A/N: This is just a little something dedicated to all the DaveFrank lovers. I hope you like it. Warning! This fic contains slash! If you don't like it, I advise you to hit the 'back' button now!

Anyway, it's Frank and his thoughts, and Dave and his thoughts, and then it's the two of them together! How awesome is that?

He was drowning, held underwater by an invisible hand, holding his head beneath the surface of the clear liquid. He tried screaming; opened his mouth, but as his lungs emptied of air, his tongue tasted the water. No, not water... vodka. He was drowning in vodka. How fucked up was that?

He thrashed, reaching his arms up, trying to grab onto the hand and pull himself up, but found he couldn't; his hands were now cuffed behind his back.

Hopeless. Whatever remained of his life was empty and hopeless now, and he was now losing the chance to see his punishments through to the end.

He started sinking, slowly, slowly, oh God, he was going to die in a pool of vodka. How ironic. Funny, because he always thought it would be the alcohol poisoning that did him in. But hey, one out of two ain't bad.

He let his body relax as he floated down to his death. The vodka was burning his eyes, so he closed them, let the rest of his oxygen escape from his lips. In his mind, he whispered to his wife and son, part of him wishing he wasn't going to see them yet, but another part wondering why he hadn't just killed himself so he could be with them sooner.

Blackness.

Pause.

A noise.

Should he scream?

He lifted his head up, tried opening his eyes, but found he couldn't. They were too swollen and painful. Instead, he strained his ears, listening. His body was still sinking, and his chest was tight and burning, but his hearing was still excellent; he briefly remembered something about how water increases your hearing ability. But this wasn't water-

"Frank?"

A voice, quiet, but he could hear it.

"Frank?"

Well, why not live for one more pathetic day?

He jerked at his chains, struggled through the alcohol, trying to free himself.

"Frank?"

He felt a hand grasp his shoulder. He tried to cry out, but he could barely move his lips. I can't fucking breathe!

"Frank!"

Suddenly, he felt himself being pulled up, his eyes opened and a white light nearly blinded him; he gasped and his lungs filled with oxygen.

"Are you all right?" the voice hurt his ears, but he didn't care. He let his eyes focus on the who the voice belonged to.

"Dave?" he croaked out.

"Uh... Yea," Dave looked nervous, licked his lips. "You were talking in your sleep and everything and you looked like you were having a nightmare..." He suddenly seemed to realized he was sitting on the bed next to Frank, with his arms on his chest and shoulders, and jumped to his feet. "S-Sorry."

Frank pushed himself into a sitting position, noting the cold sweat covering his body. Yes, indeedy, that was a nightmare. He was actually glad Dave woke him up, too. Could you die from a nightmare? He didn't really want to find out for himself. "It's okay... Thanks for waking me up."

"Uh... No problem," Dave kicked the empty bottle at his feet. Frank glanced over and noticed it had contained vodka. One guess where it ended up.

Clutching his stomach, Frank stood, shakily. He turned, letting his legs hang over the side of the bed, knocking a bottle off the bed. It landed on the wooden floor with a such a sharp sound that hurt his ears. He grimaced, but stood. Slowly and carefully, he stepped to the bathroom, wobbling.

Frank had one hand supporting himself on the low table as he walked by it, and Dave watched him for a moment, then kicked the second bottle under the bed.

"You want some help?" Dave rushed to his side, forgetting his fear of this man.

"I-"

"Here," Dave lifted one of Frank's arms, put it over his shoulders. "Don't want you to fall."

Frank paused, nodded at him, and continued on his way to his porcelain god to purge up the toxic liquor from his distressed body.

Dave sat in the chair across from the bed, slumped over, chewing on his lips, and playing with his lips rings.

Frank lay silently on the bed, occasionally turning over or sighing. Finally, he glanced over at Dave. "You sure you don't have anything better to do?"

He looked up at Frank, spoke softly. "Joan said you shouldn't leave someone when they're sick."

Frank closed his eyes. "I'm not sick."

"Joan said you were."

"She did, huh? And what makes her think that?" His voice came out low, almost like a growl.

Dave fidgeted. "She said you drink too much."

"I think she watches me too much."

Dave didn't respond.

Ah, damnit. I don't feel sorry at all, but... Why is he taking care of me? He doesn't owe me anything, and vice-frickin'-versa... Frank sighed once more, sat up, and faced the twitchy young man across from him.

"Dave."

"Y-yea?" Dave jerked his gaze upward, pulling his eyes away from the collection of empty glass bottles under the bed.

"Why are you here?"

"'Cause Joan-"

"No, I know that bit," Frank suppressed a gag as the taste of vomit and vodka danced around his mouth. "But... Why? I mean, I'm fine now, you could've gone long ago."

The apartment was dark - as always - but Frank could see Dave's eyes shifting around, trying to focus on something.

"You, uh... You remind me of my friend..." He finally chose to stare at the floor.

"How?" Frank wasn't up for a walk down memory lane, nor did he want any reason to get attached to any of his neighbours, but he figured that - opposed to wallowing - this could be interesting.

"He drank too much and was always sick and throwing up... He started taking painkillers so it would hurt less, but... His roommates moved out and there was no one to take care of him. I came over to see him one day, and..." Dave shifted, scratched his neck nervously. He shrugged helplessly. "He'd choked to death."

