Fifty First Not-Dates. Bob/Frank, Gen.

[chuckaloonie]

Another ficlet! This one's for rockeandroll . Her prompt was:  "I want Frank to be some superhero's sidekick and Bob to be the barman Frank complains to about how he's sick of being a sidekick and wants to design his own costume that isn't as stupid."

I don't know if this is what you had in mind Meg, but I hope you like it anyway.

As the rest of the ficlets I've written, this is unbeta'ed. Not because I can't be bothered to get a beta, but because I want different opinions about what I could've done to make the fics better. So far, you guys have been incredibly helpful, I hope this is not the exception.




 

 

The bar is pretty much empty, just three people occupying one of the tables in the back; they have been nursing their drinks for almost twenty minutes now. They’re talking business, Bob can tell, because their faces are way too serious to be talking about anything else. Besides, they don’t seem too familiar with each other, their postures are not as relaxed as they would be if they were friends.

Bob sighs; he likes it when it’s calm like this, but he’s bored out of his mind. Rush hour won’t start for another three hours, and everything’s in order already, so there’s really nothing much for him to do. He already read the newspaper, and he forgot the book he’s reading at home. He remembers he hasn’t called his mother in almost two weeks, so he takes out his phone to call her, when somebody opens the front door. Fucking great, Bob thinks bitterly.

It’s Frank, the annoying midget that comes every other day to use Bob as his personal therapist. Brian seriously doesn’t pay him enough to put up with this shit. On top of being so fucking whiny, he’s a terrible tipper, and demands Bob his full attention, even if he complains about the same thing every single fucking time. Worst part is, Frank is not like your regular drunk, like the ones that just want somebody to listen to their problems and expect nothing from Bob but the occasional nod or “Yeah?” or “That sucks, dude.” No, Frank wants Bob input on the subject, he wants Bob’s advise, even when, at this point, Bob really has nothing new to offer.

“The usual?” Bob asks, opening a beer as he speaks. Frank is nothing if not predictable.

“Well hello to you too, asshole.” Frank says, grabbing the beer Bob offers and taking a big gulp before sitting on the stool right in front of Bob.

Bob doesn’t answer, he knows Frank will take anything Bob says as an invitation to start whining. He goes to the far end of the counter and starts to fill the bowls with pretzels, even when he knows they’ll get stale because the bar is fucking empty and rush hour is three hours away. Whatever, it’s not like the patrons can complain, the pretzels are for free, after all. He hears Frank sigh, so loud is almost comical. He keeps filling the bowls. He’s bored, but not that bored, not enough to welcome Frank’s whining as a distraction. He’d much rather think about the weather, or the Bears (even if football season won’t start until August and it’s March), or the fact that he hasn’t had sex in almost three months, which, seriously, what the fuck is wrong with him? It’s not like he’s hideous, right? Besides, he’s good at sex, or at least that’s what his last girlfriend told him, although she cheated on him with that fucking bank manager, the whore. Bob wonders if they're still dating. He’ll have to ask Ray, he has an account on the bank where that asshole works, maybe he knows something, or at least he can ask around and find out. Whatever, it’s not like…

“BOB!”

“I’m sorry, I spaced out. Do you need a refill?”

“Well, duh! You’re the worst barman ever, Bryar.”

“Oh fuck you.” Bob says, but gets him another beer anyway, because despite what Frank says, he’s an amazing barman, thank you very much.

“You know? I said the exact same thing to Gerard yesterday.” Bob's amazed. Frank just found a way to start whining using 'fuck you' as a conversation opener. “Like, seriously Bob, I mean, I know I’m just his fucking sidekick, but I deserve to have a fucking opinion, you know?”

“Frank, seriously dude, I already told you…”

“I mean it’s not like I ask for too much Bob, you know that, right? I just want to design my own fucking costume!”

“I fucking know that Frank, I’ve been hearing you whine about the same fucking thing for months.”

“And yet, Gerard can’t seem to understand how much it means to me!”

Apparently, Frank has some type of amnesia that prevents him from remembering that he’s had the same conversation with Bob about a hundred times. Now that he thinks about it, this is just like “Fifty First Dates”. Bob feels like Adam Sandler… except Frank doesn’t look like Drew Barrymore at all, and Bob’s doesn’t like Frank, at least not in a romantic way. Also, he won’t get a happy ending, unless he finds a way to find Gerard and kick his ass until he agrees on letting Frank design his stupid costume. Okay, maybe this is nothing like “Fifty First Dates”, whatever. The point is, it sucks.

Bob decides to follow the same pattern of conversation he usually takes with Frank. He tried a different approach once, and that backfired horribly. Not only it didn’t stop the whining, but the conversation was twice as long as usual. He’s not making that mistake again.

“Dude, I know it sucks, but you have to admit that spandex is better for fighting than black, tight pants. Even if it's purple spandex.” Bob kinda feels for Frank. He'd kill Gerard before agreeing to wear a purple spandex costume. With black sequins. Gerard is definitely the campiest superhero ever.

“Fuck you Bob. I’ve been fighting in black, tight pants for years. Gerard only came up with the spandex costumes idea when he lost all that weight. Fucking show-off.”

“Yeah, you’re right, it sucks.”

“Damn right it sucks. I mean, why won’t he let me dress however the fuck I want? He can still wear his ridiculous costume, it’s not like we have to look alike!”

“I thought the Mayor told you guys that it was better for your image if you dressed cohesively?”

“Fucking Pete Wentz, what the fuck does he know?”

