Fallen Angel - TOC

Chapter Forty-Three

Monday morning...

The breakfast table was silent at the Scorpio-Jones household. Each person was concentrating on their individual breakfast selections - cereal for Maxie and Georgie, bagel with cream cheese for Felicia and plain toast with coffee for Mac. Maxie's eyes drifted upward several times when Mac's newspaper rustled. There had been an uneasy truce between Maxie and her parents following their prohibition of Frankie from their daughter's life. Mac and Felicia had been surprised by Maxie's easy acquiescence, but neither of them had yet caught onto the fact of their daughter's disobedience, the true reason behind her decent mood.

Felicia took another sip of her coffee and frowned lightly. "When I went to pack your lunches for school, I noticed that most of the potato chips were missing. The bag was full yesterday. Do either of you girls know what happened to them?"

An uneasy look ran across Georgie's slightly pudgy face, and she reached under the table with her foot, seeking out Maxie's leg and connecting to it with a light kick. Maxie looked with annoyance at her younger sister and caught the silent message in Georgie's glare. Obviously, Georgie had been pilfering the snacks again and was insisting that Maxie cover her domestic crimes - or else.

Maxie's face set, and she sighed. "It was me," she said in a false confession. "I woke up at midnight with the munchies."  Geez, I sound like I'm a pregnant pot smoker.

Felicia glanced at her older daughter with suspicion. "I thought you were ill yesterday."

"I was," Maxie protested perhaps a bit too quickly. "My stomach was uneasy, and I needed to fill it with something. Besides, I'm PMSing."

Mac's newspaper suddenly rattled, and he tried to block out the conversation as he read the stock quotes. Being the only male in a household of females sometimes had its drawbacks.

"Potato chips aren't healthy for an ailing stomach," Felicia insisted in a motherly way. "I'd rather you'd choose a piece of bread and peanut butter or a glass of milk. You're still growing, and you need healthy calories, not junk foods."

Maxie's face grew red, but she nodded. "You're right. I'll choose better next time. Sorry." Georgie's going to get it. I'll make sure of it.

~*~*~*~

Frankie sat perched on the side of his bed in his suite at Wyndemere, swaying slightly and unused to the erect position since he'd been flat on his back for over a week. His brow creased worriedly, and he muttered, "I don’t know about dis. What if I fall over?"

Dr. Jerry Hill pushed a wheelchair in Frankie's direction with encouraging vigor. "That's why you'll be sitting in this," he instructed with a pointing hand.

Frankie made a disparaging sound and shook his head. "Nah. I'm not getting into dat. No way." He dangled his feet and jiggled them back and forth with the force of his disagreement. His face set, and he looked away. "I'm not some invalid person."

Jerry inwardly laughed at Frankie's mispronunciation. "No one says you are, but you need help getting around while your leg and other injuries are healing. There's nothing to be ashamed of."

Frankie hesitated and looked down at the floor. "I don't know," he said sadly.

"You talked about wanting to see your girlfriend. This way, in a chair, you'll be mobile. You can explore the house when you feel up to it, and even take trips in the car."

A light flickered in Frankie's eyes as he considered Jerry's words and the possibility of real freedom. He slid further to the edge of the bed and gripped it tightly with clenched hands as he tentatively poked out a foot in the direction of the chair. His bare foot met the cold metal rim of one wheel, and he retracted it hurriedly.

Jerry gripped Frankie's arms and gently guided him into the chair, being careful to raise the boy's bad leg and place it so it remained straight. Frankie sat down with an "Ooooff." Jerry wheeled around Frankie's IV and said, "Why don't you push the wheels with your hands? Here. We'll place your IV bag beside you so you'll be totally mobile."

Frankie wheeled the chair in the direction of the adjoining bathroom, which had been modified with a wider doorframe and wheelchair adjusted heights and grips for the sink and toilet. Stefan and Laura had missed no features in trying to accommodate Laura's son into their household.

"How did you get around when you were seriously hurt before?" Jerry asked casually. No one had been able to pry the details of Frankie's previous injuries from the reluctant boy, and he wanted to know Frankie's medical history. He figured that casual conversation might work to elicit information without scaring off the kid.

