A/N: Alrighty, I lied. I can squeeze one more chapter outta this binge for y'all [if anyone's reading, even] before I have like... two sentences of the next chapter so

And twenty-four-seven it was. That staff never left my side-- hell, it hardly left my grasp. It became somewhat of a fidget-stopper for me. Between my hands being busy with the staff, tossing it back and forth, spinning it and stuff, y'know, and my jaw being busy with my bubblegum addiction -- then there was my brain, busy with law-office... things.... and me overall as a person, occupied with my more frequented nightly escapades around town...

Yeah, I was busy.

Frankie and I, though? We'd fallen into a nice routine of him just... permanently inhabiting my couch while I flitted between work, home, and Phantom-ing. I woke up, and there he was, on the couch. Leave for work with a faint 'bye Frankie', and when I return, he's still there. He helps me prepare for going out as Phantom and always patches me up when I get back from a particularly rough-ass night.

I had accidentally started telling Frank I love him, though, when I leave for work. He's my friend -- yes, I qualify him as my friend, now -- and I enjoy his existence. Romantic or not, I love him and care for his, well... existence.

Of course, I did make sure he was alright with it, and he eventually got used to it. He never says it back, though, and I don't expect him to. I also expected him to be gone one'a these times when I get back, either from work or... work. But nope. He was always there. On my couch. Even though I've specifically told him that he can move into the guest bedroom, but he refuses.

Pfftt. Men...

(Cue the eyeroll.)

I, sadly, allowed myself to fall into a nice, comfortable routine, and most everything in my life seemed... well, I s'pose.

That was a bad idea.

I should've known that the universe was winding up to throw a knuckleball at me, since my life wasn't as terrible as it could've been at the moment. Regression towards the mean, people. Plus it's just what always happens to me. My life gets nice a fairy-tale perfect and bam! Bredon and I break up, or bam! Matt moves onto someone else.

Or, y'know, BAM! I wake up with a Goddamn fucking heart attack because I walk out into my kitchen and the TV is off and the couch is empty!

It took me a moment to register that fact. For the past couple... weeks? months? How fucking long has is been, Jesus Christ... Anyway, for the past couple whatevers, I wake up -- or fall back through the fire escape -- and Frank is watching TV with a dog, cat, or both on his lap while a pot of black coffee brews.

My apartment right now? Void of all fucking life -- all the animals are asleep yet -- and it's terrifying and quiet. The silence is deafening. I can hear it even through my tinnitus and I fucking hate it.

After a couple laps around the apartment to see if there was a note anywhere -- there wasn't -- I stopped in the middle of the living room, hands tangled in my hair as I began hyperventilating. Panicking. Panicking! I was fucking panicking, oh my God what if someone got him? What if he got sick'a me and left-- well, if he did that, I'd be totally understanding about it because I'm a fucking lunatic but what if someone got him!? I've made... so many fucking enemies over the years, someone's gotta know where I live and if they got here and saw Frankie instead'a me they might'a killed him or kidnapped him and are going to use him as a hostage to ransom for money or my identity or to kill me--

Deep breaths, asshole. Deep breaths-- Oh God! How'd they've found me?! No one knows who Phantom's actual identity is except Frank and--

Matt.

Oh no... I groaned, yanked at my hair a little and began pacing again. What if someone caught Satan? Took of his mask, found out his actual identity, started interrogating him. That blind asshole can take care'a himself, but I don't think he cares enough about my existence to keep my secret... well, a secret. He'd probably give me up the first chance he gets--

Ugh, who'm I kidding, Matt would rather die than betray a friend.

Am I even his friend...?

Yeah, I think so...

I stopped again, this time near my front door. I'll just... I'll just take a nice, calming, relaxing shower, go to work, ask Matt... start snooping, get some answers and shit, and come back and Frank will be back. He probably just... went back to his own apartment for some soup, or something.

Yeah...

Yeah, he's fine.

He'll be back by the time I get back from work.

*.*.*.*.*.*

Mayday! It's eight at night and that handsome asshole still isn't back! I got him killed. He's dead. Fuck my life. I killed the one nice man left in Hell's Kitchen and I never even learned the asshole's last name. Or his story. Like... why the hell is he so quiet? Why's he like animals so much? Why's he so battered and bruised all the damn time? What's with him and his stupid coffee addiction? Why's he still on my couch?

No one will know, because the bastard is dead.

And the reason behind that is me. Me. I got too attached. I didn't kick him out for his own safety, be like, 'yo get the fuck outta my hair.' Odds are he would'a just laughed and stayed anyway, but still. At least I'd've tried to save his stupid ass.

I wrapped my hands through my hair and yanked, again, flopping down on Frank's vacated couch. What to do, what to do, what to fucking do-- what does one do when a constant in your life is suddenly gone? Mope? Fix it? No idea. I usually just drink until the hole in my heart is filled, or, or I go get another pet. How many do I even have now, anyway?

