Hi Guys! I feel like I should preface this with the admittance that I am a hardcore Flaurel shipper! My OTP. And as I am posting this we have exactly 4 hours and 43 minutes till the season 3 premiere, needless to say I'm freaking the fuck out. Also, the title is in reference to the song Ixode by Zola Jesus, which played during the scene where Frank admitted to Laurel that he killed Lila, and since that night I have been obsessed! If you haven't heard it I highly encourage you go pull it up on YouTube!
Anyways, it's been a while since I've wrote anything, especially fanfiction so I hope this goes over well, I'd say I'm like 85% happy with it. It could be better but I was determined to post this before tonight...so here it is!
Enjoy!:)
Disclaimer: I own nothing, sadly.
Ixode (ix-so-dez): n. a type of blood-sucking leech or tick.
"How long's that been goin' on?" Frank's gaze was steady, filled with a somber realization, and something else Laurel could not place.
"What are you talking about?" She questioned nonchalantly, trying to mask the fear of being caught. Her composure remained soft, neutral, but her heart beat wildly in her chest, the skin on her face turning hot.
She'd known this was bound to happen, she was bound to be caught with her hand in the cookie jar, so to speak. It had taken no time at all for Bonnie to call Laurel on her relationship with Frank – even when Laurel herself didn't know what her "relationship" with Frank implied – so she was not naïve enough to figure the predicament, or whatever it may be, between her and Wes would be long concealed.
The kiss was just that, a kiss. A kiss that came from exhaustion, sorrow, confusion, and a sudden need for companionship. There was no feeling or spark that arose, and that, she knew. She failed, however, to understand his feelings on the matter. Wes was a friend, someone she could count on when the ride down the Keating Road of Hell became too much to take on her own shoulders and her confidence in Frank had been agreeably banned for the sake of their relationship.
Wes was broken and so was she. After the shooting, Laurel made a point every day to bring Wes out of his dark stupor as it was no secret she was his closest friend in the group. And after her fall out with Frank and Annalise gave Wes a mysterious folder on a past case, Laurel was quick to jump aboard the adventure train in a desperate attempt to flee Frank's admittance. There was no romance or flame that continuously brought them together, so she blamed it on her savior-complex. It was an ever-present attribute she carried her entire like, and something her father both took advantage of and despised in his youngest daughter.
"Laurel?" Frank was now a few paces closer, his tone surprisingly soft for what he just walked into, his questioning eyes pulling her out of her daze. The sudden proximity between them allowed for the pain etched into Frank's delicate features to become even more evident, and at such a distance, it was clear sleep and wellbeing had not been at the forefront of his attention lately. His dishevelment, she realized, was not dissimilar to her own.
They're close. Still separated by a few feet, but yes, still close. At least closer than they have been in days. And it hurts, like a punch in the gut it hurts to see him so close, to see every feature she's memorized within reaching distance. So familiar yet so different.
Her heart aches to follow his lead, to step even closer, eliminate the distance between them until he takes her in his arms and erases every word he spoke that night…but her head, her head says no, stay away: he's a killer, a liar – you don't know him, not at all.
It's an odd sensation, the confusion. Mind over matter. Head over heart.
She retreats. One step, then two. Until she's met with the cold quartz of the countertop, stopping her withdrawal and causing her to reach a hand to back to brace herself against the surface.
He's surprised, puzzled even. Doesn't understand at first why she would back away, recoil even, but the understanding seems to come in waves as though the extent of their damage is just now coming to light, realizing how deep these scars will lie.
Frank takes two slow steps back in exchange, the few feet between them now feeling like miles, and it pains him to think about how far they've fallen in a time so short.
Laurel has every right to hate him, fear him, even, and he knows that, accepts it, but all is easier to bare when the blatant evidence – the fear in her own blue eyes – has not been laid before him, isn't staring him straight in the face.
"Laurel-"
It's not a question, and yet not a plea either…but rather, a statement, perhaps. He has nothing to follow it. And at the same time, he's a walking contradiction: his face is set, strong and hard, revealing nothing - the ultimate poker face – but his voice is sad, yearning for her.
He's desperate to change her mind, desperate for his own selfish benefit for her to know that he would never do anything to hurt her, that he's not the man she's picturing, that despite what she may thinking right now, there's so, so much more she doesn't know.
Laurel can't explain what she's feeling either, can't form the words….so much so, that she sometimes left wondering if the right words even exist to express the pain that burns within her. "I-"
"Frank?" Its loud, assaulting the bitter silence the lies between them. "Will you come look at this?"
And suddenly, their agonizing and increasingly tense encounter is put to a swift end by Bonnie's summon. No further words are spoken between the two of them. Frank straightens and stands tall, altering his composure, becoming the no-bullshit assistant she first met six months ago, even though a second prior he was just Frank, the vulnerable, warm man she fell for, despite everything he does to hide it.
He sighs, gives Laurel one last somber glance, and turns to walk away.
Left alone, Laurel forces the watery tears to dissolve from her eyes.
Frank had left work abnormally early, so quietly it was doubtful anyone even noticed.
Annalise's absence shook everyone to the bone, making their impending doom seem more and more likely by the hour, and the news Nate barred of her fresh-off-the-press arrest warrant only served to encourage the stirring panic.
Only Bonnie had retreated from Annalise's office after several minutes of hushed dispute between Frank and Nate behind the closed doors, but such a detail was easily overlooked in their anxiety.
"So that's it?" Michaela called after Bonnie, who was now headed back into the office after having just refused Oliver's proposal to hack the police agency for information on Annalise's warrant.
Bonnie turned back, face blank though exhaustion was clear in her eyes.
Michaela was abnormally calm, despite her usual pissy attitude, but after a few seconds without reply she turned more frantic. "There has to be something we can do! I'm not just going to sit on my ass and wait for the Feds to come breaking down the door to haul me off in handcuffs!"
"Michaela," Connor spoke next to Laurel, a gentle warning.
"No," she was panicky and agitated even more so by Connor's caution. "She can't just leave us, it's her fault we're in this! She just gon'na go cuddle up to her mommy?"
A few days ago, Laurel would have been quick to agree.
It was Annalise's fault.
She brought five young and naïve law students, each all too willing with the belief they were immune to the ignorance that runs rampant like the plague, into her firm, all the while she may or may not have encouraged the killing of a pregnant sorority girl. Granted, the suspect list was a complex one that seemed to extend by the week, but was and continues to be Annalise subjecting them to the atrocities that came with such actions.
It is Annalise's fault.
But now? Now, with Frank's confession and Annalise's clear unknowing, Laurel cannot help but cringe at Michaela's words.
Maybe Annalise really didn't know who killed Lila.
Maybe Annalise was solely focused on protecting them.
Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
But that was a situation she was just not ready to broach. It was still too raw, too many questions surrounded her, Lila, the lifeless entity that had haunted her dreams for the past week, leaving her nauseous and ill.