Frankie shrugged. "I didn't get around," he said shortly. "I was in da coma for two months, and den I couldn't get outta da bed for two more. It seemed like two years." Frankie didn't mention that he'd had minimal visitors - only Frank once or twice a week. He'd been very bored and lonely, but no one had noticed. Part of him was still afraid that everyone would forget about him after the recent crisis, and he'd be alone again with no one to talk to. At least he'd had the beer to keep him company when he was ten. He hadn't had a drink in nearly eight days, and it was driving him crazy. It was a favorite topic for him to contemplate, behind only Maxie and selling off his dirty businesses.

"I wanna eat," he announced imperiously. "I'm hungry."

"You'll still have your IV for hydration and medications," Jerry explained, "but we'll start you on a liquid diet today. You should be able to graduate to food within a few days. We want to be careful not to hurt you by forcing food on you too soon."

"I'm hungry," Frankie muttered to himself in an angry whisper as he ignored the doctor.

"Okay, Frankie," Jerry said as he positioned Frankie's chair in the bathroom. "Can you manage by yourself?"

"Yeah," Frankie asserted with a wave of his hand. "Go away."

Jerry laughed. "I'll be nearby if you require assistance. Just call out."

"No. I won't," Frankie replied quietly with a tense voice and glaring eyes.

~*~*~*~

Frankie finished in the restroom with some difficulty. It was depressing how hard it had become to move and breathe and take care of the basic necessities of life. He sighed and laid his head back in the chair, too exhausted to push the wheels to move it. Frankie closed his eyes, but blinked them open after several minutes when he felt a warm ray of sun on his arm. He directed his vision to the window high up on the wall of the room. It was much too high for him to reach and look out of in his present predicament. I wanna go outside and be in da sun, he thought sadly. I want to drive my car and go on a date with Maxie. Is da Mafia gonna kill me before I can do dat? What am I gonna do without Frank? I don't know what to do. Nothing's right and it'll never be the same again.

~*~*~*~

Frankie wheeled his chair to the doorway of his suite and stuck his head out curiously. "Oh!" he exclaimed when he nearly ran into his mother.

"I have a nice outfit for you to wear," she stated happily. A purple and black garment was draped over one arm, and she held it to his cheek to gauge the color against his skin. "Looks good," she announced. "This is a silk sweatsuit that's been hanging in Stefan's closet for awhile. I try to encourage him to dress more casually at home, but you can tell how successful I am. I thought you might like to wear it today. We can discuss the types of clothing that you like, and I'll do some shopping for you."

"I don't have any clothes," Frankie said shortly. "They were burnt up in da fire like everything else."

Laura looked concerned. "I know, honey. I’m sorry for everything that you've lost. Maybe we can find you some new things that you enjoy. Let's go into your room and talk for a minute."

"Okay," Frankie agreed while turning his chair with the expertise of a pro. Already he'd captured the motions of the chair.

"What's your style?" Laura asked conversationally. "Casual, formal? Jean or slacks?"

Frankie cleared his throat and looked away from Laura. "Frank bought everything," he said in a small voice. "Dey took my measurements and den made stuff in Italy and France. Dat's where my clothes came from - custom made. I never bought nothing in a store. Frank, he insisted dat I look good, you know. He'd get mad if I looked like a bum or a hood." Frankie's eyes darkened and took on a haunted, guarded aspect as he recalled his life in the mansion. "It wasn't good to look like a hood," he explained to his mother. "My man Johnny gave me some stuff dat I wore in da apartment sometimes, though. I had some jeans and teeshirts. I liked 'em, but Frank couldn't see 'em. Dat's it." Frankie folded his hands and looked down at his lap as he fingered the bandages on his palms.

"Okay," Laura said brightly, trying not to show her surprise over her son's upbringing and chagrin at more evidence of Frank's unusual treatment of her son. "You don't know what size you are then?"

Frankie shook his head. "No."

"We'll have a tailor measure you. I'll buy you several outfits to start you off - a few pairs of slacks and a pair of Levi's, how's that?"

Frankie looked appreciatively at Laura. "You're being nice to me," he observed with genuine surprise. A guarded look soon flooded over his features. "How come?"

