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She was twelve when she helped her best friend steal. It was a mix of don’t be a coward and live a little and they were twelve, what the hell did they know about living to begin with? She stands at the end of the corridor as Teresa stuffs two cans of coke underneath her shirt and they walk out together, and Laurel already has the feeling this was doomed from the start.
When the owner tells them to stop Teresa drops the cans and runs, and Laurel is Laurel- she stays behind and pays for them and apologizes until she gets rid of the guilt. Their parents find out and she’s not allowed to leave the house for two weeks, and that’s the first time she realizes you don’t really need to commit the crime to be a part of it.
She looks at Sam’s body and wonders how many cans of coke she’ll have to pay for to get rid of the sickness in her stomach. She laughs. She’s twelve again.
-
Here is the truth: it’s a crush and nothing more, and it will never be anything more, and she’s confused but maybe that’s what she needs to hold on to.
She drives to his house on a Wednesday night, and it’s 5 am and they have a case and she should be studying, or making excessive amounts of coffee or kissing Kahn or sleeping, sleeping- that would be nice. Instead, she parks her car and bangs on the door three times, and then remembers there’s a bell.
He greets her in boxer shorts with messy hair and sleep-filled eyes and she’s so, so tired and so, so angry, because she has a feeling she’s about to set her whole world on fire.
“Couldn’t wait?” a wicked smile and her throat tightens and she can’t breathe right and- “Come in.”
“I’m fine,” she strains out, and Frank frowns, and she doesn’t want to do this- just a crush, fight your instincts, fight them- “I just came here to tell you that I’m not coming here again.”
He shakes his head slowly, and “Was I supposed to understand that?”
“I just,” she breathes faster and stiffer and heavier and she has to go, she has to go now “I’m sorry, I can’t, I thought I could but I’m cheating and that’s not me, that has never been me and I can’t do that to Kahn, I’m not that girl, I’m not-“
Frank smiles, “You’re not like me.”
The silence drags out in waves of cold, cold air, and she nods. Frank shuts the door harder than he means to and she feels worse than she means to, but she killed a man two days ago and she deserves it, I deserve it, and she leaves.
-
She’s falling and she can’t stop and she hits the floor- drops down, fragile bones- and the wooden boards beneath crack and push back against her. There are footsteps and screams and breakdowns and she doesn’t understand why she’s not moving- let me go, I can’t scream- and then her hands are relentless on smooth, clean skin and there is no air, no air and adrenaline is pumping through and she’s, she’s- there is air, and she is dead.
She’s out of bed and in the shower in 2 minutes and she washes the blood off her face and hands and chest and legs, and her eyes, her eyes see everything but reality. The woods surround her and she cries, and Sam’s dead, he’s dead, I killed him, I killed him, I killed him.
She goes into church the next day. There is a painting on a wall of a dying man, and his face is one of suffering, and everyone grieves, and she runs out and hurls on the stairs leading up to God. She wonders when she’ll ever feel worthy of life again- I took a life, I killed a man, I killed him
-
“You’re late,” and he doesn’t mean anything by it, and he used to. Laurel feels pain stich itself onto her skin and what can she say, really? I was trying to throw away my sins.
“I know, I’m sorry-“
“Annalise is waiting,” he grabs the file and heads out the door, and she feels like maybe she can only hurt- everyone and everything and no, no no no no-
(For some reason, she waited for you- and that cuts into her like the sight of Sam on twigs and leafs, and dirt and graves.)
-
“You look horrible,” and Laurel laughs, because what else should she expect from Connor Walsh. She gives him half a smile and half a laugh, and she can only give him half because she isn’t even whole herself. “You know,” he sits next to her on the couch and “I haven’t been sleeping, either.”
“I’ve-“
“Don’t bother,” he waves her off, “We’re not close enough for you to lie for my sake. Just either take a pill or start screwing him again, because otherwise you’ll turn into a breathing train wreck.”
(It doesn’t take a genius to know he isn’t talking about Kahn, and Laurel is relieved, because she’s far from coherent these days.)
“I can’t cheat anymore.”
“So, break up with Kahn.”
“I can’t do that either.”
Connor laughs loudly, and Laurel winces in flashbacks of recent events- “You think he’s gonna like you after he realizes you helped chop a man to pieces?” he grins and Laurel’s head is spinning- not so loud, we’ll get caught, I’ll get caught- “Frank there, he’s enough of a screw up to get you through that.” He sips his coffee and doesn’t break eye contact, and Laurel feels feverish. “Although, if you do say something, I’m gonna have to kill you.”
He laughs even louder than before and disappears into the corridor and Laurel shakes and shakes and shakes and she knows he won’t, but part of her wants him to.
(Kill me, kill me, kill me- she screams into empty walls and- Please.)
-
“Thought you weren’t coming back,” he’s in a white tee and gray sweats and she feels so, so far away, come to me, be with me-
“I wasn’t,” she slurs, and the whisky bottle in her hand must have given her away by now, “But here I am,” and she giggles stupidly and she knows whisky is his favorite drink, and maybe that means she’s his favorite, but all their 4 am secrets won’t erase the panic inside of her.
