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Frank didn’t make it a habit of going out in public unnecessarily; being one of the most wanted men in America, he couldn’t really go for a stroll around the block whenever he felt like it. He had to run errands every now and then, going shopping for himself (and sometimes Peter, when the kid forgot), but really, if he wasn’t working on his next job, hunting down a target, he stayed put.
There was always something that needed doing, so he kept himself busy: stitching his wounds, cleaning his artillery, making bombs and shit. There were normal chores, as well, the usual stuff– cleaning dishes and doing laundry that he busied his time doing. And when that was all done, and he had nothing else to do, he made himself busy with learning a new recipe.
Cooking was relaxing, Frank enjoyed the routine of it, he liked how he could get lost in the motions. You need this amount of ingredients to combine with this amount of ingredients, and you need to cook it for this amount of time. It was a way to kill his time whenever there was a standstill with his next target. It gave him time to check over his next job; he had made too many mistakes over the past couple weeks, and Frank wasn’t the type of guy to make the same mistake twice.
He knew why. It happened every year around this time– he’d get a bit more careless and a bit more brutal, guilt wracking his brain.
There was only one reason he truly got excited to leave the house, when he was visiting them.
It was quiet in the cemetery; sitting at the edge of the city it was far enough away to dull the constant hum of traffic and the noise of everyday life, leaving room for the rustling of leaves and the faint birdsong in the distance. The gravel under his boots crunched as he walked down the path, his head hung low, not bothering to look up. Frank could walk here with his eyes closed.
Coming here was routine for him, and a habit he didn’t want to break. He had left them far too many times, and he vowed to never do it again even if the voice in the back of his head told him it didn’t matter anymore, that he was too late and he couldn’t save them. The least he could do was sit with them, tell them things they’d never get to experience. Whenever he needed to clear his head, when the sense of longing got too much, or even if he just needed company. Frank would wait till the sun had set, and then made his way through the cast iron gates, down the straight gravely path.
It was getting darker earlier now, signalling winter, meaning he could visit them earlier in the day. It was currently around 3 PM, surprisingly the cemetery was empty, but that was okay. Frank wanted privacy.
The old oak tree came into view first, back lit by the ancient lamp post that cast a yellow hue over the cemetery, flickering every once in a while. Frank moved closer and closer, until finally three headstones came into view, and his pace slowed.
Their graves sat side by side, two equal in size while the middle slightly taller. All three headstones were carved out of smooth grey granite. Frank would have gotten them some of the fancier stuff, something worthy of them, but he barely remembered signing the paper work, let alone what kind of stone he’d chosen.
He had meant to replace them with something better, but every time he went to do it, something stopped him. Maybe he had formed an emotional attachment to some fucking stones. Stupid, right?
He stopped first at the middle grave, where Maria rested between their children. The flowers he had gotten her a week ago were wilting, tarnished brown petals carpeting the grass over where her body lay. Sniffing, he lowered himself to his knees, replacing the old bouquet with a new one, trying to wipe the decaying petals away.
“Hey, Maria.” Frank began, but his voice broke. Like usual, that was all he managed to say to her. Clearing his throat he straightened up, his gaze drifting over to Lisa’s headstone, a small smile tugging on his lips. “Hello, Sweetheart.”
His daughter’s headstone was smaller than her mothers, mirroring her brothers. Frank reached out, brushing a stray leaf that rested on top of the smooth stone. The granite looked beautiful under the yellow lighting of the lampshade, sparkling in the night like a star. Beautiful just like his girl. In a low whisper, familiar words fell from his lips before he could think about it, “One batch, two batch… penny and dime.”
He stood there for a moment, letting the words wash over him, reminding him why he kept fighting, no matter how tired he got. Bringing his fingertips up to his lips, he kissed them, before placing his hand back on Lisa’s grave.
Finally, his attention moved to his son. Frank Jr had been on his mind a lot recently– not that his family weren’t ever not on his mind, but Frank caught his mind drifting to his son more often than not. He wondered what man he would have grown up to be. Maybe he would be an artist, maybe he would have followed his old man’s footsteps and signed up to be a marine. God, he hoped not.