Laura knelt in front of Frankie's chair. "Because I love you and I’m sorry for everything that's happened to you. I want to help you in any way I can. Will you let me try to help?"

"Okay, Mama," Frankie agreed with an exaggerated sigh.

Laura hugged him briefly and rubbed his back. "Good! Now, what are your favorite colors?"

Frankie smiled broadly. "I like blue. Dat's nice. And black and green and red and purple."

"Is that all?" Laura teased.

"Mama?" Frankie looked at Laura speculatively, trying to size her up and determine how best to get his next request met. He smiled sweetly at her as he noticed she liked that.

"What Frankie?"

"I want a phone. I need to call Johnny and some friends," he said evasively. Frankie affected as innocent a look as he was able to manage, but his eyes darted around the room to avoid meeting his mother's penetrating gaze. 

Laura's brow crinkled as she contemplated the situation. "There isn't a phone jack installed in this room. This house is so old. Sometimes I forget that it can be an inconvenience. Hm. I have an idea. I'm always forgetting to charge up my cell phone. If you keep it charged for me, I'll let you use it for several hours a day - as long as you don't run up a huge long distance bill." Laura wagged her index finger reprovingly at Frankie and laughed.

"Oh, no," Frankie promised with a wide grin that showed most of his teeth. "I'll pay for it and everything." Inside, he laughed with glee. Go Frankie. A phone - finally!

~*~*~*~

Frankie impatiently tapped the armrest of his wheelchair and hummed tunelessly under his breath as he waited. He cradled Laura's cell phone next to his ear and craned his neck to look around his room. The suite was fairly simple with only the hospital bed in the center of the room, but the wooden floors were deeply burnished, and the richly carved wainscoting along the walls was nearly ten inches high. Three windows perched near one another with their diamond shaped panes of leaded glass along the far wall. Frankie wheeled his chair near the sweep of windows in order to catch a sunspot. The warm rays beamed down on his head and made him feel as warm and content as a satisfied cat, resting after the kill.

Finally, on the ninth ring, the person on the other end of the line picked up. Frankie was preparing to leave a voicemail message and was surprised to hear a light, feminine voice answer.

"Hello?"

Frankie's heart jumped for joy. She's alive. "Michelle?" he asked eagerly. "Um, it's Frankie." He was smiling while he spoke, and he anxiously waited for her reply. She's my favorite. I missed her.

"Frankie?" Michelle asked with surprise. "I thought you were six feet under along with Frank."

"Nope," Frankie stated assertively. "Dey keep tryin,' but nobody's takin' me out." He started to say "I'm a Smith," but caught himself in time. "Where are you?"

"I could ask you the same question," Michelle laughed wryly. "I'm staying at my mother's apartment in Philly, but I still have the same cell phone number."

"Oh," Frankie stated with disappointment. "I was hoping you were closer." He hesitated. "I missed you, Michelle." Frankie's voice sounded as young as his years, and he suddenly felt uneasy with a sinking feeling in his stomach. "I'm in Port Charles, New York, can you believe it?"

"Really," Michelle stated. "How did you end up there?"

"It's a long story, but I’m going to be staying here...I think." Frankie sat up straighter in his chair and a smug look crossed his face as his voice seductively curled into the phone.  "How 'bout if I buy an apartment nearby. You could live dere, and I'd visit you kinda regular, sort of like Frank and Cathy used to do sometimes. You're my favorite; you know dat, don't you?"

There was silence on the other end of the line, and Frankie frowned while he waited for Michelle's response. He'd expected her to squeal with delight over the phone or at least show some immediate excitement and pleasure.

Michelle cleared her throat. "Frankie," she replied gently. "I'm outta the business. I decided when Frank was killed and they arrested all of us. I spent two days in jail and had time to think. I've decided to go back to school and finish my education. It's nothing personal to you; I just don't want to live the life anymore. I have brains, and I want to make something of myself. You understand."

"No," Frankie's small voice answered weakly. He fiddled with the bandages on his palms and started unwinding one end of the gauze on his left hand, rubbing the soft cloth between a thumb and forefinger. "I want you with me," he protested as his lower lip stuck out in a pout. He sucked in a quivering breath as another thought entered his mind. "Didn't ya like me?"

