I do not own Power Rangers: Jungle Fury.

Dom and Fran are adorbs.

Places in Books

Je Ne Sais Quoi-ness


It's a good apartment.

Not too many blocks away from where they were.

Small enough. But with high ceilings.

And a tiny little balcony.

Do people really live this?

This is amazing.

Bedrooms, a bathroom, kitchen.

Sitting room, or living room.

Or whatever they'd call them.

Not a tv room, it's incredible how few tvs she's seen here so far.

RJ and his green recliner would absolutely panic.

But it's Fran and Dom and they're somewhere in the middle of Paris, Paris, can you believe it-

". . . crepes, yes?"

"Yeah. That'd be great."

And now they've met people.

French people.

Pretty French people.

Boys.

And a girl.

Oh brother.

The girl.

The French girl, Sylvie, Fran remembers her name is, she isn't even that pretty.

Okay, fine.

She's gorgeous.

All svelte frame and long lean, limbs that could just wrap around a man.

". . . no lumps, lumps will make it, eh, rubbery . . ."

Like they seem to be trying to do with Dom.

". . . butter sizzles and the foam starts to subside . . ."

Dom, who is all easy smiles and laughs and bright eyes.

". . . - into ze middle of ze pan . . ."

As is Sylvie.

". . . swirl ze pan like this . . ."

With her blond hair, all loose, stylish waves half way down her back like she woke up that way.

". . . edges start to, eh, how do you say, crisp up. . ."

Her flawlessly minimal yet perfectly applied makeup that serves to enhance her perfect cheekbones, her luscious lips, her large, doe-like eyes.

" . . . down and away from you and back, very quickly . . ."

And her loose white top tucked in to her skinny belted jeans and her white heels, for crying out loud, who wears heels with jeans, who even can, and it doesn't help it looks great-

" . . . -llow my hand, here . . ."

And the fact that she is cooing all over Dom as she expertly teaches him how to flip the crepes . . .

They'll probably fall right on the floor anyway-

. . . though they don't.

And now there's crepes with strawberries and cream for everybody.

First, wonderful, delicious baguettes.

Topped with tomato and basil and cheese.

To die for.

And now crepes.

And they taste absolutely delicious, oh goody-

And Fran just can't stand it.

Oh, she's smiling and laughing with the others.

Dom and Sylvie and Henri and Guy and some other boy Fran can't remember his name, only that he looks like a GQ model just like the rest of them.

And she just looks like . . .

". . . merde, what do you think you are doing with zat cow?"

. . . her.

And they're all, every single last one of them, making googly eyes at the effervescent beauty charming everyone with her effortlessly flirty laugh and flashing brown eyes.

And Fran is, painfully, clearly, the plain, awkward, expendable wallflower that pales in comparison to her perfect French, Je Ne Sais Quoi, Crepe-Makingness that holds them all so raptly captive.

Her and her airy, delicious, strawberries and creme French crepes.

And Fran decides she's not going to fight it.

"Excuse me, sorry . . ."

There's really no use.

"Gracias, I mean, Dankeschön, I mean, oh-"

And quietly, resignedly, slips from the room.


She's going to relax, maybe read a little.

Nurse her bruised ego.

And let them do their thing, the group of them.

And that's okay, she's a big girl, and well, she is just her and he is Dom and-

"Hey, where'd you go? You're missing crepes."

And suddenly, as if summoned, he's there in the doorway.

Open, friendly face.

Arresting blue eyes just a touch concerned.

And Fran attempts a casual . . .

"Oh, I just thought I'd relax for a while, you know, big day."

. . . smile.

It doesn't really feel very real.

Just like downstairs in perfect-hair-and-makeup-and-personality-and-style-and-French-accent-land.

And Dom mostly . . .

"Yeah. Far cry from Ocean Bluff, huh?"

. . . seems to understand.

Or at least show some grace.

And she decides that she's his friend, a real friend, not just a selfish friend, and Dom may say she can call him her boyfriend but he's just being nice and how can she even compare-

"You should go though. I'm fine here by myself. Have fun with Sylvie. She seems nice."

It is to this that the handsome blond man before her raises a questioning eyebrow.

"Yeah, I guess she is. If you like that sort of thing."

And Fran nods encouragingly, even though it kills her on the inside.

Of course. I mean, hello, who wouldn't.

"Go ahead. Have fun. I'm fine here. I promise."

There. She has given her blessing. Practically pushed him right into no doubt experienced embrace of Ms. French Perfection.

So exactly the polar opposite of Fran herself.

And that's okay, that's fine. That's good for him-

But Dom . . .

"I know you're fine here. You're perfectly capable, Fran."

. . . doesn't go.

"But it's just not the same without you."

He's so nice. He's always so nice.

And that's nice.

And she just has to be honest.

And hope it doesn't sound too whiny.

"I don't really fit in with them, Dom. I can't keep up. And that's okay. But you do. So you should go have fun."

And Dom seems nonplussed.

"You fit with me. And I like you just the way you are."

And Fran crinkles her nose at this Mr. Rogers-esque statement.

"I do? You do?"

He nods, as if this is obvious.

And she just can't shut up.

"Why?"

And now it's Dom seems bewildered.

"Why? You're special, Fran. You may not be like them. But you're special. All on your own. Don't ever let anyone tell you different. You're amazing."

And she hesitantly smiles.

"Really?"

Dom nods.

"Yeah."

And her smile becomes real.

"Now will you please come hang out with us?"

And Dom holds out a welcome, encouraging hand.

"With me?"

And she takes a deep breath.

Closes her book.

Eases off the bed.

And moves toward him.

As she closes the distance, heading for the door, not naively to him, Dom pulls her in, puts an arm around her shoulder and kisses her temple, light and familiar.

"Come on. Let's go burn some crepes. You know I'm gonna at some point anyway, right?"

And . . .

"Okay."

. . . they go.


By the time her head hits the pillow after 2 am, Fran's exhausted brain is full of French accents.

And crepes.

And Dom.

He had released her from his friendly embrace with an easy smile.

Which she had timidly returned.

And then they had traipsed down to the kitchen once more.

Chatted and creped and laughed.

Dom subtly placing himself next to Fran, arm slung casually around her general space.

More friendly and encouraging and accepting than anything actually approaching romantic or possessive.

And this they had been.

Not mentioning, not announcing.

Just as friendly and easygoing and relaxed with their new French, Je Ne Sais Quoi-ness friends.

Just . . . being.

And Frannie Faye Fugleman . . .

I wish he didn't feel like he has to do this.

. . .

Maybe he doesn't feel like he has to do this.

Maybe he's just doing this.

Maybe I should just enjoy this.

And so she does.

And that . . .

"Bonne nuit, les amis. Rêves heureux."

"Merci. Pareillement."

. . . was that.

"Dom?"

"Yeah, Fran?"

"Thank you. For being my friend."

"Of course. Thank you for being mine."


Thanks for reading and thanks to DinahRay for so kindly reviewing! :)