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#robert hanson
phantomstatistician · 2 months
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Fandom: Grace and Frankie
Sample Size: 462 stories
Source: AO3
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cowboymitchell · 2 years
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kweerkitten · 2 years
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you’re telling me ??? grace and frankie ??? never once kissed ??? in 7 effin seasons ???
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carrotkake · 2 years
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ratimz · 2 years
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i'll miss them!
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fraceandgrankie · 2 years
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in the casino grace wears the scarf robert bought for her :(
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estefanyailen · 2 years
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lecoindecachou · 8 months
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The 'Grace and Frankie' writers heard your complaints about Robert and Sol being a terrible couple and decided to add Grace/Nick, Bud/Allison and Brianna/Barry to the show to make them look better in comparison
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Lizzie: and when you left for the academy, what was it she got?
Sheridan: depressed. and an alpaca. but she did crochet hats for everyone.
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ohgandalf · 2 years
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So suddenly I prefer when show is just being cancelled? And I don’t think i’ll ever rewatch s7.
Don’t get me wrong, I really liked it. But that season was so bittersweet and full of angst that it was not something I was looking for.
I never signed up for crying over Robert and Sol and that whole heaven scene just broke me. For all six seasons that show was telling us that you can do anything at any age and okay, there are some limitations and we all know that but it never really was THAT serious about it. It never needed to be serious about it - it’s a comedy show ffs. When I want angst I read fanfiction!
I understand the message, but what I wanted to see is Frankie doing that karaoke and Grace cheering for her! Or them doing it together! To tell me that Frankie really wanted to come back, that she believed Grace that there are still things waiting for them.
But I felt like in the end the spirit that build that series was gone, just like Frankie’s will to fight with future and I just can’t get myself together now - that show was a pure joy and comfort for me, now I feel just empty emotions I never felt after any previous gnf season finale.
I love them, I loved it, it was a good season, but for me it ended with s6.
Also, Robert and Sol deserved better. I don’t care. I want fluffy happy endings.
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milquetoast-on-acid · 2 years
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I love that Coyote calls Robert: Uncle Dad! 😆
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cdyssey · 2 years
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Beginnings, Ch. 3 (”Care”)
Summary: Mallory and Brianna try to convince their Grace to go to the doctor after her near-electrocution.
AO3 Link
Their collective children want them to go to the hospital to get checked out after nearly being electrocuted.
They all care so much.
It’s frankly annoying sometimes.
“Oh, fuck you all sideways,” Grace sniffs, crossing her arms over her chest. She exchanges glares like bullets with each of the four kids and hopes that her violent intention strikes home. “We were only out cold for a few seconds.”
“Yeah, but you two were nearly electrocuted,” Bud says, emphasizing their near cause of death with an eye roll that quite plainly says, Do I need to explain this like you’re twelve? “We saw sparks and everything.”
“And smelled your burnt martini too.” Brianna crinkles her nose like this is the most distressing part of her mother’s near-death experience.
“Very unpleasant,” Coyote chimes in unnecessarily.
“Which is why you two are either going to voluntarily get into a car so we can drive your asses to the ER,” Mallory rounds them out, exactly mirroring her mother’s angry pose, “or we’ll call an ambulance and happily have you carted there anyway. Your choice. The easy way or the hard way."
They all look entirely too pleased with themselves for mounting what they think is an impregnable defense; Grace scowls so severely in response that she might just reverse her last face lift.
“Hah. You try getting that one into an ambulance,” she mutters, jerking a thumb towards Frankie. She’s standing a little ways away, talking to Sol and Robert, gesticulating playfully with her hands. The sea breeze pulls its fingers through her unruly hair and dances through the loose fabric of her dress.
Grace feels an inexplicable pang at this image—sharp, almost sickening—and she knows it has nothing to do with their fussy ex-husbands and everything to do with the all-consuming anxiety of being apart from Frankie.
Even for a minute.
Even for a moment.
She was slated to die today after all.
Agnes confirmed as much, an ancient sadness in her blue eyes. Dying was apparently as bureaucratic as a bank ledger, with souls who were scheduled to kick the bucket itemized on a long list. And Frankie's name had been written there—almost in stone—her death predicted by a scarily accurate psychic three months ago to the day.
But having reinscribed their fates with a stamp, now they’re both here, miraculously blessed with more time, and Grace doesn’t want to spend another second of her life without Frankie. She knows how precious it all is, terrifyingly aware of how quickly it could just disappear.