"She?" Bonnie approaches, her exhaustion now replaced by a fierce irritation that seems to awaken her senses. "You mean the woman who has worked to save your ass since the day you four killed her husband and decided the best course of action would be to destroy all the evidence? I think it's pretty clear that we have all made mistakes with who we've jumped into bed with these past few months," it is no doubt her point is aimed at Wes, but that doesn't stop the heat that makes its way to Laurel's cheeks, "but let's not forget Michaela, your willingness to open your legs for client is in large part what began this mess to begin with."
Bonnie retreats a few steps and faces the rest of the group, Michaela having already withdrawn under the smaller woman's presence. "Right now, it's Annalise that's under fire, so you want something to do? Let's reverse roles and figure out how to save her ass for once."
The silence that remained was like humidity, thick and suffocating around them. No one dared to speak.
"So, what'da we do?" Oliver sighed, his hands going to his knees before rising from his seat on the couch, clearly unhappy to wade in the deafening silence.
"No," Connor steps forward in protest. "There's no 'we,'" he gestures circularly with outstretched arms around the room, "it's only us," he motions again, this time turning away, clearly excluding Oliver in the mixture. "And even I don't want to be a part of it, so how 'bout I meet you at home and-"
Feeling as though she'd made her point, Bonnie turns and quietly makes her way back to the office.
Since the day Laurel returned from her trip with Wes, she's been dazed, fogged, her head blank with the exception of one sole thought: Lila. If she wasn't busy, consumed with work, her head would return to those dark thoughts, to the images that haunted her. She was left crimpled and crumbling with the pain in her chest that left her debilitated, unable to breathe. The second a moment of peace presented itself, Laurel was back there, back in Frank's apartment, back looking into his blue eyes that were glistening with tears, back in her own searing pain that ripped through her heart like a knife.
Nighttime had become her worst enemy, the thing she dreaded most. More times than she could count Laurel was awaken, shaking in a cold sweat, panicked and anxious from her most recent nightmare. It was the same every night: she was there, instead of Lila, small and vulnerable as heavy hands wrapped around her throat so tight she could feel her windpipe crush, collapse between the strong fingers. Despite every effort, her nails crawling at the skin of his hands, begging him to release her, she knew it was no use, that it would only end her struggling faster. Fear built on fear, like nothing she'd ever felt before, until it consumed her. Until hope was gone. Until she knew with every fiber of her being that this was it.
And yet, it was never Frank she saw when she looked up. It was nothing, a shadow perhaps. And maybe that was scarier, the unknown, the deeper knowledge when she awoke that it should have been him, would have been him if only she could see. But she could never conjure up his face, could never see Frank in that position, killing her, killing their baby, even. What that meant? She didn't know.
She was numb.
And it was all because of one person: Frank.
The realization hit suddenly, the lack of heated exchanges, lack of tense glares. Since Bonnie had emerged from the office, Frank had been absent which, considering the circumstances, was concerning.
Silently, Laurel stands, takes the computer from her lap and places it in the vacant space she leaves on the chair.
Without drawing attention from the group, she quietly follows the older woman into the next room.
"Bonnie?" Laurel calls, voice quiet and hesitant.
Bonnie stops in stride and is still for a moment before turning around briefly, just enough to spare Laurel a quick glance. For a moment it appears a something sits on her tongue, a brush off, maybe, but the words never get past her lips.
A timid silence sits between them, both unsure and hesitant.
"Fran-"
At the name Bonnie turns and continues into the office, leaving Laurel staggered behind her; but, just as the door goes to click shut Bonnie seems to thinks better of it and voluntarily leaves the door ajar.
Laurel hesitates, her feet glued to the floor, but takes Bonnie's action as an invitation to enter.
"I sent m' home," Bonnie speaks after hearing Laurel enter and shut the door quietly behind them. Still she doesn't look at her, doesn't spare her a glance in her direction, just distracts herself with the organizing of papers upon Annalise's desk.
"Is he-" Laurel sighs, unsure of her own intentions. "I mean…is he-"
"Is he okay?" Bonnie suggests for her, "no, I would imagine not."
"Que horror," Laurel speaks under her breath and drops into the chair next to her, elbows going to rest on her legs while hands move to cover her face. "I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't know what I was saying, I was drunk and angry and- I thought… He never denied it, I- I kept asking if it was her, if it was Annalise that was behind it, if she was the one who asked him to- …I mean, it made sense, and- and he never said anything, he never-"
"Laurel, stop." Bonnie speaks, emotionless and uninterested. "It's not your fault."
Laurel withdraws her head from her hands and stares intently at the woman before her, "Bonnie, I-"
"You made a mistake," she cuts in, again sparing Laurel only a moments glance, "but you didn't kill that girl, Frank did – remember that."
Laurel hangs onto that; tries to find some peace in those words, but see's none. She still feels guilty, can't help but feel like she put this – the anxiety, the panic – all into motion. And, if that wasn't enough, she likes to remind herself that she fell for a murderer.
"Did he tell you?"
Bonnie slowly lifts an eye to Laurel, brow arched in question.
"Do you know- I mean, why? What made him-"
"No." Again, Bonnie tears her eyes away, this time seeming to struggles to form the right words rather than simple disregard of the conversation, "but I haven't asked him."
"You don't care?" Laurel's attention peaks, forming a deep crease between her brows.
"Oh, no, I care." Bonnie scoffs ironically into the file she holds in front of her.
After several seconds of silence, Bonnie regresses and abandons her efforts behind the desk, dropping her papers with a quiet huff and moving in front of Laurel, letting her bottom rest against the side of the wooden table as she crosses her arms before her, clearly something she'd picked up from Annalise over the years.
"I don't know how to feel right now, if I'm honest…I'm disappointed really, because despite what you may think right now, this isn't Frank. He's dependable, does ridiculous things for Annalise because that's all he knows, but I never would have thou-" She huffs, redirects her argument, "we're all bad people, Laurel. I mean, this job, Annalise…you get pulled into thing you could never imagine. You may think you know how you'd react, but until you're in that situation…" Bonnie continues wryly, "You- well, Wes, killed Sam, but if memory serves me right you were one of the masterminds in the cover up. And then you shot Annalise, in th-"
"I didn't shoot her." Laurel admits tiredly with a dismissive wave of her hand, not even bothering to look up, "Wes did. It's a long story, doesn't matter…"
Bonnie takes a moment to process, stares down at the broken woman before her then move to the chair next to Laurel with a sad, sincere pull of her lips. "It matters, Laurel."
It is not until Bonnie gazes into her glassy eyes does she reach out for her hand, placing her own gently over Laurel's smaller one, giving it a light squeeze, and speaks from her own ache.
"I know it may not seem like it matters, with everything you've been through- and not just here, but as a kid…I mean, I've read your files, I know about your father…at least a small part of it. I understand family issues and…"
She wants to say more, put Laurel's heart at ease, explain to her that yes, she understands her sadness, her frustration, but comes up with empty words.
"My father," Laurel scoffs, eyes hard, "I spent almost two decades trying to get away from him, and less than a year later, after I finally get away, finally escape his lifestyle, his influence, I fall into the arms of a man just like him- just… what does that make me? What does that say about me?"
Laurel softens as heavy tears threaten to spill from her eyes.
