Unholyverse

Thirteen

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."