Demolition Lovers (Frerard)

26: and... it ends, finally, lmao (but seriously this is some damn good plot ok)

Because he'd presumed him dead as soon as he lost consciousness, and perhaps a few hours later, Frank had awoken, bleeding less, but still not at all okay, and he'd made a run for it, for god knows what reason, perhaps just to die in dignity, to smoke and curl up on the hill on the outskirts of town, to give himself a send of at least, but, whatever he was expecting, he most certainly hadn't expected himself to still be there in the morning.

But he had been, and perhaps the bleeding had lessened, but he still knew that as he stopped to black out, pass out a little every few minutes or so, he was certain that he wasn't going to last much, and still, he drank until he was numb, and stitched himself up: stitches that had burst as he'd made his way into Ray's home, but it had been worth it, because there was little point in prolonging the inevitable any further, because he'd done it, hadn't he?

He killed them: the two people who'd fucked this all up, but still, and perhaps it was just Bert's words, he felt empty inside, and he needed, he needed to see him again, even in a state like this, even if just for a few seconds, because whatever it was, whatever it could be, would be worth everything.

Because it always been for him, from day one, from the first second, from that smile and that hatred, and back when everything was okay, and Frank knew that through and through.

Unfortunately, however, he had little time to ponder upon such a catastrophic, Romeo and Juliet esque realisation, before he was startled by the sound of a gunshot, and muffled screaming, coming from inside the house, and before Frank knew what was happening, he was on his feet, and he was making a run for the backdoor, always left unlocked now, and fuck, Frank hadn't been ready at all.

Pete's body on the kitchen floor, in a pool of his own blood, dead, clearly recent, and Lindsey stood above him, almost in shock at what she'd done, and perhaps in even more shock as her gaze fell upon Frank's, and the two shared a look: the least likely look in existence, and a silence, prolonged, and hammering heartbeats as Frank pulled out his gun.

"Why the fuck did you do that?" He snapped at her, gesturing towards Pete, or what was left of him, with his gun.

"How the fuck are you still a-alive, and fuck, why are you covered in blood? So much fucking blood, Frank, what the fuck did you do?" She exclaimed, stumbling over her own words as she continued to look at Frank in disbelief.

"Why the fuck did you do that?" Frank repeated his question, pointing his gun directly at Lindsey, and taking a step forwards.

She swallowed hard, pointing her own gun at Frank, as she continued, "How the fuck are you still alive? What happened, for fuck's sake, Frank-"

"You're not going to shoot me: I know that, Lindsey." Frank shook his head, wincing a little as he felt a jolt of pain slice through his wounds, but it didn't show, because this was all about the facade: the fight, and the vengeance, and who he made himself out to be on his deathbed, misplaced pride, and a fucked up sense of dignity, and to summarise it all, a self concocted mess.

"Of course, I am, I have a gun-"

"You're still barely able to accept what you did to Pete, so I doubt you'll be chancing it a second time, and especially not with someone you're so relieved to see alive, so shut the fuck up and answer my question." Lindsey shuddered a little, putting her gun down, because fuck, this was Frank, but it wasn't Frank; he'd changed, and from the bloodstains on his clothes, to his psychotic demeanour, it was more than evident.

"And you would? Be able to shoot me, your best friend, would you?"

"I just killed two people, shot them dead, on my way here, don't fucking push me, Lindsey, why did you do it?" And Lindsey swallowed, shaking her head and tearing up.