank and Dana let out matching groans and Frank knocks on the laminate of Mel’s charting desk instinctively, like that means something.

“I’m gunning for Mike Tomlin's head if he can’t just use our boys right this year.” Dana says, shaking her head with an expression not unlike when she had to break up an argument in the waiting room a couple weeks back.

Frank called it Dana going Full Pittsburgh when Mel had brought it up later. 

Mel still hasn’t really decoded what that means.

Frank nods along with Dana’s words regardless. “They have everything they need. They just need to execute.”

Mel glances between them, hopelessly swept up in the sudden and powerfully local opinions coming out of them right now. She shoots Frank a look for some hint of how to keep up.

“It’s like if the Pirates weren’t addicted to losing constantly but their coach was, so every choice he makes is the worst.” Frank explains with a commiserating expression.

“Ugh.” Mel grimaces.

“I know, just completely handicapping our boy, Sidewalk.”

Mel snickers, remembering the highly nosy seagull that had been tapping on the laundromat glass the last time they’d been listening to a game. Frank had deemed it their very own Pirates Parrot, now lovingly named Sidewalk Seagull (Sidewalk for short). Preserving the alliteration was crucial to the ‘spirit of the game’ (an excuse used to justify the purchase of any snack or bit as long as it’s argued to be for pure love of the game).

“Sidewalk?” Dana asks, raising an eyebrow at both of them.

“It’s an inside joke.” Frank shrugs off easily, shooting Mel a knowing look.

Mel nods along with him as her chest lights up warm and fuzzy. Yeah, it's an inside joke. Just for Mel and Frank. 

Dana waves Frank off with a roll of her eyes, sending him back towards Central Five with a shake of her head. 

Huh. Guess he didn’t come over to chart.

Mel drops her head down to look at her own charting with a critical eye, something warm beating away in her chest. Inside joke. Just for them.

- - -

“I feel like I’m getting a slow fashion tour through your closet.” Frank says, eyes firmly on Mel’s dinosaur patterned tank top.

“Behold.” Mel says, throwing her arms out wide to show it off properly. “An official Mel King deep cut.”

Frank claps appropriately as Mel spins in a circle.

“It’s covered in quetzalcoatlus.” Mel clarifies. “People think they’re pterodactyls, but they’re actually not. They’re from the Late Cretaceous which is actually a completely different time period...” Mel trails off as she sees the look Frank is giving her. “What?”

“How many dinosaur books did you have growing up?” Frank asks with a smiling tugging at his cheeks, barely glancing down as he splits his laundry with a practiced hand.

“A normal amount, probably.” Mel tells him a little too quickly. Rats.

“Probably.” Frank nods, eyes glinting brightly.

“Attacking me.” Mel groans. Dinosaurs are cool, she won’t apologize for having good taste. “Keep talking, I’ll tell you about the debate about Triceratops and Torosaurus being distinct species or not.”

“Hit me.”

“Yeah?”

“I like listening to you talk.” Frank shrugs like it’s no big deal.

Mel begs to differ. Big deal. Biggest. It’s rarer than Frank might think. He seems to have a talent for saying things that throw her off her rhythm. She’s not one to waste an opportunity though, especially not when Frank gives her such a clean runway into a particularly beloved rant. “Okay, so many of the fossil remains we have are broken or incomplete-“

- - -

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” 

“Frank we’ve been doing this for so long, when are you going to stop pretending we’re just meeting for the first time?”

“When it stops being hilarious.”

“If that was the goal, why did you start in the first place?” Mel laughs as she drops the shirt she was pretending to sort and looks at him directly.

“You wound me. And on the day I bring you treats no less.” Frank tells her, tossing his head back dramatically. His hair falls into his face as he looks at her again like something out of a terrible romance novel.  

He’s trying to make her tachycardic in the middle of this laundromat. Which is rude. Mel would like Frank’s attempts on her cardiovascular health noted.

Mel perks up though as her mind finally processes the promise of (incredibly effective) bribery. She glances into his laundry basket, finding a pink bakery box cradled on top of the clothes like a treasure. Mel twitches towards the box, but Frank pulls it back deviously.

“Ah ah ah. I knew that would get you, but laundry first.”

Mel frowns. She doesn’t want to do laundry right now. She wants a snack. She was promised a little treat eighteen seconds ago, why is she not receiving the aforementioned little treat? Apparently too much of that shows on her face as Frank laughs at her expression.

