Sorry guys, but this is my last chapter for two weeks – I'm off on my honeymoon to Crete. Be jealous, be very jealous. I shall be thinking of you all while I'm sunning myself next to the pool and writing…and feeling just a little pleased with myself.

But hey-ho, enjoy this chapter until I return. I give you:

Boosting - Chapter 24

Con had failed to take in any of the Buffy action and hadn't made any comparisons to the Hardys' lives. Instead, he'd been snoozing and was woken by the end credits. He checked his watch. "Time for that walk," he murmured and stood to go to the garage again, pushing his palm behind.

He shuffled through the connecting door to the garage to fetch the equipment he needed, the door slamming shut behind him. Con turned in surprise. He'd not felt any sort of breeze in the room, heck, the garage shutters weren't even open, so how come the door had swung shut?

Immediately, he realised his fatal mistake. It wasn't anything to do with the shutters or the wind, it was the three men who were standing in his garage, waiting. Three men who must have entered and hidden themselves earlier after Con had entered the house and stupidly left the garage open. Three men who obviously weren't there to throw him a 'welcome-to-your-garage' party.

"Hello boys," Con said, lamely, not knowing what else to say, trying but failing to buy himself some time. A wave of inevitability washed over him as they started to move. "Oh well—" he thought prophetically, raising his fists.

They swarmed and hit out, engulfing and assaulting as one single entity, overpowering him with speed and teamwork, striking areas they knew would incapacitate quickly – straight down the middle of his body, front and back. They blocked nearly every reciprocal shot Con tried to get in although he did get in a couple of flaying, well-aimed, clattering punches that sent one man tripping back and giving him a bloody nose, but the long and short of it was that Con didn't stand a hope in hell.

Con was a naturally powerfully built, tough man, but having been taken so entirely by surprise and by a trio of guys who'd obviously done this before, he stood little chance of a single-fisted victory. He took a solid punch to the mouth (which he knew instantly had busted open his lip) and while he was reeling, was grabbed by sets of hands. Then, in what seemed a well-practiced manoeuvre, was thrown careening across the concrete floor to collide into the wall at the side of the connecting door, his forehead hitting hard with an unyielding crack.

One of the men made an exaggerated "oof" noise and burst out laughing.

Con saw ball lightening in a myriad of dazzling colors and crumbled, but before he lost himself completely, caught onto the door handle with his fingertips. As he dropped he managed to keep hold until the door swung wide open. Then he didn't know what was happening any more, too disoriented to be able to make sense of anything, let alone defend himself other than to roll up into a ball. All he knew was that he was down on the ground and being kicked everywhere, but especially his back. He didn't feel the pain, the adrenaline running through his system protecting him from the majority of it.

The kicking suddenly ceased, giving Con a breather. Someone lifted and dropped his arm out of the way to go through his pockets, riffling its contents. Someone else was shouting that they should "get the car and get out before someone hears us..." and someone was laughing; the same man who'd laughed when Con's head had hit the wall.

"What's so funny? He broke my nose!" one of the voices bitterly complained, nasally.

"It'll improve your looks." 'Laughing Boy' remarked backing up into the doorway and into Con's undulating view. Licking his lips, he smirked cruelly at one of his friends. "Watch this!"

"Aw, c'mon, he's had enough! The last time you did a running kick into someone's head you nearly killed 'em." – hey, he's FBI and his name ain't John! Well, what-do-you-know, they've sent the big boys after us!"

Con's FBI badge dropped down in front of him, having been discarded, along with his wallet, now presumably empty of its cash and credit cards.

'Laughing Boy' shrugged. "All the more reason to put him out of action. And anyway, I need the football practice!" He placed his hands wide against the doorframe and leaned back in readiness to catapult and start his run up.

Con's brain started tripping even more at this new threat. "WWBD (What Would Buffy Do)?!!!" he wondered. "Well…usually one of her friend's would come to the rescue, just in the nick of time!"

And that was when, through the doorway and between 'Laughing Boy's' legs, Con saw a huge, furry, four-legged creature tentatively appear. It had crept into the kitchen, finally resisting Con's palm-down order to 'stay' in order to find out why his master was taking so long getting his leash for their walk. In a split second, his not unsubstantial brain had processed what was happening and he was barrelling at breakneck speed for 'Laughing Boy' and making the scariest noise Con had ever heard.

'Laughing Boy' looked sharply over his shoulder and saw the thing coming for him – all teeth, muscle, vertical fur and waking nightmare. Instead of running into Con's head, 'Laughing Boy' decided instead to hurdle over him, as did his friends and disappear presumably around the far side of the Ford Fairlane.