"Frankie, you knew that I worked for Frank. He paid me. Sure, I liked you. You were fun to be with. I’m glad that we spent time together.

"Who's gonna watch out for me and tell me how to act at dose big social functions?" Frankie asked tensely. He seemed to forget that there would never again be a Smith function at the now destroyed mansion.

"You can handle yourself fine," Michelle praised. "You know all you need to know."

Frankie blinked back his tears. Silence filled the phone line. "What about da sex? I wasn't good enough for you?" He bit hard on the inside of his cheek, but several tears escaped his eyes anyway.

Michelle laughed. "Of course you were good enough, silly. I was the one who taught you, remember? You know your way around a woman - and back again."

"So let's get together. Move to Port Charles. I'll pay ya more dan Frank, and you know I always treated you nice. No hitting or nothing."

"I thought you had a girlfriend," Michelle countered. "What about her? How old is she?"

"Fifteen, like me," Frankie answered. "Dat's why you gotta come. She doesn't want none of dat."

"Well, she has a brain in her head. Fifteen is too young for sex. You're too young, Frankie. Frank never should have done that to you. It was wrong. Sex isn't for kids."

"I'm not a kid," Frankie stated flatly, his temper starting to flare, and his palms clenching fiercely. He winced at the pain in his hands, and glanced down at them with surprise.

Michelle sighed. "I suppose you're not a kid anymore. That's something else Frank took away from you. Who are you living with now? You're not alone are you?"

"I got another family," Frankie said offhandedly. "I’m with dem. I got shot escaping from da mansion, so dey're takin' care of me."

"What? You didn't tell me that!" Michelle nearly shouted.

"Just did," Frankie replied petulantly. "It's no big deal."

"Sure. Right. Promise me you'll take care of yourself."

"I'm hangin,'" Frankie stated abruptly, obviously not in the mood to discuss his injuries. "So you'll come visit me and make me feel better? Huh?" Frankie's voice took on a manipulative tone. "'Cause you know I’m sweet. And I can give you sweeter."

"I have no complaints," Michelle said with amusement. "But you need to concentrate on your new life - that's what I'm trying to do. It's best that way."

"I dunno," Frankie said sadly. "I don't want a new life. I want my old life back. What's wrong with dat?"

"Always look forward, Frankie. Never look back or miss what's gone. I need to go, hon, okay?" Michelle said kindly, sidestepping the long discussion that Frankie was attempting. "I wish you the best. Call me again to let me know how you're healing. Bye, Frankie. Take care."

Frankie sat still in the chair and looked down with a dazed look on his face at the cell phone nestled in his shaking hand. Everybody's leaving. Frank's gone, Michelle's gone, and even Johnny can't wait to get rid of me. His face suddenly creased with anger, and he threw the cell phone across the room with an enraged yell. "Bitch!!" The phone bounced off of the wall and banged onto the floor.

Frankie's anger increased exponentially when he realized he hadn't phoned Johnny yet, and his cell phone was lying all the way across the room. Dammit! He soon regretted his verbal outburst when he rolled his chair near the doorway and came face to face with his brother Nikolas.

~*~*~*~

Johnny opened up his laptop and sighed. What was or wasn't in his email inbox would determine the course of his day. He was almost reluctant to find out how this day would proceed. He was still living out of nasty motel rooms, hoping to avoid detection from the Mafia. At least now he knew who the enemy was and not hiding out from an ill-defined phantom menace. This time, he'd selected a national chain motel, though, one he was reasonably sure didn't harbor six-legged creatures that scurried in the dark when you flipped on the light. Johnny shuddered at the memory of his last motel room. I have my standards even for down and dirty, he reflected.

Johnny flexed his fingers and cracked his knuckles before dialing up a modem connection. Here we go. You'd best have an email for me, gentlemen.

Johnny felt a wave of relief when he saw an email in his inbox, one that was titled, "Estimate." He opened the document, and began reading. When he was through, he gently closed the laptop and swore under his breath. "Shit."