“You make the rules, you gotta follow them too.”

“That’s dumb. Rules are dumb.” Mel pouts, turning back to separating her clothes in more of a huff than is strictly necessary.

Frank laughs, joining her at the machines. He starts separating his clothes into now familiar piles. His kids get their own heap from the random clothes that have gotten mixed into his hamper. Mel usually finds that cuter, enjoying looking at the tiny shirts and smaller socks as Frank digs them out of the basket, but today her whimsy has been stolen. 

Replaced with determination and grit (and impatience). 

The box of unknown treats (that were promised to her and everyone heard it) are carefully set on the far side of the washer. Away from Mel.

Mel can see the games Frank is playing and they are not appreciated.

She drops her clothes into the machines, speed-running the process, as she starts the last of her loads and turns to Frank, bouncing on her toes. Frank copies her motions much…much slower. He’s gotten faster every week, falling into the routine of it next to her, but today it feels like he’s learned nothing, every motion lasting an eternity.

Minutes stretch on, shirts carefully evaluated for what pile to be dropped into. Mel suspects foul play, but it’s not until she catches Frank re-sorting a shirt just to take a little longer that she has confirmation.

Very well. A new strategy is required.

Five seconds after her discovery, Mel makes her move.

“Mel, what are you doing?” Frank calls after her, the sound of his shoes absent on the tiles trailing after her and her newly acquired box of treasures. 

“You snooze, you get your treats stolen.” Mel tells him seriously, stopping on the far side of the washers with the box, heavy with something delicious. Frank wavers back and forth for a moment at the other side of the row, finally giving chase as he tries to psych her out on which way he’s gonna go. 

Mel’s too busy for that. Her hand dives into the box and pulls out a pink macaron with a light floral scent. Mel takes a nibble and hums happily as her eyes slip shut. The meringue cracks under her teeth, sweet and vaguely earl grey flavored, and it takes over her mind for a moment.

Thank you, little treat.

You’re appreciated, little treat.

“I should have known the box would get you.” Frank laughs, suddenly standing next to her. When did that happen?

Mel blinks her eyes open again, accepting his laundry transgressions as she nibbles another bite. 

Forgiveness is stored in the little treat.

“I’ve never seen a sweet tooth like yours.” Frank says as he scoops the box up and leads them both back towards his still-unstarted washers.

Mel settles into her seat, happily taking her box of treats back as Frank goes back to the machine in front of her to finish his laundry.

“You must have been the bane of your dentist growing up.” Frank snorts, angling his body to watch her work her fingers into the seams of the box again.

“The sweets and the biting.” Mel agrees absently, pulling up the corner of the lid to look at the other treats inside. 

“Wait, biting?” Frank sputters.

“I had a very active reflex when I was younger. Anything in my mouth I had a tendency to, you know. Chomp.” Mel pauses for a moment, realizing that might sound a little rude. “Don’t worry, I don’t do that anymore. I’m very good with my mouth now.”

Frank opens and closes his mouth for a moment,  like he’s trying to speak but no words are coming out. 

“Are you okay?” Mel asks, watching Frank shake his head and turn back to the washer with reinvigorated focus. 

“Fantastic- I’m great.” Frank tells her, voice pressed and strange.

Weird.

Mel turns back to the box (she’s currently not eating a little treat, this has to be solved) when the lettering on the front finally catches her attention. “Wait, these are from BB & Bur. Frank, you don’t live anywhere near Wilkinsburg. How far out of your way did you go for these?”

“Have you tried one of the tarts yet? They sounded like you and I want to know if I’m right.” Frank asks, ignoring her question. 

Slowly leaving her dessert-based fugue state, Mel swallows down a gooey bubble of warmth, flattered and filled with something far too tender to be friendship that the simple way Frank treats going out of his way to get her something.

Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Like it doesn’t cost him anything if she likes it enough.

Mel ignores the dangers of that line of thought to scoop up one of the heart tarts Frank mentioned. He went out of his way for her to try one of these. The least she can do is tell him the results of his efforts.

“Oh fuck.” Mel moans as a wave of lemon-raspberry filling hits her tongue. This…this is what it’s all about. Mel shoves another bite into her mouth, cheeks puffing up. 

