#The Guarantor | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

downwiththeficness · 2 years ago

Text

The Guarantor-Chapter 37

Summary: Frankie went to work every day knowing that there would be an end. A deadline. Reconnecting with her adoptive father, Godric, throws that deadline into question. Teaming up with Godric’s child, Eric, obliterates it entirely. With an uncertain future ahead, Frankie has to learn if she can trust the people around her, let alone herself. Eric Northman/Bisexual!Fem!OC

Word Count: ~1,900

Warnings: None

Taglist: @mousee555

A/N: This fic is explicit for canon-compliant blood, gore, violence, and sex. As such, it is intended for an adult audience, only. Anyone under the age of 18 should not interact with this work. I do not consent to reposting this work to other platforms. Reblog only to Tumblr.

Start from the Beginning Previous Chapter

Read on AO3 Masterlist

Frankie stood before a door, trying to make herself knock. The door was unassuming—white, with a golden knocker and black scuffs near the bottom that suggested it had been kicked open a time or two. There was nothing scary about this door. Nothing at all. And yet, her hand hovered a few inches from the paneling.

“You don’t have to do this,” Eric prompted from his place near the stairwell.

This was the first thing they’d ever argued about, really argued about. Eric didn’t see the point in bringing up the past and Frankie couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t confront it. It took a lot of compromise, but Eric eventually agreed to let her go in alone—only if he was near enough that he could get to her if things went wrong.

Frankie’s mouth screwed up in determination, “I got it.”

She knocked a bit too hard and a bit too loudly, but she knocked. Frankie shifted on her feet as she waited for someone to answer, not sure if she was ready to face the person on the other side.

The door opened, revealing a man in his sixties with a receding hairline and a face that looked dour even when he was smiling politely.

“Can I help you?”

“Are you Romero Vitaly?” she asked, hoping that she looked as non-threatening as possible.

She didn’t know why she asked him that question. Frankie already knew who he was, had already done the legwork of confirming he lived in this exact apartment.

He hesitated, “How do you know that name?”

Romero had taken on a pseudonym after he’d faked his death. He had a fake social security number, birth certificate, even a fake high school diploma. What he couldn’t fake were his fingerprints, which was how Masha was able to find him in the first place. The single arrest for disorderly conduct inadvertently set the course for his daughter’s life.

Feeling both relieved and annoyed that he thought she was a stranger, Frankie asked, “Can I come in? I’d like to speak with you about something.”

Romero’s eyes widened as he leaned away, “I don’t think that’s a good idea. We can talk here, if you don’t mind.”

To Frankie’s right, Eric straightened. He’d walked her through this exact scenario a few hours before, told her exactly what to do to get inside the apartment. Lock eyes with him, think the thought she wanted him to think, push that thought into his mind.

In other words: Glamour the motherfucker.

Moving closer, Frankie looked Romero in the eye, focusing her gaze on the honey brown of his irises. Let her in, she thought at him, she’s harmless.

She’s harmless.

Frankie thought those words at him, used her mind to push them at Romero. She could tell when it started to take effect. Romero’s face relaxed, his mouth open and his eyes far away. The pressure between them that kept their minds separate faded to nothing more than a light mist. Frankie waded through it with a singular purpose.

She’s harmless. Let her in.

“Please, come in,” Romero said in monotone.

Frankie smiled as she felt the barrier between herself and the door fall away, “Thank you.”

The apartment smelled of alcohol and decades old smoke. Frankie was met first with a living room that was separated from the kitchen by a bar top. The furniture was evidently second-hand—worn and scuffed with time. Romero led her to an armchair where she sat, crossing her legs.

Taking his own seat on the sofa, Romero appeared to come out of the fog she’d created, “Why are you here?”

She smiled softly, “You don’t recognize me?”

Romero shook his head, “I’m sorry. Should I?”

Frankie licked her lips, saying, “My name is Francesca Meek. I am your daughter.”

He blinked at her, saying nothing for a long time. Frankie could hear his heart beating fast in his chest, could sense the rise of his anxiety. She let him think about it, watching him as he grappled with this new information.

“You’re lying.”

Frankie dipped her head, knowing that he might not believe her, “I know this is hard to understand, but I survived the fall from the bridge. I was taken in by someone who loved me very much. I had a good life with them.”

Romero shook his head, “This can’t be true.”

“It is,” she replied, “I’d refer you to Anton, but he’s dead. You know that, already don’t you?”

He was still shaking his head, muttering to himself that he didn’t believe it. His hands rubbed against each other, calloused knuckles providing dry friction.

Frankie leaned forward, catching his eye, “When you faked your death, Anton came looking for me. I worked your contract for five years, until I found a way out.”

Romero’s mouth hung open in shock, “I didn’t know...I thought you were dead.”

“I know,” Frankie said in a rough voice, “I know you didn’t mean for me to take on your burden.”

He sputtered, visibly looking for something to say, “I—I heard—heard Anton died.”

“Yes, that’s true,” her tone was uncharacteristically patient.

“A man,” Romero continued, “A man called Andrei came to see me. He said there was new head of the family, but I didn’t have to worry about it. My contract was taken care of.”