~*~*~*~

Once again, Maxie was late for the school bus, and she boarded rapidly with an exasperated look on her flushed face. Looking toward the back of the vehicle, she located Sly and raised her hand and eyebrows in a greeting. Bertha, the crusty bus driver with a heart of copper, made no exceptions for the popular, pretty or talented, and she quickly placed the vehicle in gear. Maxie lurched forward as the bus promptly took off with a loud belching noise, and she reached for a seat in front of her to maintain her balance. She carefully made her way back to Sly and sat down with a massive sigh.

"Why don't you sit closer to the front of the bus?" she complained. When she saw the stricken look on Sly's face, she tapped him on the arm. "I'm kidding you," she explained. "That bus driver is crazy."

"The front is full by the time I board," Sly indicated, still not sure if Maxie was ticked off.

Maxie studied Sly's face, and her demeanor softened. He's a sweet guy. He's worried about making me upset. I can see why Emily is crazy about him. He's all she talks about these days. "Oh, I know. Thanks for keeping a seat for me." Sly and Maxie had become regular bus mates since Sly was regularly staying with Bobbie and rode the same route as Maxie.

Sly smiled, and his eyes twinkled as he realized that he still thought Maxie was a babe. His intense gaze caught her petite, regular features and the way that she seemed to sparkle and effervesce when she laughed. In a way, he was grateful for her because she'd been great practice in working on his shyness around girls, and his imagination had given him some very romantic ideas that Emily appreciated. Frankie was lucky, but Sly felt content with his choice. "I have some news about Frankie," he said conversationally.

Maxie bounced in the seat and clapped her hands once. "Oh! What news? Tell me."

Sly leaned in closer to Maxie and whispered conspiratorially. "He's not in the hospital anymore. He's at Wyndemere with his mom and stepdad."

"Reeeally," Maxie said speculatively as she held her hand up to her chin in thought. "He looked sick to me when I saw him yesterday morning. What's going on?"

Sly hesitated as he remembered Luke and Alexis' words of warning about discussing Frankie's mob ties. Maxie's stepfather was the police commissioner after all.

"Frankie didn't like the hospital," he replied casually. That's not a lie. "They decided he'd be happier and get well quicker at home. Wyndemere is huge, so they had room for all of his medical gear."

"I bet Mac and my mom don't know where he is," Maxie stated gleefully, not knowing that Mac had investigated a crime seemingly connected with Frankie at the hospital.

"I don't know," Sly replied truthfully.

"Sly? Can I go with you to see him after school?" Maxie asked earnestly. "I really want to see Frankie."

Sly shrugged. "That would be okay. But today, I have to go look at a house that my uncle and Alexis are going to buy. It'll take up all my time. Maybe tomorrow would be better."

Maxie nodded. "You're right. That gives me time to figure out what to wear. I want to do something special for Frankie, too. Let's do it!"

Sly nodded in bemusement as he was unused to the teenaged female psyche that insisted on a perfect appearance at all times, a presentation which could take hours or days. I bet Frankie will be happy to see Maxie. It'll be a nice surprise.

~*~*~*~

One pair of angry yet surprised blue eyes met the wary yet bemused pair of brown eyes that looked down on them. No words were spoken for a few seconds as two teenaged boys assessed one another, looking for the respective chinks in the armor to use as tools for flinging hatred and disdain.

Frankie spoke first. His mouth sneered as he said, "What are you doin' here? Don't you have to go to school?"

Nikolas' eyes narrowed as he folded his muscular arms in protest of Frankie's presence and the very oxygen that he breathed, Wyndemere oxygen to be exact. "There's no school today for upperclassmen - it's a special free day. I have the day off," he stated factually. Nikolas rolled his eyes. "Not that you'd know anything about it since you're only a sophomore. Besides, you're going to have a lot of homework to make up if you continue to loiter around. You should worry about yourself."

Frankie's temperature rose at the subtle dig his brother made, and he responded haughtily, "I have my education completed. I received my GED when I was thirteen. Why are you still in school, old man? Didn't inherit da intelligence genes?"

"Good thing I don't have a big mouth like you, pipsqueak. You didn't inherit a gram of social intelligence - or grace. I suppose they don't have much of that where you come from."

