And here already is where the truth of things lies: if it were just him, he wouldn't bother. Not tonight, maybe not tomorrow either. Not until something broke through the autopilot mechanics on his system and he forced himself through the motions, threw together something out of a can or a package, forced it down his throat. If it were just him, he'd keep sitting here on this porch step until the damn sun came back up again, maybe.
But it's not just him. It's Clint, too, who has it worse, and so Frank has a reason to slowly peel himself up from the stairs. He's got a reason to turn, and thud his way across the floorboards toward the kitchen.
Because, as he goes, he says, "If I cook, you're gonna eat."
And that's an order, Second Lieutenant. If you can't do for you, you do for your men, that's how it works. You have two families; one in the corp, one at home. Just so happens Frank's has some overlap.
He goes through the kitchen. Most things are still well and good, it hasn't been that long. He can put together something decent, something packed with the calories they're gonna need to manage. Something with protein, something with carbs, something with vegetables. He's Italian, this is how he shows love: by force-feeding pasta down someone's throat and complaining that the store-bought kind isn't as good as the kind his mother used to make.
That last part doesn't apply tonight, but the first does. Clint's getting a bowl of something shoved under his nose whether he's got the appetite for it or not.
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But it's not just him. It's Clint, too, who has it worse, and so Frank has a reason to slowly peel himself up from the stairs. He's got a reason to turn, and thud his way across the floorboards toward the kitchen.
Because, as he goes, he says, "If I cook, you're gonna eat."
And that's an order, Second Lieutenant. If you can't do for you, you do for your men, that's how it works. You have two families; one in the corp, one at home. Just so happens Frank's has some overlap.
He goes through the kitchen. Most things are still well and good, it hasn't been that long. He can put together something decent, something packed with the calories they're gonna need to manage. Something with protein, something with carbs, something with vegetables. He's Italian, this is how he shows love: by force-feeding pasta down someone's throat and complaining that the store-bought kind isn't as good as the kind his mother used to make.
That last part doesn't apply tonight, but the first does. Clint's getting a bowl of something shoved under his nose whether he's got the appetite for it or not.