Piers could sympathise, even empathise, with Chris. It was hard, he knew, to deal with loss. Of seeing someone you cared about die in front of you but he also understood that Chris had faced it far more than was decent. No wonder he had faltered.
Wincing at the sounds of retching and groaning from the bathroom, Piers turned up the volume on the television. The hotel offered only three channels on an old CRT television and there wasn't a word of English spoken on any of them. Currently showing, a black and white movie Piers didn't recognise, dubbed into a language he didn't understand. It did a decent job of drowning out the sounds of Chris' misery.
When the other man eventually emerged, he looked like hell and Piers wasted no time in telling him so. Not in the mood to sugar coat or coddle, which was just as well since neither would do Chris any good. Shooting Piers a sour look, Chris sank heavily onto his bed, the ancient frame and rusted springs creaking, and muttered that he needed a drink.
"Tough. I ditched the contents of the mini-bar." Four miniatures of vodka and six cans of beer were unceremoniously dumped into the bin outside their hotel when Piers went out earlier to buy some food.
"I hate you," Chris grumbled into his pillow, though there was no real malice in his words.
"You want something to eat? Maybe line your stomach." Tossing a pack of sandwiches across to the other bed, Piers watch them land beside Chris' shoulder then bounce onto the floor. The only response that came from the prone man, however, was a deep, pained groan. Piers opened up his own sandwiches and pulled one out of the wrapping. Pungent salami with sliced pickles and mustard on rye bread. No wonder Chris couldn't face eating his sandwiches. His delicate state probably wouldn't allow for such strong flavours.
"I want to die."
Swallowing his mouthful, Piers huffed at the declaration. They'd had a day of this so far and, despite the dramatics, Piers knew that Chris' suffering outweighed any simple hangover experienced by either of them. Alcohol withdrawal was, by all accounts, a torturous thing but unfortunately, it just had to be weathered and there was little which could be done to alleviate Chris' discomfort. Were they back on home turf, there were prescribed medications which could relieve the nausea or repress some of the other symptoms, but taking Chris home in his current condition wasn't an option. The flight alone would be unbearable for him. Facing his colleagues and his friends would be worse.
In the middle of the night, Piers was awoken by the sound of breaking glass. Up and out of bed in a heartbeat, he burst through the door of the bathroom to find Chris slumped against the bathtub, bleeding hand cradled against his chest.
"They were just kids."
Piers' heart, already aching, hurt anew at the sight of his captain so broken and the sheer weight of regret in his words. But he knew that no amount of consoling would help. Telling Chris he wasn't to blame had little to no effect. Mired in his memories, Chris seemed to relive every death he'd witnessed, each perceived failure, his sorrow and remorse, over and over and over. All Piers could do was listen and so he sat down on the floor beside Chris, gently took hold of his injured hand and began to pluck out the shards of glass.
"I failed them. All of them," he lamented, head lolling sideways to rest on Piers' shoulder. "Why are you here? Why brother with me?"
Ironically, in his more lucid moments, Chris claimed to not remember much of anything, but when the delirium took him, he recalled all too clearly.
"Because you're my captain," Piers replied softly. "Because you're my friend."
A sob shook the body next to him and Piers swallowed down his own surge of emotion. He had to stay strong; he had to be Chris' strength. Grief was powerful and all-consuming. It was irrational and terrible. Although Piers had endured his own grief, he didn't feel as though he had the weight of the world upon his shoulders. He didn't have addiction and withdrawal to deal with either.
"Talk to me," Chris murmured sleepily, pulling back his hand and resting it on his lap.
"About what?"
"Anything. Something happy."
As much as Piers hated to admit it, the sad memories they shared far outweighed the happy. A full half minute passed with only Chris' troubled breathing to break up the silence, and then: "Do you remember that market? The one where Merah dared me to eat a live squid?"
For a few seconds, Chris gave no response, until a rumble of laughter came. "I remember. You boasted that you'd eat anything, but turned-"
"Green at the sight of those wriggling tentacles. Yeah, heh, that's right. You ate your weight in those little rice balls."
"I did no such thing." Sounding a little brighter, but no less worn out, Chris chuckled again. "The Mighty Monkey."
"Ape, sir," Piers corrected. "The Mighty Ape and Chemical QueenBee. And I still say you should have got the Maximum Badger one. Sounded like a punk band."
No response came from Chris and Piers noticed that the heavy breathing had evened out. Chris was finally sleeping.
By the time morning came around, Piers was exhausted and sore from sitting on the bathroom floor all night with Chris slumped against him. But at least there had been no further incidents. When Chris finally stirred, he rubbed his eyes before lurching for the toilet. Leaving him to his dry heaving, Piers stood, shook out his limbs to regain some feeling, and went in search of breakfast.
Walking back to their room, bag of pastries in one hand, tray of coffees in the other, Piers heard a crash and, fearing the worst, sprinted the rest of the way. Sure enough, as he struggled to balance everything, get the key out of his pocket and into the lock, and then open the door, the noise was coming from inside. Stepping inside just as Chris ran out of steam, Piers surveyed the damage and groaned. One of the beds was without a mattress, pillows and covers strewn over the floor, and in the midst of it stood Chris, staring down at his hands.