“That good?” Frank sputters as he watches Mel hum, nodding at him happily. His voice crackles into laughter. “Understood.” 

Frank focuses back on his machine, finally throwing his clothes in and messing with the settings to get them right. The silence between them is warm and comfortable, but there’s something there, lingering in the corners of their words that Mel is scared to look at.

Mel lets out a slow even breath as she chews. She can keep herself in check, she can. Frank means far too much to her to mess everything up now.

- - -

Frank is a problem and he refuses to accept what he does to Mel’s mental health.

Mel likes to think that she’s been keeping herself in check rather well these last few months.

She doesn’t look for longer than three seconds when Frank’s shirt rides up to reveal a dark happy trail. Or when he leans back in his seat to bemoan the length of dryer timers and the light catches the smooth column of his throat. Mel doesn’t even kiss him when Frank is telling her a story and his words pick up, tumbling over each other because of how excited he is to share it. 

So she’s been putting the work in. Paying into the system: friendship in, laundry out. Crush sealed tightly behind her teeth.

She just forgot to account for one thing.

Frank himself. And his continuous disregard for her carefully constructed plans.

“So how’s my favorite doctor doing after such a big night?” Frank asks (rudely), bringing up the latest instance of Mel’s long-running trauma.

She’s not sure if she should be dividing the trauma by occurrences or unique experiences. Occurrence could be measured most accurately as every movie night that has taken place in the last two and a half years. Unique experiences could be measured by counting every movie in Will Ferrell’s filmography.

Mel responds with a long heavy groan, letting her head bump against the wall behind her.

“That good?” Frank laughs somewhere behind her eyelids. “What was it this time? Elf or Talladega Nights?”

“Ha ha. We watch other things.” Mel tells him, luxuriating in the darkness behind her eyelids. Will Ferrell can’t find her in here. In here she’s safe. “Like Stepbrothers.”

“Yikes. When was the last time you watched something without Will Ferrell or John C. Reilly?”

“Three weeks ago.” Mel answers, opening her eyes as she responds far too quickly.

“A particularly long attempt at intubating by a med student doesn’t count as a movie.” Frank says as he shakes his head, getting distracted halfway through his own words. “Even if that was shockingly slow…” 

“Well, what’s the last thing you watched, Mr. I Have Two Kids Under Five?”

“While Trolls might run my home on a bi-weekly basis, I’ll have you know I’m so much more than that. Just two weeks ago, I watched the greatest movie of all time.” Frank says, holding for dramatic pause. Mel waits diligently, as always. “Pacific Rim.”

“What’s that?” Mel asks, unaware that such a question is the conversational equivalent of shaking up a soda right before she opens it. 

“Wait, wait, wait.” Frank says, shaking his head as he stands up, watching Mel with wide eyes. “You’ve never seen Pacific Rim?” 

“Nope, is it any good?” Mel asks, missing the crucial signs until it’s too late.

A question like that is not one to be answered lightly. Or without visual examples.

So here Mel is, coming over to Frank’s apartment three days later to rectify the situation. And, in the process, become ‘coming over to the apartment’ friends with Frank.

Mel has no idea what to wear to a night like this. Ironically, Frank has seen just about every outfit she owns and Mel wants this to feel special. She certainly wants to wear something better than her baggy Kermit the Frog t-shirt from undergrad. The internet is no help for getting ideas. Mel’s not sure she owns a single shirt that anyone has ever shown off on Instagram. 

She digs deep into her closet, opening up old moving boxes she never bothered to fully unpack. Black high school orchestra dresses and old soccer jerseys pile up around her endlessly. It’s there, deep in her boxed-up fall clothes, Mel finds it.

A soft, thick white knit sweater with rows of small red hearts sporadically stitched into it.

It’s cozy. And familiar. And ironically what she wore to her first ever date, late in junior year of college.

That probably doesn’t matter.

Not related.

Mel stares at herself in the bathroom mirror, smoothing out the front of the sweater. She’s not sure if that is a bad sign for her self-control, but it feels right in a way. Tonight is special, different. This sweater certainly helped her with her nerves over ‘different’ once already. Maybe it can work again. 

It’s certainly something Frank hasn’t seen her in before and that feels right.

Let’s hear it for new experiences.

