Chapter Text
Where does rage go when there is no target?
Up until now Frank had the luxury of not having to think about it. In school, he directed his fists at bullies. After graduation, it was whatever or whoever his commanding officer pointed at. Orders, mission objectives, and operations that came from up top. Whatever was boiling inside of him, whatever was making his blood turn into a river of molten fire, he had somewhere to utilize it.
Later, revenge dictated his moves. There was a hit list and an end goal. Enough to fill that gaping, bleeding hole inside his chest where his heart used to be. After revenge, all that was left was duty. Duty and a fucked up, broken, scarred husk of a man who needed to let the rage out to feel like a human again.
He’s in the middle of an interrogation when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Frank ignores it in favor of throwing another punch. The crack of broken bones soothes the never-ending hum in his skull as it reverberates through the empty space of an abandoned warehouse, followed by a howl of pain. The piece of shit cowering before him on the floor grabs his nose, trying to stop the blood, but it gushes over his shirt anyway, sprinkling the dirt with red droplets.
Between all the begging and sobbing, he’s not giving him anything more than he already knows. Names, phone numbers, addresses here in Queens — Frank already had all that shit written down and memorized for weeks. This man is useless to him.
His phone vibrates again and Frank internally groans. It’s almost 3am, he’s fucking tired and he just wants to be done with it. Whatever it is, it can fucking wait till tomorrow.
He yanks the phone from his back pocket, ready to give whoever's on the other side a piece of his mind, but the caller ID stops him in his tracks.
He slams the phone to his ear. “Josh?”
“Hey, man. Listen… Something happened. it's Amy, she…”
The man on the floor keeps whimpering pathetically and Frank throws a hand out to silence him. He walks away a few steps before barking, “What? What's going on?”
There's a noise in his ear, a constant, muffled drum that he quickly recognizes as the pelting of the rain against the roof of a car.
“Goddamnit, man, answer me!” He shouts.
For five more seconds, all he hears is the rain.
“There’s been a car accident. It's… it's bad.”
His hand grips the phone with such force that he can't help but wonder how he doesn't break it. There's a haunting ringing in his ears, resonating through his skull as fragmented pieces of what happened come to him, distorted and murky. The heart in his chest turns maniacal, throwing itself against his ribcage in a frenzy, begging to be let out.
His blood doesn't just turn hot. It becomes a living, raging fire.
“I'm on my way,” is all he says before hanging up. He feels numb. Absent in his own body. Nothing but a ghost.
The useless man takes his chance and starts begging for mercy; Frank doesn't even register pointing the gun. He shoots the man right between the eyes and walks away.
Someone else will clean this up.
He drives through New York on autopilot. The city stretches out before him, all blinding lights and busy lives, but all he sees is death. He's at the park again, holding Lisa's broken body to his chest. Blood covers his hands, seeps into his skin, stains his clothes. He's begging, he's pleading, abandoning God as he shouts profanities at the sky. The girl's face changes; dark braid falls to the ground in a wave of blond curls and he grips the steering wheel tighter. He doesn't know which one of them he's holding anymore.
He parks the car at the curb by a familiar apartment building. Can't recall how he got here and now something seizes his chest in a vice grip. He shouldn't be here. He should be on his way to Florida. Every goddamn second counts.
He's out on the sidewalk and opening the front door before he can stop himself.
As he climbs the stairs, his body starts to shake. He should be out on the highway already but something deep inside him tells him he needs this. It's the only way to keep him tethered to reality.
His knuckles rack against the wooden door. He can't stand still, boots shuffling against the polished floor as he contemplates turning away. He shouldn't be here, he tells himself again. He shouldn't fucking be here.
The lock clicks and the door opens slowly.
“Frank?” Karen asks, confused. “What’s going on?”
Frank opens his mouth but no words come out. They all bounce around in his head, but it's like he lost the ability to form them. All that comes out is a breath cut short by fear.
