A/N:

... I can try to make up excuses but like... my only excuse is my life is both fabulous and totally sucky at the same exact fuckin' time and as a result, what little writing abilities I had have flew the coop and not come back

I'm trying to conjure up new ones, though, and it's all because'a yous. Y'all are still reading, and voting, and commenting and adding my books to your reading lists and it's given me a smidge of a spark of hope again that I can hopefully fan into a full fledged forest fire.

In leu of the new season of The Punisher coming out, I am about to update this book about... a lot. Cuz I have a shit ton written that I've apparently been hiding on you for some reason...?? 

Xx Enjoy xX

I am still freakin' laid up! I swear to fucking God it's been, like, nine months since I was last able to go out as Phantom! Acgh! Is this was pregnant ladies feel like?!

As I limped towards my lil' ol' corner kitchen -- I was getting slightly better at moving without my staff -- I got a good glance at the calendar and threw my hands up; seven weeks. Seven weeks. It's only been seven. freaking. weeks. since my layoff started, all because I got freaking shot--!

Deep breaths, Bekah. Deep breaths...

Okay! At least I'm learning to both fight and walk with my bamboo staff stick thing that--

Frank.

Not that it's really any'a my business or anything, but... I wonder what he's been up to since he all but tossed that stick at me and told me it'd be better if I get outta his apartment.

Like I said; none'a my business, but I'm still allowed to wonder.

I found nothing of interest floating about in my kitchen -- having run out of alcohol quite sometime ago, and not being hungry at this precise moment in time -- so I went over to the couch to flop my butt down beside the three dogs -- I'd got another one tehe -- so I could play me some video games.

Yeah, yeah. I know what you're thinking; it's almost two in the morning! Who in their right mind takes a shower, then lays around their apartment playing video games at two in the morning? That's such an absurd idea--blah, blah, blah.

Well, you'll be quick to learn that I'm not in my... "right mind".

And so, half naked -- booty-shorts and a sports bra, calm down -- with damp hair on my head and fuzzy, red plaid booties on my feet, I settle in to wreak havoc upon the city of Los Santos and the other surrounding towns in San Andreas.

About a half hour, maybe, give'er take a lil', there was knocking on my front door. Gruff thumps, made with the side of a fist, not the knuckles. The knocking sounded slightly stressed and pretty persistent.

And, y'know, a really cool thing about my lifestyle that I have here, is that... I don't ever really make friends, ergo, I never get people knocking at my door. Especially at two in the morning.

So, the entire time I was making my way over to the door, picking my way around the sleeping cats that were scattered around my apartment, I was both grumbling about whoever was interrupting my video games, and wondering who the fuck it actually was. After all, I had all of... one total friend, really, and he sure as hell didn't knock like that. Or, well... at all. Brendon just waltzes in like he lives here.

I'd just gotten to the point in my thought process of, 'hey, if it's a murderer out for my pretty little head, I'm doomed.' when I'd opened the door. When I saw the person in the hall, I let out a petrified squeak and quickly swung the door back shut -- almost to the point of me slamming it.

And then, I grimaced and slowly opened it back up, "Sorry... that was rude. Y'jus' surprised me."

Frankie looked... skittish. He was looking both ways up and down the hall. Repeatedly. And was, as per usual, wearing all black, "Lemme in?"

I jumped, wedged up until this point in time in a state of confusion and awe, "Oh! Sorry!" I stepped aside and ushered him inside, "So, uh... what brings you here...?"

When I'd told him my apartment number and everything, I didn't actually think he was going to use the information, let alone remember it -- hell, I could barely remember it half the time. Sure, I'd have loved him to use the info, but seriously. He's known me for, what? A collective five days?

Seriously. What in the actual and entire flying fuck was he doing here?

He found my puppy-occupied couch -- was he limping? -- and scootched my PS3 controller out of harm's way before sitting down, "I need a quick stitch up. Shoulder. Can't reach it." as he said this, he started scratching Bucky behind the ears.

I heard him say something under his breath to the dog as I made my way over to my cat-occupied couch -- they sometimes sat segregated like that. Said cat-couch contained Pie and Winky, and as soon as I sat down, Winky moved into my lap, "And you believe I know how to stitch stuff up... why?"