"They just won't stop," he said, glancing over at Piers. "Look at them. Look!" He held both hands up to show Piers the shaking. "I thought if I- If I gave them something to do, then it might… Why won't they stop moving?"
With a defeated sigh, Chris hung his head and Piers put the food and coffee down on the nearest surface - the desk beside the door - before going over to join Chris amongst the chaos of spilled bedding.
"It'll pass, sir," he said, guiding Chris to sit down upon the untouched bed. "Try not to worry about it, okay?" Easy advice to give, but hard to follow. Piers was flying virtually blind. A scant half hour on the hotel's computer down in the lobby hadn't fully prepared him for this and his desire to help was hindered by his inability.
"Piers." A hand clutched at his shirt and Piers looked down at Chris' bowed head. "I'm sorry. I can't do this. I need a drink."
"No." It was hard, so hard, to say no to Chris. To turn him down flat like that and when Chris raised his head, turning his face up to Piers, it was even harder. He could see the agony in Chris' eyes, the desperation and craving, and for a split second, he caught himself wondering if it would be easier just to give him something, to let him have just a sip. The thought was banished from his head, though, almost as soon as it appeared.
Piers' refusal sent Chris into a sulk. No amount of cajoling or begging could persuade him to eat breakfast nor drink his coffee and in the end, Piers gave up. But the silence, it seemed, was worse and Chris took to threats in order to try and get what he wanted. He would, he promised, tear the room apart if he had to. Or he'd knock Piers out cold and go find a drink himself. Piers just shrugged and ate his breakfast. When threats didn't work, Chris turned to self-pity, loudly berating himself for his weakness and issuing grovelling apologies to Piers.
"I promise, I'll be good. Just one drink, Piers. Just one. You don't know what it's like," Chris bemoaned, wringing his hands together and looking contrite. "I want to get better, I really do, so one little drink and then I'll-"
"Stop it. Put on the television. Read the bible. Count the stains on the ceiling for all I care but stop thinking about it because the more you think about a drink, the more you'll want it and you've come too far to fall back now."
Stunned into silence, Chris glared at Piers and muttered, "I'm going to take a shower."
"Good. Make sure it's hot. It'll help sweat it out of you, or something." Whether that could actually work, Piers had no idea, but anything was worth a shot at this stage. Respite was all too swift, however, as no sooner had the bathroom door closed than it was opened again, with Chris appearing in the frame.
"I want to offer you a deal," he said, voice terse and serious. One hand had remained out of view until he started talking again, and when it came up, it held a large sliver of the broken mirror which Chris placed against his throat. "You get me a drink, I won't cut. It's that simple. Take it or leave it."
"You have got to be kidding me. This is a joke. Tell me you're joking?" Chris shook his head and pressed the point of the makeshift blade into his skin. "You would seriously do that? Kill yourself because I won't let you have booze? You're fucking ridiculous, you know that?"
Patience only went so far and Piers was rapidly running out. In a flash, he was on his feet, across the room and knocking the glass out of Chris' hand. It landed on the bathroom floor, shattering on the tiles. One second, he was watching the fragments skitter and dance across the floor and the next, he was shoved up against the door frame, gasping for breath. For all his fragility when it came to battling his demons, Chris was still a formidable force and Piers struggled in his grasp. Never before had either man raised a hand to the other, but that looked set to change as Chris pulled back his free hand and formed it into a fist.
"Chris!" Choked out, Piers was beginning to see sparks at the edge of his vision. Deprived of air, he could only claw at Chris' arm in the hope of dislodging him. Closing his eyes, he prepared himself for the blow, but it never came. Instead, he suddenly found himself free and tumbled to the floor, coughing.
"God, Piers. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." The bathroom door slammed loudly against the wall with Chris leaning heavily against it. Labouring to catch his breath, Piers wheezed and waved off the apology. He wasn't angry. Alarmed, maybe, but he understood Chris' duress. He could make some allowances.
"We need to get you some proper help." Voice hoarse and croaky, Piers spoke quietly to Chris. "Maybe I can find an English speaking doctor. Get you some diazepam or something to tide you over until we get home." Sitting up, Piers rubbed at his neck and throat. "I don't think we can do this through will alone."
He wasn't admitting defeat, he told himself while he clambered to his feet, and he certainly wasn't giving up on Chris, but barely twenty-four hours had passed since they checked into the hotel for Chris' detoxification and Piers was drained. A hand came down on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
"Thank you, Piers." In the hesitant smile Chris gave him, Piers saw a hint of the captain he knew and respected and that, more than anything, made all of this worthwhile.
"We'll get there, sir. I promise that we'll get you back on your feet." Or die trying, he added silently. Moving away from Chris, Piers hefted the fallen mattress back onto the bed and replaced the sheets, covers and pillows. "Why don't you rest for a bit and I'll go down to reception. See if they can recommend a doctor."
Obediently, Chris nodded and did as he was told, curling up on the bed on his side. He looked almost childlike in his demeanour which struck Piers as amusing, given his size. Tugging a blanket up over Chris' body, Piers tucked him in then patted his arm.
"I'll be back soon, sir." The reassurance fell on deaf ears. Chris was already asleep, judging from the slow rise and fall of his shoulders, and so Piers grabbed the key and slipped quietly out of the room.