"I've worked with Frank for over a decade, he's dependable and strong, so much so that it is perhaps to his own detriment, and Annalise knows that, uses it for her own gain. But he's also protective, and caring, even if he has a funny way of showing it, but more than anything he's my family, I have to believe there's something more to the story."
Laurel pulls her hand away from under Bonnie's, tucking it back in her lap, clearly unsatisfied with her attempts at comfort.
"He's a good man, Laurel. You know that. He wouldn't have-"
"Don't."
"Laurel-"
"I said don't. Stop!" Laurel stands, breaking, foundation cracking with each word, "I never knew him, he never told me anything. The only thing I knew is he wanted me to know. His perfect Italian family, loving father and dotting mother…it never made sense, I could feel it. Everything he did for Annalise, everything he does for her, then what? He goes home every Sunday and plays the caring son…pretends that everything is okay?"
"He loves you."
"Oh?" A mocking smile plays her face, "'He loves (me)?'"
"He lied to me," Laurel spits. "He just sat there, sat there and did nothing, said nothing, all the while we were searching, looking at every other suspect in Lila's murder, except for him. All of this," Laurel motions with her hands as she paces across the office, "is because of him…Sam, Rebecca- I mean-" Her heart is racing, nails digging into her palm from the force of her clenched fists, "he should have told us- told me sooner…"
"You lied to him, too."
Laurel stops, looks damningly at Bonnie, but says nothing.
"Hell, Laurel, you brought Sam's murder weapon to his door, didn't tell him anything, and faked confusion until he found out from Annalise, and still protected you."
Suddenly exhausted and weighted with emotion, Laurel returns to her chair and sinks down heavily next to Bonnie.
"This is different."
"I know," Bonnie replies solemnly as they come to a silent and unspoken understanding.
"I killed Rebecca." She doesn't know why she says it or even consider the potential ramifications before the words spill from her lips – perhaps she feels the need to level with the broken woman before her, show that she herself is not free of the criminality that plagues this house – but those three words weigh heavy in the air with no ability to take them back.
Laurel considers the statement for several moments but her face betrays nothing. "I know," she replies coldly, defeated, much in the same manner Bonnie replied moments ago.
Bonnie only stares, confused.
"I've asked Frank about that day, Rebecca's death, more time than I'd like to admit. He's always denied everything, that he had any part in it, although I can't say I ever truly believed him. But even now, after telling me about Lila, he still denies it." She pulls her eyes from the gaze directly ahead, and turns to Bonnie, "He has no reason to lie now, so then I just had to put the pieces together…Annalise doesn't get her hands dirty, that's what Franks' for; it wasn't Asher, obviously; and it wasn't me, Michaela, Connor, or Wes, we were all together…
"We all thought it was Rebecca who killed Lila, which is what started everything and evidently lead to Sam's death and- I get it, I think…"
Bonnie nods, whether it be in understanding or in admittance, but doesn't break eye contact with Laurel. "She would have told, she would have gone straight to the police-"
"You were protecting us…"
Bonnie's eyes finally leave Laurel's, turns them down and shakes her head. "That's what I like to tell myself," she admits with despair, "but you're right…at that time, in my head, she was the enemy and I was angry. I hardly even remember it, kil- killing her, you know, I was numb, put myself in another place, and hardly realized what I was doing. Which I guess is why I can't jump straight to conclusions with Frank…"
Bonnie had let Laurel leave immediately following their conversation, encouraging she get some sleep and return refreshed and ready to work tomorrow morning; nowhere, however, did she recommend a trip across town.
Yet, here she is…seated in her car outside Frank's apartment complex. She knows she shouldn't be, should have gone home and chalked the day up to a loss, but like a magnetic attraction, she's drawn to this side of town, drawn to this parking lot, drawn to him, every night despite herself.
She doesn't know how long she sits there, minutes, hours – she refuses to look at the time on her dash – but she contemplates, badgers herself, tries to will herself into turning the car around. But against her better judgement, she exits the vehicle, pulls up the collar on her coat to protect herself from the night's bitter wind, and climbs those four steps up to the complex door.
The 10 second elevator ride up to his floor – yes, she's timed it – feels like minutes tick by, and the thirty steps to his door – yes, she's counted that as well – seems like she travels a mile.
But it's those three knocks on his door that really break her, causes every bad scenario to fill her mind and fuel her panic; part of her hopes he's asleep, that he doesn't answer.
Three, two one.
She lets out a slow breath, depleting any air that was stored in her lungs, tries to relieve some of the tension that has gathered in her shoulders.
She did it. She tried. Made her best effort to talk to him.
Out of her control, she tells herself, too bad.
Laurel turns, takes quick, meaningful steps away from Frank's door to the elevator.
She did it. She tried.
"Laurel?"
Well, fuck.
So caught up in her anxiety she didn't even hear the door opening, the creaking of the hinges to warn her.
There's no way to escape, no way to pretend it wasn't her that had just let out a rapid succession of knocks on his door at eleven at night.
She turns, slowly, debates her actions, weighs her options, only to realize she has none. Like a pig being led to the slaughter, except this time she practically handed herself over. Stupid.
Laurel slowly allows her head to pull up and look at Frank, study his face. His eyes are dark and puffy, face tense, but Laurel doesn't miss the scowl that furs his brows all but dissipate at the sight of the woman before him, a deep sorrow taking its place. A silent apology.
The entire scene is like a perfectly sick moment of deja-vu going all the way back to the night it all started: Sam's murder.
Frank standing in the doorway, a precise mixture of relief and regret written on his hard features.
Laurel almost a mirror image, except the pungent stench of guilt and fear radiates off her aura like a repellant, again.
But damn her, damn her if just seeing him, standing there, tall and strong all the while emitting sorrow from his gaze, doesn't immediately make her feel safer – more relaxed, ironically – than she had in days.
"What are you-"
"I- I- uh," she interjects, stutters, takes a second to compose herself. "I didn't like the way we left things back at- …and I just-"
"Do you wan'na drink?" Frank offers.
He understood, knew that Laurel was flustered and unsure, because, well, fuck it, so was he. He knew how fragile their relationship was, that one wrong word could throw them off track, as if they weren't already standing in no-man's-land, awaiting the next bullet without even knowing from what direction it would come. Despite everything, he knew they weren't over, whether that be for the best or the worst. He knew that too much emotion connected them, be it raw and bloody right now, there's too much hurt and scar tissue to cut each other completely. At least for the moment. And it was that he was fighting for: more time.
More time to explain. More time to show her that the guy she saw with his family, the guy she fell for is here, right in front of her, begging for her forgiveness. He exists, sometimes he just has to crawl beneath a few jagged edges to pull 'em out.
Laurel stands, insecure. No, she should say, no I don't 'wann'a drink' and I most definitely don't want to go in there only to struggle to find the right words to explain how I feel, to explain how much you hurt me, because just looking at you, just being here with you in front of me, makes my heart ache and my blood boil.
Without a reply, Frank takes a step back, opening the door a little wider as a silent invitation, a silent plea, for her to enter.
Never having much sense of mind when it comes to Frank, Laurel strides slowly through the threshold, a slave to her broken heart.
Unspoken agony hangs heavy in the air as Frank makes his way to the small bar across the room, Laurel hanging uncertain near the door.