Frankie nodded, “Yes, I’m sure Andrei was speaking on behalf of Masha.”

“Who?”

“Anton’s daughter,” she clarified, “She made a point of keeping the fact that you were still alive a secret.”

His hands turned over, palms facing up in supplication, “I had no idea.”

She wanted to reach out to him, to lay a hand on his arm. She didn’t, “I know.” Then, “I came here to tell you that Masha is also dead. So is Yuri, Anton’s son. There’s no one to call in the debt you owe.”

The relief Romero felt was palpable. His shoulders and head dropped a few inches along with an audible exhale. Frankie watched him with interest, wondering if she looked the exact same way when she walked up the stairs to the house with Godric that first night in Louisiana.

“I didn’t just come here, tonight, to tell you that,” Frankie said, “I want to know why you did it?”

Romero looked up, “Why I did what?”

“Why you faked your death,” Frankie clarified.

It was a question she’d had for many years, a question she never thought she’d ever get answered. Now, sitting in this little apartment filled with stale air, Frankie was determined to find out.

His spine straightened, “I couldn’t do it, anymore.”

“Couldn’t do what?”

“Couldn’t work for him,” Romero’s voice was small as worked through is explanation, “I couldn’t go day in and day out, doing the same thing over and over, with no end in sight.”

She cocked her head to the side, “There was an end date on the contract.”

He cast her a sardonic look, “You know that’s not how it works.”

Frankie agreed with him silently.

Eyes in the middle distance, Romero continued, “I knew it… I knew I would never get out. I knew that my life would be lived as a Morozoc lackey until the day I died.” He paused, drawing in a shuddering breath, “and, I couldn’t do it.”

Frankie understood—God help her, but she understood. Steadying herself, she dug deep and went for the only other unanswered question between them.

“I guess that leaves just one final question,” she said, “Why did you throw me from the bridge?”

It was the central question of her life, the pin on which her entire existence spun. Romero seemed to struggle with it, his hands shaking where they were folded in his lap.

“There was something...wrong with you.”

She frowned, “Wrong?”

“Yes,” he said, his words coming quickly, “it was the way you looked at me, as if you could read my every thought. You stopped crying after Susan left—your mom, I mean. You stopped crying and you would just look at me.” He sniffed, “I couldn’t get away from your eyes.”

He stood and made his way over to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of dark liquor and bringing it back to the sofa. Sitting, he pulled the top free and took a huge gulp. The smell of alcohol wafted towards her.

Hissing, Romero croaked, “Your mother used to talk about the Fae, about how they sometimes switched human children for one of their own. I thought it was just stories, but when she left and it was just you and me...I couldn’t get away from you.” He drew in a breath that caught in his throat, “I was consumed by the knowledge that you weren’t mine, that you’d been switched at birth.”

She didn’t believe in faerie tales, but she definitely believed in the desperation in Romero’s tone. He reeked with distress and fear.

Frankie struggled to understand what he was saying, “So, your solution was to throw me from a bridge.”

Romero looked up, seeming to have forgotten she was there, “Bridges are the way between one place and another, right?”

“I guess,” Frankie said, caught off guard by the way the conversation was going.

He was looking at her with ferocity in his eyes, “I thought that I could give you back, and they would send my daughter to me in return. Because you weren’t mine.”

She drew back, anger rising unexpectedly, “You’re right. I’m not your daughter. Maybe I never was. My father, the man who raised me, is dead. And, as much as I want my vengeance for what you did to me, I can only thank you.” Frankie paused, letting what she’d said wash over him, “Thank you for throwing me off that bridge. Thank you for abandoning me. My life has sometimes been hard, but I was loved—I am loved.”

Romero was quiet, his face closed off.

Frankie continued, “I don’t know what I expected, coming here, but I wanted you to know that I lived. I survived the fall, I survived paying your debt, I survived all the consequences of your bad decisions. I survived then, and I will survive for a long time, far longer than you will.”

She flexed the soft palate of her mouth, letting her fangs drop down. Flashing them at Romero, Frankie felt no small amount of satisfaction for the way he jerked into the back of the couch, eyes wide. She could smell the way his fear reached new heights and it was tantalizing.

“I’m not going to kill you,” Frankie said, drawing her fangs back behind her teeth, “But, I wanted you to know what became of me after all these years.”

Tears dripped down Romero’s face as he sobbed, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Frankie peered at him quizzically, then nodded, “Apology accepted. I’ll let you get back to your evening.”

He flinched as she stood, which was satisfying. Frankie moved at a human pace, waving a farewell as she left the apartment. She could hear him locking the deadbolt behind her, the silence cut through with intermittent sobs.

Eric was waiting for her, phone in hand. He pocketed it and held out his hand to her expectantly. Frankie took it, walking with him down the stairwell and out into the night air. As she stepped onto the sidewalk, Frankie looked up to the sky. The stars were shining beatifically, dotting an arm of the galaxy and they moved through space. These were the same stars that Godric beheld before he died, possibly the same stars she would look up to as she met a similar fate.

Stalling at the corner, Frankie breathed deeply, catching a faint scent of roses, “What do I do now?”

#The Guarantor #True blood #Eric Northman #vampires #AU

7 notes · View notes