Lemme see... fifteen...three... Cassian... Buck... Frank... Chester...

Eighteen? Give 'er take a couple. I could do with another one, anyway, I think.

God, my chest hurts... what is this?

What the shit is wrong with me? Bekah, I swear to fucking God if you you don't quit moping about the ache in your wimpy-ass chest...

I stood back up with a heavy sigh and placed my hands on my hips, looking around my strangely-tidy apartment. How dare that asshole come in here, be hella nice to me, clean my apartment, care for my pets and then leave.

What a jerk...

Legit, though... this place has never looked cleaner. The couches are straighter than before, coffee table tidied. I'm about.... Ninety-percent sure he vacuumed... my random-assed file stacks are straighter and a tad more organized -- still all over the place, but the stacks are more against the wall. The cats are still loafed-out on the top of them, regarding me with looks of both curiosity and content, but the stacks aren't really at risk of tipping over anymore.

I feel like even the animals know something is wrong, that someone is missing. He wasn't even here for that long and they got that attached to him that quic--

Hell, I got that attached that quickly!

Am I honestly that starved for human contact that I'm that fixed on keeping almost a total stranger in my life, and my house just for the sole sake of having someone there? He could kill me in my sle-- I don't sleep. Never mind.... Keeping him here could put my animals in danger, all my furry, four-leggers... God, I'd never forgive myself if that happened....

I stopped and looked around, not even noticing I'd started pacing to begin with.

What the hell was I doing? I literally just said he's a total fucking stranger. Why am I panicking so much, my God. I shook off my moment of pure terror and went to settling in for the night; no Phantoming for me right now. I was too fuckin' lazy.

Hell's Kitchen will still be full of crime tomorrow night. One night off won't kill them.

It might kill some people, but...

Sounds like a them-problem in my opinion.

Sweats and a sports bra. Fuzzy red flannel booties. GTA V till all hours of the night. Like clockwork I get home from work to an empty -- human-empty -- apartment, and then a wave of disappointment hits. Which then, in turn, makes me too... blach to go stab people into next Thursday.

It really wasn't a good routine. It was making me lethargic, feeling unhealthy. So after three days of loafing around my apartment, I finally decided to force myself to get off my lazy ass and go do something with my life.

So what was it, now? A Wednesday? Friday? I dunno, let's just assume that's it's a Thursday night right now, almost midnight, and I'm decked out in my all black outfit, skull bandana across my mouth and a bamboo staff in my hand.

I'm leaving the other weapons home, save for a knife or two as a contingency plan. Bamboo is good enough for now.

Anyway, I've literally got my fucking hand on the goddamn door handle when there's a thump and the awful, uncoordinated clashing sound of smashed piano keys-- the soprano end, the end closest to the fire escape.

It kind of pissed me off, honestly, because anyone with a brain knows that haphazardly smashing the keys is not at all good for a piano.

But that wasn't important right now.

Quick as a wink, I spun around to face the intruder, my staff doing an involuntary twirl in my hand as I went into a coiled stance. However, a quick survey of the current silhouettes of my house said that there was a new... thing over by the window that wasn't there before.

Even worse, the dogs were over by the lump, too. Cassian and Bucky were licking and pawing at the mass, and Frank was whining. I untensed and rolled my eyes, clicking on the nearest lamp. Obviously if my ferocious guard dogs -- note the sarcasm -- were responding like that, the threat was nonexistent.

The lump was chuckling. Throaty, garbled, pained chuckling through what sounded like a mouthful of blood, "Hey, boys."

My heart jumped. That voice. That fucking voice. I knew that fucking voice! What the actual and entire flying fuck!?!

I dropped my staff, ripped off my mask and started throwing my various weaponry all around my living room as I parkoured over the couches to get to the silhouette by the window. I almost had the nerve to add he extra-dramatic flare of sliding to my knees next to the crumpled figure of Frank but now was not the time to be joking around.

In the broken moonlight filtering through the window, he looked absolutely terrible. His face was barely recognizable beneath all the blood and bruises -- more bruises than he usually had. It looked as if someone had taken a tire iron to his beautifully broken face.

His shirt was, I think, supposed to be grey and long sleeved. But at the moment what was left of the shirt was more a dark magenta colour than anything else. The sleeves were shredded, ripped through with what I assumed were bullet holes and God knows what else.

My stomach dropped when I noticed his eyes fluttering shut. He was losing blood, and possibly losing consciousness. Who knows what was going on internally with the poor bastard, too. He needed blood and needed major fucking surgery right fucking now Jesus fucking Christ what the fuck--

He needed to go to a fucking hospital and see a motherfucking doctor.

And all he has is me so I'll have to do.

A/N: Allllll of the stress