The Saints' Devil

X

Frank had left the infirmary after another hour and went back to the garage, shredded overalls tied around his waist revealing the multiple sewn up wounds over his tatted skin along with the already evident scars from his past. He entered the garage, immediately catching sight of Drake in there, arm in a cast, bandages over a cut on his forehead and god knows what other injuries he still had.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Frank said, Drake's head lifting up and a big grin stretching on his face. He struggled to stand, his weight being put on his uninjured leg. He placed a hand on Frank's shoulder, chuckling weakly. "Go back to the clubhouse, you shouldn't be up," Frank snapped at him.

"Oh, come on Frank. It's just a scratch," he joked, his laugh sounding more like a wheeze.

"Go," he told him once more and this time Drake didn't stall. He patted his shoulder and slowly walked out of the garage, heading back to the clubhouse.

Frank stood in the middle of his auto shop, just then realizing the damage that had been done on the place. The many cars that were in there had been trashed and had scorch marks from being aflame. His tools scattered the floors, oil and grease was splattered over the floor, everything was a mess. Shattered glass covered the floor, countless screws and bolts as well; it was hardly recognizable.

He shuffled over to the radio, which, to his luck, was still intact, and blasted some Slipknot, finding that the music helped to silence his demons, or, at least, was loud enough to drown them out. He began sweeping the floors, going around and clearing all the class and screws and tools everywhere. He sorted through the glass, picking out the tools and screws and throwing everything else away. He opened the big garage-type doors in the front, using the hose to clear out as much grease and oil from the floor.

"Did I die and go to an alternate universe?" Charlie suddenly spoke, causing Frank to lift his head and see her standing at the entrance of the Garage. She grinned like a little kid at him. "Nice bod Slipknot," she giggled, stepping further into the Garage to help him clean it up.

"You should be resting," he commented, the muscles in his back tense, suddenly his tattoos being on display didn't appeal to him.

"Please," she grumbled. "I got a bump on the head, your ass got shot. You should be resting."

He scoffed, shaking his head lightly. "It's practically a paper-cut."

She suddenly stopped and stared at him, a sudden glitter evident in her eye. She gave him a look, a look so mesmerizing and breathtaking he had to look away. "Did you just make a joke?" she asked, so unbelievably happy to see such a good sign in their friendship.

"What? Is it a crime to joke?"

"Puh-lease. If it was then lock me up, 'cause I'm lethal," she joked, laughing the most at her own comment. He shook his head, fighting unbelievably hard not to laugh. It'd been so long since the last time he laughed and yet just a short amount of time with her made him want to double over in hysterics. "Oh, come on. It's alright to laugh. That was a good one," she said, reading his mind and nudging his side with her elbow.

He grunted. "My joke was funnier," he commented.

They worked together, listening to the music play and keeping out of each others way. Charlie was fidgety. She thought she could just come right back and joke and everything would be alright but it wasn't. She turned to him, her hands fisting tightly. "Frank--" she began, catching his attention and falling into a trance. Who in their right mind would fall for a mask? Well, no one, except Charlie. Not to mention, the sight of his incredibly ripped body, riddled with colorful ink and light pink scars did nothing but send butterflies in her stomach. Her face flushed and she turned her gaze from his. "Thank you," she finally said after standing there in silence for the longest time. "For saving me, Frank. Thank you."

He blinked a few times at her, completely in shock himself. He'd never been thanked for completing a mission, never been thanked for doing anything for the club. He just did it and he believed doing it was enough recognition he needed. Yet here she was, quite possibly the most beautiful woman and she was nervous as she told him thank you, for saving her life. "You don't need to thank me," he commented, trying to busy himself.

"But I do, Frank," she said quickly, causing him to turn and look at her once more. "Ever since I showed up here I've just felt...out of place. I felt like I was nothing but a nuisance on the club, on my brother. Hell, I always thought I was a nuisance on him after all, he was the one person I trusted and he left me alone with our abusive father, left me alone when I was thrown into an orphanage that treated me like a slave; only when we had a common enemy did he care. I've only known you for--what?--a month? Two? And you already risked your life to save me. Don't you get it, Frank? You're quite possibly the best person I have ever met in my entire life."

Frank involuntarily choked, causing him to let out a few forceful coughs. He turned his gaze away from her sparkling eyes, an unbelievable wave of heat washing over his neck. The awful screaming in his head, the screaming voice of the man who tortured him all his life seemed to silence from her little speech and he felt weightless.

"Frank?" She called, now standing right beside him, tilting her head to look up at his face, his eyes widening for a moment. "You alright there buddy?" she chuckled, smiling even brighter than before.

"Quit fucking around," he snapped, spraying her with the hose, causing a squeal to escape her lips. "Get back to work."

She pursed her lips at him, her shirt clinging to her chubby stomach and thick breasts. She grabbed a soapy rag from one of the buckets and tossed it at his head, drenching his short buzzed hair and cold water running down his back, causing him to hiss involuntarily. He shot her a glare but all she did was laugh at him, the sound like music to his ears.

What a woman she was.