Chapter 5

In all the times he hoped for Laurel to come back to Philly and him, Frank never imagined this. He thought, perhaps, Laurel would still love him the way he loved her, that he'd meet Wes's daughter or son, and maybe have a chance to form a family. Because he already loved her child from the moment he learned she was pregnant. It wasn't even a question. He never even had to think about it. His heart just grew to include this unknown being who wasn't even with them yet.

Frank never imagined that child was actually, biologically his, that maybe the only reason he would ever even know she existed was because she was sick, and he may be the only one who could help her.

But it doesn't matter why Laurel came back into his life. Now that she has, Frank refuses to let her go again. He's going to do whatever it takes to ensure he doesn't lose his daughter either.

He parts with Laurel at the hospital, though he wants more—want to continue their discussion, wants to yell at her for doing this to him while knowing he'd never hurt her like this, wants to break down and drop to his knees, tell her how hard these years have been without her and how he can be better, beg her to take him back, give him that chance she so cruelly denied him before.

Instead, he ends up in Bonnie's living room, and she must see immediately how broken he feels because she puts down Mikey for his nap and brings him a glass of bourbon.

"I shouldn't have given her your address," Bonnie spits out, her anger toward Laurel ever present.

Frank takes a drink and shakes his head. "It's good you did," he insists.

"Like hell it was!" she yells. "Look at you! What the hell did she say to you? You know she begged me, said it was important, and why? So, she could kick you back down six years later?"

Bonnie looks ready to go after Laurel, and he hasn't seen Bonnie this angry over her in a while—since not long after she left, when he wouldn't stop talking about her and Bonnie chastised him for sleeping with her while pining after his ex. He stopped mentioning Laurel after that, keeping those thoughts to himself.

But Frank just takes a breath. "I have a daughter," he somehow gets out, the words not as foreign as he thinks they should feel.

Bonnie pauses at that—mid-rant—and takes a moment to process what Frank is telling her though he can tell she's confused.

"I spent that summer after I left town in Mexico with Laurel," he admits. It's something he never actually told her. He didn't ever give her many details about Laurel or his relationship with her. It felt like a betrayal to do so. "When I realized Annalise had sent the hitman after me, I disappeared one night—I didn't tell her, just took off. I was afraid to involve her, afraid she would get hurt."

Bonnie looks stunned to hear this new information. "I didn't know she was pregnant then," Frank continued. "She never told me that, not even when I was begging her to stay—to let me love her and Wes's child."

"Wait. So she obviously knew her child was yours and left anyway?" she asks, before adding, "That little bitch."

"Bon," Frank objects.

"No," she cuts off his argument. "You do not defend her for this. She's done a lot to you, Frank. I get that you loved her but she did not get to do this to you."

"I still love her," Frank says automatically, not really thinking about what he's saying, just speaking the one thing he has always known to be true. He watches Bonnie's look at the admission, sees how she wants to react but doesn't.

"You should be pissed at her, Frank," she says flatly.

And that gets Frank attention. "I am pissed" he asserts louder before recognizing that he can finally say everything that he held back that afternoon with Laurel. "I'm angry and hurt, and I don't understand how she could do this to me. Even if she didn't want to be with me, how could she just take away my child? I want to scream at her and fight to know my daughter. I've lost so much time," he cries, tears he didn't realize were forming starting to fall as the emotions catch up with him. "Laurel won't let me meet her. She's not sure it's the right thing."

Bonnie's anger intensifies, clearly on his side and not Laurel's. "You have legal rights here. And I'm sure we can get a judge to side with you on this. Just because she's a spoiled brat doesn't mean she could make this decision. She cannot keep your child from you. We'll go to court, Frank."

He hears what she's saying, and he knows she's right but Frank can't bring himself to acknowledge any of it right now. It's not where his focus is, it's not what's important, and he shakes his head before blurting out, "She's sick."

Bonnie freezes for a moment as her eyes widen. When she speaks again, her tone softens slightly. "Laurel? What's wrong?"

Frank shakes his head. "Mia," he says before clarifying, "my daughter. Leukemia. That's why Laurel's here. She needs a bone marrow donor, and Laurel's not a match."