“Well, he had a clothing line before he was elected Mayor…”

“Are you fucking serious, Bob? I mean, have you looked at the stuff he designed?”

Bob agrees wholeheartedly with Frank about this. It’s just that he found out, after the first month, that when Frank directed his anger toward someone else, at least for a while, the conversation was usually shorter. Pete Wentz just happened to be the best target for that.

“It doesn’t matter Frank. The guy signs your paychecks, so you must do what he wants. Besides, he doesn’t try to tell you how to work, he doesn’t give you any shit when you go a little bit overboard with the beatings, so think of it as a small price to pay. We all have to put up with stuff we don’t like at work.”

Bob knows this. God, does he know this. If it was up to him, he would’ve banned Frank from entering the bar ever again, but Brian was not fond of the idea of banning regulars, especially when they were regulars who didn’t start fights or cause any kind of trouble. Bullshit, Frank caused trouble. He was a pain in Bob’s ass. Brian has never had the displeasure of being on the receiving end of Frank’s whining, so he shouldn’t be the one who made the decision to keep him as a costumer, owner of the bar or not.

“Okay, maybe you’re right, but that doesn’t mean that Gerard should be the one who gets to design the costumes.”

“Except he’s the one with an actual superpower, so that kind of gives him the upper hand when it comes to making decisions.”

“So fucking what? I’m the one who kicks the bad guy’s asses, not him. Pacifist my ass, he’s just a pussy.”

“Frank, you’re not the only guy in Jersey who knows how to fight. Gerard, however, is the only one with super-hearing and the ability to fly almost at light speed while he carries you on his fucking back.”

“Fuck you, Bryar. Are you implying I’m replaceable?”

“Of course you are, you egotistical midget. I bet I can kick your ass with one hand tied behind my back.”

That right there was a stupid, stupid move from Bob’s part. He realizes this the moment he says it. Frank’s anger should never be directed at him. It’s not that Bob is afraid to fight Frank, he actually believes what he told him, but he can’t afford to get into a fight with a costumer, not right now. His bills are piling up, and Brian already warned him that he’d fire his ass if it happened again. He wouldn’t even be able to claim self-defense, because he was the one who provoked Frank, not the other way around. Of course, it would be in self-defense; Bob would be defending himself from the fucking tedious conversation that Frank is submitting him to, but Bob’s sure that Brian would never see it that way.

“Oh really? You’re so sure, huh big guy? Come on then, let’s go outside, show me what you’ve got.” Frank raises from his stool, but doesn’t walk to the door. He keeps looking at Bob with an amused expression on his face.

“I was just kidding dude, chill. Come on, I’ll get you another beer.”

“No, I want to see what you can do. Come on, I won’t tell, you won’t get in trouble with your boss, if that’s what you’re afraid of. Unless of course, that you’re afraid of me.”

“I won’t fight you, okay? Sit the fuck down and drink your beer. Or better yet, get the fuck out of here. Don’t worry about the tab, it’s on the house.”

“I’ll let it go if everything I drink today is on the house.”

“Fuck you, I was willing to pay for your beers out of my own pocket if that would've meant you’d leave, but if you stay, you’re paying for your fucking drinks.”

“Then fight me, fucker.”

“I won’t, but just so you know, if you throw the first punch I’d be completely justified to hit you back. After all, there are witnesses, so Brian can’t fire me if I kick your ass in self-defense.”

Frank turns to look at the three men on the back. “They’re not paying attention to us. How are they gonna see who starts the fight?”

“You could start yelling or something. That way, you’d get their attention and they’d be able to see when you hit me.”

“So you really want to fight me, huh?”

Bob does. He really, really does. Mainly because he hopes that if they fight, and he kicks Frank’s ass, he might be too embarrassed to come back. “Yeah, I really do.”

“We will, but would you mind to tell my why?”

Bob doesn’t know what to say. Frank’s expression is not amused anymore. If Bob knew more about feelings, which he totally doesn’t, he could’ve sworn Frank was kind of sad.

“Um, I don’t really know, dude. I guess I’m kind of curious.”

“Curious?”

“Yeah, I mean, let’s face it, you’re a pretty small guy, and yet you kick people’s asses for a living. You must be good, otherwise Gerard would’ve replaced you already, so I guess I want to know how good you are.”

Frank sighs, and he starts to shake his head while he smiles. It’s not a real smile though, more like a condescending one, like he’s thinking poor idiot, it’s not his fault he’s so stupid or something.

“What does my size has to do with anything? I thought you knew fighting was about strength, and agility, and fucking technique. Not height.”

Great. Now Bob feels bad, and he hates feeling bad. Fucking Frank.

“I’m sorry dude, you’re right. You know what? I’m not even curious anymore. Why don’t you sit down and take another beer instead? On the house. Wait, but just this one, I can’t afford to pay for other people’s drinks, not if they won’t even put out afterwards.”

Frank raised an eyebrow. “So if I promise to put out, you’d pay for my drinks?”

“You wish, asshole.” Bob says. Frank takes the beer and sits down again.

“You know what I really wish? I wish Gerard would also stop giving a fucking speech to the bad guys while we’re waiting for the police to arrive. I mean it’s not like they care if they’re wrong to target women ‘based on the mistaken notion that they’re weaker’, plus they’re almost unconscious most of the time, because you’re right, sometimes I do get a little bit carried away; so I’m the one who has to listen to his fucking speech over and over again, which is unfair…”

Bob groans; here we go again. I should’ve fought the bastard. He gets the rag, starts cleaning the counter, and tunes out.

 

 

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