Unholyverse

Twenty

"When are you gonna let me fix your Keep the Faith, man?" Bob leaned in the doorway to Frank's room. "I got some free time this afternoon."

Frank shook his head and went back to disinfecting his clamps. "No, that's all right."

Bob came into the room and settled on the edge of the bench. "Come on, it's not like I'm gonna charge you."

"I said it's all right." Frank wiped around the edge of the counter, taking deep breaths. His stomach cramped anxiously; Frank ignored it.

"How is it all right? It's all fucked up. Come on, it won't take me long to fix it up. I can't let you walk around with my work looking like that."

Frank gritted his teeth and stood up. "Nobody can see it, Bob, relax."

Bob caught his elbow before he could leave. "All right, well, how about we start thinking about your next piece? You're gonna want some kind of 'I Survived the Stigmata Experience' thing, right?"

"Like this?" Frank pushed his sleeves up and held his arms out to Bob, turning them slowly to show both sides of his wrists. The scars stood out against his skin; too-pale circles, slightly raised, four of them in total. "I got some matching ones on my feet, if you're interested, by the way. Oh, and yesterday some fucking kid asked me where I got my super-cool Crown of Thorns scarification done."

Bob held his hands up. "Chill out, okay. It's just usually you get ink to remember big stuff that happened to you."

"Do you think I can forget it?" Frank yelled, his fucking traitorous voice shaking all over the place. "I don't need a fucking tattoo, okay, I need a...a fucking memory-wipe or something. I need - I need-"

"What?" Bob got off the bench and glowered down at Frank. "What do you need, Frank, what the hell do you want from us?"

"I want you to stop acting like everything can just go back to normal now!"

"A few days ago, that's exactly what you wanted us to do!" Bob reminded him, scowling. "Look - you went through something, all right, I get it."

"How can you possibly get it?" Frank shoved his chair out of the way and advanced on Bob, hands flexing by his sides. "None of you have any fucking idea what it was like!"

"We did everything we could to help you, you ungrateful little shit, don't think we'd do anything now? But you won't let us because you're too busy being a fucking martyr!"

Frank wasn't really aware of throwing the punch; the first he knew of it was his fist connecting with Bob's cheek, and Bob staggering backwards for a second, shocked into losing his balance, before he immediately rocked back onto his feet and punched Frank right back.

It wasn't hard; Frank knew that, he knew he wouldn't be standing if Bob had really let go, and that made him so angry, for some reason. He ignored the ringing in his ear and the first metallic tang of blood on his tongue, and pulled his arm back again, but Bob's hand shot out and folded around Frank's entire fist, forcing it back behind his back.

"Bob!" Frank yelled, furious; he struggled, but Bob just put his other hand on Frank's shoulder and pinned him face-first against the wall. "Let me go, motherfucker, what, are you scared?"

"It's not me you want to fight," Bob said quietly. "And I sure as hell don't want to fight you."

Frank struggled some more - he could still feel his face throbbing where Bob punched him, and he wanted more of that, he wanted to run at something solid and beat it with his fists until it bled, but Bob had him pinned so he couldn't even hurt himself. Eventually he sagged against the wall, breathing hard. His eyes prickled and he closed them, swallowing. "Let me go."

Bob paused for a few seconds, then did as Frank asked, stepping back so Frank could push off the wall and bring his hand up to touch around his jaw, poke his fingers into the tender places which would swell and bruise.

"There's some ice in the back," Bob began, but before Frank could answer, Brian appeared in the door.

"What the fuck is going on?" he said, looking between Bob and Frank with suspicious, narrowed eyes. "Are you two fighting?"

Bob started, "It's not what you-"

"Get out," Brian said grimly.

Bob blinked at him. "What?"

"Not you, Bryar, Jesus. I'm talking to you." Brian turned to Frank. "I want you to get your things, and go home."

"Are you firing me?" Frank demanded, his hands automatically curling tight again. "I can't believe that you would-"

Brian sliced his hand sharply through the air. "Of course I'm not firing you, you dumb fuck. I should, but I won't. I'm putting you in a time-out."

Frank stared at him. "I'm not a fucking toddler, Brian."

"You're not a fucking safe person to leave in charge of a bunch of sharp objects, either." Brian came into the room and put his hands on Frank's shoulders, holding him still when Frank tried to twist away. "Frank," he said seriously, looking right into Frank's eyes. "We love you. And we're so sorry this happened. And it is completely reasonable that you need some time to adjust."

"But I don't-"

Brian shushed him. "Mikey's really worried about you, we all are. I think it's better if you go home until we can all figure out together what's the best thing to do."

Frank's eyes were burning and his throat was hot and tight. He still felt so furious he could taste it, slick and bitter on the back of his tongue, but it was tempered with the aching feeling of impotence he was carrying around everywhere like a fucking ball and chain. He sighed and looked at the floor. "Brain - I just want to forget about it."

"I know." Brian squeezed his shoulders. "But you can't."

Frank shook his head; he raised his hand to wipe his face and was surprised when it came away wet. He felt Bob's hand on the back of his neck; he couldn't believe he'd just thrown a punch at the guy, great, now he could feel the self-loathing seeping into his veins along with everything else.

"We'll figure it out," Brian promised him.

"Yeah," Frank agreed, but really he wasn't so sure.