Crack the Whip

by Robin Nance

John Grant, Frances Malone, Manhattan at the holidays, and coming to terms with the past.

Crack-the-Whip

Author: Robin Nance

Pairing: Frances/John, angst/romance

Rating: R (Language, Sexual Situations)

Setting/Spoilers: Approximately through mid-Season 4

Notes: This was written for a Secret Santa challenge at the profilerfans LJ community (which everyone shouldcome join/visit/have fun in). Feedback is wanted and appreciated here or via email at digitaldoc01 at yahoo dot com.

(one)

It's Christmas-time in New York, and all manner of strange and wonderful things can happen. From the first bite of leftover Thanksgiving turkey until they drop that big ball against the fading strains of Auld Lang Syne, you'll see it -- the Mundane and the Tragic walking hand-in-hand together past the taxi stands and the curbside Santas, planning their holiday guest list.

Why? Because New York knows from everyday miracles and epic tragedy like few other places these days. Besides, if 8 million island inhabitants are counting on a little Christmas magic, who's going to argue with them? Certainly not the street vendors shivering beside their rickety tables piled with pashmina shawls and knock-off Louis Vuittons, two for $25. Not the coked-up art broker with the tiny ponytail and the tinier cell phone, simultaneously buying smoked pheasant and selling the art world's Next Great Thing while he stands in line at Dean and DeLuca. And not the dark-haired girl sitting alone at the table by the window in Casa Latte, gazing at a blank computer screen with eyes gone slightly unfocused – definitely not her.

Once upon a time, you see, there was a girl named Frances Malone. She had a childhood of sorts, and then she started to grow up as little girls tend to do. And then, somewhere in the middle of it all, she fucked up royally, and life as she knew it ended.

She's come here, to this same table, this same chair with the one squeaky leg, every morning for the past five days. She orders her chai latte, just a touch of nutmeg on the foam, and she turns on her laptop. And then she sits, staring at the empty screen until the batteries run down, waiting.

Waiting for what? Frances wishes she knew that too. Inspiration, maybe – after all, her university sent her here on a writers' stipend, they'd probably like to see something along the lines of actual writing when she returns in the spring. More snow, possibly – it's pretty and romantic in a "Silver Bells" kind of way, at least until January 2 when it becomes just another pile of crap that crowds the sidewalks and ruins expensive shoes. Perhaps she's waiting for the answer to some big definitive question in her life, although truth be told she's always been a little too afraid to really ask that type of question.

Or maybe she was really waiting all along for that first hesitant touch at her shoulder, the one that makes her turn around and almost fall off her mangled chair in shock.

"Frances? It is you, isn't it?"

"John? My God… John fucking Grant?"

(two)

And John fucking Grant looks pretty much the same as she remembers, which is rather nice indeed, all blue eyes and wide smile and six-feet-whatever of barely-controlled energy. He's such a pleasant reminder of home and happier times that she has the urge to hug him; then, somewhere between standing up and doing the actual hugging, she remembers other, darker times in which he co-starred. She also remembers standing in front of him wearing a fur coat and not much else, and that image kills the hugging urge completely. Face gone scarlet, she ends up in an awkward hover, her arms stuck out at odd useless angles.

If John is having similar thoughts, he recovers from them more gracefully. He pulls her into the hug without hesitation, although Frances notes that he lets her go quickly. He's not blushing, but she's not quite sure that cops blush anyway.

"Small freakin' world," he's saying happily enough, and she recovers enough to motion him to sit at her table.

"Are you sure?" He eyes the computer and the scattered notebooks. "I don't want to disturb you if you're in the middle of something."

"Oh, please – I can always go back to staring into space later. It's nice to see you." And under the awkwardness, she realizes that it really is nice. "So what the hell are you doing up here? It's a little far from Atlanta for Christmas shopping, isn't it?"

"We had a case upstate in Augusta. It ended sooner than we'd expected."

