Title: Rest Quiet

Author: Tobias Charity

Summary: "He still wasn't sure why he went there; whether to pay respects to his fallen brethren or to relieve some hidden guilt that he didn't like to admit to himself, he wasn't certain." Lennie battles his demons, still haunted by Vietnam.

Rating: PG-13. There's death of a non-canonical character, as well as disturbing imagery. It is war, you know.

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me. I don't claim to own them. Don't sue! I'm still trying to pay off the people at SIG; I don't need Dick Wolf hounding me too.

Feedback: is my non-addictive drug. writer525@hotmail.com

Archive: Wherever, whatever, just let me know.

Author's Notes: One of the most painful things I've written in a long time, due to my family's history with Vietnam and the war. Rejected by apocrypha two separate times; I don't know if that's a badge of honor or what.

Acknowledgements: To T. Forde, who read this and said, "I don't know what you're getting at, but whatever it is, I think I got it." To kyl and jael both, for the crack and the help, and the intelligently humorous yet wittily deprecating remarks. And to Al, John, and every other Vietnam veteran and/or war protestor out there. Thanks.

Rest Quiet

He stood on the street across from the memorial, watching it out of the corner of his eye so that through the drizzle and darkness and the soft yellow glow of the streetlights the edges of it blurred and seemed to stretch out into infinity, beyond his line of vision. From this distance the names were nothing but eerily glowing white lines on the gleaming black granite, but he knew what he was looking for.

"Hey Lennie, did you see the sheet? You and David are on stakeout duty tonight."

He almost hadn't come this year, but the death of another platoon member had prompted him to make the journey one more time. Turning a small, worn photograph over and over in his hands, running his fingernails along the folds and creases, he swore that this would be the last time, that he wouldn't continue to force himself here and relive that night time and time again. Even after twenty years, he still wasn't sure why he went there; whether to pay respects to his fallen brethren or to relieve some hidden guilt that he didn't like to admit to himself, he wasn't certain. Each year dulled the pain, while dulling memories which he tried desperately to cling to while purposely letting others slip away. Memories of fallen friends, acquaintances, rivals...all were brothers in the trenches.

"Oh, no, of all the assignments...you wanna swap?"

"Hell no. I'm on latrine duty, and I'd rather do that then sit in the jungle all night, waiting to get killed. I've got one week until I'm shipped out. No way am I risking that."

The family had shrunk and grown throughout the year he'd been there, as soldiers were killed and others shipped in to replace them. He had come to pay his respects to the fallen as another year passed by. He still wasn't sure what drew him there each year, but now it had become a habit, as the alcohol the war had driven him to had been, and it created a gnawing emptiness inside of him when left unanswered for too long.

Lennie's been jittery all day, has been ever since he found out that he and David we OD that night. He stuffs a jacket into his pack in case it rains, as its been threatening to do all day, judging by the humidity and gathering clouds, and glances over at his friend sitting on the next cot. "Nervous?"

Although, habits could be broken, as he knew too well, and he cursed his own weaknesses and dependency on making this trip each year. But no, he wouldn't leave a friend to be forgotten. No, not that he wouldn't, but that he couldn't.

David laughs, a bitter, mirthless sound that makes a shiver skitter up Lennie's spine. "You asked me that already, but to humor you...Lennie, I'm terrified. I'm scared out of my skull that I'm gonna die tonight."

Lennie shakes himself and grins. "That's all right, then," he says, yanking his pack closed and slinging it to the ground beside his cot. "I'd be worried if you weren't scared."

Pocketing the photograph, he pulled the collar of his trench coat up as a protection against the icy sleet and hurried across the slick pavement. He stumbled and halted momentarily underneath a cone of light created by a street lamp, then set his shoulders and continued on down the concrete path until his step slowed and he stood still of a long moment, apprehension adding furrows to his features. He knew what would happen as soon as he found that name, but he couldn't let the man fade away until he was nothing but a name etched so permanently into stone.

"Hear anything?"

Lennie rolls the barrel of his gun in his sweaty palm and shakes his head, a low hanging tree branch brushing the back of his neck and making him jump. "Nothing. Silent as the grave."

David looks pained, his face drawn in pale in the sickly light of the moon that filters down through the spindly branches of the trees above. "No more death references, okay?"

Lennie can't help but smile and grips his friend's shoulder companionably. "No more death references. I promise."