Karen must read it from his face because she opens the door further and steps aside. All he's able to give her is a curt nod, frantic eyes immediately scanning the space as he crosses the threshold. Part of it is habit; another part of him just wants to find something to lay his eyes on so he can stop seeing that goddamn vision.
His hands red. Frail body in his arms. Golden curls in the gravel, gray eyes empty and dim—
“Is that blood?”
He's in her kitchen. Crisp and clean, a vase of fresh magnolias on the counter. He feels so out of place here, always has, while she fits in like a perfect puzzle piece, standing there with her blonde hair in a messy ponytail, shorts and a loose, faded t-shirt, barefoot.
He looks down at himself, catches the stains on his trousers and congealed drops on his shoes.
“‘s not mine,” he mumbles.
Relief flashes in her eyes and her features soften. Worry doesn't fade, though; it seems to magnify as she uncrosses her arms and approaches him.
“What happened?”
Her touch on his arm makes something in him loosen and he falls in the nearby chair. Head hanging low between his knees, fingers raking through his messy, too-long hair, all he can do is try not to choke on his own breath.
Her bare feet pad against the floor. She lowers herself to his eye level and he feels her hand on his knee.
“Frank, talk to me,” she pleads.
Frank raises his head and finally meets her eyes. What could she be thinking, he wonders. It’s not the first time he let his guard down in front of her like this, not the first time he cut himself open and let everything bleed out onto his face for her to read. She seems to be the only person in the world right now who could do so and not get it wrong. He swallows hard, allows her to witness his anguish. He shouldn't be here, he thinks again. He shouldn't drag her into this. But he can't make himself leave.
“It's the kid, Karen,” he croaks out. “She had a car accident.”
Saying it out loud solidifies it for him. In vain he deluded himself that if he didn't say those words, they wouldn't come true. They'd just be another bad dream among countless ones he’s had since putting Amy on that bus. As long as they stayed in his head, he could write them off as his overprotectiveness, a laughable paranoia the kid always teases him about. But now that they're out, reality hits him like a freight train.
“Oh my God.”
Karen's eyes open wide in terror. In real time, Frank sees how everything clicks for her — his visit, the state he's in, what it all means. She's always been good at putting pieces together. Even better at reading him like an open book.
Her hand on his knee tightens. “Is she… is she okay?”
“I don't know.” It comes out almost like a sob. “Josh said it's bad, he said she and her friends, they— they were going back from a party and it's– it’s– it's storming like hell and— and—” he deflates, his exhale unsteady. “They're taking her to a hospital now. I don't know anything yet.”
And he’s too scared of what it all means, overwhelmed by fear of where it could lead. His head feels unbearably heavy, a cacophony of thoughts echoing inside, and he presses the heels of his palms against his forehead, desperately hoping that this simple act might silence the relentless barrage of dreadful what-ifs that invade his mind.
In an instant, Karen is back on her feet, pacing around with her hands folded against her mouth. She's lost in thought; it's almost too easy to imagine the cogs turning in her head, a red string connecting the dots and forming a plan like the one he has laid out on a wall at his place.
She nods to herself and grabs her phone from the coffee table.
“Okay, we obviously need to get you there as fast as possible. I'm gonna check the flights, there should be something—”
He shakes his head. “Karen, you know I can't show my face at an airport.”
“Fuck.” She purses her lips. “What about Madani?”
“She's out of the country, she can't help.”
Frustrated, she hurls her phone onto the couch and, without a word, disappears in the hallway leading to her bedroom. Frank lets his head fall into his hands with a heavy sigh. He really should go. He should call Josh and try to find out what's going on. No news should be good news, right? The fact he's not calling means there's nothing yet to tell.
Is she in surgery? Are they working to resuscitate her? Cutting her clothes off of her, putting pressure on her wounds, trying to jumpstart her heart— no. He can't think about that. Thinking about that only leads to seeing blood.