Bonnie moves to sit next to him on the couch as he drains his glass and sets it on the coffee table. When she doesn't say anything, just places a comforting hand on his back, he continues, "She needed me to get tested, so we went to the hospital… I don't want to get angry with her right now. She's going through so much already," he explains to Bon, though he can see that Laurel isn't getting much of her sympathy.

"She showed me pictures, told me a little about her. She looks so much like both of us, Bon," he says with a small smile. "She's beautiful and she's sick." He can't keep his emotions in check, not over this—never with anything to do with Laurel. He finds that's especially true now that he knows about his daughter.

"So what? You're going to let Laurel have whatever she wants because Mia is sick?" she asks. "You're going to let her manipulate you all over again."

"Of course not! But what do you expect me to do? Yell at her in the middle of the hospital? What if it was Mikey?" he asks, trying to get Bonnie to see where he's coming from. "Could you handle any anger directed at you?"

Bonnie sighs, and he can see her recognizing his point. "No, of course not," she concedes. "But you have to talk to her, Frank. You deserve to see and know your daughter. She has to know that's the right thing, too."

Frank nods. "I know and I will."

"But you're right. At this moment, the focus should be on your daughter. I can't even imagine what Laurel's been going through." Frank feels a wave of relief at Bonnie's admission, that she understands where he's coming from and has stopped wanting to destroy Laurel, at least for now.

He knows she's not entirely wrong. He needs to talk it out with Laurel. He needs her to understand how angry he is that she just left and robbed him of being part of his daughter's life from the beginning.

"Are you a match?" Bonnie asks softly, her anger subsiding and focus shifting to comfort.

"I should find out in the next few hours."

She reaches for his hand, which he didn't even realize was shaking until she squeezes it tightly. "You will be," she says confidently. "You'll be a match, and your daughter will get better and then you and Laurel will have to figure this out. Let her get through this, but then you fight to know your daughter. Don't let her walk away again.

xxx

It happens fast. Once Frank gets the call that he's a match, he and Laurel are on the next plane to Mexico.

Laurel is tense the entire flight, but Frank can tell that it's not because of him. She's eager to get back to Mia, to do this, and hopefully, set Mia on a path to recovery.

She doesn't say much, and really there's not much to say after she fell into his arms at the news, hugged him close as she cried tears of relief that he was a match and willing to go as soon as possible.

His anger melted a little as he held her, and he doesn't push her on seeing his daughter even after they arrive at the hospital, even though he's yearning to see Mia in person before her procedure. This can't be about him right now though. He remembers what he said to Bonnie, the way they both ultimately agreed that this is not the time.

For now, he holds onto the fact that he may actually be able to help his daughter. That's the most important part here. He hasn't been able to do anything for her in her entire life, but he can do this. It's a start; though, he doesn't think he'll ever be able to make up for not being there.

The procedure doesn't go as smoothly as they had hoped.

For his part, there's no real concern—it's an outpatient procedure and he's out of the hospital bed within a few hours, standing next to a silent, terrified Laurel.

For Mia, it's different. She has to go through high-dose chemotherapy, even more than what her little body can handle. That kills the infected cells and the bone marrow transplant is critical for blood-forming cells to reproduce. Or something like that. He tried to pay attention as the doctor discussed it with them, but all he could really hear was how it was still highly dangerous for Mia. The chemo leaves her extremely weak and that means she's not only susceptible to fatal infections but also to rejecting his bone marrow.

And in the immediate aftermath, the worry is that she is rejecting the transplant. No one is allowed in the room with her—the need to keep it sterile and free from germs is the doctor's priority. So, Laurel stands outside her room, staring at their sedated daughter, not yet awake from the procedure. He knows she's never been very religious—he hasn't either—but he can tell she's silently praying. He sends up a quiet prayer, too, in case someone up there actually cares to hear him out and do something despite how much he doesn't deserve it.

Standing there next to Laurel also gives Frank his first, live look at his little girl. And it takes everything in him not to break down. He wishes there was more he could do. He'd give anything to make her better. He'd gladly die for her without a second thought if he had to.