Ah, she remembers those four little words: "we had a case." She doesn't have to ask him for details, not that he'd go much beyond that noncommittal shrug anyway. In John Grant's world, a case that wraps up early means that some sick dirt-bag either got blown away by the good guys or got scared and took himself out before they could finish the job. In Frances Malone's former world, those four little words were usually the preamble to lots of home-spun family drama, peppered with accusations and low blows that rained down like bullets. More than a few years between then and now, and yet somewhere in her mind there's still a tape stuck on play, repeating those words again and again: I'm tired of coming in second to your job, Bailey. Why did we even have children if you're never around to see them, Bailey? You think you can fix her, Bailey, you take her, I've had it with her.

John is still talking, and she tries to pause the tape. "So what are you doing up here? Last I heard you were in school in Virginia."

"I was – technically I still am. Cornell has a great creative writing program and I won a scholarship to join them for a semester."

"Pretty impressive." And he does look impressed, and genuinely happy for her to boot. "It must be nice to be that talented."

"I'm not so sure about the talent part – secretly I suspect that I just pulled an excellent con-job." In her mind, she's adding "…you remember what a bullshit artist I am, don't you?" to the end of the sentence, and for a moment she wonders if she said it out loud, because something falters in John's smile.

"Don't believe it for a moment. It's a great accomplishment and I'm proud of you." And he's covering her hand with his own to emphasize the point; his fingers are warm and slightly calloused and pleasantly real. It comes as a bit of a surprise to her that she's hungry for praise from a man she hasn't seen for two years.

"Anyway, we're off through New Year's, and I've been coming here waiting for something profound to happen so I can write about it." She shrugs at the pile of notebooks. "It's not working out very well, but on the plus side I've discovered my inner caffeine junkie and I think I'm putting one of the waiters through grad school with my latte bills."

"It all sounds very funky and bohemian. But tell me you aren't really going to try to work all the way through your vacation. Even us old farts know how to party better than that." And now there's a second bullshit artist at her table, because surely John Grant knows that she'd never consider him an old fart.

Frances can't help but laugh. "And this scandalous advice is from a federal agent? I'm shocked and appalled."

"Yep, hard as it is to believe, even the FBI is human. As soon as the brass in Atlanta gave the team the OK to take four days' down-time we were leaving skid-marks to go enjoy ourselves."

In the split second it takes her to conceal the hurt in her eyes, John figures it out, and he looks like he wants to pull the words from the air and swallow them.

"Oh, shit. You know, Frannie, when I said all of us – you know, your father is always busier than the rest of us, there's a bunch of administrative bullshit going down in Atlanta…."

"John, it's OK." Her face has been coached back into careful neutrality, and this time it's her hand that comes to rest on top of his for reassurance. "Honestly, I didn't really expect that he'd visit me. Dad is…Dad. I don't take it personally anymore."

And she doesn't, really. After everything he went through (everything she put him through), Bailey Malone still stood up in court and saved her sorry ass, putting his career on the chopping block while the scar was still healing from where they'd had to cut into his chest to retrieve the (her) bullet from his lung. And then he stood there again a few months later, vouching that she was in fact good college material just like Dickinson believed, that contrary to the judge's opinion she wouldn't be back with an ankle monitor and an STD by the end of the first semester. Bailey Malone has gone above the call of paternal duty and then some. And if he never again feels like making the effort to spend a day or two with her in between cases, who in the hell could blame him? It would be the ultimate display of self-absorbed egotism for her to whine about it.

She knows this intellectually, at least.

"Are you going home for Christmas?" The look on John's face suggests that he realizes he just dug the hole deeper; Frances would laugh if she didn't find the answer a bit embarrassing, because where in the hell is "home" again?

"Probably not. My mother and Steve Whoever-It-Is-She's-Seeing-Now are going skiing in Vermont, and my sister hasn't been to Atlanta before so my dad's going to be pretty busy with her. I think I'll just stay here and enjoy a New York Christmas. You?"

