Rating: PG
Author's Notes: This is a sequel to my fic "The Heart of the Matter," which is an epilogue to the episode "Buried Alive." I'd recommend reading "Heart" first, just so you know what's going on. :) Julia, thanks for looking this over for me!
Feedback is most excellent. :)
The Fact Of The Matter
By Trekkieb
The door closed behind Donovan, and Frank leaned his head back against the headboard. He had a nice view of the ceiling from that position, and he pondered the cracks, stains and other assorted oddities for a minute.
Good old Donovan. Frank knew he was worried, and while the thought that he needed to be worried over annoyed him a little, Donovan's concern also gave him a warm, fuzzy feeling deep down inside. Then again, maybe it was the beer. He'd already finished off a couple of bottles before his friend had arrived.
Within a short amount of time, he grew bored with the ceiling and turned his attention to his lap. With mild surprise he noticed that his right fist was clenched tightly around the remote control. Funny. It took a few seconds of conscious effort to relax the rigid fingers, but finally they released their grip on the remote. He held up the hand in question and gazed at it curiously.
Now, what did he have to be so uptight about? He contemplated the status quo. He had the coolest job on the planet. He was alive. He was in relatively good health, except for his currently injured leg. He had friends. And he had a pretty Russian scientist checking in on him three or four times a day.
Life was good, right?
"Wrong." A very weary hand rubbed at his forehead.
The truth was he could barely close his eyes. Whenever he did…
For the past several days, he'd done everything he could think of to avoid sleep. He'd watched TV, gambled with the night crew, cruised the Internet, drank coffee. But those things only worked for so long. That was where the beer came in. A last resort that would, hopefully, accomplish what his other ideas hadn't.
There were, of course, both pros and cons to his proposed solution. Pro: If he drank enough, hopefully he'd pass out into a dreamless oblivion. Con: The results of such indulgence, not to mention explaining his sure-to-be-a-monster hangover to Talmadge, to Olga, to Donovan.
Donovan was his best bud. He knew Frank so well, sometimes better than Frank even knew himself. He knew about Frank's troubles with the bottle. Well, so did the others, actually. Donovan, though, had been a first-hand witness to the mess Parker had become after Somalia.
So, in his current situation, he'd been a little hesitant to turn to his stash of beer; it was the worst thing an ex-alcoholic could do. But the nights since he'd returned to the base had been. . . unsettling to say the least. Terrifying was more like it.
Frank shuddered, thinking of the past, and what catalyst had driven him down that road. The nightmares. God, they had been terrible; still were. The worst part wasn't that they came – he could live with that. No, the worst part was that he never remembered the dreams once he woke. All that ever remained were disjointed images, sounds. And intense emotions: fear and hate and rage. It was the last two that actually scared him the most when he was awake, for it gave him the opportunity to ponder the fact that those two emotions were so strong within him…even in his subconscious mind. And he didn't want to think about that.
It was those same nightmares that plagued him now. They often invaded his dreams softly, yet in the end had him jerking awake with his own screams frozen in his throat.
Even back then, when they had first started interrupting his sleep, he had never actually discussed the dreams. Somehow, Donovan had known anyway, and Frank knew that he would have completely lost himself if it hadn't been for his buddy Craig.
So when Donovan had stopped by just a few minutes earlier, Frank knew what he was asking. But he couldn't talk. It just wasn't in his nature. And how could he talk about something that he couldn't really remember anyway? Donovan respected his wishes, and Frank was grateful for that. Maybe he would even tell Donovan that someday.
Donovan had watched him struggle back to the land of the living. It was something Frank would never forget. And, looking at the condensation-covered bottle in his hand, he wondered what his friend would think if he saw him in the morning, incapacitated by the effects of alcohol.
If Frank knew him right, Donovan wouldn't say anything about it. But there'd be a look on his face… It was the look that Frank saw in his mind's eye that gave him pause.
With a rough jerk of the arm, he pressed the power button on the remote. The TV screen darkened, and the room was silent.
"Damn Donovan and his guilt trips," he sighed resignedly.
He carefully set the beer aside, watching the bubbles float to the top of the amber liquid, and then he stretched out on the bed and rested his arms across his chest.
He closed his eyes hesitantly, not wanting to see the pictures that would come once he fell asleep. Yes, he, Frank B. Parker, was afraid of the dark.
A minute later, his eyes snapped back open, heart beating faster than normal at the encroaching sense of claustrophobia. He took several deliberate breaths. "Get a grip, man." But it was hard to get a grip when there weren't any handholds in sight. Deep down, he worried that someday he'd be unable to maintain his uncertain hold on the edge, and he'd plummet, plummet down to a place from which he knew he could never climb back up.
But to combat those times when that fear threatened to overtake him, Frank thought about the good he did, all the people he had ever helped. He thought about his friends, and his son. And when none of those things helped to lift the veil of despair, he had a secret mantra: Donovan wouldn't let him fall. Donovan would be there. He wouldn't give up on Frank.
Frank repeated that in his head as he took another deep breath and closed his eyes once more.
And he thought that maybe. . .the next time Donovan came around. . .he would talk after all…
END
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