She also knows how ridiculous her feelings are—clingy, selfish, and horribly obsessive. The logical nature of brain understands that she’s being unrealistic, bordering on fanatical. The cynic deeply entrenched in her still suggests that these feelings will likely fade in intensity over time once she and Frankie reestablish themselves and the more annoying aspects of their routine again. She’ll wake up in the morning and see Frankie’s bong on the coffee table, and it’ll piss her off. They’ll get into tiffs about what sort of takeout they want to get. Somehow, they’ll end up smuggling drugs across the border again, which wasn’t exactly the most romance-inspiring heist of their near decade together…
But she just nearly died—they both did—and all the aggravated chemicals in Grace’s incredibly sore body riot and rebel and relay one consistent message to the entirety of her nervous system.
She wants Frankie in the same way she breathes air.
She needs her.
“Dammit,” Bud swears, pulling his hand down his face. “You’re right. It’s hard to even get her to a GP for a checkup.”
“I’m pretty sure her ideal GP lives in a yurt,” Mallory says.
“Yeah,” Coyote only sighs.
“And the last time I tried to get her in for an emergency, she argued with the paramedic for nearly fifteen minutes,” Grace smirks, a little smug as the kids groan in remembrance of that whole fiasco. “And she won by taking a taxi.”
At this, Brianna and Mallory turn expectantly to the Bergstein brothers, who stare resignedly back like puppy dogs who’ve shat all over themselves.
“Go. Shoo.” Brianna makes a dismissive sweeping gesture with her hand. “Convince your mom to come to the doctor, and we’ll do the same with ours.”
“God help us,” Bud shakes his head wearily.
“Which one?” Coyote whimpers in reply.
“Good luck with that,” Grace scoffs venomously, but the boys are already dutifully slouching off in their mother’s direction. And she’s left alone with her daughters, who stand on either side of her now—three iterations of Hanson women, all wearing the same finely tuned pissed off face.
“You’re being stubborn, Mom,” Mallory says out of the side of her mouth, watching Bud tap on Frankie’s shoulder, watching as the brothers pull her off to the side. That same twinge threatens to overwhelm Grace again, a desire to be by her roommate’s side, to inhale her every word like a drag of wine.
In the back of her mind, she wishes she had the appetite for a martini—a familiar balm for her aggravated nerves, medication—but the lingering odor of burnt olives vaguely nauseates her at the moment.
In fact, she might never drink gin again.
(Just gin, though.)
(Other alcohols are still on the table and in her personal bar.)
“That’s because I’m telling you that I know my own damn body,” she grouses, her eyes briefly shifting towards her eldest daughter—elegant, stiff, tense—before returning to Frankie again. She’s got her hands on her hips now, indignation in her pose, and a small smile twitches Grace’s dry lips. “I’m fine. She’s fine.”
“Are you two fine in the same way that Dad’s fine?” Brianna asks impatiently and immediately receives a pinch on her arm from her sister.
“Brianna!”
“What?”
“That’s not our story to tell!”
But there’s no unwinding the clock now, no resetting the tape, no taking back those unmistakable words, and Grace’s monomania for Frankie finally breaks, exchanged with utter shock as she looks between her youngest daughter and her ex-husband. Robert and Sol are now sitting in the far seats on the back row, holding hands, talking quietly between themselves.
Intimately.
Like they’ve got a secret.
No eyes for anyone but each other.
“What do you mean?” She utters hoarsely. “Is Robert sick?”
She can see the answer in Brianna’s face, in the subtle dip of her brow, in the agonized hardness of her eyes. (She's got Robert's eyes, dark blue, like the sky right before it sinks into night.) She doesn’t cry—she rarely does—but Grace knows her daughter pretty damn well contrary to popular belief.
She knows when she’s hurting.
She turns to Mallory and sees the same expression reflected there, except her eldest has always worn her bleeding heart on her sleeve. Her sadness is written all over her delicate features as plainly as day, scribbled heartache, indelible and unobscured.
She sniffs and surreptitiously thumbs the corner of her eye.
“It’s not our story to tell,” she reiterates quietly. “And we’re going to leave it at that except to say that we love you, Mom. And we worry for you, but you make it so hard for us to do that.”
“You fight us tooth and manicured nail,” Brianna adds, unexpected bitterness in her voice, “and Jesus Christ, it’s really exhausting. Just let us care for you sometimes, Mom.”
Grace’s shame sinks all the way to her toes. She doesn’t know what to do with any of this information, paralyzed, undone, staring at her ex-husband like she’s never seen him before. When he first left her, she used to wish he’d just die because even that was better than the ignominy and hurt of being cheated on for twenty years.
She even told him as much.
Straight to his face.
And strangely enough, their relationship has only gotten better since then.
Hell, it’s the best that it’s ever been in forty-odd years of marriage. They’ve reached a point where they can talk and have fun together, attend funerals of close friends, share a drink, laugh at the ridiculous shit that their hippy partners get up to.
Because it's nice having Robert as a friend.
He’s still family after all these years, and in the last few years apart from him, divorced from him, away from the toxic atmosphere of their marriage, she’s learned to even love him.
But now he’s sick apparently, and the truth burns in their daughters’ eyes.