Mel bounces on her toes in front of Frank's door less than an hour later, trying to remember any breathing exercise ever. She double-checked the address he sent her three times already, but she does it again (just one more time is her brain’s favorite anxious motto). His place is farther away than she’d expected, certainly farther from their laundromat than is walkable. Mel winces on behalf of his commute times.

She’s hesitating, delaying knocking on the door in front of her. It’s just Frank, it’s all going to be okay, breathe, oh god don’t forget how to breathe-

Knock, knock.

Mel’s knuckles have barely left the laminate wood when Frank yanks the door open. 

“You made it.” Frank cheers, waving her in with a wide smile. “I was worried my terrible building would scare you off.”

“No way. I was promised a life-changing experience and I intend to collect.” Mel smiles, her stomach churning as she steps inside. Here she goes, seeing Frank’s home. A whole new world (lovingly described by Cassie as Frank’s ‘lonely-ass bachelor pad’). 

The living room (if it can be called that as a space almost completely integrated into the kitchen) houses a small three cushion couch and a larger than average TV. The only decor on the walls is art courtesy of Tanner and Penny, taped up at mismatching heights (densest at four-year old head height). The art ringing the room charmingly off-sets the landlord white walls that are otherwise completely untouched.

Mel looks around as she kicks her shoes off, smiling at the little hints of life interwoven into the space.

“Make yourself at home.” Frank tells her with an awkward gesture at the room as he slides into the kitchen.

Mel drifts after him, settling at one of the counter stools. The kitchen is much more furnished, stuffed with Peppa Pig themed kitchen towels and even more kid’s art plastered to the fridge. Despite all of that, it looks like the kitchen of an adult. Mel can see multiple utensils stuffing the holder on the counter that she’s never owned. 

Cooking has never been Mel’s passion at the best of times and it certainly isn’t now in the heat of her residency. It’s surprising that Frank has such a passion for it being on the same long shifts (although maybe that’s from the power of needing to feed tiny humans).

“Are you good with popcorn?” Frank asks, moving around the kitchen with purpose. 

“Yes, please.” Mel has burned a third of every attempt at making popcorn she's ever tried. It’s so bad Becca won’t let her near the microwave without supervision. Something that Frank (a self-proclaimed snack extraordinaire) seems to have no problem with. 

“Heard, chef.” Frank says, pulling out a microwave packet. “Any preferences? I’ll have you know I have almost nothing.”

Mel snorts. “Salt? The saltier the better honestly.”

“Exactly what your dentist wants to hear, I’m sure.” 

“Don’t knock it ‘til your tongue shrivels up painfully from the sodium content.” 

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare question your taste.” 

“So,” Mel drags out, eyes wandering back to the living room. She feels greedy, eager to pull every hint of Frank out of being here. “Tell me about this movie we’re watching, what am I in for?” 

“Pacific Rim released in 2013, where it proceeded to change the face of the film industry forever.” Frank says, voice talking on a dramatic tint like he’s projecting it to an audience. 

“It’s an action movie-” Mel laughs.

“It’s about love!” Frank insists, gesturing at her with an empty bowl. “And- and human connection! You’ll see.”

“I’ll give it a fair shake. Scout’s honor.” 

“You better.” Frank says, fixing her with a serious expression even as his eyes dance mischievously. “I’ll know if you don’t.”

Mel has no doubt of that. 

Frank has a bad habit of knowing Mel better than she knows herself. It just happens to be crucial that he doesn’t know everything running through Mel’s head right now. Mel twists her fingers in her lap at the rise in nerves bubbling in her chest, a giveaway that she knows Frank is smart enough to pick up on. Danger. Eject. “Before I have my life changed forever, uh, bathroom?” 

“Oh, second door down the hall.” Frank says, pointing down the lone hallway in the apartment. 

Mel nods (trying for casual and likely falling far short) as she slips off the stool and scurries down the hall, pulling herself together. 

She’s going to get this crush under control and then she’s going to get back out there and eat popcorn and be super normal with her coworker best friend who’s just a friend- wait, second door on the left or right side? 

Mel blinks, looking between the two identical doors.

Neither of them have a particularly bathroom-y aura. It’s just two white apartment doors. Vibeless. Confounding her. Just opening doors in his apartment feels like an intrusion, but she can’t remember what Frank said. Left or right, left or right- 

Mel can hear a quiet hum from him in the kitchen and her stomach tilts dangerously. She’s not going back out there until she gets this feeling back under control where it belongs. Left it is.