It hurts to realize they've fallen this far, that the tension between them is so great they can hardly find words to express themselves, their feelings, when just a week ago it seemed as though they could talk for hours about nothing and everything, really just happy to be in each other's presence. This apartment became her home, the place she left in the morning and returned to at night, where she ate and slept, but mostly, it's the sanctuary she and Frank retreated to in their daily escape from the wrath of Annalise Keating. Now, however, the walls that once felt so alive in their time together are cold and hollow, the warmth of the apartment now humid and suffocating, like it could reach out and strangle them both.
Pulled from her thoughts, Laurel looks up to find Frank a few feet away, a sweating tumbler of whisky in his hand that he's offering to her by an outstretched arm. There's only a moment's hesitation before she takes the few steps towards him, sets her bag gently upon the table near the door and accepts the waiting liquor with a quiet "thanks" slipping from her lips.
The tension between them is undeniable, their muscles tight and stances guarded, between them feelings of hurt, anger and sadness radiate like flames off their skin. Standing there, emotions ablaze with every second of grief they've put each other through in the past few weeks, replaying in their heads like a movie reel.
"How 's your trip?"
Despite the question, it's mocking and accusatory, the first fuse to expire between them.
Laurel scoffs with a sharp exhale, shocked at his audacity, a disgruntled chuckle is almost all she can manage, "excuse me?"
The second the words left his mouth Frank knew he was wrong, letting he resentment he feels towards Wes and the agony of seeing him with Laurel, knowing they were together hundreds of miles away, take control, finally releasing the pent-up anguish he felt when she went missing, but the words are out in the air before them, hanging heavy and there's nothing he can do now.
"Help the Puppy find what he was lookin' for?" Frank continues, outwardly unabashed, "keep 'is bed warm durin' those cold Cincinnati nights?"
Frank doesn't know why he goes there, why he has to make it even more personal than it already is, because he knows the reason Laurel was there, with Wes, is in large part his fault, his need to pick that damn fight that ended with him losing her, losing Laurel.
"How dare you," her words are like venom, her head shaking in disbelief, and yet, there is something missing, a certain bite behind her words, perhaps, lost in her exhaustion.
Frank drowns the last of his scotch in a single pull and heads back to the bar for another pour, all the while Laurel paces quietly, unable to remain still while her anger brews.
The sudden return of silence cuts a Frank like a knife, thinks he'd rather her fight, scream and yell and throw punches than stand there silently stewing. Say something, he wants to order, do something, please, God.
He stills at the bar and draws a heavy sigh but doesn't look back, his voice softer, less threatening, though still thick with animosity. "Looked like ya'guys got pretty close."
And there it is: the ache, the pain that forms deep in her chest and pulls her to Frank like gravity from the moon. The way he says it, his voice rich and deep, begging almost for her to deny it, deny it all, it makes her hair stand on end, a warm tingle to crawl its way up her body. God, she wants nothing more than go to him, have him hold her close and simply erase the past week from her memory, everything she's learned, everything they've said, and pretend Frank is just the dark and mysterious knight in shining armor she originally pegged him to be.
Ignorance is bliss, isn't that what they say?
"Jesus, Frank."
He finally turns around to face her with a knowing, cross smirk, "s' nothin' happened?"
Laurel stops, shoves a frigid hand, soaked and frozen from the seeping glass, in the pocket of her leather jacket, stands strong and sure.
No, nothing happened – at least not what he thinks happened. Despite it being absolutely none of his business, she still feels the need to reason with him, explain herself. God, help her.
Frank saunters over to the armchair, those his eyes never leave hers, drowning her in his stare, the one that makes her wonder if he can see inside of her, pick out the truth versus the bullshit before it even leaves her mouth.
"We kissed, once, but it's never gonna happen again," she hurries, annoyed and persistent, "and I think we have way more pressing issues than who each of us are screwing-"
"You're screwin' 'm, too?" Frank picks up immediately, his look of disgust is undeniable. Though it's more than that. It's the pain, the realization and the pain that this is his fault. What he did and how he told her, he practically handed Laurel to Wes on a silver platter, and it makes him sick. His brain is screaming, his heart trying to tear its way from his chest, but outside he betrays nothing.
"No, God." It's an immediate response, because no, she would never. And not only because it's Wes, her friend, her confidant, and hell, she practically thought of him like a brother…
Ya know, before-
But also because she has – had – Frank, the man who swept her off her feet, the man she fell for, the man who became her familywhen she had none. And notwithstanding everything that's happened, all that remains true.
It's then that the rush of sadness that follows. The tension lingers, but each notice the sudden change in energy: anger turning to sadness, annoyance turning to understanding. Though even through that, Laurel can see that he doesn't believe her, and she can't say she blames him.
"Fine, you wanna know what we were talking about?" Laurel recedes, needing to change the subject, "our crappy fathers."
"What'ta talkin about?" Frank breathes with considerably less hostility than before and takes a pull of his drink.
"You know who my dad is," she chokes out through a sip of her scotch, undoubtedly recalling the night she reached her breaking point, when she allowed Frank pull her up from the bottom and finally came clean about her past.
It had been a rough several days following the shooting at the Hapstall's, with Annalise still recovering in the hospital and each of the five left to process what happened, as well as singlehandedly proceed with their cases. Until that point, Laurel had prided herself in her ability to compartmentalize the struggles of her past and sins, to suffer in alone and put on a brave face for those around her. And usually, it was a flawless system…until Frank.
There was no doubt she blamed herself for much of what occurred, whether it be in Sam's death and cover up or the crimes that took place at the Hapstalls'. She should have known better, she tells herself, done better. She'd been through worse, especially after what her father had made her do.
So yeah, she should have been able to prevent what happened, stopped it before it all go out of hand.
That's on her.
So after a fifteen-hour day in the Keating house, being suffocated by stacks of files taller than herself and the primary receiver of every damning glare from Conner and Michaela for the attempted murder she did not commit, all she wanted was to be alone.
When Bonnie finally called it a day, Laurel tried to subtly grab her coat and head home – to her own apartment for the first time in weeks – without having to do the awkward run in of thanks but no thanks with Frank. But that – ya know, something actually going her way – would be too good to be true, and before she's made it down the driveway to the sidewalk, Frank is out the door and calling after her.
"I'm tired, Frank, I just need to go home, get some sleep." She stops and turns around to face him, tender with emotion that's ready to seep to the surface.
"I know, but hey," Frank reaches out, gently takes her arm and ties to draw her to him, "is everything okay? You've been off all day…"
Laurel resists, vision growing blurry as tears well in her eyes. She knows she needs to get out of here, can feel the fatigue and angst bubble to the surface, ready to spill over.
"Laurel, I know you, and I can tell when somethings wrong. Talk to me, please."
She shakes her head with a single tear escaping from her eye and gives a small laugh, but it catches in her throat, "you don't know me."
"Laurel…" He consoles with a sigh. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't know how to comfort her, never has, especially when it kills him just to look at her like this, broken and bleeding, but rather than a red, sticky liquid that flows from her body, it's tears, the salted water that escapes from her eyes. "Look at me, please."
