Author's Note: Yeah, this is kinda out of canon at the end. But it was stuck in my head FOREVER and needed to come out, for the good of all involved.

WARNINGS: Some slash, repeated use of the word Hell, and one other swearword are contained in the fic below. By reading on, you state you are not averse to any of these things and will not leave a flame because of these facts.

I own nothing. Enjoy.

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Pride.

It was one the seven deadly sins. One that Frank had been guilty of many times. It was worse than a sin; an indulgence. A way to make himself feel good, wanted, happy. It was something he'd always argued, even with the kids on the debate team: Pride was needed for some people to function.

What was he to do when his pride was stripped away from him?

The world had shattered for him. No longer had he anything to be prideful about. He didn't even have enough to self confident about. The whirlwind of X reporters, with their cameras and note pads… They had taken his life, the smooth, polished glass that was his pride, and thrown it off the roof to the concrete below. Every moment was a nightmare, every day his own personal Hell. He supposed this was his price to pay for regularly indulging in a Cardinal sin. That, however, was not what made his mind slowly dissolve as he burned, surrounded by brimstone.

The thing that ruined him was that no one came through the flames to save him.

Where was Vallejo? Oh, he needed him. He needed a friend. He needed an angel to pull him out of the flames before he was reduced to only ash. But no one was there, no one. It was like being sucker punched twice. No one on the whole Safety Patrol had said a word in his defense. None of those stuck up angels could be bothered to help him back into Heaven.

So he lay in Hell for all his life.

It seemed that there would be no end to this. This was worse than being forsaken. He'd been forgotten altogether. Left to burn until he couldn't feel the heat anymore. Frank had never been one for irony, but it seemed funny to him. For the first time in his life, he was without both pride and friends. He assumed that if one was gone, the other would see him through. If not them, then the badge. He always expected to have the badge to fall upon, to take comfort in, even when friends and pride deserted him.

No. Like an angel stripped of his wings, he had the one thing that set him above others removed. Would this Hell leave him with nothing at all? It seemed so.

For the first time in his life, he spent his allowance as fast as he got it, instead of saving. A TV, multiple video game consoles, and a subscription to GameRent. In these things he found his new solace, his new friends. Since school and grades no longer mattered, he hours of time to devote to being the best. Online roleplayers on several sites could attest to how strong he was. Here he could regain the tiniest piece of pride. Just a sliver, just a sliver! He wouldn't dare aim to be the very best or reach levels no one else had. He knew the price for that. He paid it every time he ventured outside; the looks of X students, the snickers…

The days turned to gray. Life was a series of motions, done only because they were something to be done. Each movement, each game, only happened so that he wouldn't have to think of the past. The past was the Grim Wreaper, haunting him even when he was in Hell. He couldn't outrun it, or vanquish it, but if he didn't look at it, maybe it wouldn't cut him any deeper. As days passed, though, avoiding the Wreaper began to be too much. At least pain was a feeling. Everything was worthless and pointless, gray and without meaning.

The gray was calm and without change. He began to lose himself in memories to avoid it. Remembering the days when he was somebody, when he meant something. Some days he forgot to eat or drink. Sometimes he wasn't sure where he was. Did it matter? Did anything? The future was going to change for the worst, but the past, the past was his false angel that would embrace him as long as he did not acknowledge it was false. He did not ever intend to break from it.

But as time passed, he couldn't live in his mind anymore. He was not insane enough for it. So he was stuck in this grim, lifeless, gray reality. Some days he would just lay in bed and think about how he used to have a chance to be somebody. He had been so good at telling things about people, about figuring out how people did things. His career had been so promising. He could have been someone. He could have been a professional, given enough time.

No more.

His room was his prison. It kept the real world out, but it shut him in. It was warm and promised comfort, yet it was a dump without order. Much like him, he thought, for his mind lay on the border of 'smart' and 'insane'. It was quickly tilting towards the later, however, as being in this place was driving him mad. He wanted to be out there again. The prison, though, promised him safety. He did not want to have his pride ripped from him again. He supposed that was why he never picked himself up. His spirit was laying in the fire, but it couldn't get shoved deeper into the flames if it never moved. He had been a walking target before. Oh, it had been so much fun, but the cost was so high! His mind endlessly went through the vicious circle of emotions until he was left totally numb.