Rage boils inside of him, white hot and barely restrained. He balls his hands into fists and watches the skin on his bruised knuckles split further. The pain is miniscule, but it's enough to put a dampener on everything else.
Thick heels knock against the floor and Karen emerges out of the dark hallway; gone are her pajamas, replaced by dark jeans and a sweater, with a long coat thrown on top. There's a duffel bag hanging on her arm.
Frank slowly rises from his chair. “Karen?”
“Let's go,” she says. Like it's obvious. Like it's been obvious from the start.
She doesn't wait for him; she heads right for the door. He has to launch after her and grab her arm to stop her.
“Karen, wait wait wait wait wait. You don't have to come.”
Her gaze is as sharp as steel. That typical Karen Page determination he knows not to mess with. It burns nearly as hot as his rage.
“When was the last time you slept? Frank, you're exhausted. There's no way I'm letting you drive—”
“I’ll be fine,” he barks. Then, softer, “I don't want to drag you into this.”
“Then why are you here?”
He can't hide it anymore, can he? His eyes cloud with a thin veil of tears.
“I need you to make sure I'm not losing my mind,” he begs. “I need you to tell me she's gonna be okay. I—” his voice breaks. “Tell me I'm not losing her, Karen.”
Because it's Central Park all over again, and he's praying for a bullet to his head that doesn't come. Because the ghost of Lisa is breathing down his neck, the phantom of her little body weighing his arms down, and he can't do anything about it. There's nothing to aim his guns at this time. No one to blame.
Soft fingertips touch his bruised cheeks. His breath comes out in a shudder as he latches onto Karen's gaze, holding onto it like a lifeline.
“Hey, you are not losing her, okay? You need to believe that.”
“But what if I get there too late? What… what if she’s already gone, and I—”
His breath falters, a heavy weight pressing against his chest. The ringing in his ears transforms into a piercing, agonizing whistle. His heart is a wild creature trapped in a cage, relentlessly battering against the confines that hold it, while the blood gurgles in his veins, simmering under his skin, pleading for a violent release. His knees tremble, his body on the brink of collapse — but Karen's face fills his vision, her gentle hands firmly cradling his face, fingers carding through his beard as she compels him to look down and lock eyes with her once more.
“Listen,” she starts and that one word works on him like a crack of a whip, a shout of an officer that has you standing straight in a matter of seconds. “If you really don't want me to go with you, fine. But you can’t give up now. You're going to get into that car, you're going to make it there on time, and your little girl will be waiting there for you. You understand? You are not losing another child.”
Her words hang in the air, heavy and monumental, before settling on Frank’s shoulders like snow. He’s never really claimed the kid. Never dared to put a label on the strange and complicated relationship he and Amy have; he’s too much of a coward. But Karen knows. Of course she does. And if she is brave enough to call this thing what it is, maybe he could be too.
“How can you be sure?” He still asks, because doubts can’t help but dig their claws into his chest.
A faint but hopeful smile tugs at Karen’s lips. “Because I refuse to believe fate would be cruel enough to do this to you twice.”
Frank hums, nods, then gently pulls her hands away from his face. He doesn’t believe in fate. God left him to fend for himself a long time ago. He didn’t bring his family back, He didn’t save them from the consequences of Frank’s actions. God, fate, whatever you wanna call it — it proved to have a shitty sense of humor. Frank wouldn’t be surprised if it pulled the rug from under his feet the second time just for the sake of entertainment.
But if there is something out there, he hopes it’s at least watching over the kid. Because she deserves to live a long, happy life. It’s not her time yet. It shouldn’t be.
Karen stands on her tiptoes and wraps her arms around his neck. Frank pulls her close and buries his face in her shoulder, drawing in a slow, deep breath. She smells like lavender and incense. Like home.
“Drive safe,” she whispers, brushing a hand over the nape of his neck. “And call me when you get there.”
“I will.”