Frankie's face turned three shades of red, and he viciously kicked the nearest wainscoting. Alarming pain shot up his bad leg. I shouldn't a done dat. Ooooh. Frankie's face turned to stone as he tried desperately to hide the results of his foolish action from his older brother. "I grew up in a brand new mansion - two times bigger dan dis," he announced in a breathless voice made choky from his pain. "Dis old place is just boring and old. Kinda like you. Da boring dat is."

Nikolas' fists clenched and his jaw worked. "You don't talk to me like that about my home, understand?" Nikolas emphasized his point with a thrust of his hand in Frankie's direction.

"I talk how I like," Frankie said in a lilting voice. He knew he'd gotten Nikolas' goat. Dis is fun! "Bastard," he taunted him in Greek. One eyebrow lifted, and he smirked.

Nikolas' eyes widened at the sound of his native tongue and at the implications behind Frankie's curse. "If you weren't so pathetic in a wheelchair, I'd knock your head off, you little shit. Better yet, maybe I should push you down the stairs and make everyone's life easier." Nikolas had responded in Greek, testing Frankie's knowledge of the language.

"When I get my guns back, I'll shoot you in da head and your face'll look like a bad Picasso," Frankie growled in French. "A little bit here, a little bit dere," he sang out as he squished his face in several opposing directions with his hands.

"Sounds like Napoleon, looks like Napoleon," Nikolas shot back in German. "If you grow a few more inches you might actually reach his height. Your arrogance is already there."

"Thank you," Frankie replied in smooth Russian. "Napoleon was cool." He crossed his arms and nonverbally dared Nikolas to speak again.

Nikolas shook his head, amazed that an American knew so many languages fluently. Maybe he's not as dumb as I thought he was. He doesn't show his temper as much as I do either. I need to remember what Luke said about being the older one. While Frankie was waiting for Nikolas to reply, he bent down carefully to retrieve the cell phone that he'd thrown earlier. He groaned once as his fingers stretched as far as they could reach but still came up several inches short of his goal. All thoughts of maturity and compromise flew out of Nikolas' head, and he instinctively kicked the cell phone further out of Frankie's reach, sending it sailing under the hospital bed.

"Have a nice day," Nikolas said happily as he turned to leave the doorway.

Frankie's first instinct was to fly up from the chair and fasten himself to Nikolas' back like a punching octopus and beat his brother to a pulp, but he frowned when he recalled that he had to call Johnny. It was urgent. Thoughts of guns and bloody death surged through his mind as he turned the wheelchair and headed toward the hospital bed in search of the ever-elusive cell phone. When he reached the bed, he saw that it was firmly lodged halfway under the bed. Dammit. He looked around the room, but there were no items to use as tools long enough to retrieve the phone. Sighing, he threw his IV bag to the floor and slid off of the chair with a grunt.

~*~*~*~

Luke bustled in his apartment, folding cardboard boxes and taping them. He only had a few hours this morning to begin packing up his belongings in preparation for moving into the new house that he and Alexis were in negotiations to buy. They could have possession of the house as early as next week and were going to take another tour of it this afternoon. He supposed that a renter for the apartment might bring in some extra change, welcome dollars now that he had two teenaged boys under his roof. He shuddered to imagine their future grocery bills. Actually, he hoped to convince Clyde to move in. Clyde was his assistant manager of the club, now promoted to manager since Luke had been busy with his son's emergencies in the last week. Luke intended to hand over the day to day operations of the club since he wanted to be home in the evenings with his new wife and sons. Family life was definitely looking attractive to him, and he'd begun reformulating his career plans in recent days.

Luke carried a medium sized box into the living room and began packing up odds and ends and the rare decorative item in his sparse bachelor's pad. In his haste, he haphazardly threw in objects, not considering if they'd require careful wrapping to preserve them in the move. Luke's eyes flickered for an instant over the large, framed portrait of baby Lucky that rested on an end table. He picked it up and casually tossed it into the box. The glass of the frame loudly cracked when it fell on top of an iron box that had formerly rested on top of the desk. Luke cringed at the sound and reached into the box to retrieve the portrait and survey the damage.

