Timeline: Chapter One and any other "present day" chapters are set sometime in Season Four (or at least, that's the intention).
It had been almost four days. Countless phone messages went unanswered. Judy had even stopped by his apartment a couple of times, but there was no response.
Fuller's concern was mounting, so he finally charged over to Doug's door, intent on staying until he made contact. He needed to confirm that Doug hadn't gone off and…he tried not to let his thoughts wander too far. The possibilities were too disturbing.
The incessant door banging and threats of not leaving until he was allowed in, finally prompted the door to swing open reluctantly. Doug wouldn't look his Captain in the eye, but he silently allowed a visitor into his space for the first time since that night.
All in all, the state of the apartment was actually not as bad as Fuller expected. There were empty food containers, beer cans and liquor bottles strewn about assorted surfaces. Various articles of presumably dirty clothing lay on the floor, and there was a slight musty odor in the air, but in the grand scheme of things it wasn't horrible. In fact, now that Fuller thought about it, Doug's apartment had not looked drastically different on other more normal occasions.
The lack of decent lighting was the most noticeable aspect of the room. Only one dim lamp was on in the corner. It was a short table light, but it sat on the floor which muted its effect even more. It cast strange shadows across the messy expanse and Doug's face was half-shrouded in the gray darkness.
"I know you don't want to talk to me, or anyone else right now, so you don't have to." Fuller put all his effort into making his voice sound as soothing and calm as possible. He knew it was a precarious time, and didn't want Penhall to detach himself any more than the younger man had already done. "But there are some things I need to say. And then I'll leave."
Doug still didn't speak, but gave a slight nod as he lowered himself onto the couch. His head was bowed and his elbows rested on his knees as he hunched slightly forward.
The older man cleared his throat and opened his mouth to start, and then quickly rethought his words. He shook his head and started again.
"For what it's worth, I want you to know that I would give everything I have in this world to change what happened," his voice quivered ever so slightly, and then he quickly reigned himself back in. He swallowed hard and continued. "I know it's not fair. And I know you're angry. And I'm angry. And there might not seem like any place to put all of that right now. I understand…"
Doug hadn't even blinked.
"But you can always come talk to me if you need to. I'll answer the phone or my door, night or day. I'll pick you up somewhere if you need a ride. Just let me know. I won't judge. I won't push you for answers if you don't have them."
Still no response, either verbal or non-verbal.
"Ok?"
Doug gave a second faint nod, but couldn't bring himself to look up. He stared down at his hands and wrung them absentmindedly. His left knee faintly bounced up and down out of nervousness.
Fuller silently sucked in a deep breath. There wasn't any other transition that was going to lead into this. He reached into his pocket, hesitated for a second, and had to force himself to continue.
"I never got a chance to give this to you the other day," He said softly. His hand wavered slightly as he held out the envelope, faintly yellowed at one corner, but as smooth and flat as the day it was sealed.
Doug grudgingly lifted his head. He stared at the outstretched hand and its contents. A tide of nausea came out of nowhere.
"What's that?" Doug muttered hoarsely, with almost an air of bitterness.
Fuller didn't speak for a minute. He had silently rehearsed what he was going to say, but now, none of that mattered. He struggled to suppress his emotions.
Before Fuller spoke again, Doug cautiously took the paper and held it suspiciously away from his body. He squinted, not because it was difficult to see, but because his brain needed a moment to register everything before he allowed it to hit him. He suddenly felt the floor drop out from underneath him as the realization shot up his spine. He knew what it was now. His eyes brimmed with tears. He thought he didn't have anything left. He thought the numbness was so pervasive that he was immune. But he was wrong. He quickly wiped his face with the back of his sleeve and sucked in several shallow breaths.
"A letter. He gave it to me in case…" Fuller's voice splintered. "I…I had hoped I'd never have to give it to you."
Doug's futile attempt to stifle the tears did not work. His eyes overflowed as his fingers involuntarily traced the letters on the envelope. "Doug" was scrawled in familiar handwriting in the middle of the rectangle, and in smaller letters in the bottom right corner, "-Tommy McQ."
The young man's grief abruptly snapped into anger. He wanted to violently tear the paper into a thousand pieces, set it on fire, set the world on fire, make it so that everything wasn't true. He was still in disbelief that his friend was gone and he vacillated between blinding rage and paralyzing sorrow.
Doug's arms fell limply to his sides and he paced towards the wall, suddenly unable to breathe. His chest constricted as panic gathered in his lungs.
Without looking his captain in the eye, he thrust the paper back towards the older man with a trembling hand. "I can't…" Doug choked, "I can't…"
Fuller crossed the room and softly placed his hand on Doug's shoulder. "It's ok. You don't have to read it now. Keep it, wait. Take your time."
The two men fell into silence again. Neither of them knew what do next.
Fuller desperately wanted to comfort the young man in some way, but he knew there was nothing more within in his power that could offer any relief. Unfortunately, the anguish was going to last. And after some time and hopefully healing, things would get better. In a way. A wishful thought.
Fuller squeezed Doug's shoulder one more time and then went back to the couch to retrieve his coat. He slowly placed it over his arm and turned to leave when Doug's faint voice cracked, "Cap'n?"
Fuller turned.
"When did he give this to you?"
Fuller thought for a moment. "About a year ago."
Doug's still shaking hand put the paper down on the nearby coffee table. He didn't trust himself to hold it at the moment. He steadied his voice and his fury retreated once again. In its place was just the familiar hollow ache. Although the memories of his mother's death were vague and obscured by two decades of hindsight, he remembered the feeling that always came after the anger. The anger gave purpose and heat and action. It was uncomfortable and yet it somehow felt productive, even though it was just the opposite. But once that subsided, the emptiness that followed was so much more unbearable.
"What did he say? Was there a reason? What happened…" he was reaching, reaching for anything else to hold onto.
"I don't know if there was just one reason. Probably many..."