He steals one more moment to hold onto her hands before he finally releases them. Stepping outside the door, he feels a little calmer, steadier. Getting into his car, he allows himself one fortifying exhale.
The engine roars to life. His knuckles turn white against the steering wheel.
“Hang in there, kid,” he mutters into empty space. “I’m coming.”
“Is she okay?”
The words tumble from his mouth like a cannonball as soon as Josh answers the phone.
A weary sigh reaches him through the speaker.
"They just finished surgery," Josh says. "Her leg was all fucked up, they had to put it back together. Head cracked open. Plus a large shard of glass was lodged in her body. She lost a lot of blood."
Frank’s grip on the phone tightens to the limit. He slams it against the steering wheel, spitting out a curse. "But she’ll be okay, right?"
"Should be. She's in intensive care now, under heavy anesthesia. Should wake up before you get here, though."
Involuntarily, his foot presses down on the gas pedal. Tires buzz against the asphalt.
"And the others?"
"The girls got off easy. Broken limbs, a concussion, some stitches. Dylan, their driver, is in the worst shape. He and Amy took the brunt of the impact. He has severe brain swelling so they have to keep him in a medically induced coma for several weeks."
Another curse slips from his lips. The kid will blame herself for this, for sure. No matter what happened, or how, she'll shoulder this burden because that's just how she is. She's already been beating herself up over her friends' deaths before. She hid it from him well, but Frank knew she thought what happened in Chicago was her fault. Survivor's guilt, they call it. He had plenty of it, too. It took him a while to convince her she wasn’t at fault.
His car lurches as it speeds past the stalling Volvo with New Jersey license plates. The driver honks at him, but he doesn't give a shit and just pumps even more gas, pushing his van to its limits. He still has a long way to go; nothing can slow him down.
He presses the phone back to his ear. "What about the other guy? The truck driver?"
Josh's voice wavers. "He's in shock, but he's okay."
The firestorm in Frank's stomach flares up again.
“Not for long,” he growls.
Josh sighs as if he'd expected this. "It's not his fault, Frank."
"So whose fault is it?"
"The kids didn't see him. They forced the right-of-way. That's all I know for now."
Something in his friend's voice makes Frank frown. Josh isn't telling him everything. As if through a fog, their first conversation begins to surface in his mind; one detail in particular catches his attention.
"Were they drunk?"
"What?" Josh's voice reaches him a few seconds too late.
"You said they were going back from a party. Were. They. Drunk?"
Another sigh. Turns out words aren't needed to confirm his suspicions.
"Some of them, yeah."
"Amy?"
"A bit."
His fist slams hard on the steering wheel.
"Goddamnit. What the hell was she thin—"
He stops himself immediately. Knuckles pressed to his lips, he forces himself to take a few deep breaths, allowing the flames raging in his veins to subside. He can't be mad at her. He wanted her to be a normal teenager after all; he told her to go out there and live a normal life. He should have known what that entailed, and holding it against her will only make him a hypocrite. However, getting drunk at a party at her age is stupid and irresponsible, and as a parent, he should—
His eyes close. He may love the kid like his own. His name may be listed as a legal guardian on the papers Lieberman prepared. But should he fully take on the role? Would Amy even want him to? He had let her down so many times lately. She wanted him to come visit, but he always found an excuse. He wasn’t answering her calls, too busy chasing down some assholes hiding in the dark underbelly of New York. He told himself it was for her protection. That if he kept her at arm's length, she'd be safer.
But really, he was just hiding from his feelings.
"If anything changes, let me know," he says into the phone. He tries to sound calm, but his jaw is shut tight and the words struggle to escape through his clenched teeth.
“I will,” says Josh. “And… Frank?”
“Yeah?”
“She’s going to be okay. I promise.”
Frank hangs up without a word and tosses the phone onto the passenger seat. The leather creaks under his hands as he grips the steering wheel and accelerates even harder. The needle on the speedometer jumps to maximum, and his heart leaps into his throat.
