Unholyverse

~Part 14~

Bob came over later, and he brought dinner with him.

"You're an angel from heaven," Frank told him, and then stopped. "That's sort of weird to say right now, huh."

Bob just gave him a look and turned on the portable TV which he had also brought with him, because, "You can't be without a TV, Frank, it's just not right. You need some fucking normality."

Frank loved Bob, so he patted his shoulder and thanked him and when Bob put on Big Brother, Frank only gave him shit about it for like five minutes.

Screaming housemates aside, it was exactly that: normal. They watched the news and yelled at it, and then they found an Extreme Makeover: Home Edition marathon and both pretended they weren't misty-eyed when the weeping designers presented the wheelchair-bound dad-of-nine with a giant scholarship fund check.

In the next episode, this one kid got a fucking awesome room tricked out like a space lab, and Frank commented, "Maybe I'll send them a video letter, man, I've been through pain and misfortune. Where's my pimped-out crib?"

"What are they gonna do," Bob said around a mouthful of chips. "Install a fence of crucifixes? Bandaid dispenser?"

"They could give me a lifetime supply of Holy Water," Frank suggested. "I could have window boxes with garlic in."

Bob snorted. "You're not being attacked by vampires."

"Whatever, you come up with a plan to ward off stigmata," Frank told him.

"I already have one."

"Oh yeah?"

Bob spread his arms wide. "Do you see any inexplicable punctures on me?"

"No."

"Then my plan is working," Bob said comfortably.

They watched Queer Eye for the Straight Guy next.

"I would love to be best friends with a chef," Frank said while they watched Ted the food guy make...something delicious looking. "Mmm, chefs."

"Chefs," Bob agreed, and then he sat up and yelled, "You can't wear those shoes with that shirt, you fucking moron!"

Frank laughed, doubling over when the guy ignored Bob and Bob threw a chip at the screen.

"Shut up!" Bob told Frank. "Dude, he - god, my eyes."

"You'd be good on this show," Frank grinned, dodging Bob's half-hearted swipe at the back of his head. "Maybe you should send in a resume - ow, Bob, no, come on, I'm hurt!"

"Little shit," Bob complained, then yelled at the screen, "The brown shoes, brown!"

The evening passed pleasantly, more TV and more of Bob yelling. He was in the middle of telling Frank about the drum kit he wanted to buy when the pain in Frank's wrists suddenly flared and Frank hissed, bringing them both close to his chest.

"What is it?" Bob said immediately, dropping his cigarette in the ashtray half-smoked and leaning forward to grab Frank's shoulders. "Frank?"

"I don't know." Frank shook his head and started peeling the bandage on his left wrist away for a closer look when another spike of pain shot down his leg and burned sullenly in his foot for a minute. "Oh, fuck. Oh, no."

"It's okay," Bob was on his feet. "I'm gonna call an ambulance."

Frank shook his head no and bit his tongue hard when a sick bolt of pain bloomed at the back of his head. "Gerard. Call Gerard."

Bob grabbed his cellphone and opened it, but then Frank changed his mind and started scrambling off the couch, falling awkwardly onto his knees when his legs wouldn't hold him up. "Oh, shit, Bob, this is gonna - I don't know what to do."

"What's going to happen, Frank?" Bob asked urgently. "What comes next?"

"Fuck," Frank rested his head against Bob's knee. "Feet. Feet are next."

Bob looked around quickly, then shoved his cell in his pocket, scooped Frank up and headed for the bathroom. "Tub," he said calmly, turning sideways to get through the door. "At least this way you won't bleed all over everything."

Frank laughed despite himself, clinging to Bob's shoulders. "You just like carrying me around, Bob Bryar."

"I live for it," Bob agreed, bending to set Frank down in the tub. He pulled the shower curtain aside, tying it into a big knot and hooking it over the rail, out of the way. Then he knelt and pulled off Frank's socks, and rolled his pajama pants up to the knee. "Okay," he said, and grabbed a towel, folded it and set it behind Frank's head. "Okay?"

Frank gazed up at him. "You've done this before, haven't you?"

Bob smiled a tiny bit. "My secret past, uncovered."

Frank tried to answer, but everything started to hurt at the same time so it came out as a strangled stream of vowels. Bob grabbed one of Frank's flailing hands and held it tight, pulling out his cell with the other hand. "Take it easy, Frank, it's gonna be okay."

Frank concentrated on trying to brace himself somehow, his toes already curling up in anticipation, his lungs struggling to expel enough air to take a new breath.

"That's it," Bob said, cellphone pressed to his ear. "That's it, man, just breathe, in and out, slow, in, out, that's good, that's it."

"I'm not giving birth, you fuck," Frank gritted out, "Fucking get Gerard here, man, I fucking mean it."

"God, you're such a whiner," Bob said, holding Frank's hand tighter. Then he said, "Hey, it's Bob. You need to come back to Frank's place, his feet are about to explode or some shit, I don't know. Attention seeker."

"You're hilarious," Frank gasped out, and then the first slam of hammer-on-nail rang in his ears, and Frank was too busy crying out to say anything else.