With hesitation, he reaches out once more, brushing the side of her cheek, erasing the tear from her skin. It's only then does she break, tears falling freely as she allows Frank to draw her in to his chest.
"Come home, we can talk…or- or not, you can sleep, it doesn't matter," Frank stumbles trying to find the right words, voice muffled as he lays soft kisses on the top of her head.
It was the first time Frank – or either of them, really – had referred to his apartment as home, like their home, absentmindedly or not. Of course, Laurel knew she was always welcome at his place, as they both preferred her there, alone together, but never had she formally 'moved in.' It was a rather sudden comment, but welcome nonetheless, causing a rush of warmth to ghost over her skin and flutter in her heart.
Laurel gives a small nod, allows Frank to lead her to the passenger side of his car before taking the driver's seat himself. The ride is quiet, but comfortably so, neither feeling the need to fill the silence. By the time they reach the apartment, Laurel's tears have dried, leaving only sticky lines that cascade down her cheeks as remnants of her stupor.
Frank leads Laurel through the door first, closing the door behind them and making sure to turn the lock. In front of him, Laurel stands facing the living room, seeming unsure, but after that moment's hesitation she looks back, meets his eyes and moves forward towards the couch.
And it was on that night, as they sat in 'their' apartment, with Laurel tucked into Frank's side, she tells him. She tells him everything. Being born into a family that values success and loyalty more than love itself, her childhood, her father's business, and all the nitty-gritty shit that came with it. There were tears, painful memories that still sent shivers down her spine like being shocked with electricity, but with each tale and troubling detail Frank held her, let her cry and hiccup through her words while he whispered sorry's and quiet hushes.
Even when her story was told, Laurel exhausted and drained of emotion, they sat, Frank's arms wrapped securely around her small body, silence filling the room despite sniffles periodically interrupting the quiet. Her legs draped over Frank's larger ones, her head tucked under his chin with her ear pressed against his chest, and God, he hopes she can't hear how fast, how hard, his heart is beating, bruising his lungs and damn near breaking his ribs. He has to consciously remind himself to breathe, to control the nausea that roles through his intestines in waves.
"Tired?" Frank speaks after a long while, his voice soft, posing the question in an almost rhetorical manner as his head rests gently against the top hers.
Laurel says nothing, long enough for Frank to wonder if she hasn't already dozed off against his chest; but finally, she raises her head, glancing up at Frank through her lashes, teary eyes staring into his. He takes a hand and gently traces it over Laurel's features before lifting her chin to meet his lips to share in a soft kiss, delicate and tender.
Looking back now – with 20/20 hindsight, as they say – that was probably the first time either of them were ready to say it, those three little words that carried the weight of the world within their eleven characters.
I love you.
They can each see it in the other's eyes as they separate from the kiss, it's on the tip of their tongues, but neither are able to mutter the words, afraid of the consequence it may bring. Instead, Laurel reaches up and lays another quick kiss on Frank's lips before rising and padding softly off to the bedroom to ready herself for bed.
Alone, Frank's temper rises like a beast awakes inside him. He stands and immediately heads to his bar, pouring himself a generous glass of bourbon, counting on the burn of the liquor to quell the aching in his heart, to quiet the dread within him.
Jesus, Jesus, he knew Laurel had a shitty childhood, a fucked up family, but never could he have imagined what they put her through, what her father made her do. He wanted to strangle him, make him suffer the way he made Laurel – his youngest daughter, the girl who was supposed to be his pride and joy – suffer.
His affection for Laurel swells, understanding firsthand how strong and resilient she is, hearing in her own words how she was raised, it being so different from his own upbringing. He wants nothing more than to wrap her in his arms and protect her from any more pain and horror than she's already suffered.
Quickly, Frank downs the last of the cool liquor and returns the tumbler to the sink. Consciously he tries to force his heart to slow, breathing to calm before heading into the bedroom. Upon entering, he finds Laurel tucked underneath the stark white comforter, a chill crawling among her skin. Frank sheds his trousers and shirt, absentmindedly tossing them on the chair near his bed, before turning back to see Laurel holding up a small portion of the bedding, a silent invitation for him to join her.
A small smile pulls at his lips, his heart growing in size at the sight, and he wonders how he got so lucky, wonders if it's possible to feel any more adoration for someone than he does right now. He softly slips in next to her and settles into the warmth, allowing Laurel to curl in next to him, head going to rest upon his chest before he curls his own arms around her, pulling her to him until their bodies became one, their skin molded together.
He wants to say it. God, he wants to say it. Let the words flow from his mouth and wash over them, consequences be damned. I love you. It should be so simple, but fuck him if those aren't the three scariest words in the English language, at least when put together. So his curses himself and settles on the only other thing that comes to mind, "'M sorry."
It's weak, pathetic, really.
She doesn't even know how to respond, so she rather lifts her head and gazes up at him, lashes tickling her eyelids and lays a soft kiss upon his chest, just below his collarbone. He brings one of his hands up and gently brushes it across her hair, cradling her head, and lays his own kiss on her forehead, hoping the gesture relays the emotions words cannot.
But that was then, and this is now. So when she brings her father up, even attempts to rehash what she went through, she hopes he'll stop, leave it alone, and maybe figure that this whole thing between her and Wes really does begin and end with their past, their family, or lack thereof, and move on.
"Yeah," Frank breathes, pain etched into his face at the reminder though still missing the connection, "who the hell's the Puppy's?"
Perhaps it's the way he says it, true confusion mixed with undeniable pain, because he knows it's a sensitive subject for her, or maybe because at this point he has no reason to lie, to play dumb – at least not with all their dirty laundry laid out before them – but for the first time in days, she believes him.
"You don't know?"
"Just tell me," he spits the words, face contorted though he tries to remain calm.
"Wallace Mahoney," Laurel hesitates, "some rich guy Annalise did a case for in Ohio… Why don't you know this?"
At this point he's fidgeting, moving in his chair and grinding his teeth, the pieces coming together like a puzzle in his head. "You know how she likes her secrets…"
Laurel doesn't buy it, knows him better than she'd like to admit. Knows his tells and his signs, can tell when somethings bothering him. "You know him," She asks, though it comes out as more of a statement, a realization.
Frank takes a long pull of his scotch, needing the burn but finds his throat his already numb. "Heard of 'm," he mumbles though refusing to meet her eyes.
"Heard of him? …or know him?"
He hesitates, internally debates how much to tell her, if anything. Decides on the most innocent version of the truth, "I worked with Annalise on the case…in Ohio."
"You were there?"
She should be surprised, should be, but isn't. At this point, she can't think of a single thing that could knock her more than the Lila confession: not another murder, not another police raid, not even a blizzard dropping three feet of snow on Pennsylvania in the middle of summer could outdo those three words that came out of Frank's mouth that night.
"For a few days, I had just started workin' at the firm. Never even met the guy." It's a nonchalant confession, like they're discussing something no more meaningful than the weather. She doesn't buy it, however, can see the way his hands grip the tumbler, can see how hard it is for him to maintain eye contact. She knows he's trying to divert the conversation, keep her from asking too many questions.