It's best not to make promises you can't keep. He learned that the hard way.
Seeing Josh pace nervously next to his pickup truck is like a spark to his gasoline-filled veins. Frank pulls up to the hospital parking lot with a screech of tires, slams the door of his van shut on his way out, and before Josh has the chance to get a single word out, Frank’s fist connects with his jaw.
It doesn't help. Not one bit.
Josh stumbles to the side, holding his face. He stays like that, hunched and gasping for air, as Frank looms above him, fists clenched, his body trembling with fury.
“Okay. Fair.” The man groans when he finally straightens up. He spits out some blood and rubs his jaw. “I get why you're upset.”
“You said she'd be safe here!” Frank growls.
“And she is.”
“That's what you call safe? She could have fucking died, Josh!”
Logic tells him this is pointless; realistically, there is nothing Josh could have done, it is not his fault. Frank knows that. But right now, when he’s so close yet still so far from his kid, and this nightmare situation is getting more and more real, he doesn’t give a flying fuck about logic. He just needs someone to blame. Even if it accomplishes nothing.
Josh raises his hands in a placating gesture, which only makes Frank even more furious. “Listen, man. I do everything I can to protect these kids, you know that. But they're also just kids. I can't stop them from making mistakes. I can just hope they’ll know better next time.”
You could have told them not to go, Frank thinks. You could have sat their asses down and told them no drinking. Goddammit, you could have taken the keys! Fuckin’ something! He doesn’t say any of those things, though.
Josh takes his silence as permission to continue. “Dylan did everything right. He knows what to do in a storm, and he was sober. But the inside of the car got a little chaotic. They all got distracted.”
Frank can’t listen to it anymore. Maybe later, when he knows Amy is okay and he doesn’t feel like he’s about to explode, he’ll make some sense of it. Lips pressed together, he forces his fists to uncurl and throws a glance toward the hospital entrance.
“Where is she?” he asks.
Josh sighs. His shoulders sag. “West wing, sixth floor.”
Frank only nods in response. Then starts walking.
It doesn’t surprise him when his friend immediately rushes after him.
“Hey, wait, wait, wait, wait, hold on. They won't let you in.”
“Like hell they won't.”
“Frank.”
With a frustrated sigh, Frank stops and shakes his head. He really doesn’t have time for this. He doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to have this stupid conversation; he just wants to be with his kid. Still, he makes himself turn around and face the man one more time, a clipped, angry response already at the tip of his tongue, but the anguished, apologetic look on his friend’s face stops him.
“You’re right,” Josh finally spits out. “I promised you I would take care of Amy and I failed. What happened last night was scary and way too fucking close, and I take responsibility for that. I knew about their plans and I warned them about the weather, but I should have done more. So if you want someone to blame, blame me.”
The silence settles heavy between them, rolling through the parking lot like a tumbleweed pushed by a breeze. Frank opens his mouth to say something, pauses, then sighs. Drags a hand over his mouth, then hangs his head. Anger won’t do anything here. He could throw another punch or point a gun at the man’s face, but it wouldn’t change a damn thing. Even if they got every warning under the sun, nothing would have stopped these kids from acting the way they did. It was a lapse of judgement on their part and they have paid for it enough already. There is no point wondering about what could have been done.
“Look, Josh. I really appreciate what you’ve done for her, okay? I do," he starts. A peace offering that Josh seems relieved to take. “And yeah, I’m pissed, but—” he sighs, tired. He’s so goddamn tired. “We can either stand here and discuss it, or I can go up there so I can be with my kid. Which is it gonna be?”
Josh shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans and gives him a nod. A blow of wind tussles his dark hair and sweeps a curl onto his forehead.
“Alright. But let me handle it. It’s late, visiting hours are over, and they’re definitely not gonna be happy about you barging in. I'll get you to her, just— hold your horses for a minute.”
“Fine. Just hurry.”