Mel opens the door and- blinks.

And blinks again.

And then blinks one more time, trying to make the stacked washer-dryer unit sitting in front of her make sense.

It looks normal, a little dinged from use, but normal. Functional. Mel can see Frank’s unfortunate scrubs from a shift yesterday (where a kid painted him with a shocking amount of vomit) sitting in the dryer, clean and soft.

Frank has a washing machine. A good one. A GE Electric Stacked Laundry Center, with six rinse temperatures and a dryer that has over five cubic feet of drum space. Which gives him zero reason to come sit in a laundromat every single week, asking her about her favorite artists and reenacting baseball games and bringing her sweet treats out of the blue.

Mel pauses for a moment. 

Well, not no reason.

Mel closes the closet door with a quiet click and turns around to slip inside the bathroom as an excited grin starts to spread across her face. Mel can’t look at her reflection too long as a wave of giddiness lights up her chest, fighting down a wave of giggles.

Mel likes Frank, a lot. She has in some small way, tucked deep in her chest, ever since their first shift together when he slowed down to reassure her over the crike and found the words Mel hadn’t even known existed. That unspoken, unrealized crush has been her closest companion through long months after Frank’s departure. It had woken with a passion as Frank returned to the ER, bright and distracting, even before Frank slotted himself neatly into her life. Through every shared shift and morning meet-up. Every stolen look and moment she held herself back from chasing after. 

And now she knows that Frank has been coming to the laundromat for three months while a washer-dryer is sitting in his apartment, perfectly functional.

Three months of starching up his clothes with industrial washing machines. Three months of doing the financial equivalent of setting his money on fire. Three months of asking Mel about herself and listening to her ramble and teaching her about baseball and bringing her snacks and, and, and-

It all points to one very, very important reason.

Frank likes Mel too.

Mel isn’t usually the one in the know. Ever since Carol Lorkin’s party in fourth grade, when she failed to realize ‘my mom said to invite you’ wasn’t a real invitation to come, Mel’s been on the social backfoot. With friends and (rare) dates and residency match interviews, Mel has had to catch up to everyone else. 

And now, when it matters more to her than ever, Mel gets a leg up.

So to speak. She’s not gonna call it that to anyone else. She’ll find a more romantic way to phrase it. Probably.

She can still kind of hear Frank through the thin apartment walls, humming what Mel strongly suspects is the main theme of Pacific Rim. Frank likes her. Frank likes her. Mel splashing her face with water for a moment, trying to cool the smile splitting her cheeks.

Here goes nothing. Mel makes her way back down the hallway as a new sense of calm invades her body. It’s hard to feel as nervous as she did when she knows that she’s playing with house chips.

“I did something a little avant-garde with the popcorn.” Frank says from the couch, as Mel walks back in, gesturing at the bowl in his lap. “I went ahead and added butter to the mix. I know, don’t freak out, I have a hunch it could pay off big time.”

“Can’t wait.” Mel smiles, tucking one of her legs up under her as she sits so she can press their thighs together. 

Frank blinks at the contact, staring down at their legs for a second, before fumbling for the remote. “Ready to do this?” Frank asks, swallowing hard.

“Absolutely.”

He hits play and a voice starts narrating over a portal in the ocean. Mel can’t help drifting to look at Frank instead. With fresh eyes, Mel can see the little twitches in his hands, the slight tense of his shoulders. He’s nervous. If Mel looked hard enough, she wonders how many times he’s looked just as nervous as he does now during their laundromat- appointments? Dates? 

Mel is going to require clarification on that.

Maybe later though, Mel tells herself as she leans into Frank’s side to grab some popcorn. It’s kind of fun to feel Frank’s breathing freeze for a moment as she gets closer. The popcorn is appropriately punishing to consume and the movie kicks into gear quickly as a massive robot comes out of the ocean to punch an alien. 

Hmm, it really has been a long time since Mel saw a non-Will Ferrell movie. It’s pretty good. Mel finds herself forgetting about her primary goal for a moment as the fight ramps up.

Frank is the one who makes the next move, shifting silently to free his arm between them and lay it over the back of the couch. 

What a coincidence, that happens to be the part of the couch behind her. 