"Ouch!" he cried out loud as a jagged piece of glass pierced his index finger. He sucked on a generous drop of blood as he held the portrait in front of him. A network of trailing cuts and cracks traced an electrifying design over his infant son, almost as if someone had taken a sharp knife and gouged at the glass that protectively covered the portrait. Luke carried the broken frame over to the trash can and discarded the glass fragments. He ran his good fingers over his son's face, being careful not to smudge the boy with his own blood.

As Luke regarded the baby Lucky portrait, his finger sang out in pain. I need to fix this. Luke walked to the bathroom, carefully washing the cut and placing a Band-Aid over it. He returned to the living room and immediately picked up the portrait again as it seemed to have a magnetic pull to him. His eyes locked into his son's dancing gaze, and his face softened instantly, as it did every time he thought of his child. I love him, he thought contentedly with a warm feeling in his heart. The broken glass that recently covered his son stirred a line of thought in his mind. It's been eighteen hours since I've seen Frankie, the longest we've been apart since he came back into my life. What have I been running from? Imperfection? Or a crack in the glass over a perfect portrait. He's not perfect, Luke. You told him that didn't matter to you. Why are you acting as if it does?  Do you need to control your life so desperately that the idea of another man raising your child turns your stomach? What about Frankie? Isn't he the innocent in all of this? He has problems - major problems. So what? We'll take it one step at a time - me and Alexis and his other parents. Luke leaned forward to kiss the portrait of baby Lucky. His eyes misted as he gazed at the likeness of his baby son, his junior. I love you, Frankie. It's time to place baby Lucky in the box of memories and start a new box for you.

~*~*~*~

"Johnny?" Frankie had crawled under his bed to retrieve the much desired cell phone, but became too exhausted to move. He'd settled for lying on the floor and punching the numbers that he'd memorized from frequent use.

"Hey, boss! It's good to hear your voice. Are you feeling better?"

Frankie looked at the wooden floor inches from his nose. "Oh, depends on how ya define dat, Johnny. No chit-chat. I'm calling about da business. Did you receive an estimate from Morgan and Corinthos?"

Johnny cleared his throat. "Yes."

"Well?" Frankie asked impatiently. The morning was young and already he'd been pissed off at least ten times.

"It may not be what you were expecting," Johnny tried to hedge before revealing any numbers.

 "Spit it out!" Frankie yelled. His eyes widened in disbelief when Johnny promptly stated the estimate. "What?! No way. Do they want to die? Do they?? I'd be happy, oh boy, I'd be happy to off 'em."

"Boss, you have options."

"Yeah, I know," the intense, oily voice replied.

"I'd suggest waiting for 24 hours before responding. It'll give you time to think and plan, plus Corinthos will be sweating. That's a good idea, right?"

Frankie sighed hard. "Yeah. I guess," he admitted reluctantly. "Can I kill 'em anyway, just because I feel like it?"

"No. Bad business move," Johnny replied.

Frankie tried to sit up, but forgot where he was. He banged his head hard on the underside of the hospital bed. "Ow, ow, ow," he sang out.

"Frankie? What's wrong?"

"I hit my head." Frankie started feeling funny and distant from himself as he became aware that he was indeed trapped in a small space and unable to move himself to freedom. "Oh God," he moaned out. "Help me. Get me outta here."

Johnny became worried at the abrupt shift in the conversation and Frankie's tone of voice. "Frankie, tell me what you need. What's going on?"

Frankie began crying fearfully and didn't reply. Adrenaline rushed through Johnny's veins, and he threw his cell phone down on the bed and reached for the regular motel phone, dialing the operator and asking for the number to Wyndemere or Stefan Cassadine's residence.

~*~*~*~

"I only left him alone for half an hour," Laura stated with a note of hysteria in her voice. She and the doctor were walking rapidly toward Frankie's suite. "He wanted some privacy to make a few phone calls. I thought that was fine."

"It wasn't unreasonable," Dr. Hill replied.

"But his servant or bodyguard Johnny, whoever he is, he sounded upset when he called me. He said Frankie was crying."

"And that's what we're going to check on."

Laura relaxed slightly, unaware that she seemed to need an authoritative male to back her up on her decisions.