The only response was a skeptical look.

The TV was the only source of light, the screen of the pause menu -- the map of San Andreas -- throwing a bluish tint over the room. In that bluish tint -- and under the shadow of the ballcap that was pulled down over his his face -- Frank looked even rougher than the last time I'd seen him. The bruises fresher, the knuckle marked eyes... blacker, more swelled.

And the limp from before that I'd noticed?

I only shrugged, though, at his skepticism, "Alright, fine. Lemme go grab my half-assed first aid kit," he made a move to get up, instead, and I was about to tell him, 'no, you're hurt, sit your butt back down.' but all that came out was, "Acgh! Winky! That's disgusting!"

She likes to drool when I pet her.

Drool in excess.

I quickly shoved her off my lap. As soon as she hit the floor, she promptly shook her head to re-ruffle out her fur.

Ew.

My sudden outburst of disgust with the cat slobber had frozen poor Frank -- though, now he had a dog snuggled cozily in his lap. It was my newest one, a red Husky pup named Cassian. I stood up, "You." I pointed at him, "Stay. You're hurt."

"So're you," all the same, however, he relaxed and settled back into the couch.

"I've learned to deal," I shuffled across the room and down the hallway to my bathroom, where my 'medical kit' was. My usual medical kit was normally just a bottle of Jack, a needle and some thread, but this was Frank. As appealing as the usual sounded, I didn't want to use my unorthodox methods on him.

And so, I went and started digging through the bathroom closet. I grabbed the hydrogen peroxide and the rubbing alcohol with one hand, and a roll of actual medical tape -- I usually just used duct tape -- and the bin of miscellaneous gauzes and wraps and bandages with the other hand.

Finally content with my arms' full'a miscellaneous medical supplies, I meandered back down the hall and into the living room with only two stumbles -- mainly due to George, one'a my tabby babies. She's always repeatedly weaving between my feet, and since it was dark...

Yeah.

I shoved her unceremoniously to the side with my foot as best I could and sat back across from Frank, scattering my supplies over the coffee table.

Granted, I could'a just been like Frank was all that time ago and just flopped myself on the coffee table, "So, uh..."

I need him to take off his shirt. Yes, that's a weird thing to need, and no, it's not for... leisurely purposes, either. You heard him just as well as I did; his shoulder needed stitching.

"Shirt..." I finished awkwardly, avoiding looking at him.

Amazing, that -- given how handsome I think he is -- I sure dislike looking at the man.

Alright, that was a lie.

I loved looking at him.

Something about him just makes me feel...

Feelings.

I don't know how to deal with feelings!

By the time I got out of my own head, Frank was waiting and watching me expectantly, shirt removed and all.

God, I gotta stop zoning out...

He was toned. Like, not to be weird or anything, but, damn.

But, despite my obvious thirst for the man, his epic muscley-ness was not the thing capturing my immediate interest.

What was keeping my interest, though, was what was goin' on with him and all his muscley glory. He had scars up to ying-yang, both old and new. There were cuts held together by stitching -- new cuts -- and older, already healing cuts being held closed by steristrips. More recent bruises were blossoming into black splatters that mingled and mixed with the fading grey and yellow ones that had already been wreaking havoc over his rib cage beforehand.

This man looked like he was falling apart at the seams.

There looked to be not an untouched spot on him...

Shit. I think he's noticing I'm staring excessively at him, "So, uh... looks like you... have... the medical care... issue under control..."

He gave me a look -- honestly, the skill he had with that specific look both astounded and scared me -- and motioned me over to that couch with him.

Reluctantly, I shoved myself to my feet and stepped around the coffee table. I prodded Bucky awake and shoved him to the floor, and then sat down. Frank still smelled really good, though tonight it was gunpowder and blood, "Now what, genius?"

"Could y'stitch up my shoulder 'fore I bleed out?" he looked so serious when he said it, but there was a hint of something else in his tone. Sarcasm? Playfulness? No clue, but I knew there was some very, very slight, dry humour in his voice.

He kind of took me as a man who didn't use humour much.

"Turn around," I sighed gently, waving my hand, "Lemme see the damage." by the looks of it, the damage he needed stitching up was probably going to be horrid.