"Sick 'em, Rebel!" Con muttered as his nearly deaf, German Shepard mix, ex-police dog, launched himself over his prostrate body and went snarling, barking and salivating after the men who'd done this to his friend.

The men's' legs reappeared to run past and get to the connecting door, obviously unable to leave via the shut steel garage doors – not for want of a loud, clattering effort though!

"Go on, Rebel!" Con thought.

Rebel threw his 114 pounds of weight into the first available man, knocking him flying and sinking his teeth hungrily into the man's calf muscle. The man screamed for help and kicked out, a denim tearing noise offering up proof of Rebel's razor sharp teeth and not unsubstantial bite pressure.

'Laughing Boy' stopped and began pulling Rebel by the scruff to dislodge him, but failing – that is, until Rebel got bored with his prize and turned his attacking attention to the one annoyingly pulling at his fur! The first man scrabbled up and started hobbling through the house leaving a trail of blood and 'Laughing Boy' to his fate.

Eventually, after enjoying the spectacle of Rebel dragging 'Laughing Boy' around his kitchen and leaving plenty of DNA evidence to point a convincing finger at the man's involvement in his attack; Con waved to get his dog's attention and made another hand gesture to stop the mauling. Rebel immediately did as he was instructed and backed up into the doorway, snarling and barking at 'Laughing Boy', daring him to attack his master again, protecting Con. The stranger got up, cradling his ravaged bleeding arm and left at speed.

All was suddenly deathly quiet.

Rebel turned and trotted back to Con who put his thumb up and rubbed the dog's head to show him he'd done well.

Con knew he wasn't going to be able to get back up, even with Rebel nudging and making encouraging noises. His head was surging and rolling, the garage seeming to physically heave and pitch, the cement floor reverting back to its natural liquid state and sucking him down. He could taste blood in his mouth and now that his adrenaline levels were dropping, his back and head were starting to dully ache. He swiped at his face as blood had begun running into his eyes, fogging his vision still further. But all was not lost, Con had one final trick up his sleeve for his hero, dead smart, doggy friend to perform.

Con made a phone shape with his thumb and little finger and put it to his ear. "Seek it out, Rebel, fetch it, buddy!" He sent the dog away with a hand flick.

Rebel ran off for a few seconds, returning at speed proudly carrying a drool covered cell phone. Con took it between scuffed fingers and scrolled for Nancy's number, but found he couldn't focus on the screen, the print too small. So he tried dialling 911 instead, but only got as far as mis-selecting an '8' before he wasn't focusing in on anything, period, the phone instead slipping from his fingers and shattering against the concrete.

Con's last feeling was Rebel's hot breath against his cheek as the dog leaned against him and whined worriedly.

*****

Frank entered his room and glared at the bed. Okay, so he'd come to some conclusions, helped in no small way by Joe, but he still wasn't holding out any hope that he'd get any more sleep tonight than he'd had every night since the Pandora case. He sat on the end of it and started removing his boots.

He and Joe had talked for hours, even argued, especially about Nancy. For some reason, she was under the impression that he was on the brink of dumping her, which couldn't have been further from the truth. She was the only one thing in his life that he was dead sure of.

"I was only goin' to go away for a few days and get my head sorted out!" Frank had explained. "Yeah, I'd told Nancy that she should find someone with 'normal problems', but I didn't mean to make her feel that I was considering leaving her. I was suggesting that if she wanted to walk away she could. I haven't exactly been an easy person to be around! But no way, she's the one…you know?"

Frank considered his bed again. He was lucky if he got four hours of sleep a night, and some evenings, barely two. The problem was, when he lay his head, all he was doing was waiting for the horrors to begin and it was so hard just to drop off, and when he did…it was too much like hard work, which was why he'd stopped even trying, only allowing himself enough sleep to exist on a pseudo-normal level. He'd become an expert at catnapping.

He took a shower, standing under the hottest water he could tolerate for half an hour, allowing the water to wash away his humiliating little boy tears. He wasn't a crier, he hated crying, but his dam had been breached and he couldn't stop. Frank had no choice but to sob quietly, hope Joe couldn't hear from the next room and wait it out.

Frank knew Joe hadn't meant the harsh things he'd said, that it was a heat-of-the-moment thing, but his words still hurt, cutting deeply through inches of sternum and into Frank's heart making him bleed painfully out with each thundering beat.

Eventually he stopped weeping, not because he felt any better, but because he was physically unable to, his outpouring of raw emotion having exhausted him. He supposed this was the 'next stage to recovery' that his therapist had once talked about, the 'grieving for the loss of your past self' or some such psycho-babble he'd had his head filled with..."Yeah right!" Frank leaned his forehead and palms against the wall tiles and used the boiling blast of water to massage his shoulder muscles into a tired and relaxed state.

