Work Header

Need you to remind me where I come from

Work Text:

Need you for the old me
Need you for my sanity
Need you to remind me where I come from
Can you remind me of my gravity?
Ground me when I'm tumblin', spiralin', plummetin' down to Earth
You keep me down to Earth

After three weeks and one day after the carousel event, he calls her.

It took a while to get used to the new nightmares – except he didn’t really got used to them, not really, not after he banged Billy Russo’s head repeatedly into the broken glass, bang bang bang, blood splattering all over the place once again – and the not so new appearances of the clear, almost too bright, blue eyes that kept rolling around his brain, even when he’s awake.

Curtis’s group helped him to get back on his feet – still stumbling, but up nonetheless – and guide him through the new real life he had. A free life, as a free man. It was done. All the blood and shots fired and anger towards the murder of his family were gone and only grief and sadness surrounded him when he thought about Maria and the kids.

God, he missed them.

But he was alive, and they were dead. He was alive and Frank had to live with the pain, but it didn’t mean he wasn’t allowed to feel anything else.

God, he missed her.

The smile full of teeth, the hair that formed a golden curtain around her face, the eyes that he trusted so much, and trusted him back completely. How could a woman like that love a man like him, full of scars and wounds still healing, dark soul e hand full of still fresh blood? How could she defend him relentlessly, after all the things he’s done?

When she picks up the phone, she sounds tired.


The thought of ending the call passes his mind, but Frank is not a coward. He took a bullet for this woman, and he was afraid to talk to her on the phone. Fucking pathetic.

“Yeah, hi.” He says, not bothering telling who’s talking. She’ll know his voice.

Frank hears her sigh of what sounded like relief and exasperation.

“Frank? Oh my God.”

“No, sorry, it’s Pete now.” He says, fingers playing nervously with the hem of his t-shirt. Frank has taken so many punches, kicks, even a bullet in the head, but hearing Karen Page’s voice hurt a million times more. But it was a good pain, the kind that knocked the air out of his lungs and pressed his heart into his chest.

Her laugh is the greatest thing he’s heard in weeks.

“I don’t know if I should be mad or relieved.”

“I think both would be ok, right? I-I did die and came back to life again without calling you, so…” Frank’s voice broke at the end of the sentence, apologetic, full of regret and something else – something like hope.

“Yeah, you did.” She said, sounding thoughtful. “How are you, Frank?” her voice sounds like she wanted to say something else.

I care about you. I missed you. I was worried.

“I’m, y’know… Tryna get through being normal again. Working and shit.”

“That’s good.” She says pleased, almost happy. “I’m really glad you’re trying.”

“Yeah yeah yeah, me too. How about you? You doing ok?”

Karen stays quiet for a few seconds, maybe trying to come up with an answer.

“I don’t know.”

Frank’s heart sinks, burning with the desire of doing something to make her feel better.

“Ok. If you need anything, know you can call this number.”

“Sure.” She sound amused. “Pete Castiglione, local bartender, occasional psychologist.”

She knew.

Sarah is my family.

Frank’s body froze, filled with warm with the realization that she’d looked for him. Karen Page raced after the truth, nothing new to that, but this time – this time was different. Karen Page didn’t like the thought of losing him, and he didn’t know what to do with that information.

That woman never stopped amazing him. She cared about him deeply, he knew that now, and his stomach dropped to his feet, hand sweating, even the googly eyes appeared. Like a goddamn teenager.

Listen to me. Listen… I’m only gonna say this once. So is Karen.

“I’m a multitask kinda guy.” He says in a raspy voice. “Good talking to you, Karen.”

“That’s it?”

His hearts stops for the millionth time during that talk.

“What you mean?”

“You call me after what- three weeks playing dead, and don’t even offer a cup of coffee?”

It’s really good to see you.

“How rude of me, heh?” he lets a breathy laugh. “I’m sorry ma’am, would you like to get a cupa coffee with this lonely ghost here?”

You have to do whatever it takes to take care of the people you love.

“I’d like that, sir.”

I don’t have a war to fight.