FicWad

A/N if you were confused, that's fine. So is Frank. This story ends when the confusion does. It's not supposed to make a lot of sense. You're supposed to get that something big, and bad is happening, but you're not supposed to know what. Enjoy.


Frank's P.O. fucking V.

Gerard's on top of me, a look of anger plastered across his face. What does he mean, he doesn't enjoy it? All evidence points else where, his actions speaking in tones his mind can't seem to comprehend. He acts like he lives for it, but claims he doesn't.

It's a lie. Of course he enjoys it. He's a sick human being, and that is the only way to rationalize it, the only conclusion I can seem to reach.

Suddenly I feel an unknown wetness on my face, and I realize there are tears dripping off Gerard's face onto mine. He's crying. Gerard is crying. The tears barely stay in his eyes before falling, replaced by new ones almost instantly. I don't think I've ever seen so many tears fall at once, in the span of a few seconds my face isn't at all dry, but very wet from salty tears.

What happened to the mysterious, deadly and composed Gerard who took no hurt in the hunt, in bringing people's lives to an end? Who skinned a man with his bare hands? Who killed a whole family mercilesly, playing with them the whole time?

Gerard climbs off me, wiping his face dry with his long black cotton sleeve.

I get up after him in silence, trying to figure out what the hell just happened. What he just meant, it can't be true. Because after all he's done, all the bodies lying in a grave because of him, all the blood on his hands, how can he expect me to believe he didn't just do it for fun? My brain, even focusing all it's attention on one pale, mysterious and very confusing Gerard, just can't seem to process what he just said. It's like I'm a broken disk, forever replaying.

"Gerard..." I start, as we start to make our way back to the hose again. "What do you mean?" I ask quietly. Great. Now who's comforting who? But I can't help forget of the dead man in the presence of Gerard's tears. But I can't help it. Gerard's just so damn...complicated, mysterious and undeniably hot.

He sighs. "Never mind. Say I have fun while kidding if you fucking want to." He shrugs. But he swore. A legit swear, too. It's his mistake, letting me onto the lie, because he tries to keep decent language, to impress his clients or some such.

"You're obviously upset." I say, stating the quite obvious. I jog, catching up to his even and wide strides. I don't even think about running, and the fact that I probably could. He's got me wrapped around his finger, and he doesn't even realize it.

"I'm not upset." He says quickly, frowning a sideways sort of frown.

"Uh-huh." I raise my eyebrows at his stubborn protest.

"What happened to the crying and hurt Frankie?" He mutters.

"A confusing, almost hurt murderer haunts me more than a dead man, who was probably far from innocent." I reason my response, it's a half truth, after all. The other half is that I really just want him to stop crying, and never do it again.

He chuckles, a bit bitterly."He was."

"Who? What?" I ask, confused now. I got too lost in my thoughts.

"The man I killed. Far from innocent. Stole everything from (reasonably) innocent people. And I mean everything. Their homes, their money, life's savings...you name it. I think a few of the victims committed suicide." He sighs. "That man almost makes me look like a decent excuse for a human being." A bitter chuckle from him.

"Gerard, you confuse me." I sigh, shaking my head.

"How so?" He asks, his turn to be lectured.

"Well, at first I thought you killed for sport-" I start.

"I do." He interrupts. He's lost me again. I sigh, adding this little fact to my little pocket bible on the mysterious Ways of Gerard.

I carry on. "Then I thought it was for the money, when I heard you got payed for the massacre in the bar-"

"Everyone needs money." He cuts in, shrugging.

I sigh at the further interruption. "Then when you killed that girl in town I thought you did it for fun. Now, i just don't know what to think."

"That's fine." He suggests.

"No Gerard, it isn't. You just made your what, two thousand and seventh kill? And you tell me-"

"Two thousand, two hundred and eighty eight kills." He whispers.

"You've killed that many people and now you tell me it was never for fun?" I sigh in frustration.

"Not for a minute." He says.

"Then WHAT?!" I yell, unable to stand his vague-ness any longer.

He's silent for a moment. Then, finally, a squeak of an answer. "Necessity."

"How the HELL is killing a fucking INNOCENT girl fucking NECESSARY?!" I yell at him.

"It just fucking is! It's not something you, or anyone else will EVER understand!" He yells, opening the door to our Italian home. It's a rental, but still.

"Try me!" I yell following him to the living room.

"I-I can't" He seems surprised by this, that he can't tell me. It's most curious indeed. Like he can't believe the words he yelled at me. "I can't tell you. I can't tell you anything." He bites his lip, plopping down onto the small two person sofa.