"I'll probably stay on my couch and watch a lot of football." John looks like he wants to say something else before he changes the subject. "You know, I wish I'd run into you sooner, I leave tonight to go back to Atlanta and I think I missed all the New York-y stuff that a good tourist is supposed to see."

She's grateful for the chance to refocus; idle chitchat is harder for her to fuck up. "OK, so what touristy things did you do?"

He ducks his head sheepishly. "I went to the Ground Zero site and did the Statue of Liberty tour. I tried to get a ticket to 'Lion King' and it didn't work out, so I ended up in the Village watching a bunch of blue-faced guys tie toilet paper into funny shapes. I probably could've done without that last experience."

Frances laughs out loud at that one. "You didn't like Blue Man Group? They're considered very avant-garde."

"Guess I'm not an avant-garde kinda guy, then. My idea of a cult favorite is a Mets game in mid-summer."

"And here I had you pegged as a Yankees man."

"I guess we're both full of surprises."

He's looking at her as he says this, really looking with those intense blue eyes. "You look really good," he says finally.

She stares back for a long moment; her hand is still on top of his and she's very aware of the warmth radiating from their contact. Before she can thank him or, God help her, blurt out something entirely inappropriate about how good he looks himself, she's saved by sudden inspiration.

"John, what are you doing for the rest of the day?"

"Aside from studiously avoiding Blue Men? I don't have any plans."

"Great, because now you do. My apartment is one street away. You can come with me or wait for me here – I have to drop off my stuff and then we can take off."

His expression is equal parts confusion and intrigue. "And what or where are we taking off to?"

Frances is feeling just a little mischievous, just a little like the Old Frances. It must be the company she's keeping.

"You only gave me a few hours to work with, but I'm up for the challenge. You, John Grant, are about to undertake a touristy New York adventure."

(three)

"I think that officially qualifies as one big-assed tree."

John's eyes are wide as he stares at the spectacle in front of him. Frances is reminded of a toddler sneaking his first peek at Santa's Castle.

"Yeah, New York knows from doing things the big-assed way. I can't believe you've never been to Rockefeller Center before. It's like the staple of East Coast family Christmas attractions."

They're sitting to one side of the massive ice rink, in full view of the colorful bustle but somewhat protected against it. The wind is picking up as the temperature drops, and they huddle together for warmth and to make themselves heard over the din. John laughs as he points to a bundled-up gaggle of children playing crack-the-whip in the middle of the rink.

"I wonder if that kid at the end has any idea what's going to happen to him when they pick up speed. I already told you, I'm tourist-activity impaired. Plus I'm lacking the East Coast family with two-point-five children to bring up here, so I figured I wasn't really missing anything."

"Silly tourist, the big-assed tree does not discriminate." Frances bumps against his shoulder jokingly. "I just figured maybe you came up here as a kid like the rest of us."

John's tone remains light and humorous, but he looks away briefly before he answers. "Nah, I didn't exactly have a Norman Rockwell childhood. We only traveled when we had to."

Shit, she thinks – open mouth, insert foot, and just fifteen minutes after they've sat down. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up bad memories."

John bumps back against her shoulder, giving her a no-harm-done kind of smile. "The past is the past, you know? No sense obsessing over what you can't change."

No sense in it, she thinks, but way easier said than done when it comes to not obsessing. Below them, the whip has cracked; Frances watches the little boy careen away from the end of the chain, whooping in half-glee, half-outrage at the end-result he apparently hadn't seen coming.

"If it's any consolation, my family came up here when I was eight or so. My sister got carsick and threw up in the cab on the way over, I tore about a dozen holes in my new Christmas outfit when I fell on the ice, and my parents got into a major battle over something profound like how much the pretzels cost. So that whole family-bonding thing? Probably over-rated."