Patience isn’t his strong suit, not in a situation like this. He tries his best, even plasters his most innocent smile to his face and turns on the charm, but when the lady at the front desk throws a fit and Josh begins to negotiate, Frank loses interest and simply heads for one of the elevators.
He already knows where to go. All he has to do is follow the signs.
Josh and the woman catch up to him on the sixth floor, still in a heated argument over visiting hours and protocols and other bullshit, like any of it is gonna stop him. Ignoring them, he marches forward, and as he looks around at the gallery of numbered doors lining up the long, blank hallway, he frowns. Fuck. He doesn’t know which room she’s in.
“Which one?” He throws over his shoulder.
Josh taps him on the back and points with his chin. “Here.”
Third door to the right. Room 043.
The front desk woman surges forward, trying to grab at his sleeve. “Mr. Castiglione, you can’t just—”
He shoves the door open and freezes in the spot.
His eyes struggle to comprehend what they see. He’s been told about her injuries. Has the list memorized and playing on a loop inside his head. But the sight that greets him is so wrong, his mind simply refuses to accept it.
Time seems to slow; first he was racing against a raging river, now he’s pushing through deep mud, his limbs fighting against the force slowing him down. His gaze travels from the tubes attached to her arms to the bags of fluids dripping in a leisurely, constant rhythm. He takes in the cast wrapped around her leg, all the rods and screws stabilizing it, stares at the purplish hue of her bruised skin in the few rare spots it peeks through. It takes him too long to look at her face; he’s afraid of what he’s going to see, so unbelievably unprepared for the sight. Because his little girl shouldn’t be in this much pain. She shouldn’t have to suffer at all.
Her cheeks are hollow and dark shadows circle her beautiful gray eyes, and God, she’s so goddamn scared. He can read it in her gaze, in the way she’s watching him like she’s waiting for a bomb to go off. Her shoulders rise up to her ears, trembling hands grab fistfuls of her blanket as the steady beeping of the heart monitor picks up the pace, and Frank knows she’s waiting for the blow. She braced herself for his fury, his rage, a finger of blame directed at her, tallying each one of her mistakes. He’s no mind reader, but he knows her story well enough by now to know when shit from her past comes back to haunt her and she waits for the pattern to repeat. He’s flooded by memories of her face, that hard-set jaw and eyes betraying bitter disappointment, every time she was sure he was about to give up on her. Backpack already on her shoulder, one foot out the door — like she was trying to preface his next move, as if ripping the bandaid off herself was going to hurt less than when he’s the one who does it.
She draws in a sharp breath. “Okay, before you say anything—”
But he doesn’t have any of it for her tonight. For the first time since he got that forsaken phone call, Frank doesn’t feel any flames.
Relief isn't gentle, though. It shoves him in the back, making him stumble as he makes his way over to the bed. His knees nearly buckle under the weight of it and he has to brace himself against the bedframe to stop it from pushing him all the way down. He reaches out, cradles the back of Amy’s head in his palm and kisses her forehead, eyes shut tight as he fights the onslaught of tears that clogs his throat and makes his head spin. She’s alive, she’s alive, my baby is alive, is all he can think of. Her hand finds his, she chokes out his name in a sob, and he thinks he’s about to shatter.
"Goddamnit, kid, if you ever scare me like this again—”
Words get stuck in his throat and he pushes his forehead against hers, throwing the unwanted thoughts away. She’s here. He can feel her breath on his face. Her nose brushes against his. Tears roll down her cheeks and his heart aches with a need to kiss them away and make it better, like he once could with Lisa.
“I’m so sorry,” Amy sobs and he immediately shakes his head.
“Shh, no, no, no, it wasn’t… kid, I know everything. It wasn’t your fault.”
The shock on her face is almost too much to bear.
“You’re not mad?”