Mel can smell his body wash, familiar and tantalizing in equal measure, as he moves into her space ever so slightly. Pre-Washer-Discovery-Mel might have overthought the meaning of a move like that, debated possible friendly motives until the stars burned out. But Pre-Washer-Mel is gone and Mel-In-The-Know settles back into Frank’s arm as casually as she can. She can feel him tense for a moment, like he hadn’t planned this far in advance, before purposefully relaxing.

The air seems to hum between them as all the focus in the room is directed at the warm lines of contact between them. Mel’s concentration on the movie is all but decimated. Something about the aliens? There’s a big wall, Mel’s almost sure of it. Even through her sweater, Mel can feel the heat of Frank’s arm over her shoulders, warm and heavy, as it gently pulls her into his side. 

“Everything good?” Frank asks, pulling Mel out of her own head in the middle of a scene.

“What?” Mel blinks, looking at him. Their faces are so close like this with Mel tucked under Frank’s arm that she can see the slight creases around his eyes where he likes to tuck his laughter. They are…bad for her ability to concentrate.

“Are you having fun? I won’t hold you to it if you aren’t.” Frank asks, watching her carefully as he gives her a lopsided smile. “I can put on Elf if you prefer. You know, I hear it’s a classic.” 

Mel softens impossibly. It’s so clear to see how bad Frank wants her to be having fun tonight, with him, tucked up under his arm so very perfectly.

Their faces are so close, it doesn’t take much for Mel to cup the back of Frank’s head and pull him down for a kiss. Somehow the easiest thing in the world to close those final inches between them.

Frank jolts under her for a syrupy moment before he kisses her back so very softly, the arm around her shoulder tightening slightly.

“What- what was that for?” Frank asks as they pull back, a dazed look on his face.

“I’m having a nice night.” Mel tells him, a little glib as she finally pulls her hand back from his neck. “I really like you, Frank.”

“Oh!” Frank says, a pink flush gathering over his cheeks in the low-light of the TV. “I really like you too. Like a lot.”

“I had a theory.” Mel nods seriously, enjoying the way that Frank seems to hang on her every word. Does he always look at her like this? It’s dangerous for her ego now that she’s seeing it.

“A theory?” Frank echoes as he smiles at her, eyes staring into her like he’s trying to climb into her head. “What kind of theory is that?”

“It went ‘huh I wonder what’s in this hall closet’ and then I planted one on you and it really worked out.” Mel tells him, watching the delight steal over his face.

“Planted one on me? What is this, the fifties?” Frank laughs, voice low and rich. “And what hall closet?”

Mel smirks, watching Frank try to remember the layout of the apartment he’s been living in for months when their faces are so close together. He can’t seem to remember it at all. Well, Mel will be storing that nugget of information for later. “The hall closet, you know, the one holding your washer-dryer?” Mel prompts, watching the realization cross Frank's face. 

“Oh…uh.” Frank mumbles, cheeks growing warm. “Oops.”

“Yeah, oops.” Mel echos with a grin, watching the blush spread over his ears. Tanner seems to have inherited that trait directly. “Why did you even come to the laundromat in the first place?” Mel asks, shaking her head. 

She still hasn’t been able to figure that part out. He was driving at least fifteen minutes out of his way to get there each week. Which in Pittsburgh is like twenty-five minutes because this city is not laid out in an intuitive manner.

Not that she would ever state such a treacherous thing in front of a local like Frank or Dana.

Nevertheless, getting to the laundromat isn’t easy, let alone every week. Mel has no idea why he bothered in the first place.

“I heard you mention it to Samira at the Hub. And I wanted to see you.” Frank says, eyes skittering away from Mel’s nervously. Mel straightens up at the confession, bubbly and fond in equal measure, but she keeps her head on straight. There’s one last thing she needs to hear. 

“I didn’t mention the name of it.” 

Frank seemed to know the question was coming, mumbles something Mel can’t make out as he refuses to look at her directly.

“What was that?” Mel asks, leaning in to hear him better. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“I said that maybe it wasn’t the first laundromat I walked into…” Frank admits, voice trailing off again into nothing. The embarrassment radiates off of him in waves at his confession, bright and burning.

Unfortunately for Frank, Mel’s stomach is doing somersaults at this revelation and now she has permission to do something about that.