She half-expects John to launch into some obligatory lecture on how much her family really loves her even if it doesn't always feel that way, etcetera, etcetera. But John just sighs and reaches for something inside his jacket.

"Sometimes it amazes the hell out of me that there are happy families out there."

"Are there? I mean, have you actually met any families that qualify as happy?" Frances leans back against the bench, then shivers at how cold the metal is against her back and opts to lean into John instead. "I can't say I've even come close to meeting anyone who I'd call completely non-fucked-up. The only remotely all-around healthy couple I can think of is Grace Alvarez and her husband. They always looked so glow-y and in love whenever I'd see them at Dad's parties. And even with that whole, you know, cutting-up-bodies aspect of her job, she seemed to be pretty grounded."

"I hate to break this to you, sweetheart, but Grace and Morgan split six months and one extra kid ago." The sought-after object in John's coat turns out to be a slender silver flask; he uncaps it and takes a long swallow of the contents, finishing with a slight grimace.

"Well, goddamn, so much for my last illusion." She glances at the flask. "So what exactly do you have in there, and when are you going to share it with your poor frozen tour guide?"

"Very cold Stoly, and is my tour guide legal to share with?"

She flashes him her sweetest smile, another remnant of Old Frances flickering to the surface. "Technically, I'm legal in March. Less technically, hand it over, Grant."

She drinks, feeling the vodka burn a slow warm course down her throat and into her belly. It's a pleasurable sensation, comforting against the cold, and she can already feel the heat in her fingers when she hands the flask back to John. Of course, it may have something to do with the way their fingers brush together. And he's watching her again, gaze intent and unreadable.

"I swear, officer, it just feels good to warm up a little, that's all." She gives him a mock hands-up gesture. "I promise I'm not some closet drunk. I don't even keep a bottle of wine in my apartment."

"Never said you were," John takes a final drink and pockets the flask. "You don't owe me any explanations anyway. Hell, I'm the one with the flask."

A middle-aged man stops beside their bench to readjust the shopping bags he's balancing in both arms. In the silent minutes that pass between them while they watch him, Frances ponders that she could win a thousand scholarships, and there would still be some permanent part of her that feels obligated to explain herself to John and everyone else who knew her in Atlanta.

"So why do you have the flask?" She asks quietly once the man with the bags is out of earshot.

John looks at his hands. "I guess I want to warm up a little too. Sometimes…there are days when you want to tell reality to fuck off for a little while, but you really have to push to get it out the door, you know?"

Oh yes, Frances knows. She knows exactly what it feels like when all the mental pushing and shoving in the world doesn't budge reality and all its warts. And she knows that's the real reason she doesn't keep alcohol in her apartment. She looks at John, really looks for the first time today, and she's struck by the changes in his face. They're subtle – an extra crease at the corners of the eyes, a more permanent down-turn to the mouth, the slightest hint of thinning hair at his temples. She remembers the almost model-handsome man she knew two years ago; if she's honest, this new edginess flatters him, but she wonders what it was that finally washed his features with such a patina of sadness and isolation.

"Is working at the VCTF that bad?"

John shakes his head with a tired smile. "I like the job, but I won't say it doesn't wear you down. You put one sick asshole behind bars on the East Coast, and tomorrow you're off to the West Coast to hunt down a brand-spankin'-new sick asshole. He's behind bars, and there's a sick asshole to chase in the Midwest. And so it goes."

"All work and no play…pretty much turns you into my father."

John watches as another group of children lines up on the ice. "Hey, a guy has to be good at something. And as opposed to, say, having a normal life and normal relationships, this seems to be something I can do."

"As much as you helped me out in Atlanta, I have trouble believing you aren't good at normal relationships."

"Don't believe me, just ask my ex-girlfriends. Besides, you and I weren't exactly normal either, if I recall." He grins and bumps her shoulder again, but keeps the contact, pressing into her side.

