IV.
"Whimper."
"Frankie?" His mother's voice is concerned, a little tinny over the phone line.
"I'm sorry, Mom," Frank says. His head drops back against the couch cushion. It's not comfortable, but he can't manage to hold himself upright any longer today.
"For what, honey?"
"I don't know," Frank says. "Everything. God, Mom. I don't know what I did, but whatever it is, I'm sorry. I take it back. I promise I'll never do it again. Just undo the curse. I've learned my lesson."
"Rough day at work?" She's laughing at him, substantially more than he deserves, Frank thinks.
"It's not funny, Mom." Frank knows he's whining. He would be ashamed... if it weren't for the fact that he totally deserves to whine to his mother today. After an hour spent cleaning grape jelly from three different pairs of Chloe's shoes, all he wanted to do was make a nice Alfredo sauce for dinner. But he sent Gerard to the store and waited for three hours only to have him come back with five gallons of blue paint. And no butter.
"It sort of is, sweetheart."
"You're a mean, horrible woman. Please make it better." Everything hurts, and he doesn't even know why. He's just so tired.
"Have you put that sweet little girl to bed?" Linda asks and Frank growls.
"No. No, I've put a wretched hellspawn to bed. I have no idea what happened to the sweet little girl, but she was not here today. Can you make her come back?"
"Honey," Linda sighs. "I'm sure it wasn't that bad. And even if it was, everything will look better after a good night's sleep. I'm sure Chloe will be back to adorable in the morning. But you're off the clock now, right?"
"Yeah."
"Okay, then. Listen to your mother. Take a bath. With bubbles."
"Bubble bath." This is not the help Frank was looking for.
"Don't use that tone with me, Frank Iero. Which one of us survived raising you? Bubble bath, tea, music."
**
Frank feels a little stupid. A little stupid, but a hell of a lot more relaxed already and he's only just sunk down into the water beneath the churning whitecaps of soap. There's candle light flickering, vanilla scented ones, lit and lined up on the counter. He's got no idea why Gerard had them. A remnant from his marriage - a piece of Lisette he couldn't quite throw away - or just something to light when the power goes out. Frank supposes it doesn't really matter tonight, not when the smell reminds him of his mother's kitchen and the pulsing of the bathtub jets against his back is like his entire body is melting… like it's unnecessary.
It's been so long since he's managed more than a ten minute shower, stumbling blearily under the water so he's awake enough to cook breakfast. This is an experience. The only thing that could make it better, Frank thinks, the thing a bath like this is made for, is someone else's skin against his.
He can barely remember the last time he went out, maybe the third week, maybe the fourth. Somewhere dark and loud with the press of sweaty bodies in the crowd, but he didn't go home with anyone, couldn't bring anyone back to Gerard's. Soon enough, the appeal of pressing or being pressed against a wall for a few minutes, intense as they were, lost out to the possibility of a solid eight hours of sleep after chasing Chloe.
Tonight he wishes he had the energy, he can feel it itching under his skin, the urge to be out of control, to be irresponsible. To be something other than what he's become. If he only could move.