Dr. Hill poked his head in the doorway to Frankie's suite and frowned. "I don't see him. Let me check the bathroom." He marched over to the room and satisfied that it was unoccupied, he stood with his hands on his hips. "Frankie, where are you?" he said out loud. "Frankie?" he called.

"Where is he?" Laura asked sharply. Dr. Hill held up his hand for silence and listened intently. He heard a slight rustling sound, like cloth rubbing on a surface, and he frowned as he determined it seemed to be coming from underneath the hospital bed. He walked over to the bed and knelt on the floor, craning his neck to look under the bed. The kid was there.

"Frankie?" he asked. "What are you doing? Come out of there and talk to me. Are you feeling okay?"

Laura rushed to the side of the doctor. "Frankie? Frankie?" she called out worriedly.  

Frankie didn't respond, and he was trembling with a blank look on his face. Dr. Hill reached for him and was rewarded with an especially loud scream that made Laura jump back two feet with a hand over her heart and a thrill of fear rushing through her veins. She heard the distant cry of Lulu, who apparently had been disturbed by the scream as well. Laura's fearful eyes looked toward the bed and then in the direction of Lulu's cry, and she felt frozen in a moment in time, unable to decide whether to stay in the room or seek out her baby.

"Frankie, it's Dr. Hill. I’m going to pull you out from under the bed. I know you don't want me to touch you, but it's not healthy for you to be on the floor. I'm reaching in now. Here goes."  Dr. Hill reached for Frankie's arm and pulled. Frankie slid easily on the polished wood surface of the floor with his silk sweatsuit providing little resistance. His hand was still tightly gripping his beloved cell phone. "Okay, I'm going to assist you back into the bed," the doctor said calmly. He easily picked up the slight boy and deposited him onto the bed's surface.

Laura rushed up and looked down at Frankie with a worried frown marring her features. "Is he okay? What's wrong with him?" she whispered.

Dr. Hill dusted off Frankie and looked him over. "Physically, he seems okay, although I'm not sure what he did to his injured leg. He shouldn't be out of the wheelchair with no support for it." He handed the cell phone that he pried out of Frankie's hand over to his mother, and Laura looked at it insensibly as she accepted it in her hand. 

"I called his father. He should be here in a few minutes," she said.

Frankie was still trembling on his side, and Dr. Hill ran a hand over his hair and down the side of his cheek, tapping it to rouse him. "Tell me what you're thinking," he said matter of factly. Frankie made a deep sigh, rolled over onto his back and started coughing harshly as his hand flew to his chest. He was blinking rapidly and turned his face toward the doctor. "I don't feel so good," he said in a sad, low voice.

"You overdid it. When I said I wanted you up and around, I meant for limited amounts of time in the wheelchair," Dr. Hill stated. "You seem to be break dancing on the floor. Not a good idea."

Frankie laughed at the comment and started another round of coughing. His eyes drifted up to meet his mother's gaze. "Mama," he said softly.

"Frankie, why were you under the bed?" she asked with concern.

Frankie frowned as his mind turned back to recent events. "Nikolas. He kicked my cell phone, and I had to retrieve it."

Laura's eyes darkened at the implication of her eldest son's behavior. "Why did he do that?"

Frankie shook his head. "We had a fight." His mouth turned up into a silly grin, and he laughed delightedly. "It was fun."

Laura sighed deeply. "We're going to have a family discussion - soon," she admonished. Lulu was still crying in the background, and she stated, "Frankie, Lulu needs me. I'll be back in a moment."

Frankie nodded. "Bring da baby," he called out to his mother's back. He grimaced harshly and twisted as he groaned.

"Do you need some pain medication?" Dr. Hill asked lightly.

Frankie nodded. "Yes."

"I'm placing you back on oxygen. Your saturation levels aren't where I want them to be. And close your eyes. You need to take a nap. Too much dancing."

Frankie closed his eyes and giggled at the idea of dancing by himself in the purple silk sweatsuit with legs that were three inches too long and rolled up. He didn't protest when the oxygen apparatus was attached to his face, and the narcotic in his veins nudged him toward sleep.

Dr. Hill sat in a chair watching Frankie. He rubbed a hand over his face and shook his head. He needed to have a private discussion with Mr. Cassadine about his stepson.

Next chapter...