He stepped out, dried himself and pulled on his draw-string pants and undershirt. As he was leaving the room, he caught sight of himself in the mirror – a thinner and older Frank looking back. He'd lost weight and condition and hadn't even noticed. The only thing he'd seen when he'd been looking for the last eight weeks had been those scars on his face and the fact that when he pulled an expression, it was so different. His face, one that had always been so expressive, was now lacking. He didn't feel like himself, a stranger in his own apartment, an alien…he was hideous, he hated it.

Despite his teasing of how vain Joe was, Frank had been secretly holding his own large vanity jar. It had been hard growing up and having a brother who was a total babe magnet while you were known as the 'nerdy, serious one'. It had taken hard work to invent and retain his 'tall, dark and mysterious' outer-coating, and now all that he'd worked so hard for had been pulled down…not only his face...everything! His sense of self had been shattered and he was floundering amongst all those broken pieces, many of them razor sharp.

He went through to his bed and gave it another glower of distaste before slipping between the covers and laying his head on the pillow, knowing, but not caring that he was wetting it with his damp hair. This time, he decided to take the bull-by-the-horns, switch off the lamp and settle down – after all, Joe was in the next room, so if anything happened he was seconds away. Frank was convinced, however, that he wasn't going to fall asleep as his heart was thundering and his head was too full of fast moving images.

Frank was standing at the top of those familiar High School stairs with his back to the roof door. He turned and looked through the glass seeing Joe bending over 'him' with the defibrillator, shocking 'him' and shouting. It was weird being able to watch himself like that, not something he could easily bend his brain around. "Go on, bro!" he said, encouragingly.

Just as he finished watching Joe getting 'his' heart started again and lifting 'him' into an embrace, Frank heard a sound, a heavy shuffling noise that had him spinning. All at once, his face was level with a broad, muscular chest. He knew what and who this was, but nevertheless he couldn't stop himself from playing the game.

Frank's eyes roved up…and up…and up some more until he was looking into the face of the darkly dressed, and hooded thing – The Beast!

"Ah, there you are Mr Hardy. I've got a few bones to pick with you. A small case of a bargain you backed out of," it said and pointed a long, black finger towards the scene on the other side of the door.

The sheer size and power exuding from The Beast was enough to scare the living crap out of Frank, but it was the eyes that finished him off every time. They were blood red, missing their pupils, and devoid of any other color. Crimson – dispassionate, blank, dead and glacial – straight from bowels of hell itself.

"No, back off—" Frank muttered and turned to open the doors that led onto the roof and to the Hardy brothers. But before he could open them, The Beast was talking to him, advising him: "Are you forgetting the grenade? You don't want to blow your brother off the face of the earth would you…or do you?" It started to chortle, a rattling and phlegmy sound from the back of its throat.

So Frank snatched back his hand and reversing towards the stairs instead.

The Beast abruptly stopped sniggering and pulled forth a wicked looking knife, a taloned hand gripping the hilt. "I'm going to slice you up, Hardy, and when I'm done with you, it's Nancy's turn and then Joe's – and you get to watch!"

Frank didn't wait to hear more, he started running down the stairs, down and down, going around and around each turn. There was only supposed to be four floors to the building, but for some reason, the descending was endless, never reaching ground level. Frank was becoming disorientated, claustrophobic, the walls and ceiling bearing down and trying to slow him.

All the time he was fleeing, Frank was only too aware of the powerful entity pursuing, its weight causing the stairwell to jump with each step, but Frank dared not look back. To look eye-to-eye with the abhorrence would be his undoing – that much he knew. But he also knew he wasn't ultimately going to be able to outrun it, no matter how fast his legs went, but he had to try.

And then it happened, his knee collapsed and he staggered and fell, scraping his hands but crawling and slithering forward, panicked and breathless, whimpering and petrified beyond measure. But then heaviness was on him and he wasn't making any further progress. Reaching trembling fingers up, he grabbed onto the banister to try and haul himself free of whatever was trying to restrain him.

Everything stopped, because something cold had dropped onto his shoulder. He looked slowly across and found a large hand pinning him and stopping him from moving, the skin so decomposed that it was hanging in tendrils off the bones, dripping and putrid, the fingernails black and wickedly pointed.

Frank was turned over, and the hand was around his throat and over his jaw and he was screaming and screaming as he was forced to look again into those ghastly blood eyes, about an inch from his face. Pure evil emanated forth as he smelt The Beast's hot, fettered, and stinking breath as it hissed.

