The 12 Dates of Christmas

The One With the Mess (feat. Frank Iero)

“That poor bird died for your asshole Uncle Barry, you know,” Frank said as you snapped the lid on yet another container of leftovers. You’d have turkey for a week. Maybe longer, since Frank wasn’t going to touch any of it.

“That bird was gonna die for some asshole one way or another. Might as well have been for one of the ones I call mine.”

He dumped a handful of silverware into the sink, letting it clang loudly. “You have more than one asshole?” He turned around to face you, arms crossing over his chest and eyes sparkling as he smiled.

“I have you, don’t I?”

Frank out a tattooed hand over his heart. “Ouch!”

You shut the fridge and reached for another plastic container. “Oh please, I've called you worse.” You gestured for him to bring you another half-empty platter of food.

“Yeah, the day we met, but in my defense, you were driving too fast.”

You'd met around Christmas time years and years ago, when he leapt in front of your car out of nowhere. You hadn't cussed so colorfully before, and you hadn't since. You'd managed to avoid hitting him by swerving into a light pole. It wasn't a pretty scene, but it could have been much, much worse.

You’d been so angry and surprised you were practically spitting fire. When you asked him what the fuck his damage was, he'd just held out a tiny, ratty looking dog, and said “Sweet Pea, man,” and asked if you liked coffee.

You smiled at the memory, grateful you hadn't killed him. Or the dog, you guessed.

Frank picked at the food he was carrying your way and dropped some on the floor. It was immediately devoured by a small pack of four-legged creatures. He had been born to the wrong species. He liked his dogs more than he liked most people.

You rolled your eyes. “Quit feeding them scraps,” you scolded, reaching for the platter.

“Never,” he said, leaning in for a quick kiss. “I'm buying their affection."

“You could buy mine by getting started on that stack of dirty plates,” you said, laughing a little.

“Already bought yours. You wear the payment on your ring finger.” He rolled up his sleeves anyway, exposing the artwork you so loved.

You held up a different finger than the one he'd been referring to. “Our vows didn't mention promises of affection.”

“Put that thing away before I start thinking less about dishes and more about you performing your wifely duties,” he said, starting to scrub. “To have and to hold, amirite?”

You could see his face reflected in the window, grinning broadly.

“Yeah well, in sickness and in health, and you just remember who does the cooking around here.” You cocked an eyebrow at him as you dropped a potato crusted pot into the sink, splashing him.

Frank held up his soapy hands in surrender. “I got it, I got it. Damn, woman. Shit's gettin’ cereal.”

You snapped a dishtowel at his ass. “Wash,” you commanded, laughing.

You threw the towel over your shoulder and moved to clear more of the mess from the table. You loved your family, but they really should have stayed to help clean. You sighed. At least you were finally alone with Frank.

“So this will buy me your affection, huh?” he mused while dunking yet another plate into the water.

You were gathering napkins. “Uh huh.”

“How much affection, exactly?”

You thought it over for a moment. “A kiss for every spoon I can see myself in.”

He smirked. “And if I wash all the forks too...what do I get to see myself in?”

“Crude," you clucked.

“You fucking love it.” He chuckled, up to his elbows in soap suds.

You did. You bundled the napkins under your arm and walked up behind him, placing a kiss on the back of his neck. “I'm gonna throw these in the wash. Finish what you're doing and see yourself to the bedroom,” you said, and you started to head out of the kitchen.

His fist pumped the air, flinging soapy water onto the window. He abandoned his post. “Well, looks like my work here is done.”

You shook your head slowly, but didn't object when two wet hands held your face and pulled you in for another, longer kiss. And you only squealed the tiniest bit when those wet hands found their way under your ugly Christmas sweater.

Several canine heads cocked curiously at the sound. They were sleeping downstairs tonight. You dropped the napkins and ran up the stairs, peeling your top off as you went. The mess would wait.

“Catch me if you can,” you taunted.

“I swear to Christ, woman, you're gonna be the death of me," he complained- but he raced up the stairs as fast as his legs could carry him, sweeping you into your room and onto the bed.

“I thought you couldn't be killed? New Jersey's rock and roll cockroach?” You teased him, lying back.

He hovered over you, smirking. “I’m willing to fucking find out."