"You sure you can't tell me anything? Not even little nits about your life? What's your favorite color?" I ask, sitting down next to him.

"Red." He responds, no hesitation.

"Red for revenge." I mutter under my breath. "What about your family? What are they like?" I ask with a smile.

"They're all buried under the earth." He whispers.

"I'm sorry." I pat his shoulder. Maybe it's why he's so screwed up? Family violently murdered only deranged son left? I turned out fine...right?"How'd they die?"

"I killed the." Of course he did. Scratch the parents violently murdered deranged son theory off the list. It was really my only theory, too. Sad. I look at Gerard's face, and I realize there is real, honest sorrow bringing his features down, a mask impenetrable by anything but the will of his heart and mood.

"Oh... but you loved them?" He nods.

"I loved them very much." He says.

"Then why... did you kill them?" I ask quietly.

"It was an accident." Silent tears drip off his face, in a moment of pure pain, pure sadness. I put my arm around his thin frame, holding him while he cries.

"It was my bother first..." He manages between now starting sobs, heart breaking things that make you want to hug him to you endlessly, make the obvious hurt stop. "I didn't know what it was then, what I needed...and before knew it, he was dead. His blood stained the sheets..." he cries. I pull him into me, his face on my chest, my arms wrapped around him, him practically on my lap.

"It was just...A knife in my hands..." He cries, then violently sobs into me. "My mother came, saw him, and me..." He struggles with the words, unable to stop his tears. "I didn't mean to kill them, I really didn't!" He pleads with me. I rub circles on his back.

"I know, I know..." I whisper. But I wonder. How can someone with so much blood on their hands seem so innocent, so vulnerable? Not even ten minutes ago it wouldn't be a stretch to believe he would snap my neck without a blink. Now I can't imagine him hurting a fly, not the person I've seen until now. Where are the smirks and murder?

Now, all that's left is an emotional heap of gorgeous sitting in my lap, curled up against me, all but begging for comfort.

He looks up at me, brown-hazel eyes wide with hope. "I know you didn't mean it, Gee." I make up the nickname, hoping it'll help put him at ease. Hoping it'll stop the horror that he feels so strongly it almost makes me want to cry for him. I don't know much about him, but I find I'm believing him, that he didn't want to kill his parents, as impossible as it sounds. I trust him, for an unknown cause. MAybe it's because he's killed so many people, yet still I'm alive.

He's stopped crying, and is simply leaning against my chest, eyes wide and staring into mine, I realize. His hand has also made it's way to my chest, somehow. I blush, realizing how close we are, that he's sitting on me and the whole ordeal.

And suddenly, the sweet contact is broken.

"Sorry." He mutters, jumping off of me and scampering, likely to his room. Leaving me alone, a prisoner to my own thoughts.

XX GERARD'S P.O.V. XX

I can't believe I just did that! I cried in front of Frankie, and I almost kissed him! I pace back in forth in my room, unable to get over the fact that I just unloaded a lot of emotional baggage on my amazing travel prisoner. A prisoner whom I find myself attracted to more and more, though I have barely just met the kid. Four days, and I already am loosing what self control I have. What would he think if I kissed him? He'd be appalled, but why should I care? He's my prisoner, anyway. I'm not his, it doesn't matter.

You're a prisoner to your heart. my brain deems fit to remind me. God that sounds cheesy. And that's coming from a guy who only knows about the world through internet and reality TV!

I sigh, pacing my room. That's it. I'll have to stop thinking about things like this, about Frankie I mean, now! But it really did feel good, to be able to just sit and cry into Frankie's arms, deluding myself to think he'd always be there for me. I felt as if the whole world could just float away, nothing else mattered, as long as he was holding me. I forgot myself, everything I stand for. I forgot the nagging in the back of my mind, the urge to kill erased by a simple touch. And when I forgot everything, I realized I never wanted to remember.

I forgot the agonizing pain of not killing someone, I forgot how it felt to have a knife in my hands, to stab without mercy. I remembered what it was like to live, not merely survive.

Pulling away from Frankie, feeling the rush of guilt, the urge to kill another renewed...it hurt so much I almost started crying again, desperate for his touch. But I resisted-hardly, but I still did- and now I'm here in my room, pacing, wanting to relive every moment of his touch. I'm alone now, in my room with my dreaded thoughts. I sift through them, I'm scared as to what I might find. Ever since Frankie, I've been getting soft. Maybe it's what I need.

Maybe I don't need to be scary and intimidating around Frankie, at least. Maybe, for once, a change, I can simply be...Me.

But being me doesn't do my job.