Frank glared across the room. If Dave was implying that he was going to be stupid enough to die by gagging on his own vomit-

Dave put a hand over his mouth and stifled a cry, biting his knuckles in an attempt to keep quiet. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed them.

"You've got it pretty harsh, huh?" Frank asked softly, sounding quieter then he thought he would.

Dave nodded, pulled his legs up onto the chair, resting his chin on his knees and hugging his knees to himself.

"Do you work?" The conversation seemed to distract Frank from the sickness in his stomach, so he decided to give it a try.

"Sometimes," Dave mumbled. "Do you?"

Inside, Frank smiled. Outwardly, though, he was still glaring. "Yea."

Small talk drove Frank insane, but he gritted his teeth and went along with it. He did, after all, have nothing better to do today, and this was very nicely avoiding some of that monotony that he hated so badly; the monotony that the vodka or tequila usually broke up.

Outside the windows, covered with blinds, the sun was beginning to set. And if Frank woke up around noon, that meant that he'd spent quite some time talking nothing with his weird neighbour.

Not that he minded.

He would probably never admit it, but he was genuinely happy to be having a decent conversation with someone. It was much better then muttering to himself about how he should just go suicide-bomber on Saint's ass.

The sunlight filtered in through the slits and stained the walls around the door; Dave squinted but didn't move as his retinas slowly started to burn away.

"Damnit, you're going to go blind," Frank had his back to the window, and he shifted over on the bed, making room for Dave. "Come sit here... That chair is shit to sit in."

Dave half-stood, contemplated, and sat back down. "It's... I'm all right."

"Don't lie. You've probably got splinters halfway up your ass by now."

He nodded this time, and slowly made his way over to the bed, putting his hands down first, as if guiding his body where to sit.

A flashback hit Frank; that was exactly how his wife sat down when she was getting into bed. Then she'd lean over to the bedside table, fiddle with her alarm clock, then lie down and pull the covers over herself. She snuggle up to Frank, kiss him good-night, wrap one arm around him, and sleep contentedly, with him to protect her.

"Frank? You all right?" Dave peered through the darkness at the man; his eyes were unfocused and he seemed very spaced out.

How long had it been since he last kissed his wife? Hell, since he last-

"Yea?" Frank blinked and the mental images of his wife disappeared. "I'm all right... I was just... thinking."

Dave nodded, pulled his knees up to his chest again. "What about?"

Frank almost smiled. "My wife."

Dave looked down, his hair falling over his downcast eyes.

"You ever been married, Dave?"

He shook his head.

"What about girlfriends?"

He nodded.

"Do you have a girlfriend right now?"

He shook his head again. "I don't want one anymore... Girls think I'm weird."

The tone of his voice sounded childish; to Frank, he seemed like an innocent little elementary school boy who'd just been told by his crush that he was stupid, or "just a dumb boy." It reminded him of his own son, who went through so much, always moving from home to home, barely having time to make friends, or get shot down by them.

Frank scarcely noticed he was doing it, but he reached one hand over and ran his fingers through Spacker Dave's hair. "I don't think you're weird."

Dave shrugged and Frank pulled his hand away. "Yea, but you're not a girl."

"What's so weird about you?" Frank couldn't believe he was having such a conversation. One day, I'm out plotting people's deaths, and the next I'm talking to some social reject about how he's not weird... Goddamn, I'm gonna bobby trap this bloody place.

Dave sighed, leaned his head back against the wall. "I think it's the piercings, mostly."

Frank examined the younger man. One eyebrow piercing, that wasn't so bad. And the nose piercing did look good on him. The three rings in the lip were new to Frank, though. Definitely original. "Well, I think that if I were a girl, I wouldn't find you weird."

Dave smiled, blushed, glanced around, trying to not think too much about how terribly out of character Frank was. He just assumed it was a post-vodka attitude and continued their conversation. "Thanks."

"No problem," Frank didn't smile, but his tone was gentler than usual.

There was a pause, and they both looked around the apartment, their eyes adjusted to the dark. Frank's eyes fell on the door - still bolted - and he thought of something.

"Uh, Dave, tell me something... How did you get in here?"

Dave looked scared. He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again, cleared his throat. Finally, he pointed to the window.

"We're on the second floor, Dave, how-"

"I shimmied around the outside."

Frank paused. "Is that something you do often?" He sounded dangerously sarcastic.

Dave shifted uncomfortably. "I... I wanted to see what you were doing, so I went around the outside, and I heard you talking in your sleep and I saw all the empty bottles and I thought you might be sick and I didn't want you to die or anything and-" He jumped up off the bed, almost tripped as his feet touched the floor. Straightening, he faced the man.

Frank stared long and hard at the young man, his hair framing his hallowed face, his hands shoved in his pockets to keep from fidgeting, nervously chewing on his lips.

"Stop chewing on your bloody lips or you're gonna hurt your teeth," Frank stood, and Dave took a step back. "I'm not gonna hurt you, Dave, I was just curious."

"Right," Dave nodded, looked down. "I, uh, I should go."

Frank walked beside him to the door, reached for the locks, and paused. "Hey, Dave?"

"Y-yea?"

"What's it like to kiss someone with lips rings?"