He came to the beginning of the Wall and continued walking, pausing here and there as he'd done every year for nearly twenty years, letting his fingers skim over the names as his memory searched for a face to attach to the letters. John Wegman, a platoon leader killed by a sniper's bullet. Nick Cohen, a haughty upper East Side kid crushed when a tank rolled over. Joseph Freedman, his division's chaplain who ran a strict Mass every Sunday morning at eight, and if you weren't there you'd better either be in the hospital or dead because he certainly wasn't going to let you get away with it otherwise.

David freezes, then cocks his head to none side, staring intently into the thick trees before them.

Following the concrete walkway, he stepped around drawings, photographs, medals, stuffed animals, flowers, American flags of all different sizes; all sorts of memorials to the fallen loved ones. It was humanly impossible not to be moved.

"What is it?" Lennie says, barely whispering, as a crack of thunder ripples across the sky and the moon slides behind an ominous cloud. "What do you see?"

He barely glanced at the years marked on the granite panels, but finally he stopped, head bowed.

1965.

David gets to his knees and sights along the barrel of his gun. "Stand by me, Len, don't desert me now," he whispers as Lennie crouches beside him, knees shaking so hard he can barely keep his balance. A gunshot goes off just as his knees give out and he drops under the cover of the bushes. Behind him, David lets out a strangled cry, but Lennie can't hear him; the blood's pounding in his ears and he fires round after round into the trees.

David Callaghan.

Answering gunfire rattles around them as Lennie continues to fire, not noticing that David is lying deathly still on the ground. The heavens above seem to tear apart and a torrent of rain falls down upon them, soaking everything.

He took the picture out of his pocket and examined it one last time. Two young men, no more than teenagers, stood in front of a lush jungle background, grinning widely at the camera, arms slung easily around each other's shoulders. The taller one's sandy brown hair had fallen into his eyes and a hand had reached up to brush it away, the motion stilled in time by the camera. The shorter, more serious looking young man's dark hair was mussed and sticking up in every direction, presumably an effect of the cap he held clenched in his left hand, and he was smiling uncomfortably, self-consciously, head tilted slightly downwards as if to hide his face. Both looked incredibly, disturbingly young and devoid of tragedy. Too young to be in the wasteland that had eaten up too much of their lives.

Ammunition spent and the Viet Cong chased off, Lennie looks down and sees David slumped there on the barren dirt of Vietnam, gasping for air and pressing his hand to a gaping, ragged hole in his chest. The blood runs between his fingers and seeps into the putrid ground, commingling with the rainwater already beginning to puddle there. Lennie cries out and kneels beside David, pulling him into a sitting position. David coughs weakly and shakes his head, rivulets of water sliding down his face, and he mutters something over and over. "Leave me, Len. I'll be okay, I just need to rest..."

He shook his head and turned the photo over again, reading the words scrawled hurriedly on the back in a man's hand. Dave and Len, 12/8/65. Two days before David's death.

"I can't let you die," Lennie whispers, holding David close as the tears stream down both their cheeks, leaving tracks through the dirt and sweat. He cries like a child as the life bleeds slowly, painfully out of his greatest friend. "You can't die and leave me here, not when it's my fault...David, don't die, don't die!" His voice finally breaks and he sobs quietly into David's shoulder.

David whispers something to him, "I'll rest quiet, Len, don't worry about me," and then grimaces sadly, one hand pressed to the raw wound in his chest and the other slung around his friend's neck. Lennie can't do anything as he watches the last breath of life ease out of David's lungs and he falls back, no longer David but only a bloody shell telling nothing of what had a few minutes ago been a courageous, brilliant man, brimming with vibrant life.

The rain continues to fall around them and somewhere in his mind Lennie knows he should get back to the camp, but he can't move; he can barely even think. He just holds David's limp body close to him and weeps despairingly, the guilt overwhelming him and the loss of his friend magnifying his emotions tenfold.

Lennie stooped down and laid the photograph on the wet concrete underneath David's name, then straightened up and titled his head back, the raindrops caressing his face like the ends of cold fine hairs which mingled with the salty tracks of tears he hadn't known he'd cried.

Here is the price we paid.

Lennie thought back to that hellish night in Vietnam, replayed the scene over and over, rewound and watched himself duck the bullet and again, and with a jolt realized something terribly important.

There was nothing you could have done.

"Rest quiet, David," Lennie whispered, feeling the guilt leave him and reaching out to graze his fingers over his beloved friend's name once again. "Rest quiet."

/fin/

Dedicated to John O'Calley, 1952-September 11th, 2001. Semper fi, John. Always faithful.