This is a work of (fan) fiction. I own nothing. I figured someone had to take care of Mr. Lyle after Ms. Parker shot him.

When Patience walked into the church on Wednesday, the familiar feeling of peace washed over her. The niggling headache, which always came after a journal-writing episode, instantly lightened. This chapel, any house of God, was the only place she could relax completely. She headed to her usual spot; two pews from the front on the left hand side next to the secondary enterance. She knelt down, rosary in hand. Today was especially difficult. Her head had felt like it would have exploded after this past episode. She took a deep breath and started to pray.

"I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth..."

Minutes passed. Her mind started to wander, as it did while in the middle of a Decade. It was so strange, the thought of marrying Lyle. The proposal just came out of nowhere. Could she really become his wife? She had thought that their friendship was a bit off after the last time he reappeared. So many questions popped into her head as she started to go over that night in her head...

It had been months since his last weekend visit. It was by far the longest he'd stayed away. He didn't even send her his usual monthly postcard. They were always blank, save for a stamp from Delaware, but it was nice to know that he thought about her. She was half asleep on her couch, watching late night TV because of a nightmare she had that ended up in her journal, when she was jerked completely awake by someone pounding on her front door. She checked the time on her wristwatch that she forgot to take off. She stared at the blurry circle on her wrist before she remembered that she had been wearing her nighttime glasses. She grabbed them from their place on the floor before trying again. 2:42 am. Groaning, she hauled herself off of her couch and shuffled drowsily to her front door. She checked the peephole first. It seemed like no one was there. Another hammer at the door, this time not-so-loud. She opened the door, expecting some hooligan to be sprinting away. It was Lyle, but not his normal self. He was leaning against the door when it opened. He stumbled into the apartment, practically collapsing on Patience.

"Lyle! What- What happened to you?" She cried. He clapped his right hand against her mouth.

"...quiet Patty..." He mumbled, resting his head against her shoulder. His hand slipped from her mouth and dangled at his side like a rag doll's. She dragged him inside. His clothes were waterlogged, rivulets creating a puddle on her hall carpet. She helped him lean on the wall, afraid that if she let him go, he'd fall. With a swift kick, she closed the door. He dropped to his knees at the loud slam of the door, breathing in wheezing gasps. She knelt next to him, trying to turn his head so she could look at her. His skin was almost too hot to touch. His glassy eyes tried to focus on her.

"Good Lord, Lyle! You're soaking wet and burning up." She muttered, tugging off his overcoat with difficulty. The wet fabric made teeth-clenching squeaks when it dragged over the fabric under it. He raised his hand to touch her face.

"...Patty, *huff, huff*...Patty..." He gasped. She shushed him.

"It's all right now. Ssh, it's all right." He hugged her, his head dropping back onto her shoulder. She held him, not caring that his wet clothes were soaking her thin cotton pajamas. With a great heave, she got him back on his feet. "Come on, lean on me. Let's take you to the bathroom and get you dried off." She practically carried him, his arm draped over her shoulder, the whole shuffling length to the bathroom. "Come on. One foot in front of the other." She encouraged him. He stumbled a couple of times and she almost dropped him once.

"I...di-did-dn't *huff*...know where...*huff, huff*...else tuh-...*hiss* to go..." He tried to explain as she set him, lid down, on the toilet. She hushed him again. In the bright white-tiled bathroom, she could see how grimy the water he'd been in was. The wet patches on her light blue pjs made brackish brown stains. She balanced him against the wall and started to draw him a bath. It was lucky that she snagged an apartment with a decent-sized bathtub. The hot water filled the room with a muggy steam, fogging up the mirror and her nighttime glasses. She pushed them up on top of her head to get them out of the way. She grabbed a handful of towles from her bathroom closet before kneeling next to him again. He really looked awful, covered in dirt and red in the face. She struggled with the knots on his formal shoes, finally getting them off with a sucking pop. Socks followed. Next, she peeled off his jacket, pausing to untie his tie. His dress shirt came next, followed by his undershirt. There was now a pile of sopping male clothes tossed wtih precision in front of her washer. She was now grateful that her laundry room was across the way from her bathroom. She had often complained of the water heater being too close and scalding her in the mornings. She'd never make that complaint again. She grabbed a towel from the folded pile and started drying him off. The towel got dirty quickly, so she switched to washclothes. She smelled motor oil.

