teenage dirtbag, baby [fflur]

"Fuck's sake," Frank dropped the club hammer he'd just been slamming against the brick divider that plagued the middle of the space and it landed with a clank. It wasn't easy to transform a place. Transform his place. It still felt strange to say that. He ran both hands through his hair as he paced. Would it be infinitely easier to just use magic, yes. Was he stubborn, also yes.

Nothing like a little destroying of things to really get the blood flowing.

The impulse purchase of the old Hackney building on the corner was just that— fucking impulsive. There was no one in London to tell him to slow down, to tell him to consider his options from an objective point of view. So he did it. The crew from the Pittsburg shop would be arriving soon, those who were willing to move their lives, and then he knew he would be able to breathe again.

Just as he'd propped himself against one of the new stools that had arrived, a vaguely familiar hue of peroxide blonde hair caught his eye from the window. So maybe she was serious about that job after all. "Well, well, well," He called out as Fflur entered the shell of an establishment. He half expected to see Robin with her and was moderately disappointed that his assumption was incorrect. He missed their couch, in some strange way.

"Welcome to The Delicatessen— the Hackney edition," He stood up, suddenly aware of the state it was in. Or lack of state that it was in. "It's a work in progress..." He lifted a shoulder. At least the kitchen was in a good place, though, that's what mattered. It was nearly ready for full use.

If anything, they could sell out the window.

School was out and Fflur was in London, so she was desperate, or something. She wasn’t hurting for money -- she’d held a job and hadn’t had to pay rent for over two years, now -- though she would never complain about having more; mostly, she needed a distraction. She needed to get out of the house because idle minds wandered; was that the phrase? She didn’t care. She’d get bored and go to the pub or get bored and drink in the house and somehow when weighing all her options it still seemed a better choice to be around a bar and working than anything else.

It’d been a joke when it was first mentioned, she thought, but it’d been an offer either way: a job with Frank at his new place. She had experience (if not skills) so that’d have to work in her favor, right? Maybe.

Fflur rolled her eyes as Frank called out to her. “Well, well, whatever.” It was a good start to a (maybe) interview, and she only improved upon it with her next breath. “It’s only half the shithole I imagined.” She returned his shrug, glancing around the place. It wasn’t as finished as she’d expected it to be, which probably didn’t bode well for her job prospects but--

She shrugged off her jacket and draped it over the back of the cleanest chair, turning back to look at Frank with an eyebrow raised. “How desperate for minimally skilled, moderately motivated workers are you?” The lack of people about the place was promising, at least.

In true Fflur fashion, as was learning, she sauntered in like she owned the place and immediately commented on the state of it. Her voice was dry, cool, slow and in that god damn accent. Frank sat back against the stool and took a swig from his can of beer before wiping the residual sweat from his brow. At least he could say he was doing something of interest— she taught kids with acne and mommy issues how to fly around on brooms. Now that he knew her, having lived in her and Robin's house for a couple of weeks, it seemed less and less likely that she could put up with that kind of thing.

They were birds of the same feather, he figured.

"You know, if you came to ask for a job, you really need to get a better intro..." Frank stretched over the counter out of habit, to offer her a drink, before he remembered. Shit. With the cold drink in his hand, half extended, he quickly recoiled it and set it down in what he imagined was a less-than-subtle way. "But then again, how can I not be enticed by the promise of a minimally skilled, moderately motivated worker?" He used air quotes liberally, brushing aside his faux-pas. "I thought you were fucking around, that night," Frank added, more seriously now.