"I was already headed outta town when the whole thing with Wes's mom happened…if that's what you're wondering."
No, she wasn't wondering. Laurel held the death reports in her own hands, poured over the black and white pages as though it contained the answers to the world's greatest mysteries. It was a suicide. A tragic end to a life with hope to preserve another, the ultimate sacrifice. She knows it, though she isn't sure if he does, but her own animosity prevented her front sharing that information, giving him that satisfaction.
Even so, Frank can't fathom why he says it, why he felt the need to vocalize such a point; couldn't deny the chance to twist the knife once again, perhaps, make himself look like an even bigger ass than he already has, step on the already broken pieces of her heart.
The broken heart he caused.
Damn him, damn Wallace fucking Mahoney and every fucking thing he's done. For staging that bitch at the bar, playing to his self-loathing, drunken, testosterone driven mind. For offering him an undeniable amount of cash, the kind of money that would change his life, recover the damage he had inflicted upon his family. Making him responsible for the death of the unborn child of the two people who gave him the opportunity of a lifetime, gave his family a second chance. Motherfuckin' Mahoney made him a murderer, started the downward spiral that has left him with the blood of two unborn babies and an innocent sorority girl on his hands. Blood that has stained his skin like a tattoo only he can see, never to be washed off, leaving him with nauseating memories that are imprinted in him like scars.
And yet, despite Mahoney's actions, Frank knows where the responsibility lies. Is man enough to admit that it was him. Mahoney didn't make Frank put the bug in Annalise's room. That was on him. Mahoney only played his hand better, set the wheels in motion. It was Frank who pressed the gas, gave the green light. Samuel Keating, the child who was never even granted his first breath, that's on him. Lila Stangard and her unborn child, it might have been Sam's call, but it was Frank's hands around her neck. And it kills him, literally takes his breath away. Makes his life hell, and not the kind that makes it seem like justice is being served, that the nightmares and daily agony is penance for what he's done; but rather, it's the hell that reminds him what a piece of shit he is, that he deserves everything that comes to him and more, so much more.
Reminds him nothing will bring back the lives he took.
The thoughts haunt him, make his head pound and skin burn, numbs his thoughts better than any alcohol.
Finally, he stands, unable to bear the paralyzing thoughts any longer, needing to move, somehow shake the memories from his mind. He circles around the chair though refusing to meet Laurel's heavy gaze, burning his skin like the summer sun. He makes his way to the kitchen sink, watches the amber liquid flow down the drain as he dumps the glass, not even bothering to finish the last few ounces.Utopia Reversible Duvet Cover Set Multicolor - Boho Boutique™
"I'm sorry," Frank utters sincerely, daring to make the first move, break the tension before it grows too thick to manage, gets caught in their throat and traps the words they each so desperately need to speak.
Laurel slowly lowers her drink after taking a small pull, careful not to choke as the liquor burns her throat and Frank's words reach her ears. She considers his words, has heard them before, before she was willing to accept them, and wonders if she is yet able to. It's strange: I'm sorry...two words, three syllables that can mean so much and also hold nothing at all, be empty, said out of formality, a blanket statement expected to cover emotional wounds like an intangible band-aide. She wants to analyze them, figure out what he means, what he's expecting by muttering that all too common phrase, but has neither the energy or patents, so decides to take them for what they are.
"So am I," she sighs, then stands and makes her way to the island across from him, "sorry, I mean."
Frank finally looks up, meets Laurel's stare, his face somber and as close to tears as he's ever seen him.
"No, you-"
"This whole thing, with Annalise, it's on me. I was drunk, and angry, an- and if I had even a shred of doubt that Annalise wasn't the one who- and that she didn't even know…I would have never," she breathes, tries to control herself. "Whatever happens, with her, with you, it's my fault."
"It's not, honestly," he tries to force a laugh, lighten the mood, but it comes out strangled and weak as he runs a hand through his beard, "been a long time comin', I guess."
Laurel's face skews in pain at his words, causing Frank to stop, his face falling in suit as his eye bore down at the countertop, studying the imperfections of the stone.
"I'm scared." Laurel whimpers with sudden honesty. Frank brings his gaze up again, allowing their eyes to meet, although hesitant of what he'll see.
"Laurel-"
"She ran, Frank." She interrupts gently, though her voice is firm, insistent, with tears gathering in her eyes, "after everything we've done, Sam, Rebecca, all those times we almost got caught…Jesus, we shot her, left her bleeding – sh-she could've died. All of that – an-and," she's angry now, hot tears sliding down her cheeks causing her to practically spit the words, "she was fine…didn't even panic – hell, she hardly blinked."
She stops, tries to calm her breathing but fails and ends up pacing the floor, hands shoved deep into her pockets. "But this- this… Lila, you, i-it caused her to run, flee, get on the first flight out of Philadelphia, sh-she couldn't even face you – look at you…"
Her panic, the rambling, it reminds him of the night her told her, mind moving faster than her words, racing so fast she can't form complete sentences. Until she stops, seems to have reached the basis of her fear, her blue eyes staring into his own, voice desperate and shaking.
"What if she goes to the police, tu-turns us all in…what if this is what breaks her, Frank? I-it would be so easy, she has ev-everything on us, our lives-"
"Laurel," he exhales, trying to remain calm, "Laurel, stop."
"Don't, Frank-"
"Laurel, relax. Calm down," his voice is more firm now. He steps forward to place a gentle hand on her arm to redirect her focus, encourage her attention on him, "nothin's gunna happen."
She pulls her arm away but continues to stare back, blue eye piercing into his as she studies his face, weighs the honesty in his words.
"I'm not gonna let'er do anything…" He's sincere and oh so convincing, and God does she want to believe him, wants him to be right, but doesn't want to fool herself, she knows where she stands.
"You can't promise that-." She fights, like a petulant child unwilling to submit to defeat, to listen to her parents' comforts.
"I can, Laurel. If nothin' else, I can promise you that." Frank might as well be cut open and bleeding in front of her, heart and insides bared for her to see. It kills her, to recognize the pain etched on his face all the while yearning for her understanding, wanting nothing more than for her to see the love he has for her and the lengths he would go to protect her.
Another quiet tear rolls down her cheek, which Frank uses as an invitation to step just another foot forward, yet close enough to hear her breathe, to see her bottom lip quiver with the slightest of movement as she tries to stop the flow of tears. Hesitantly, he reaches around and places a hand along the back of her head, smoothing along her hair until it rests just above her neck, then bends down to look her in the eyes, deadly serious, emotion dripping from every word, "…because I love you, Laurel, and I won't let'er hurt you, I won't let you go down for this."
And in that second she believes him. Why wouldn't she, when he's looking at her like that, with as much sincerity and adoration she's ever seen. Suddenly all she can see is the man who swept her off her feet despite her initial reluctance, the man who she ran to when times got tough, and most of all he's the man she's addicted to. The man fell in love with. She can't deny it, at least not to herself. It's as though she has blinders on to anything except him, can't think beyond his words, can't focus beyond his eyes – and his mouth. His mouth is so close, just inches away. Lips so familiar and soft, absolutely imprinted in her mind, she wants to – needs to kiss him. Needs to let her body take over. Shut off her brain and follow her heart. Needs the comfort that comes from the molding of his lips on hers, his arms that wrap protectively around her like a blanket, his skin that sets off sparks when it touches hers…
But no. She can't. Won't. Not that easily.