Her body doesn't accept the transplant right away. It's a lot of back and forth and worry about how this first night will go. Laurel doesn't leave her post outside Mia's room. And Frank doesn't leave her side for more than a few minutes to get her water and a snack from the vending machine. She refuses to drink or eat anything, though; he's not even sure she's really aware of anything that's happening around her.

It's when she starts to sway on her feet and almost passes out that Frank and the doctor force her to rest. Frank leads her to a nearby room, where the nurses allow them to sleep and gives her some water. She takes it this time, and he sits next to her on the bed as her tears start to fall. They don't talk, and he knows there's nothing he can really say to make this better. Mia's stable, for now, but it doesn't mean she'll stay that way. So, they just sit in silence until all of her exhaustion—physical and emotional—takes over, and she falls asleep against his shoulder.

Frank gently lays her on the bed, covering her with a thin sheet before moving to the other small bed in the room.

He can't sleep though, and so he alternates between watching over his daughter and watching over Laurel. Finally, while doing the latter, he starts snoozing lightly, until Laurel's voice cuts through the silence of the room and wakes him almost instantly.

"Frank?" she asks softly, voice tearful, and he turns his head to see through the darkened room that there are tears streaming down her face.

"Laurel," he breathes out, pained by her hurt and finds himself sliding out of his bed and walking over to hers. She makes room for him immediately as if she was seeking his presence.

Laying on his side, facing her, he reaches out to wipe the tears from her cheeks. After several moments of just looking at each other, just being, Frank clears his throat.

His rough voice is quiet but she can hear him clearly.

"She's gonna be okay, Laurel," he promises, hoping he's not lying to her.

The words only cause her frown to deepen. "You don't know that."

But Frank's undeterred by Laurel reluctance to believe Mia will be okay. He's only seen his daughter from afar but he knows. Somehow, he just does. "I do," he asserts. "I do know that. She's strong, Laurel."

The sincerity and clear belief in his own words quiet her for a moment before she allows herself to wonder.

"How do you know that?"

He wishes he could transfer every ounce of confidence he suddenly feels to her but he can't; so instead, he explains it the only way he can. "She's got so much light in her eyes. Even more than you used to have in yours."

She just looks at him, slightly surprised, seemingly studying him and his words and clearly not sure how to respond.

"Frank…" she starts tentatively before trailing off back into silence.

He pauses a moment before slowly reaching out again, careful not to spook her, and pushing some hair behind her ear, fingers lingering against her cheek as his soft voice fills the silence.

"I took that from you," he admits, knowing that everything that happened between them, every lie and eventual truth he told broke her just a little bit more. She trusted him at one point, loved him, and he just threw it all away and left her.

But she doesn't let him take that blame. Her eyes crinkle in confusion and she slowly shakes her head against the pillow.

"You didn't," she tells him, voice soft but firm. He opens his mouth to protest because he knows what he did, but she doesn't let him. "It wasn't you, Frank. Sometimes, you were the only light I had," she confesses.

And though he knows he has a lot of the blame in what happened to them, to her—even if she won't let him take it—the fact that she felt that way about him sets his heart pounding. He wasn't alone with his feelings.

It also makes him hate himself even more because he left her, he ignored her when she needed him the most. He hates himself for it all. He should have gone after her. He should have fixed it. He shouldn't have let that angry last fight in her apartment be the end.

She seems to sense his internal struggle and moves even closer until her chest is pressing softly against him. "You didn't, Frank," she repeats before leaning in and pressing her lips against his.

His reaction is immediate, because she's all he's thought about for six years. It's always been her.

He kisses her back, deepening the kiss and moaning softly as he finally tastes her again. His hand slides around her body and tangles in her hair, keeping her close to him as the passion between them ignites. She grips his shirt, pulling him close, seeking something from him—the comfort he thinks he's also seeking from her. It's all been too much but this is familiar. This is where everything has always felt right to him.

He doesn't know how long they kiss, how long their hands roam, clinging to the familiarity. And they don't say anything more to each other. But eventually they pull apart and Laurel rests her head on his chest as they both drift off back to sleep, knowing they will have a long day ahead of them.

Of course, Frank should have known he'd be alone once morning came.