"Hey, we may be more normal than we realize. I refuse to believe that we're the only two people in the world to ever do some quality bonding across a chain-link fence."

John smiles faintly at that; he reaches again for the flask but stops in mid-motion, hand drifting down again like it simply lost its way. And from somewhere inside, Frances feels a quiet aching; her hand finds his, and his fingers weave quite naturally around her own, cold skin to cold skin as she squeezes hard.

"You don't have to end up like that, you know."

He laughs humorlessly. "I'm not so sure I have a choice anymore. It's funny, Sam said something once about how she could feel a part of herself slipping away the longer she stayed in the job. I didn't understand it then."

Frances shakes her head, frowning. "Bullshit – there's always a choice. You think my dad didn't have choices? God forbid he could have crossed that line and gone after Sam before she left, even if it might have made them both happy. Big fucking mess of a mistake, if you ask me. But it was his to make."

"I don't know. I think there are times when you can't really help your choices. It's like crack-the-whip." John notices her quizzical look. "You know, the skating game. Two kids skating together have pretty much equal control – add two or three more kids and the guy at the end of the whip has to work to keep up. Add ten more and he's screwed no matter what he does. Maybe that's just life, you know? Every single fucked-up experience adds up like so many kids in front of you on the whip, and after awhile you lose the ability to control your direction. Maybe all you can do is hang on and hope you don't get the shit knocked out of you."

"You might be on to something there. You know, I'd tell you that your analogy just ruined a precious childhood memory for me, but my childhood sucked anyway." Frances pulls her hand out of his and takes some time adjusting her scarf; when she speaks she can barely hear her own voice. "It's really hard to keep hanging on sometimes, isn't it?"

"Sometimes." If John sees the tears in her eyes he's not mentioning them, or perhaps he's attributing them to the burn of the wind or the vodka. But he wraps an arm around her and pulls her close. "Look, I'm just rambling here, that's all. You don't have to end up like that either, sweetheart. You don't have to end up like me."

She tries to keep her voice light and amused, but she's shaking now, trembling so hard that John tightens his grip around her. "See, the thing is that I was sort of hoping you'd get all role model-y on me and reassure me that we can keep some control of our fate. Otherwise I'm kind of fucked here, John, because have you noticed the number of disasters I have on my list already? At the risk of sounding like a lame version of Jacob Marley, there are a lot of kids in front of me on that whip."

He reaches for her hand and weaves their fingers together again, stroking her palm with his thumb. "You've come a long way from the girl behind the chain-links, Frances. You have to see that."

"I do and I don't. I still see the manipulative little brat who shot her father, every time I look in the mirror. If I don't have control over how my life goes, then it's basically over already. If I do have control, then I'm the kind of person who's made some really shitty decisions." Her laugh sounds a bit on the hysterical side even to her ears. "Either way, I'm pretty much a mess."

"And you're pretty much human." John squeezes her a little tighter as he tilts her chin up with his free hand. "You think you're the only one who's made some Technicolor mistakes? Hell, I could give you chapter and verse of all the ways I was a fuck-up, since I was ten years old all the way into yesterday. It's in the past, Frances, you put your disasters behind you and you just try to stay upright on the ice."

His hand lingers on her chin; as she leans into him, Frances briefly wonders what kind of horrible childhood John Grant must have had to make him weigh the mistakes of a ten-year-old boy with such gravity.

He smiles gently as if he can read her mind. "I'll tell you about it sometime."

"I guess we're both messes, then," she murmurs as he brushes her hair back from her face.

"I guess we are."

She's not quite sure if she's right and they're making a conscious choice, rational or not; or if he's right, and this is a moment they've been leading up to for the past several years without either one even realizing it.

Or maybe it's not about any of those things, philosophy or loneliness or too many regrets; maybe it's just about Frances Malone and John Grant sitting at the edge of the ice rink and kissing each other as if their lives depended on it.