A mouldering finger slithered into Frank's mouth and began snaking its way down his throat, causing him to gag and cough, silencing him. Frank wanted desperately to fight, but inexplicably, his arms were cuffed behind his back and he could do nothing to defend himself.

The Beast showed him the knife again and started chuckling, quietly at first, and then increasing in intensity until the phlegm filled laughter was deafening, setting Frank's eardrums ready to explode. Frank's hackles arose as he gaped into those red eyes feeling his soul being drawn forward and sensing he was about to mentally implode again.

"Time to pay your dues!" The Beast told him as the knife travelled towards his face, nearing his right eye, the blade eventually completely filling his field of vision as it began to actually press up against his eyeball and dig. Frank began gibbering in his terror, begging to awaken.

But not this time, this time something different happened.

Abruptly the blade moved away and his arms were no longer shackled. The rotting finger slid from his throat, out of his mouth and away from his neck. Frank was scrambling backwards, still screaming from the loathsome vision in front of him as The Beast was hauled in the opposite direction, a more than surprised expression on its hideous visage!

Once Frank had recoiled a distance, he saw what had stopped the blade from doing its usual job, and he was struck dumb. It was his brother, and Joe was pulling The Beast away from him, and Joe was plenty mad!

"You get the HELL away from my brother, I'm the only one allowed to push him around like that!"

Joe picked up The Beast with one arm and threw it over the balcony onto the stairway below as though it weighed nothing – even though it was twice Joe's height and probably twice his girth. The Beast landed with a crash and looked up at Joe and bared its two rows of yellow, razor teeth.

"Yeah, you look at me now pal, not Frank!!" Joe pointed at his own eyes, the blueness of them almost translucent, his blond hair white. He took a few more steps down to where Frank had retreated and stood protectively over him. "You okay, Frank?" he asked, and winked.

Frank didn't get the chance to answer because The Beast was getting to its feet again, holding the knife aloft and hissing, stealing Joe's attention away.

Joe wafted his hand in front of his nose. "Dude, take my advice – when you brush, try flossing, and use a medicated mouthwash! You stink!"

The Beast said nothing, simply swayed in a stalking motion and snarled, its lizard-like green tongue darting in and out, scenting the air as a snake would.

Peaking a cocky eyebrow, Joe tipped his head questionably on one side and eyed the knife. Grinning toothily, he put his hand against the back of his pants. "Nice blade, man, but not as nice as mine!" He gripped onto something above his belt line and lifted it forth. It was also a knife, but Joe's was at least a foot longer. Joe held it aloft and turned it so light bounced off the mirrored finish, reflecting it into The Beast's crimson eyes. "Well, I suppose it's technically a sword, but let's not split hairs, eh?" Joe's blade was so bright…so bright…as bright as the sun itself!

The Beast made a high-pitched, ear-splitting screech as steam began to rise from its eyeballs as the light glinted off Joe's blade. It clamped a rotten hand over its face and started running off down the stairs.

Joe turned to Frank and gripped him by the upper arm to help him up from the floor. "It's time for you to leave, bro. I'll deal with The Beast – you've got other things you should be doing." Joe conjured an opening in the wall with a flick of his head and pushed Frank firmly through it. "Enjoy the beach – happy dreams, dude." Joe said and clapped Frank on the shoulder before closing the opening and leaving him on the other side.

Frank raised his palms in bewilderment, but eventually turned to find he was standing on warm sand, his feet bare and his drawstring pants rolled up to his knees. He walked towards the sea, feeling a real peace wash over him as the salt water began lapping over his toes, the sounds of the gulls screeching overhead.

"Where have you been?" Nancy asked, interrupting his thoughts and squinting up at him from over the top of her sunglasses.

"I'm not sure. Went for a walk, I guess." Frank said, plonked himself down next to her and waved at Callie and Iola who were strolling past...

Frank was suddenly bolt upright in bed. It was light outside and he felt strange…good strange! It was like he'd been scrubbed clean. He pushed the bedclothes down to his waist, stared at his hands and prodded his chest.

"You okay?" someone asked, the bed moving as they sat down.

He looked up to find Joe still in his own nightwear, an amused expression on his face. He was putting a cup of something hot down on the floor.

"You look really weird!" Joe observed, and grunted as Frank yanked him into a violent embrace. "Dude!"

"Something good happened, and I think you had something to do with it."

"Okayyyyy."

And then Frank was pushing Joe away, red in the face, embarrassed. "Dunno what that was about, bro. Let us never speak of it again – I'm still half asleep."

"Whatever. I'm surprised it took you so long, actually. No one can resist me, be it woman, man or brother. It was only a matter of time."