Chapter Text
His hand is up, poised to knock again when the apartment door swings open to Garcia in a baggy shirt and sweatpants. “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested,” she says, moving to close the door in his face.
He sticks his foot in the way, “Can I come in?”
“What if I have company: You ever think about that?”
“You’re on call,” Frank says in rebuttal. She’d sworn off on-call hookups after the Memorial Day fiasco last year. “I checked with the hospital before I came over.”
“Interesting: so you had time to call them, but not me?”
“You would have said no.”
“I still might.”
“Please?” he says and he must really look pitiful because she rolls her eyes and reopens the door enough for him to pass through. He heads straight for the couch, his old friend from the early days of his divorce, tossing the binder he’s holding onto the coffee table.
“Brought some light reading?”
“It’s a proposal.”
“So I gathered,” she gestures to the cover: ‘Proposal for Dr. Francis T Langdon’ printed on the front. “For what? You adding a deck to Ken’s Dream House?”
“Marriage.”
Garcia lifts an eye brow before opening to the title page. “Woah. King? That’s a shame: I thought she had better taste.”
“Ha.” She looks up from the page to stare at him expectantly. “She thinks it will help with the custody dispute.” He flops down on the couch, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.
“So— are you considering it?”
“Trying not to,” he says, peeping open an eye to catch her reaction, “since I’ve already accepted.”
“That a boy,” she says, a gleam in her eye. She sits down beside him pulling the binder into her lap. “This has gotta be two hundred pages. Did you read the whole thing?”
“Nah, Mel gave me the cliffnotes— I’m gonna need a drink before you start in on that though.” He doesn’t drink much anymore— addictive personality and all, but he could really use one right now to settle this nervous energy.
She gestures towards the kitchen. “If I’d known I was throwing your bachelor party tonight, I would have been more prepared.”
He opens the fridge, debating between an IC light and a Yuengling.
“This thing’s impressive. It’s got like fifteen sections, color coded, exhibits A through H.” There’s a pause as Garcia flips through the pages. He reaches for the IC lite. “There’s even a section here titled ‘conjugal responsibilities.’”
“What?!?” He swings the refrigerator door out of his way to stare wide eyed at Garcia, his stomach dropping to his shoes.
“I’m fucking with you Frankie— though based on that reaction you may want to discuss before your wedding night.”
Between the pills and the detox his libido’s been effectively extinct, but he rather not get into that with Garcia— or anyone for that matter. He reopens the fridge, grabbing two black cherry Giant Eagle brand knock-off LaCroix and heads back to the couch. Garcia closes the binder, tucking it into her lap as she accepts the second can.
“Alright, I’m ready: let me have it,” he says before taking a swig. God, he forgot how much he hates sparkling water.
She shrugs. “I’m not your lawyer or conscience or whatever you’re looking for.”
He runs his hands down his face. He’s not sure exactly what he wants her to say, except that Yolanda always has opinions and no qualms about giving them.
“Do you trust her?” She asks.
“Mel? Of course,” his response is immediate. But that’s the thing, Mel’s not the problem. “I’m just… not sure I trust myself yet, you know. I couldn’t bear disappointing her.”
“Then don’t,” Garcia shrugs.
“Wow,” he laughs and it’s such a relief, more than any shitty beer would have been. “I think you missed your calling: is there still time to switch to Psychiatry?”
“I’m not touching your brain unless it’s with a scalpel.”
He laughs again, suddenly feeling very tired, “hey, can I crash here tonight?”
“I don’t know: How will your fiancé feel about you spending the night with another woman?”
“Yeah, good point, Mel could definitely take you.”
“Shut up, before I change my mind and don’t drool on my throw pillows.”