Dangerous

Chapter Sixteen

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."