No one could talk to him. No Patroller who hadn't even been on the squad at the time, not his sister, no one. He would make them stay away. They couldn't leave if he didn't let them in, and he wouldn't, he couldn't, he refused to. He'd had his soul ripped in half because of these idiots, and they didn't care. They just wanted to use him. Everyone wanted to use him and lose him.

Then Vallejo appeared.

He was as stern as always, though he had lost his curly haired look. Frank stared at him for a moment. This was the person who had broken him without a second thought. He supposed he should be angry. Instead he handed the other boy a controller. He didn't know why. Maybe because even if it was anger, Vallejo made him feel, and he needed that. He wanted to feel something, if only for a moment, if only the weakest inkling of emotion. Anything was better than nothing, and the conversation that followed was painful but at least the pain was there.

"Please, Frank," Vallejo called him out of his insanity with a gentle touch to the other boy's pale arm, "I'm sorry."

Suddenly, Frank's eyes went wide. He'd never thought, never, that Vallejo felt bad about this. But his old boss looked at him with hurt-filled eyes. He'd lost his best friend. Frank didn't realize that. It seemed only he had lost it all. Had he been unfair? Had this Hell been of his own design, or, worse yet, had he trapped his best friend in it? Dammit, he didn't want to think of Vallejo as a friend. He didn't want to feel anymore, he took back what he thought earlier. He couldn't take this, he didn't want any of this. Couldn't he just be left alone?

"Frank," Vallejo looked at him again, trying to get eye contact, to call his friend back to reality before Frank Bishop became another kid with a Safety Patrol-induced mental illness.

"Horatio," Frank whispered, recalling how sensitive Vallejo was to being called by his first name.

He'd always wanted to… no, this wasn't the time. It was too late now. Everything that he had meant to Vallejo had been a lie, hadn't it? Vallejo had left him for dead. But, argued the tiniest piece of sanity in Frank's head, hadn't Vallejo realized his mistake? He didn't feel right without him, or else he wouldn't have come. Did he dare risk being broken again? If ever there was a moment, this was definitely going to be it. How did one approach this sort of thing… oh, to hell with it. He didn't have the kind of pride needed to fight this anymore. When he was a Patroller, maybe avoiding this would've made sense. But now he had nothing left to lose, absolutely nothing, and no irrational pride to bind his actions.

Frank pushed Vallejo back onto one of the many blankets on the floor. Placing his hands gingerly on his friend's shoulders, he threw all caution to the wind. Vallejo's black eyes were wide, but knowing that Vallejo wouldn't dare hurt him anymore, Frank kissed him.

The first thing that registered with him was how cool Vallejo's lips were. The second was that he was sweltering hot, as the room never had a chance to air out. He lowered himself against the coolness that was his friend, relishing the long-desired contact with another human being. So soft, Vallejo's skin was like satin as he delicately stroked the side of the Patroller's face. It was like he was an angel, come to save Frank from this Hell after so long. Frank finally broke the kiss for air, and buried his head in Vallejo's neck. Maybe he was going to Hell for this. It didn't matter, so long as he had his Hell angel.

"Horatio?"

"Yeah?"

"I missed you," Frank didn't even realize he was crying as he said it, because he was snuggling against his old partner, trying to make sure this was real. "I think I need help."

"And I can help you, I know I can, if you'll just help me out first," Vallejo cautiously stroked Frank's hair, which was surprisingly oily from a lack of exercise or bathing. He didn't feel the slightest disgust, just guilt. This should never have happened. "So will you help us?"

Frank propped himself up on one elbow, nose-to-nose with Horatio. His eyes were empty, reflecting months spent living outside reality.

"Will you be there for me this time?"

"Absolutely."

"Then I'm your man," Frank took Vallejo's hand. "And you're my angel."