A/N: I'm being stabbed in the eyeball by something hold on

Okay, all better

I was not fine. He was right. I got my ass kicked. Badly. And I wasn't just all kicked to hell and back by criminals, either. The fuckin' Devil of Hell's Kitchen? Yeah, he decided to start gettin' in my way, too, and he kicked me in the Goddamn knee; so now that was acting up as bad as ever.

I think the motherfucker dislocated it.

Due to my prior injuries, I'd been gone for quite sometime and the criminals of Hell's Kitchen believed Phantom to be good and dead, though, so that little fact gave me a bit of an upper hand; they thought they were seeing a legit ghost.

But, all hands aside, it was seven dudes against one rusty-skilled ghost -- toss the Devil into that mix? The Devil who was hellbent on protecting the guys I was trying to behead? Yeah. I was nice 'n bruised 'n busted up when I shakily flopped through the fire escape the next morning. Couple'a good cuts and scrapes here 'n there -- stitching required, sadly -- but luckily I avoided all gunshots tonight.

Frank wasn't anywhere in sight when I adjusted myself and pulled myself up from the floor. I heard a thwumph when I locked the front door, though, and when I turned back to face the rest of the living room? Frankie was on the couch. He gave me a quick once-over, coupled with a gentle, "Told you."

I scoffed at him best I could, making a face, "Ha-ha, very funny, Frankie."

I think he could tell I was in pain, though, because his slightly-mocking façade diminished and he stood from the couch, "Come here."

Was he more beat up than before? His bruises looked fresher, a couple new cuts on his face, too. And I found myself asking him, "Are you okay?"

Y'know, instead of asking why he wanted me to go towards him.

"'m fine. You're not."

Indeed I am not. My ribs hurt, my legs hurt, my knee hurt, my shoulders hurt. My hands were bleeding a little from the ripped open skin on my palms because I'm not yet used to gripping onto and swinging my staff that hard.

I smirked softly, to myself, remembering the ghastly crunch of heads when my staff made contact. Frankie was right; bamboo is tough as shit.

Speakin'a Frankie; he's right in front of me, "Your room. Now."

"That's soundin' a bit suggestive, Frankie-boy," I attempted a joke, some humour to lighten to mood. It hurt for me to grin and it hurt for me to exist. Why would I attempt humour when all I want to do is take a warm bath and go to sleep for four years?

That's called a coma. I reminded myself.

"That's not what I meant and you know it," he frowned at me, "Go change. I'm gonna run you a hot bath and after you're stitched up you're gonna go sit in the water."

Now I was a bit concerned, "Um..."

His tone got a bit more... stressed, "You're gonna go change, I'm gonna stitch you up, and you're gonna take a relaxin' nap in the bath."

Y'know... hot... anything sounds kind of good right now, so I chose not to argue with my in-house, coffee-drinking couch potato. So to my room I went, and into my pink-ass booty shorts I changed -- keeping on my bloodied-up sports bra.

"Sit," he pointed to the couch -- his couch, with his free hand. The hand that didn't have a suddenly-acquired threaded needle in it.

I obeyed. Like a trained dog. I just wasn't in the mood to put up a fight anymore, so on the couch I sat. Frank moved to stand behind the couch, "This may smart a bit."

"I have no pain sensing nerves anymore, anyway," I replied dimly, half asleep. Between the pain and the bodily exhaustion, I was less Here than I usually was.

And so I just barely felt the prick of the needle in my neck when he began stitching. Frankie didn't say anything, apparently still sticking to the man-of-few-words thing he had goin' on. I was totally okay with that right now, since I also was just not in the mood do talk.

Stitching went by quick. Quicker and smoother than if I'd've tried to do it myself. The thread snapped off, "Anything else need stitchin'?"

I shook my head, making the 'no.' noise at him.

"Bath."

"Help me off the couch," I whined. I flat out whined for him to pull me to my feet. What was weird, though, was he obliged, allowing me to grab his arm to pull myself up, "Thanks."

So, I shuffled into the bathroom, stripping on my way there, so now there was a trail of clothing down the hall. Frank had gone into the kitchen somewhere, most likely to clean the needle or something. Several pets were trailing him, too, and I swear they like him more than they like me.

Frank stayed true to his strange word and had ran hot water in the tub for me, and really, I could not have been more thankful. I slowly sank into it and fell asleep almost freaking instantly -- the bubbles were tickling my nose, though, so I didn't doze off right away.

I peeked open my eyes a little when there was a clink right by my ear. Frank was walking outta the room by the time I registered what was going on; he'd set a mug of... something by my head.

My first thought was 'ew. coffee.' but upon further inspection, I realized the angry-looking man had made me a cup of freaking hot chocolate, and it brought a small grin to my lips. Turns out Frank was nicer than he looked.

Though I didn't know to what extent. But obviously I knew that already. Big, tough and scary on the outside. Catches runaway puppies, patches up wanted vigilantes and makes hot cocoa on the outside.

Frankie is adorable. God, I love him.

I almost dropped my hot chocolate in the tub.

Did I seriously just say that? It was just an adoration kind of love, I think. Cuz.. Matt. Matt's still handsome and adorable and blind as all shit. Goddamn I hate feelings. 'least Brendon seems to've forgotten about Matt.

Though, I haven't ranted to Brendon about Matt since I got outta college. I think. Like, y'know... too many concussions can make you a little...

Yeah....

*.*.*.*.*.*

So, que to next morning--

Here, let me fill you in on the rest of yesterday; I didn't go to work because I was in pain all over everywhere. There, now you're all nice 'n caught up.

--and I'm trying so very hard to drag myself from the comfort of my bed. But alas, I need to somehow get to work. I nudged Frank -- the dog--

Alright, let's get this outta the way; Frank is the Rottweiler. Frankie is the human.

