Work Text:
As a society, we don’t give body temperature the respect it deserves in our relationships. The hot ones seak out the ice packs so they don’t get heatstroke every time they go in for a hug; the cold one’s seak out the radiators so they don’t get frostbite when they go in for a kiss.
It’s really quite poetic.
Frank’s not poetic, he’s just always cold.
But there's something about wintertime: sure -- Jack Frost is out and about, causing trouble for everyone but you don’t really pay attention to it when you’re surrounded by loved ones. Loved ones are there to fill you with warmth on those cold winter nights, Frank is there to warm you up on cold winter nights.
Or more literally, you’re there to warm him up.
Snow piles on your windowsill, another inch accumulating by the second. It’s exciting, really; you haven’t had a snow day since high school. But New York has been hit with a freak blizzard, knocking public transit out, and making most of the roads unsafe -- Frank’s worksite called everything off because the equipment wouldn’t start up, and your boss called to tell you their systems were down: no working from home or work at all.
You can’t pull your snow gear out fast enough.
“Frank!” You dig through your closet, pulling coats, hats, everything out and spilling it across your main entrance, “Frank, get your ass out here!” You finally find it, the hat you were looking for.
Stumbling out of your bedroom, Frank appears in all his tired glory, but nevertheless alert, “What is it? What happened?” He realizes there's no present threat and visibly relaxes (as much as he can).
You shove his coat at him, along with a hat and gloves, “It’s storming, I wanna go out.”
His eyes narrow at you, taking the items from you but setting them over the back of your couch, “Powers been knocked out in half the city, you really think it’s safe?” He knows you’re not listening to him, he just really doesn’t want to go out in the cold.
“We won’t be out more than an hour,” you tug your boots on, “you don’t have to come, I can go alone.” He’d never let you go alone, and you know it.
It's all he can do to trudge back into your room and get dressed before returning to pull on his boots. He fucking hates the snow, he hates the cold -- he wears that damn jacket all the time for a reason.
But damn you, he just can’t say no.
And damn you, it’s fucking cold.
It’s like night and day, the two of you: a man huddling himself as he walks, bundled in a hat, scarf, and mittens and a woman with only a jacket, partway unzipped and picking up handfuls of snow just to play with.
He grumbles as he does so often, “you’re going to get sick.”
“And I’ll have you to take care of me if I do.” It’s because you really do love him that you get an idea, snow melting and compacting in your palm. You don’t have Frank’s aim, but you’re determined.
Grabbing another fistful, you’re quick to spin around and lob it at him.
Slow-motion. That's the only way you can describe it, slow-motion. The white ball flying through the air and in front of shop windows as it dawns on Frank that you’ve thrown an icy projectile at him far too late.
Impact.
Snow splatters against his chest and bounces into his face making him wince. He blinks again and again until it finally registers: you hit him with a snowball.
And he smiles. He smiles because he’s going to knock you into a snowbank (with love, of course). So he charges at you, picking you up before you can even think about running and falling into the snow with you.
It manages to feel romantic.
“I’m freezing,” he half chuckles, half whispers, “can we go home now?”
You relent, only because your shirt is wet and if there's one thing that ruins a snow day, it’s being soaked to the bone.
The door to the apartment shuts, and boots lightly thud against the floor as they’re kicked off. It’s warm inside, to you at least; you can already feel yourself overheating and rush to your room in search of a t-shirt and shorts.
Frank doesn’t share your sentiment, instead searching for a sweater to pull on. His nose is red, ears and fingertips are in the same state despite his outerwear. He kisses the top of your head as you pass him, but he doesn’t get a full look at you until you flop on the couch, “Christ, would it kill you to put on something warmer?”
Raising an eyebrow, you respond: “I wanna be comfortable.” It almost comes out as a question, because he should know your loungewear by now.
He rolls his eyes before heading to your bedroom and returning in a sweatshirt, fleece pants, and fuzzy socks (Karen got them for him -- he refuses to admit he wears them). “Give me some of your warmth, I’m freezing,” he makes to put his palm on your arm but you’re quick to move away.
“Are you crazy? My thermostat is jacked -- and keep those ice blocks away from me.”
“‘Jacked’ is not twenty degrees,” he grabs a blanket from the back of the couch, “c’mon just five minutes and I’ll be warmed up.” he bundles himself in it, wrapping it around himself but leaving the front open for you to crawl in. He would only ever admit it to you, but he can only entirely relax when he can feel your skin against his, in any capacity at all.
You sigh as if it’s a big deal but crawl over, snatching the remote as you settle in your lap.
He knows you need it (if not now soon), and slides his hands just barely under your shirt so that your warm skin will cool. He doesn’t care what you put on, just that you’re here with him.
Unlike society, you understand thermodynamic equilibrium. You can cuddle up in Frank’s lap under a blanket that would usually make you sweat because he’s freezing and he cools you right down. You get to stay right where you are because Frank runs unbelievably cold and he cools you down, like a popsicle on a summer's day.
No, Frank’s not poetic -- he does love you though, and what is love if not an equilibrium.