He turned to face the window, being extra careful not to disturb Cassian. His broad back, again, was coated in bruises, but not as many scars at the front half of him. There were a couple of old bullet wounds, that much was very, very clear. Though, what was even clearer yet was there was a big-ass gouge taken out of the meaty underside of his left shoulder blade. It curved right with the bone, and was bleeding. A lot. And had been for quite some time; that much was obvious from the copious amounts of already dried blood that was stuck to his skin.

It looked like it hurt like a mother, but dear old Frank over here was acting like it was nothing but a pesky paper cut.

What the hell.

"Okay, ow," my voice was weighed down, flat. Emotionless. Really, probably quite dry with intense sarcasm, "That looks like it hurts a bit."

He shrugged his wounded shoulder a little, "Could hurt less."

Well, first thing first, I really should wash out and dress his cut, but I don't quite think he'd like that all too much, so I opted for pulling my lighter outta the coffee table drawer and heating the already-threaded needle up -- it was already threaded because I knew how slippery blood soaked hands can get. If I needed a quick stitch up one night, I wouldn't be in the mood to deal with the threading.

Needle heated up, I dipped the majority of it in my bottle of Peroxide, "Alright, this may hurt a bit."

Did I really even need to warn him? I mean, he seems to have a really, really high pain tolerance. Him and his Asbestos mouth...

And why was I being so gentle with him, anyway? I was hardly ever gentle with people. Except maybe Foggy... but him and Brendon? That was basically it. Animals, in my eyes, were the only ones that deserve my kindness.

Was it because he was nothing but understanding and kind to me those three days I was stuck on his couch?

Urgh.

Well, anyway. I grabbed the thread in my teeth when I was finished stitching, snapping the needle and excess string off, "There y'are, my dude," I grabbed one'a those sticky gauze patch thingies -- I don't know the official name of them, but I know they're way more useful than just normal gauze and tape -- and peeled off the plastic, putting it over his new shoulder stitches.

He half turned back to me after I gave him a good-to-go pat, "Good?"

"Good."

He nodded, making to stand up and -- finally -- disturb Cassian, "Well, thanks."

"Nope," I grabbed his good shoulder, for some reason, and shoved him back onto the couch, "Rest."

"I don't nee-"

"Rest," I persisted, "You made me rest when I had a hole through my knee-"

"And a hole through your shoulder, and side..." he began listing nonchalantly, even going as far as sticking his fingers up to count, "and your hip, and--"

"Yeah, yeah," each of the wounds that he'd listed off started throbbing at them being named, like they were jumping for joy someone else other than me was acknowledging their existence, "I get it. I looked like swiss cheese. All points aside, you need rest and you will get it whether you want it or not," I let my squared shoulders slump a bit and softened my voice, "Please? Just a couple hours' rest won't kill you."

I saw his resolve fall and he laid back, "Couple hours," he amended, lifting his hands off his stomach so Bucky could jump up and lay on him, "I'm outta here by daybreak."

"Fine," I stooped and pulled from my leg Chester, my big, light gold tom cat with a bite like a Doberman and claws like a fisher. He was really, really big, kinda cross-eyed and had a very, very large nose. Was scary at times, but really was just a big toddler demanding to be held all the time. I propped him on my hip and began scratching behind his ears, "Daybreak is, like, five hours away. I can deal with that. Coffee?"

"Y'hate coffee and yet you have a coffee machine," Frank shook his head at me, "No, no coffee for me right now."

I took up my controller and flopped down on the cat-couch with Chester on my lap, "Suit yourself. Now, Imma get back to my game."

A/N: oOp wha's gon' happen??

Oh, kinda related note: all of the kitties in that Bekah owns are cats that I own. 

However, uh... my clowder of kitties has been recently thinned down. I can't remember if I mentioned the completely black cat, Phantom, in here [named after Rebekah cuz I thought he was a girl...] but he disappeared around the end of November. 

Groovy has been gone for at least two months.

Winky got hit by a car like a week before Christmas....

And my poor Pie Pie got mowed through a haybine...and there was nothing left to bury...

But we acquired a kitten a while back, Mouski, so we went from having like...15 cats to 11..

So if there's a shortage of kitties mentioned at Bekah's apartment, it's because it kinda pains me to write about them...