(four)

They're silent in the taxi on the way to the hotel. She follows him into the lobby, past the Art-Deco furnishings and piped-in holiday music. He doesn't touch her on the elevator ride up to the seventh floor, or in the hallway in front of his room, or even when he holds the door open for her.

Frances is thinking that they're probably both a little bit afraid that the other one will develop cold feet and second thoughts. She's trying not to wonder if they're even more afraid of something finally happening after years of dancing around it.

Then John pulls her toward him, she stretches up into his embrace, and their second kiss stops the train of thought cold.

It's a war between her five senses now, each one vying for dominance before the next one bounds to the forefront. First it's the scent of John's hair, and damned if she didn't remember that from over two years ago; next it's the feel of hot skin and hard muscle as she's pulling away layers of winter fabric. Next it's the taste of his mouth, the combination of soft lips and razor stubble as he kisses her, god, everywhere, and is she the one moaning like that or is it him?

When she'd thought of this (and yes, she'd thought of this and oh god of this and this), she'd pictured it all a little slower, a little less hysterical. But fantasies can take all the time in the world, and time is what they don't have today. And John knows that too, she can feel the desperation in his grip as he pulls her on top of him, thrusts into her and it hurts just like she needs it to. And she's riding him, fast and needy, and his face is like a mirror of what she's feeling. He moves his hand between them, fingers dancing a circle just where she needs them to be; then she's crying out, he's bucking against her and she collapses on his chest, all five senses suddenly numb.

Have they been lying there for minutes now or hours? She can't tell, and it doesn't matter anyway because she's warm and comfortable wedged against John Grant's naked body, and her legs are too heavy to move.

"God, Frances. Holy Christ."

"You mean that in a good way, right?" She bangs her head into his shoulder like a cat, and John nestles his chin against the top of her head.

"I most definitely mean that in a good way. I mean that in an I'll-be-recovering-for-days kind of good way."

"Well good, because I'll need some recovery time myself. Imagine me all tired and sore trying to sit on that stupid chair at Casa Latte tomorrow."

John groans and runs a hand from her back to her hip. "You really know how to hurt a guy right before he has to get up and pack his suitcase."

She grins wickedly at him. "Well of course, that was the idea. I need to leave you with an appealing image, after all."

"You'll be leaving me with a lot more than one, believe me. And I think that was where I got to sound like a dirty old man. Not that I didn't already call myself that for having so many lewd fantasies about you."

"Bullshit on the old-man thing, and oh, really now, fantasies?" Frances props her chin in her hand and flutters her lashes at him expectantly. "And just when did you start having those fantasies, hmm?"

"Longer than would be considered appropriate." John ducks his head in that sheepish gesture again, and she decides it's the most endearing thing she's ever seen. "Honestly, I remember the black top you were wearing the day I met you. It didn't leave much to the imagination and I was a pretty happy guy because of it."

"Ooh, shocking and appalling. And hey, just about the time my fantasies started, too. Although for a moment there I thought you were going to say something about an infamous fur coat episode that was terminated all too soon." She supposes it's a little silly to still be so mortified over that when she's having a naked après-sex conversation with the man, but it doesn't stop her from blushing and cringing against his shoulder just a bit.

"Nah, as tempted as I was I knew that would've been the wrong thing to do at the wrong time. Didn't stop me from taking a long and very cold shower after you left, though."

Frances sits up, suddenly serious. "You know, this may be an odd time and place to do this, but I don't think I ever thanked you properly for all you did for me in Atlanta. And I know I never apologized properly for the shit-storm I unleashed on you. I'm sorry, John. You deserved a lot better than that."

"You're welcome, you're very much forgiven, end of subject." John hooks his arms around her waist and rolls back until she's straddling him again; then he eyes the clock and groans loudly. "Shit, shit, shit. I can't tell you how much I hate to do this, but I really do have to get ready to leave. My train's in ninety minutes and I still need to check out."

