He didn't actually pass out this time. Well, not totally. He was out of it for a while there, dimly aware of Bob talking him through, of his calm, constant voice keeping Frank tethered vaguely in his bathroom instead of on a hill somewhere getting martyred. He only really came back to himself when it was over, though, when the pain stopped and his bare feet were slipping against the floor of the tub in what Frank knew without looking was his own blood.
Bob said, "Come on, let's get you into bed."
Frank rolled his head towards him. "I'm not that kind of girl."
"I'm not that kind of gore fetishist," Bob replied, gathering Frank up and heaving him onto the side of the tub. "Your toenails are really gross, by the way."
Frank just leaned heavily on Bob's shoulders while Bob ran water over Frank's feet, then wrapped them in a towel. Frank was, he realized, going to have to buy a whole set of new ones when this was over. Providing he survived, of course.
"You probably don't need towels in Heaven," he told Bob, and then started giggling crazily.
"If you get blood on my shirt," Bob said grimly, "You're going to Hell."
The bleeding had pretty much stopped already, and Frank was trying to convince Bob to let him see the damage - Bob's theory of injuries was that if you didn't look at it or talk about it or acknowledge it in any way, it probably wasn't there at all - when there was a knock at the door and Gerard's worried voice going, "Frank? Bob? Bob, is he okay?"
"He's fine, just a second," Bob yelled back, gathering Frank up again and taking him into the bedroom.
"I changed my mind," Frank told Bob's collar. "I'm so over walking. You can carry me whenever you want."
Bob set him down on the bed and re-wrapped the bloody towels quickly. "Well, shit, Frank, now I gotta find a whole new life's ambition."
"Let's get married," Frank called after him when he went to get the door. Bob ignored him, of course.
Frank closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing. He heard Bob letting Gerard in, heard a hushed exchange and then, weirdly, Bob saying, "Oof," and Gerard apologizing.
He thought about asking what was going on, but he was too wrung out to lift his head, even. He heard Bob move into the kitchen, heard Gerard's footsteps coming towards him and his whole body started tingling, a sense-memory of what it had been like to be touched by Gerard earlier, like it was trying to remind him that all the pain and discomfort would magically disappear if he could just get close enough to Gerard, and then the mattress dipped and Gerard said softly,
"Hey, Frankie. I'm so sorry I wasn't here."
Frank opened his eyes, and Gerard was kneeling next to the bed, leaning on it with his elbows. His hair was damp, and mussed like he'd gotten dressed in a hurry, and there were streaks of something grey down the side of his face, and he was wearing a Misfits t-shirt, and jeans.
And that was it. No collar, no black shirt, just a regular guy in regular clothes, and Frank didn't know if it was that, or the pain, or the blood-loss, or if he was just too tired of fighting, but before he could stop himself he reached out, fisted his hands in Gerard's shirt, heaved him up bodily onto the bed and rolled forward, pressing his face into Gerard's chest.
"I'm sorry," he said, even as his arms wrapped around Gerard's waist and tried to pull him closer. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but it hurts, it hurts so bad."