How could he be? How could he be when it’s no one’s goddamn fault but his? It was easy to try to put the blame somewhere else, to bang his fists and let the rage consume him, but the truth is he was the one who put her on that bus, he was the one who told her to go and be a kid. He wanted to set her free, but all it did was leave her alone and vulnerable. He should’ve been there. He never should have sent her away. None of it should have fucking happened.
His thumb gently runs across her cheek, collecting her tears as he smiles. “No, why— why would I— I'm just glad you're okay.”
Her arms rise to wrap around his neck, trembling with the effort, and he lowers himself onto the edge of the bed to meet her halfway. He’s scared to hold her, afraid of bringing more damage to her already broken body, yet when she nestles her face into his neck, he can't help but pull her against his chest, overwhelmed by a wave of relief. He longs to hold her tighter, to crush her to him and never let go, but all he can do is run his hands as gently as he can down the curve of her spine and pray it’s enough to let her know he’s here. It’s been months. He has so much to make up for.
A cry of pain escapes her lips and he panics. He lays her down, fixes her pillow, and tenderly tucks her hair behind her ear with shaking fingers. Her mouth is dry so he quickly fetches a glass of water, holding it steady for her as she sips through the straw. And when her face finally relaxes, he feels like he can breathe again. But it’s hard to look at her when she looks like this, a shell of herself too close to death, and he has to look away, eyes brimming with tears, because it’s too much.
Karen told him he would not lose another child and he has to cling to it with everything he has, calloused fingers gripping the edge of a cliff, even when the sight in front of him is trying to prove him otherwise. He collapses into a chair beside the bed, cradles Amy’s hand between his own and presses it against his lips. Takes a moment to savor the warmth of her skin in his palm, desperately trying to reassure himself that the worst is over. Her road to recovery will be long and anything but easy, but she won’t be taking a single step without him at her side.
He asks her how she’s feeling as she admits she’s tired. Guilt grips him by the throat immediately; who knows how long she’s been awake and he’s only draining her by making her talk. She’s not happy about the leg, disappointed that she won’t be able to continue her diving lessons and he can’t even hide how fucking proud he is. It makes him so fucking happy that she’s turning her life around and chasing her dreams, but before he has the chance to tell her, his worn-out, sleep-deprived body betrays him and a worried frown creeps onto her face. And then she’s apologizing — for dragging him here, for getting drunk — taking the blame for everything, and he doesn’t want to hear any of it.
It tears him apart when she says she was sure he was gonna be mad. Because how is he supposed to explain to her that yes, he was ready to burn the whole fucking world down, that he wanted to scream and shout and find something he could rip to fucking shreds, but none of it was ever truly directed at her? How is he supposed to convince her that he wasn’t mad at her but for her, that whatever rage was scorching him from the inside sparked from how goddamn much he loves her? He wasn’t just angry; he was afraid — and sitting in his anger was easier than admitting what it really means.
He may not be able to say those words, but he makes sure she sees it. When a tear threatens to fall, he lets it. He kisses her hand again, smiles, and promises he isn’t going anywhere. A million little shining stars light up in her eyes when he says he’ll be crashing on her couch for the foreseeable future, and it makes the lack of sleep and a thousand-mile drive worth it.
When she falls asleep, her small hand still tucked in his, Frank lets the weariness finally get to him. He leans back in the chair with a groan, his back protesting, and drags his free hand over his face. He’s fucking exhausted. Probably should make good on his promise and actually go to Amy’s place; a shower and an actual mattress to sleep on would be nice right now. Knowing the kid, she’s going to pester him about it sooner or later.
For now, though, he is not leaving his little girl alone.
After a few minutes, when he’s sure the kid is out cold, he pulls out his phone. Shoots Curtis a quick text, then picks Karen’s number. He is no longer a bundle of nerves and burning rage like he was the night before when he knocked on her door, but at the sound of her velvety voice, relief still floods his veins like a shot of morphine.
“Hey. Did you make it?”
“Yeah,” he breathes out. “I'm with the kid.”