"In that case, we should clean up." Frances kisses him primly and rolls away. Next thing she knows she's dissolving into a fit of giggles as she dangles from John's shoulder in a fireman's carry en route to the shower, and all the while she's wondering just how much time a person really needs to get to Penn Station from here anyway.

(five)

Odds are definitely favoring a white Christmas, she thinks; with the fading daylight the temperature has dropped into the thirties, and she could swear there's snow tucked away in those steel-grey clouds. Her hair is still slightly damp from the shower, and she pulls the collar of her coat a little higher.

John drops his bag on the ground and sinks onto the bench beside her. "I'm going to sleep all the way home with a big fuckin' smile on my face," he growls close against her ear.

"Glad I could put it there." And maybe it's just a projection of how she's feeling, but there's the slightest softening to the edges when she looks at him. Not to mention one big fuckin' smile lighting up those handsome features, and it's the best Christmas gift a girl's ego could ever ask for. Out of the corner of her eye she sees a flash of something white fluttering at his feet, and she reaches down to pick it up.

"You dropped something." It's a train schedule, folded over to the list of non-stops between New York and Atlanta.

"That's OK, I don't need it anymore." John flicks a quick glance at her. "Maybe you'd want to hang onto it. They're having special fares all through the holidays, so it'd be cheap and easy for you to travel. Just in case there was someplace you wanted to be for Christmas."

"Whoa, subtle." Frances smirks at him, then considers the schedule. Maybe it really is time to start bridging a few familial gaps in her life; maybe it's the mountain that has to go to Malone, so to speak. She pockets the schedule and rolls her eyes at John's I-told-you-so grin.

"Here's my taxi." John sighs and pulls himself up from the bench. For the first time today, there's a hint of discomfort when he looks at her. "Knowing me, I'll come up with the exact profound and poetic words to say about three hours from now."

"Honestly, I don't think profound or poetic suits either one of us." Frances runs her hand through his damp dark hair. "But I am very glad we ran into each other. And for the record, I wouldn't mind turning out like you at all."

John's face lights up like she's just given him the best present in the world. Their final kiss still crackles with sexual tension and chemistry, but as she watches him walk away it's a different, peaceful sensation that settles in her chest. And she has the oddest conviction that she'll be able to hold onto that sensation even if she never sees John Grant again. Oh, she'll still struggle with the ghosts of her mistakes, she knows, but maybe they can agree to co-exist; a wise man in Rockefeller Center once said that the past was the past, after all.

And if she can't control the cracking of the whip, well, maybe the trick is to learn when to let go and just enjoy the ride across the ice.

The rear window of the taxi slides down suddenly, and John is regarding her with a look she can only describe as devious. "You know, it occurs to me that you might be up to date on a few other touristy New York things. You know that big ball they drop on New Year's Eve?"

"I think I've heard of it, yes."

"Are they planning to drop it again this year?"

She can feel the grin creeping up her face. "Nobody told me personally, but I think that's the plan."

"Well, since I've never seen that either, and since you're such a wonderful tour guide, perhaps you could help me experience that too? If you don't already have plans, that is."

"As a happy coincidence, I'm free that evening."

And now his smile is brilliant. "It's a date then. It's getting cold, would you like me to drop you at your apartment?"

Frances looks up at the sky as she feels the first flurries tickle her cheeks. "No thanks, it's just a couple of blocks."

"Sure you'll be OK?"

She feels like her smile could light up Manhattan. "Yeah, I am sure. I'm going to be just fine."

Once upon a time there was a girl named Frances Malone. She had a childhood of sorts, and then she started to grow up as little girls tend to do. Somewhere in the middle of it all, she fucked up royally, and life as she knew it ended. And then it started all over again.

Perhaps things changed because she found a kindred spirit, or perhaps it was just time for her to grow up once and for all. Or maybe it's all about location, location, location. It's Christmas-time in New York, after all, and all manner of strange and wonderful things can happen.

(end)