Mel twists to throw her leg over his lap, straddling him fully so she can kiss him properly. Mel peppers kisses over his cheeks and forehead and everywhere else she can reach, completely charmed. No one’s ever made such an effort for her, let alone romantically. Frank is just- he’s- 

Frank’s hands come up to hold her hips as he starts laughing under the assault. What an ineffective strategy, pulling her closer like that. It’s just letting her move in for a stronger assault on his left flank.

“What are you doing?” Frank laughs, leaning back into the cushions as Mel follows him.

“You’re giving me cuteness aggression.” Mel huffs between attacks. “I’m taking you down. Like a kaiju.”

“What?” Frank laughs incredulously at her words.

“The power of love.”

“That’s not how it works- I- Mel-” Frank snorts, trying to lean back from her very effective attack. Mel follows him, persistently. She has the high ground, he’s not getting away that easily. “You haven’t seen any of the movie have you?”

Mel pulls back with her most serious face. How dare he. This is now her favorite movie. “There’s a big wall. For the monsters. And the aforementioned power of love.”

“Yup, you got it. Big wall, big love.” Frank’s face cracks with fondness. “You know we gotta watch this again someday, right? Properly.”

“Oh no.” Mel fake groans. “Is your washing machine gonna be there?”

Frank laughs, open and loose, bubbling out of him easily as he leans up to capture her lips again. The kiss is everything, safe and consuming, lighting every single synapse in Mel’s brain oh so perfectly.

They finally pull back and Frank gives Mel a gooey warm smile that sets off butterflies in her stomach. “Now that you know about my washer-dryer, we should probably talk about Wednesdays…”

“Yeah?”

“It might be best if you just start…coming over, instead.” Frank offers, hands settling on her hips. Mel thinks it’s a pretty good resting position herself. Sturdy. Definitely secure. “I mean the amenities here are hard to beat.”

“Amenities?” Mel laughs as Frank nods seriously.

“Yeah, amenities. I know I can’t compete with terrible A/C and an incredibly off-putting vibe, but laundry at Casa de Frank isn’t so bad.”

“I’m pretty fond of the weird lingering cigarette smell in the air there. It’s nostalgic, like spending time with your aunt who’s had a habit for the last thirty years.” Mel tells him, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “I’m gonna need you to compete with that.”

“I can provide a stove that doesn’t have burned mac & cheese ground into it. The now-disclosed washer-dryer.” Frank offers in a voice not unlike a used car salesman listing out must-have features on a 2002 Toyota Corolla. 

“Who could forget it?” Mel nods semi-seriously as she gracefully and kindly ignores Frank’s stove jab. Mac & Cheese is hard to make. Deceptively so. Everyone burns some of it.

“It can run a load of towels, washer to dryer, in an hour and ten minutes.” Frank tells her, smirking like he knows he’s got her.

Mel groans in disbelief even as she loops her arms around his shoulders. “I can’t believe you gave that up to wash your clothes in shared machines. They come out so starchy.”

“Starchy with love.” Frank says, leaning up for another kiss.

“That’s nothing, that’s not even a pick up line.” Mel giggles, hopelessly charmed.

“And if all that wasn’t enough,” Frank concludes in a grand voice, ignoring her pick-up line rejection, “This place has, you know, me.” Frank’s voice lilts at the end, smiling to let her know that it doesn’t need to be serious. They don’t have to change the system. 

“That might be the best one yet.” Mel nods, not taking the bait to make it into a joke. Frank would be worth it (even without some very material benefits connected to his name).

“Might?” Frank laughs, raising an eyebrow, even as his hands flex on Mel’s hips.

“It- you are the best.” Mel corrects slightly. He is. Frank is the best part of this apartment. And this relationship. One hundred percent, no buts. The second best part just happens to be…pretty excellent. “It’s just your washing machine looks like it could hold a whole week of scrubs at once…maybe even both of ours…”

“See this is why I need you around.” Frank tells her, bright and happy as he pulls her closer. “You keep your eye on the important stuff.”

“That’s what I'm here for. The big stuff.”

Warmth bubbles in Mel’s chest. Being in charge of the big stuff doesn't feel so bad when it’s with Frank. Or about laundry. Especially when it comes with potential trading of any and all kitchen duties. There are many previously unaccounted benefits to being in a relationship, Mel will need to look into that.

“So, next Wednesday?”

“It’s a date.”

(And this time it really is.)