Laurel leans in just enough, touches her forehead to his, rests there, but only for a second. A final test before she pulls away fully, reaches up to grab his wrist and remove it from her neck, breaking all contact. "Stop, Frank."
Hurt flashes over his features but is gone a moment later. He knows, understands the positions he's put her in, and although he tried to stop the hope of reconciliation from getting too high, he ends up failing and they both know it.
"I- I…you, I- just, no." She's broken, officially, cracked and shattered to pieces. Eyes bloodshot, tears flowing freely and without restraint, her nose pink and raw, mind littered with emotion.
"I know, I should't've- I'm sor-"
"No, Frank, you don't know, you don't understand, an- and clearly you don't know me."
He only nods, solemn but not in agreement, decides he's done enough damage tonight, putting his foot in his mouth and all that.
But no, he wants to tell her. He does know her: every detail and tell, every strength and flaw – although to him they're not imperfections, but rather what makes her unique, makes him love her all the more. He knows her body like the back of his hand, has examined and loved every inch of it, always paying special attention to the freckle on her back he can never get enough of. He knows the way her eyes sparkle like sea green stars when she first wakes up, as the suns shines through the curtains and hits her face at the perfect angle, illuminating her features in vivid light. He knows when she gets antsy during a long day at the office, having to rely on a sugar-filled sucker to keep herself occupied, all the while simultaneously turning him on like no other, although she pretends not to notice. He knows when a particular case gets too heavy for her to handle, although she would never admit it out loud. He knows when certain details revealed in court really get at her, involving a neglected child or such; even if he can't even see her, he just knows, can feel it like a connected energy, like a magnetic field, and will turn around to share a glance, hopefully communicating what he wants to say.
But most of all, he knows her heart. Knows and understands her yearning to somehow make the world a better place, even if it's a small difference, maybe if she only helps but one person. After working for Annalise for over a decade, he's seen more than his fair share of injustice, especially through the law, has had a front row seat to it if there ever was one. The tricks and trades have always made his blood boil, found that it's more of a cat and mouse game between defender and prosecutor than in working for the good of the client. But even more so, Frank knows he should be in jail, that rotting in a four by four cell on death row would probably be kind for his crimes, with his family disowning him and life worthless. So somehow, the thought of doing right, helping those who he himself has wronged feels like it would be something of a restitution. Or, if nothing else, a way to help him sleep at night.
"Do you think I can just forget? That because my father is a criminal that I would understand, that after everything I went through I would be used to it? That somehow it would make it easier for me to forgive you?" Her eyes are glaring, questioning, desperate and begging to understand.
"No, Laurel, I- I know… And I don't expect you to forget, or even forgive me, but-" He stops, doesn't have the words to express what he wants, what he needs even.
"Then what, Frank? What do you want?" Exasperated, she throws her hands up and steps closer; she wants an answer but far from expects one. "Were you ever gonna tell me? If- if we didn't get in that fight, if I didn't walk away, would it have ever come out?"
He says nothing – can't, really. Of course he wants to say yes, wants to believe that one day there would have been that right time, the perfect day where he was ready to put everything on the table and stop walking on eggshells, stop waking up to the fear that this could be the day he loses everything, loses her. But he knows that day would have never come, never would have he been ready and willing to sit Laurel down and knowingly ruin their relationship. He'd sooner catch a live grenade.
"Perfect," she reads his face, doesn't need his answer confirmed in words. Her replay is sarcastic, as though she expected his response, and ends up turning away, runs a hand through her hair as she feels tension form in the back of her head.
"Everything we went through with Sam, w-with Rebecca- …hell, the entire murder case, you just sat there. If you had just- they could still be alive. I- we- we wouldn't have become killers, Frank. I wouldn't be a murderer, have blood on my hands!" Laurel's crying, sobs ripping through her chest as she puts the pieces together, allows herself for the first time to really consider Frank's part in everything, consider how much his actions led to what became her personal hell.
"At first I was shocked, I- I couldn't believe it. If someone else had told me, accused you as the killer, told me it was you…that you killed Lila, I would have bet my life on your innocence. And yet, the whole time, I was in bed with the killer. I went home with him, made love to him, fell for him!" She turns back, stalks towards him, tears streaming down her face. Each word that spills from her mouth, loud and frantic, causes another crack in Frank's heart, despite already bleeding and broken, it becomes more prominent.
He aches looking at her, he's never been able to watch her cry – not the day he met her, when he tore her down with a shotty stereotype that caused her to leave the house with tears gathering in her eyes and him to be left feeling like the world's biggest scumbag, or better yet: a misogynistic ass; and nottoday, while he watches her self-destruct in front of him and there isn't shit he can do for her because it's his fault, he's the one that is causing her pain and it kills him.
"Look at me, Frank! Th- this is your fault, you killed-"
"It wasn't me, Laurel, that ain't who I am – Jesus, ya' know that." He's anxious, unable to listen any longer, needs to evade further hurt, defend himself, and plead for understanding.
Laurel's angry, shaken. "It wasn't you? You stuffed her in a water tank!"
"I didn't know what else to do, Laurel! I was terrified!"
"Yeah? 'Terrified?'" Laurel even uses the cliché hand motions, irritation oozing from her body, "imagine how she felt, as the life was being choked out of her… As you killed her, and her baby! Double homicide, Frank! I mean, fuck, a baby –"
Frank can't look at her, can barely stand. His face burns, feels his palms clam up and before he knows it he's crying, a blubbering mess as the memories of his past resurface like tidal waves, pounding into him one after the other.
"Do you know how many times I looked through those crime scene photographs, studied everything about her murder, tried to put the pieces together of who could do that to her? And the whole time, it was you… God, Frank, I trusted you-"
Her head is spinning, pounding with each new revelation, the first time she's allowed her mind to travel this far, race this fast. Conjure up every possible detail, run though that night like she was there, a witness to the murder.
"I mean- Jesus, did you even wear a mask?"
Tears stream down his cheeks, his body flinching from the question, "no."
"So she saw you?" Laurel's voice breaks, coming out as little more than a whine, as though this- this is the most painful realization of all, "your face, y-your eyes…it's the last thing she saw?"
It's not rhetorical, she wants an answer, wants to hear him say it, wants to watch his face as he speaks that word, the affirmation that will officially send him spiraling…but she doesn't need it, doesn't need him to say it because she already knows. She knows that every dirty little detail that has been dancing around in her head is true, every gory, disgusting and painful thought is reality.
"Yes."
The stone cold reality.
All air evaporates from her lungs, her legs almost buckle underneath her and she has to step away, has to withdraw from his presences because right now, just looking at him is suffocating. And suddenly, suddenly the puzzle is finished, every jagged piece has been forced into its place and the picture is complete.
