A/N: This chapter takes place on the same day as Chapter 13 of B.B.S.
Frank sits down on the edge of the bed he shared with Mary until she couldn't climb the stairs any more, wishing he had another glass of whiskey.
When he came home from Vietnam, he didn't talk about it. He didn't talk about it with Mary; he didn't talk about it with his dad; he didn't talk about it with the two guys from his unit that came home with him. Talking about what they'd seen over there, just wasn't done.
Seeing a shrink would have meant admitting he couldn't handle it, admitting he was crazy, admitting he was unfit to be a cop. And because shrinks had one job—putting vets in the loony bin—he definitely wasn't going to see a shrink.
It's one thing to talk a victim or a perp down from a ledge; it's another to talk a fellow cop into lowering his weapon from his head.
It's a totally different ballgame when it's his own son—facing a pain he himself knows, a pain he deals with the only way he knows how: Finnerty's 18. The guys he served with coped the same way—except for the ones who ate their guns.
He's not trying to be harsh.
Mary says Danny's hurting.
From what he has seen about the Iraq War in the news, war has changed.
That doesn't mean that his ideas about dealing with it are going to change.
Reagans simply don't do drugs, and they don't go to therapy.
It's not for them.
Of all his children, Danny's the one most like him—poker face, doesn't talk about his emotions. Except when it comes to his love for Linda—then he wears his heart on his sleeve.
If he's honest with himself, he doesn't want to talk to Danny because hearing about what his oldest saw in Fallujah, is just going to make him remember what he himself saw in Vietnam.
Not like he's forgotten; but he's able to compartmentalize, to shove it down, to function—except for that one week in November.
It's been four months since his last Vietnam-related nightmare, and he'd like to keep that streak going, until the anniversary in about seven months. Then he's in for a week of not sleeping—because pacing the floor with warm milk and whiskey in his hand is a million times better than letting the nightmares sneak up on him in his sleep.
He apologizes to Mary in the morning, over a breakfast she isn't eating.
He looks longingly at the coffee-pot, but the smell of coffee makes Mary gag even when she's between chemo treatments, so he'll get his cup once he gets to work.
"I didn't mean to sound so harsh last night, Mary. I just…don't think talking to Danny would help."
She looks at him with that cut the crap look that's even more stern now, with her hair gone and her eyebrows painted on. "Is that really why you're refusing to talk to him?"
He sighs. "I just…don't want to deal with another week of nightmares."
"And you're worried talking to Danny would stir up your own memories?" Mary guesses.
He nods, squeezes her thin hand.
"Are you sure there's not something else? Because you were harsh last night, Francis…almost unfeeling."
His phone rings before he can answer, and he leaves with a kiss on her dry lips, a whispered apology and a promise to call Danny.