"What did you do, fall into a harbor?" She asked him as she wiped his face gently with one of her soft washcloths. He let out a wheezing chuckle.

"You-...you kuh-could... say that." He mumbled, his head dipping backwards to rest on the porceline back. She grinned, then gasped as she saw the dirty bandages wrapped around his left hand. He tried to pull it away, but she grabbed his arm. "Lyle, let me see your hand." she ordered. Quickly, she unwrapped the many layers of gauze. Only the outer layer was filthy. Underneath all of it was an open wound where his thumb used to be. Her stomach churned. She repressed her nausea and examined it carefully. The slice job was horrible. They had cut through the first phalange closest to the flexible joint. She grimaced at the exposed bone. It had to be agonizing to have the marrow rubbing against the bandages, blood oozing up from it almost constantly. She took a deep breath and got out her first aid kit from under the sink.

"This might sting a bit." She told him as she opened a bottle of iodine. He rolled his head to one shoulder, eyes closed. She could tell that he was weaving in and out of consciousness by the way his head bobbed. He flinched at the sting of astringent. She then rewrapped his hand carefully with clean, dry gauze. "All right. I need you to stand up." She told him, a blush starting to creep up her cheeks. She would have to take off his pants for him to get into the tub. He didn't answer. She reached up and patted him on the cheek. "Lyle?" No response. She swallowed. "R-...Robert?" Her stomach turned nervously. He had made her swear on her life never to use or tell anyone his real name. He stirred, opening his eyes slowly. She took that as a good sign. "Robert, I need you to stand up." She said clearly. "Do you hear me?" He nodded. She kept her eyes on the ceiling as she undid his belt and zipper, his forhead pressed against the side of her ear. His irratic breath hit her neck, smelling of sickness. Fortunately, he was wearing boxers. She figured that they were close enough to swimming trunks, so she left them on. She helped him into the tub, making sure he wouldn't slip under the waterline. She grabbed another washcloth and started cleaning him off properly. She blushed again as her hands went over his body. She had done this before, with the elderly and infirmed, but this was her friend Lyle, a full grown man that she's known half her life. She focused her thoughts back on the task at hand, making sure he was clean. He watched her blearily, moving himself when she told him to. His right hand reached up and caught a lock of her free-flowing hair.

"You're pretty with your hair down." He slurred. She shook her head. It was true that he had never seen her without her usual ponytail to keep her hair out of her way. She just figured he was delirious. Finished, she ordered him up and out of the tub. There was a wet plop as he set his feet on the tile. She squeaked. His boxers had fallen off. She snatched a towel up and wrapped it around his waist, her eyes averted and her hands trembling.

"Are- are you feeling better?" She asked. He nodded. "Good. Bedtime. You'll sleep in my bed until you get better." She told him, wrapping his arm around her shoulder once again. It ws a little faster trek to her bedroom, where she had a double bed. His skin had gotten clammy after they left the sauna-like bathroom. She tucked him into her bed carefully, going to her closet to get a down comforter that she used in the winter. she was about to leave after she adjusted him on the pillows when he reached out and grabbed her arm.

"Patty," He said, staring at her. "Don't tell anyone I'm here. Not even your priest." She removed his arm and tucked it back under the covers.

"All right, Lyle. Just rest. No one will know you're here. Mums the word." He nodded and closed his eyes. She kept staring at him for a little while longer. It wasn't the first time he'd come to her hurt. This was the worst condition she'd seen him in, though. She pulled out her chair from the desk next to her bed and sat at his bedside, intent on watching over him. All night, if necessary.

As she finished the Hail Holy Queen, she got a tingling feeling, like she was being watched. She opened her eyes and looked around. The strange decon from yesterday was sitting right next to her and she hadn't noticed. Their eyes met. He smiled at her.

"Am I disturbing you?" He asked. She liked his voice.

"No. I was just finished." She crossed herself and stashed her roasry in her jeans pocket. "I've never seen you in this parish before."

"I just arrived Sunday." He held out his hand. "Jarod Anthony."

"Like Saint Anthony. Patron saint of lost things." She said taking his hand. "I'm Patience."

"Aand are you?"

"What?"

"Patient, I mean."

"Some people say I was well-named, yes." She picked up her purse and started to head out. "It was nice to meet you, Brother Jarod." She waved and headed out.

"I'll see you soon, right?" He called.

"Every Sunday and Wednesday."