The puzzle began the day she met him, the first time he introduced himself at the firm. He was different, different than anyone she'd met before. He carried himself as though confidence was weaved among his DNA, he exuded a cocky humor that kept those around him at bay, prevented people from getting too close, learning too much. He was covering, putting on an act to hide what he was holding underneath, she could feel it, knew it, and she'd be lying if she said she didn't want to know what it was.
A few more pieces came together the night they first kissed – or maybe it was that a few pieces fell apart, she wasn't sure.
The pattern continued: one step forward, two steps back. Every time Laurel thought she was starting to understand the dark-and-mysterious Frank Delfino he'd do something that would make her change her mind, make her rethink her everything she thought she knew.
Until the night he indirectly confirmed everything she'd suspected. What if it's mostly bad things? Those six words had stuck with her long after their conversation, prompting wonder at the most inconvenient times – particularly when she was nestled within his arms late at night, listening to his shallow breath as he sleeps and questioning how this man could be responsible for "bad things." How she could feel so safe and so happy while not really knowing who the man under her really was.
The night Frank confessed to Lila was like a sudden epiphany. So many pieces came together and yet so many still remained unmatched. It was like a spotlight shined down onto Frank, and yet everything around him, everything that lay just beyond that in which the light could reach, remained dark, a mystery.
And tonight, the final pieces came together.
"Say something, Laurel," Frank pleads, and even from across the room Laurel can see the tears shining in his eyes, "please."
"Do you remember the day you freaked out just because you thought I was insinuating that you were some kind of hitman? Or what about the night you took me to meet your parents, you were so offended that I asked about you covering up Rebecca's death? And yet, the whole time, it turned out I was being conservative, that what you really did-"
She has to stop, has to collect herself, stop herself from digging a hole so deep that she can't shovel her way out.
"And yet, all of this, the truth, finally came out because you accused me of lying, of sneaking around and keeping things from you when you, you lied to me, you snuck around to do Annalise's dirty work, you kept things from me!" They're almost chest to chest, Laurel having stalked back over. Frank can see the hurt in her eyes, has to turn away.
"Look at me, Frank," she begs, voice high but thick with emotion, "this is your fault! This whole time it's been, you, you were the one holding all the cards."
Inches away, breathe hot and tears falling, Laurel reaches out, her small hands bearing down on Frank's chest in angry bursts. "Sam's dead, Frank, Sam's dead and I'm a murderer because I thought- You should have told me, Frank…why couldn't you have just told me?"
He doesn't stop her, doesn't grab her wrists to stop the blows she continues to land on his chest. He waits, lets her throw until she doesn't have anything left, until her arms have grown heavy and her tears have slowed.
He wants to reach out, hold her, be able to express his regret and sorrow through touch, comfort, but knows better, keeps his hands at his sides. "I'm sorry, Laurel, I'm so, so sorry."
It takes a few moments but she finally looks up, somber and fatigued, is able to meet his eyes now that hers are drying, void of anymore tears, "I think you're sorry you hurt me, hell, maybe even sorry I found out at all, but I don't think you're sorry about killing her…and that's not enough, Frank…it's not enough."
"What do you want, Laurel? Tell me, please, what can I do?"
"What do I want you to do?" She reiterates, incredulous, "Frank, all I wanted was for you to choose me that night. I told you not to do it, not to answer that call from Annalise, choose me over her – after what you told me, Frank, I need you. I needed you to explain, tell me how that was even possible- b-but now, all I want is for you to tell me you lied, I want you to tell me you didn't do it…that you're covering for someone, that you didn't really kill her."
"I can't."
"I know…" It's childlike, a response as broken as she it.
"No matter what I say, Laurel, it's not going to change anything…it's not going to change the fact that I killed a teenage girl and her baby, and it's not going to change that fact that I- you are going to have to live with that. But, please, let me explain, let me tell you-"
"No."
"Laurel, plea-"
"N-no, it's too late. I don't want to know- not yet. I- I don't have anything left, I- 'm exhausted and I just need to be angry a-because right now that's the only thing keeping me going."
Dammit, he wants to tell her. Let me explain, it won't fix everything, you'll still hate me and I'll still hate myself, but fuck, you don't have to do this alone. I know you're tired and I know you're angry and fuck if I'm not too, but just let me help you…let me protect you.
But no. Frank knows that might be what he wants, needs even, but it's not what she wants.
"Okay," he recedes, a tired hand down through his beard, trying to remove the blotchiness from his skin, gather some form of composure. "You can take the bed, I'll sleep on the couch… O-or you can have the couch, i-if you'd be more com-"
"I'm not staying, Frank-"
"Laurel, w-with Phillip still out there-"
"I'll be fine."
Laurel waits, expects him to put up another half-hearted attempt, but when he doesn't, she takes it as a surrender, a white flag of sorts.
She turns, beelines straight for the door, pausing only for a moment to grab her purse.
"I love you."
It's a punch in the gut, a sick sense of deja-vu that causes her to freeze, to stop in her tracks.
"Sometimes, Frank, love isn't enough." Laurel sighs without turning around.
"Laur-" He's broken, more so than she's ever heard. "I never wanted to kil-"
"Don't."
"I am going to apologize every day, Laurel, until maybe one day, you'll finally believe me."
She scoffs, frustrated and claustrophobic, needing to get out of this apartment, needing air, free from Frank's heavy gaze and thick tension. She faces the door and manages to land a hand on the cool metal knob, but is unable to follow through – turn the handle and pull. Walk away. Leave.
"You know, those three words…that's what I was expecting- maybe even wanted, that night. Not the three I got." Damn her. Why couldn't she just keep her mouth shut, stop digging herself deeper into this hell she's found herself in. "But in hindsight, I'm glad I got the truth, at least now I know who I was sleeping with."
Twist that knife, Laurel. Way to go.
With that she's gone. Pulls the door closed behind her and all but jogs to her car, needing space. Needing to be away. Needing air.
Sure, the pieces of the puzzled had all come together, but the completed picture wasn't clear. Despite each piece fitting together with perfect unison, the picture it created was blurry and unfocused, as though there was another image hiding underneath, like the pieces could be broken apart and reorganized to tell an entirely different story.
Frank's a killer. Over the past few, long and restless nights, that is something that Laurel has had to come to terms with, that the man she fell for is a manipulative, lying killer. And yet, he's more than that, and even Laurel herself has to admit to that, because while Frank is all of those things, he's not her father. Frank is capable of things her father never was, and never will be: love and guilt.
And in that picture, that hidden image underneath, she knows what she'd find there: the other side of him.
The man she fell in love with.
Laurel is a naïve person, even despite everything she's been through, and she knows that. And regardless of what she initially believed, she's not dumb enough to fall for a man who's a mirror image of her father.
And honestly, she doesn't know what to do with that. So instead, she finds herself in her car, heat cranked although she continues to shiver involuntarily, and cries, replaying Bonnie's final call while Laurel grabbed her purse on the way out:
"He's in love with you, Laurel. I've known him for over a decade and never before has someone kept Frank's attention for more than week, no one has made him want to be someone worth loving… He's done horrible things – we all have, although him maybe more than most...that's still not who he is. He's more than that, and he's trying, trying to be a better person, for you."
...
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xoxo
JJ