Even though Karen can’t see it, he strokes his thumb over Amy’s fingers for confirmation. Watching her chest slowly rise and fall, he counts every single breath, a loving smile slowly growing on his face.
“How is she?”
“In pretty rough shape but she'll be okay. She's sleeping now.”
“Oh, thank God.” Karen lets out a relieved sigh into the phone, followed by a chuckle. “See? I told you.”
He can almost picture her, leaning against the counter in her kitchen, one corner of her mouth turning up in a smirk. The made-up view broadens his own smile, something warm stirring in his chest.
“You did,” he laughs. “Thank you. For believing in her when I couldn’t.”
“You were scared, that's normal.”
He was fucking terrified. Still is, if he’s honest, because yeah, the kid is alive, but this is all far from over. She’s going to suffer and struggle a lot, both physically and mentally. And every tear, every cry of pain, every sleepless night, and every exhausting day is going to make the rage inside of him grow and burn, it’s going to make him want to grab his weapons and step on a warpath against an enemy that doesn’t exist. And he’s going to have to lock it all down. He will put it away and be there for her, take her from one end to the other, and let her grip his hand until his fingers break, because that’s what fathers do.
He may not be one anymore, but for Amy he’s going to try.
“I should have known she'd pull through,” he tells Karen, feeling the words settle heavily on his chest. “This girl is as tough as they come.”
“Like you.”
Frank scoffs at first, tries to play it off like it doesn’t mean anything to him, but ultimately can't stop the pride that blooms in his chest from spreading. Amy mutters something in her sleep and rolls her head his way and the wave of this feeling makes his breath catch in his throat and his chest burst, bringing a soft, loving smile to his lips.
“Yeah,” he says, voice cracking a bit from emotion. “If you say so.”
“So what now?”
She’s smiling, he can tell, smirking at him like she knows what he’s thinking; he can hear it in her voice and visualize it as clearly as if she were standing here right in front of him. Part of him wishes that she was here right now, that she didn’t listen to him back in New York, but bringing her here would be a selfish thing to do. He needs to be the strong one this time; he can’t allow himself to break and leave the pieces for her to pick up. It wouldn’t be fair.
With a deep breath, Frank releases a long yawn, brushing away the remnants of sleep from his weary eyes.
“She’s gonna need some help moving around so I'm gonna stay here for a while.”
“Makes sense," Karen agrees. “Keep me updated, okay?”
“Yeah.”
“And get some sleep, please.”
He snickers, shaking his head as a grin splits his face in half.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Kid’s gonna be on my ass about it anyway; might as well get some shuteye while she’s out.”
Karen’s laugh makes something in him melt. “She would be right about that.”
A beat passes, then another, yet neither of them makes a move to hang up. Karen’s presence is soothing, a balm to his fried nerves and Frank doesn’t want to lose it. But it’s nearing midnight; she has work tomorrow and he has to make sure he doesn’t fall flat on his face when he gets up from this chair in the morning.
Shaking his head, he lets out another chuckle. "Goodnight, Karen.”
Even with a thousand miles between them, he feels the weight of her relief in the solitary breath she exhales.
“Goodnight, Frank.”
The call ends, and the dimly lit hospital room returns to the eerie, stiff silence broken only by the steady beeping of the heart monitor. With a long, deep sigh, Frank gazes at Amy; her features softened in slumber, her body finally finding solace from the suffering, and he can't help but smile at the look of peace on her face, her long lashes casting shadows where her tears used to be. Her cheek is squished against her shoulder, lips slightly parted, and his heart swells with an overwhelming warmth, growing ten sizes at the sight.
Slowly, he gets to his feet. His fingers brush tenderly over the crown of her head before he leans down to place a soft, lingering kiss on her temple.
“Love you, kid,” he whispers.
She probably can’t hear it, but it’s okay. He’ll tell her again when she wakes up.
“Sleep tight.”