And she can see it now in the slump of Sol’s bony shoulders.
And in the determined set of Robert’s stern lips. He’s got his everything-is-okay face on, the one that means it’s really not. He wore this very mask day in and day out when they lived in the same house together, and Grace had a matching one to fit.
They were the perfect, loving couple to all their friends and family.
They were so utterly unwell.
“I’m so sorry, girls,” she murmurs.
It less of an apology for her own behavior than it is the quiet act of a mother comforting her grieving children. She reaches downwards, grabs her daughters’ hands, and can’t remember the last time that she did so of her own accord.
Her daughters also have everything-is-okay faces.
(They learned from the very best.)
Mallory leans in to her touch; Brianna doesn’t, but she also doesn’t pull away.
“You’ve both been so strong, carrying this inside,” Grace continues, her voice a hushed whisper, “and I’m proud of you both. I don’t say it enough.”
“I almost want to get you to say it again so I can record it,” Brianna quips, always deflecting with an ill-timed joke.
She ignores her and squeezes her hand.
“Please don’t bring this up to Dad and Sol,” Mallory pleads. “They’ll tell you in their own time… when they’re ready.”
Grace stares at them and briefly wonders if they’ll ever be ready. It’s not a judgement—far from that, in fact—but an intimate understanding of what it’s like to not want to be vulnerable in front of the people you care about the most. It’s the hardest form of intimacy that humans can give to one another. Even today has proven that. She forced Frankie to wrench her most hurtful secret out in the open for everyone to hear, and the guilt of that still excoriates her, stings her and cuts.
“I won’t,” she promises softly, now squeezing her other daughter’s hand, now brushing their shoulders together. “And I’ll go to the doctor. And—“
She finally peels her gaze away from her ex-husband to her partner, who’s now heading this way, an angry glint in her ocean eyes, her sons reeling in her wake.
“And I’ll make Frankie come too,” she says quickly, letting go of Mallory and Bri. “Promise. No more complaints out of me.”
“I’d also like to record that one,” Brianna laughs, clearly relieved to be out of deep-emotions territory. “Just to have a memento of things I’d never thought I’d hear Mom say for 200, Alex.”
“We could put it in one of those Hallmark cards,” Mallory smiles tentatively, her mascara a little smeared now. She reaches into her purse and grabs a tissue to blow her nose. “And give it to her for her birthday.”
“Okay, assholes, now go plan how to humiliate me elsewhere,” Grace snorts, lightly pushing them on their back. “Scram. I’ve gotta convince Frankie what you just convinced me of, and you being here will just tick her off.”
Her daughters giggle as they walk away, and she stares at them with a fondness that’s also sadness. She resists the urge to look in Robert’s direction once again when Frankie arrives by her side.
Where she belongs.
Where Grace so ardently wants her to be.
“The nerve of my boys!” She rants, incredulous, fiery, clucking her tongue in clear disapproval. “They’re ready to cart you and me both to the hospital—even if they have to strap us on top of the car!”
Grace chuckles throatily and wraps an arm around Frankie’s thin shoulders, leaning in to her warmth and aliveness, inhaling the rich, earthy scent of her perfume.
“Well, about that, Frances—”
“Motherfucker!” Frankie interrupts indignantly. “They got to you too, huh?”
But she doesn’t immediately respond, briefly distracted by the scene playing out in front of her, inaudible from her vantage point but unmistakable for what it is. Sol and Robert have stood up to talk to the girls, and she can see that the conversation is precisely about the astronomically rare event of Grace holding her daughters’ hands because both men are throwing looks in their direction, and Mallory’s visibly nervous, her entire frame wired with movement.
And at the very last moment—just as Grace means to flush and look away—she catches Robert’s eye and immediately knows that he knows that she knows. They communicate silently without exchanging a word, his face all melancholy, and he nods at her to acknowledge the truth of what the girls had said.
He’s sick.
And whatever the hell that it is, it’s terminal.
She doesn’t even want to think about what she looks like to him, how the revelation must twist and contort her face.
And at the same time, she’s almost glad that he can plainly see—even from this distance—that she cares for him.
And she’s sorry.
She’s so fucking sorry, Robert.
"Grace?" And then Frankie's voice is at her shoulder, prodding and concerned, tender with care. 
She has to backtrack to the question she was asked.
They got to you too, huh?
“Something like that, yeah,” she finally replies, blinking something away in her eyes, something that burns, as Frankie’s arms effortlessly slide around her waist.
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cowboymitchell · 2 years
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tonydowneyjr · 3 months
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"I wanted to repay you the selfsame gift that you so graciously imparted to me.... Desperation."
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carrotkake · 2 years
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for the love of god do not know how im gonna paint this. but them <3
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ratimz · 2 years
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“We got in the elevator... The doors closed. And... He gave me this look.”
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