I shoved Frank off my legs and swung said legs out of bed, sitting... half upright. My right hand had curled around the edge of the bed, my left elbow propped on my knee, hand rubbing the sleep from my... eyes? Face. Rubbing the sleep from my face. Frank went and let himself out of my room, and I cringed at the sound of his teeth hitting the doorknob.

Where the hell these dogs even learn to use doorknobs is beyond my knowledge.

I followed suit, though, standing up so I could head out into the kitchen, eat said kitchen, then get dressed and head over to work. My body, however, had entirely different ideas for me this morning. My right leg just freaking buckled when I tried to walk to the door, and I went sprawling.

Remember when I said the Devil kicked my leg out?

Yeah.

So, here I am trapped on the floor of my room. I just stretched out, laying on my back, staring at the ceiling, trying to not scream out in pain because Goddamn that hurt like a motherfucker. I can't even describe it-- when I walk it feels like molasses, but right now it feels like all my inner tendons are torn to fucking shreds.

I hate to say it, but I feel like I need LifeAlert right now...

And no. I refuse to call out for Frankie to come help me. For all I know he's gone, anyway. Cuz, y'know, remember? He said, like, a day and a half ago that he was going to be 'outta here by daybreak' and all that.

Bucky nosed open the door and trotted inside, cocking his head to the side when he saw me just... laying on the floor, staring at my grody grey ceiling. He thought it was weird, and he barked -- albeit, really loudly and, like, right in my ear -- and came over to start licking my face.

I laughed and shoved him off, "Down, Buck!" God, just cuz I'm on the floor don't mean y'gotta start tryna lick my face off. Jeezes. He opted for nudging his wet nose at my ribs, trying to get me to stand up, "Chill, dude. Unless you wanna help me get up, it'll be a while."

I need to learn to watch what I say and do around these animals. Buck adopted a... look in his eye, a glint that was more mischievous than usual, and then he turned and went back out, leaving me to my own devices on the floor of my room.

There was barking out in the living room -- choroused, when the other two dogs joined in the barking, too -- and I could hear Frank talking to 'em, "'s the matter, boys?" more barking, some light snarling, and I immediately thought, 'Oh God, they're going to tear into Frank.'

But, nope. Buck came back about... two minutes after the barking had stopped, and I heard footsteps with him, "Where are you leadin' me?"

Great. Bucky saw that I was struggling a bunch, and went and dragged Frank in here to help me up.

Welp this is a bit embarrassing. I pushed myself into a sitting position when the door was gently pushed open and Frank stood there, with Bucky sitting nicely at his feet, "What happened?"

"I got kicked... in the knee... by Satan... last night and..." I began shakily, looking back at him over my shoulder. The way that I'd fallen, my feet were facing my bed and so now that I was sitting up I had a nice view of, well... my bed, "And now my leg does... not work."

He moved farther into the room, stopping right behind me -- I felt his presence back there, and it was quite terrifying. Before I could glance up at him and ask him what he was doing, he gently grabbed under my arms, and without word or warning, tugged me to my feet.

I let out a surprised squeak in the process. I mean, he took me off guard. Frankie didn't look like someone who enjoyed kindness, or physical... anything. Just looked like he liked fighting a bulldozer a lot, so I didn't quite expect the help.

To be honest, though, I really should've. He's been nothing but kind to me since I met him. Stopping Buck from going too AWOL, tugging me from a dumpster, forcefully being nice and making me rest. Taking me to that tiny-ass lil' diner. He made me fuckin' hot chocolate last night, stitched up my couple'a cuts and stuck me in the most relaxing bath I've ever had, like damn who the fuck was this dude.

He was a fucking Godsend and it was awesome.

"You alright?" his voice was right next to my ear, my God. I'd zoned out again, obviously, and he apparently seemed a little concerned.

And to be honest, I was a bit concerned, too. My eyes were swimming with black and purple dots, like when the TV loses signal. My head was throbbing with a building tension-headache, and my leg felt ice-fucking-cold, "Yeah, 'm fine."

"Let's find you your walkin' stick," keeping his grip on me, both hands still looped under my shoulders, he led me backwards out into the rest'a my apartment.

I couldn't help but feel he was smirking just a tiny lil' bit back there, at the mention of my staff being a friggin' walking stick, "'s by the door."

It was always by the door. I really only needed it when I left, since I could manage without it when I was here. In my house.

How the hell is he moving with me anyway? I was being basically hostage-dragged through my living room, catching the curious eye of every pet I could see at the moment. They all seemed frozen in time, and it was eery as all hell.

One arm disappeared from holding my shoulder, and returned holding my staff in front of me, "Take it."

I did as I was asked, and as soon as it was in my hold, Frank's immediate presence behind me left, "Y'should keep that on you at all times."

I snorted dismissively at him, "I'll have you know that I've been improving to the point of not needing this--" I waved it at him before setting the end back on the floor, "--twenty-four-seven. So there."

He set his jaw, crossing his arms over his broad chest, "And now that Red's gone and kicked your knee out, you need it twenty-four-seven again. Got it?"

I did a bit of a double take, "Um..." I weighed my options; get on the bad side of this Scary Dude, or carry around a wicked bamboo staff. Given that the Scary Dude could kill me, I'll take my chances with the stick, "Yeah... twenty-four-seven... got it..."

A/N: I think this is where Imma have to stop the binge-updating.

Sorry boyos  :(

At least this'll give yous some time to give some feedback, see if you still like the book 'n where it's goin' 'n stuff 'n such

But yeah... Bekah's day job is working with the Devil of Hell's Kitchen and now they're beating the fuck outta each other at night. 

Good job, guys