“You’re drunk,” he pulls her in and shuts the door and she goes for his belt, and the bottle may have fallen and shattered- who cares, it’s poison, who cares- but she smiles sweetly and kisses his soft, soft lips and his beautiful, beautiful neck-
“Laurel,” his voice is gruff and pained and, “Stop it, Laurel.”
“No, No, I want to,” she lowers his zipper and sinks to her knees but he hauls her up and over his shoulder and she yelps and slaps his back and “Fuck you, let me down-“
(he does, roughly, on the couch-)
“You listen to me,” he’s angry and she can’t stop smiling, and whisky is still burning down her throat, or maybe that’s just the sight of him- you, I want you, let me have you- “If you want to break us off, fine. If you want to fuck him, fine. If you want to be with him, fine, but make up your goddamn mind or I swear to God,” she loves him angry and why, why do I destroy you, “Brown girls and their fucking confused little minds, grow into the real world for once.”
“No no no, you don’t understand,” she shakes her head repeatedly and forcefully and he doesn’t understand, “You’re like, like- like chocolate, yeah, chocolate, and I love chocolate, but it’s bad,” she whispers, and it’s 5 am, but still a secret, “so, so bad and that’s how I want you- you don’t understand, I want you, because I love chocolate,” and she’s crying now because his eyes are softening and she loves him, she loves him so much and this is not a crush, this is not a crush, “And-“
“Stop,” he closes his eyes and she sinks into the couch, and falls asleep the second after. He crashes on the ground next to her and when the sun comes up she pretends she doesn’t remember, but they both know the truth. He kisses her like it’s a promise and she’s afraid to break it and break him and break this, but he kisses her again, and again- and maybe it’s okay to break, she tells herself. Maybe it’s okay.
“I’m sorry,” she says, and Frank forgives her.
(When I killed him your name was on my lips, and don’t leave me now, please. I just got you back.)
-
“Come on,” his jacket is over his shoulders and he’s opening the door, “I’m taking you to dinner.”
“Frank,”
“Hurry, princess,” he grins, “reservations don’t wait forever-“
“Frank,” firm, steady. “Is this a date?”
(He kisses down her neck and leaves bruises on her shoulder that will only fade days later and she arches her back, moans desperately, and it’s the most rewarding sound he’s heard in years. He pushes inside slowly, controlled, stealing pleasure from the heated body beneath his hands but he looks- deep, deep- into her eyes, and it’s green and blue and the ocean on a thunderstorm, and she comes and comes and comes, and he whispers into her ear- it’s me, this is me- and she clings to him so as not to fall, but he’d never let her.)
“You do realize I’ve never screwed a student more than twice before, right?” Frank is frowning and smiling and it’s such, such a good look on him. “And we, this, this isn’t screwing. So stop asking questions and-“ he points at the door- “Dinner is waiting.”
She looks down and smiles, and she’s 11 years old with her first crush all over again (this is a crush, and far from it). She passes by him and kisses him on the cheek, and Frank grins and pats her ass as she yelps out of pure joy.
(For a moment, she believes in good again.)
-
two weeks: her world crumbles
She sees Wes and Annalise and she looks twice- she sees them, she sees them. She freezes and moves, runs towards the door and Wes chases after her- “Laurel, Laurel!”
“You told her!” she screams accusingly- “You fucking told her Wes-“
“She already knew!” he yells back and shuts the door abruptly, but the porch won’t conceal their pleas. “She saw us Laurel, she saw me!”
She shakes her head uncontrollably “No, she couldn’t have-“
“She did,” he says, determined, defeated. “She did.”
Tears run through her cheeks, “Why didn’t she, I mean,”
“I don’t know.” He’s just as helpless as her and she lets him hold her because, because. “It’ll be alright. Don’t tell anyone. It’ll be alright.”
She falls to the ground and Annalise is at the door, and Laurel looks, and looks again. “Are you alright, Miss Castillo?” and the only acceptable answer is-
“Yes,” I will keep your secret, and ours.
“Good,” Annalise turns to Wes, “Get your asses back in the room, let’s solve this case.”
They both go, and Laurel is still, still- (We killed a man we killed a man we killed-)
(How do we get away with murder?)
-
She drives to his apartment because she needs to forget this day and this night and these weeks, and it’s Frank, and he’ll make her forget. Her feet and her heart get warmer and she opens the door and- he’s sitting.
“Hey,” his head turns, but he remains still. “Is something wrong?”
He looks. Stares and looks. And stares, and- “Yes.”
And – blood and (I was just protecting her) – “You know.” Her voice breaks but he understands and he knows, and she walks and sits next to him. They stare at the same spot on the carpet and “Ask.”
“Was it you?”
“No,” yes, in a way “But I reacted.”
Frank nods and laughs and what else is he supposed to do, fuck- “Let’s go to bed.”
“No-“
“Yes,” Frank raises his voice and pulls her up, and there’s a moment where it feels like he’ll never let her go. “You’re going to bed with me, and you’re staying with me, and I will know what to tell you tomorrow.” For now, kiss me.
Jeans and boots and shoes and shirts -ground- and between frantic lips and teeth- “You’ve had nightmares, every night-“
“I thought it was you, on that ground-“ panting and there are nail marks on his back, “It couldn’t be you, it couldn’t-“
“I’m here,” his lips are on her neck and her body on his, “Don’t think. I’m here.”
(I’m sorry. You’re going to bed with a murderer.)