His mind wandered to Peter. They were born around the same time, Pete being only a couple years older than his own boy– hell, if Frankie didn’t get blipped, he would be older than Peter. They were close enough that sometimes Frank couldn’t help but see the similarities. He hated himself for it. Peter had a way of doing that, making Frank think about stupid, pointless things.
Like how maybe, just maybe, Pete and Frankie would have been friends.
Frank crouched down, reaching out to graze his thumb against the name carved into the granite. He stood up, keeping one hand touching the smooth stone. “You know, Bud.” He sniffed, shoving his spare hand into his coat pocket as he looked out onto the city, lights twinkling in the distance, “I met this kid a while back…”
The words trailed off as he stood there, his thumb absentmindedly tracing the edge of the headstone. Frank clenched his jaw for a moment, before huffing quietly through his nose, a trace of a smile on his lips. He thought of Peter taking the bullet for Jean, then his mind flicked to the day he got home, Frankie having painted that marine on the wall to protect his mother and sister. Frank’s smile widened at the memory. He could almost ignore the familiar ache settling back into his chest.
“Good kid– a pain in the ass, but good.” Frank said, looking down at the grave before chuckling, “Stubborn as hell.”
He looked away, rolling his eyes fondly, “Yeah, you would have gotten along just fine.”
Peter had the same fire he had once seen in his son; this inability to back down, no matter the consequences to himself. Frank had seen it just a few months ago, through that scope as he pushed Jean out of the way, allowing himself to get shot. Get shot by Frank, no less. The irony didn’t escape him.
Frank hated making comparisons; Peter wasn’t Frank Jr and he would never be. But there would be flashes where he would forget– when they got into one of their arguments that ended with one of them walking off in frustration while the other kept talking, or when Pete would grin a certain way. He would forget for a second.
Maybe that’s why he kept him around. To try and fill the massive gaping hole in his chest. No, that wasn’t it– yeah, somewhere along the way the masked vigilante had turned into his– a kid, not in the way Frank or Lisa was, but in a way that made him annoyed (worried) if Peter showed up with fresh stitches or a new bruise.
It made something twist in his chest. At the beginning it had been something accidental, they kept bumping into each other, but eventually it had morphed into something Frank didn’t recognise. He had hung out with people before, but that was usually linked with work– but there were times now he and Pete just hung out for the company. It was almost a foreign idea to Frank.
“He reminds me of you.” Is all Frank said, tapping the headstone as he let the silence settle again. The wind swirled through the trees, carrying the distant sounds of the city with it. He rested his hand on the granite for one last moment before stepping away. “I’ll see you next week, Bud.”
Shoving his hands in his pockets, he turned away, back down the graveled path to those iron clad gates. Frank moved quickly, he knew if he turned back he’d want to stay– tell them all some stories about Peter. There was a time when he wouldn’t leave, it had felt impossible, he’d stay sat in the grass till the sun came up because he couldn’t stand the feeling of leaving them behind again. It was still difficult, but he knew he couldn’t stay here forever.
Frank would be back next week, with another bouquet of flowers for Maria, some more stories for the kids. And he would do it again, and again, and again. It was good, having something to look forward to every week. It lifted the weight of the world off of his shoulder’s just that tiny bit.
Getting into his van, Frank let out a long breath. The last thing he wanted to do was go back to the warehouse, where there was nothing but an empty boat with artillery that needed cleaning, bombs to be made and a pile of dirty dishes and laundry to be washed. Frank was man enough to admit he didn’t want to be alone tonight. His head thunked against the leather headrest behind him as he tapped his palms against the steering wheel, staring through the windshield for a moment.
A minute went by before he reached down, pulling out his phone, and quickly googling the closest grocery store to him. Peter had probably forgotten to eat, Frank thought, scoffing. They’d have ingredients to make mac’ n’ cheese’, right?
“Stupid kid.” Frank smiled fondly.
Frank had decided what he was going to do with the rest of his day, whether Peter was expecting him or not.