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Frank’s eyes are glazed over as he stands, back squared, against the door. In his head, he’s back there. There’s a gun in his grasp that will kill innocent people, people that don’t deserve death, not like that. Suddenly there’s blood, so much blood, and it’s everywhere, and he can’t breathe, and there are bodies, and he can’t move around them, and they’re piling up, and god he did this… and then he looks down. The body closest to him is Lisa, it’s his baby girl, but she doesn’t have a face. They took her face from her. The blood covering him is hers, and it’s all his fault, and—
His legs give out under him. He doesn’t even notice it’s happening. He can’t hit the floor before Marc catches him. Frank gasps as he’s lowered to the ground by strong hands. He’s still in his head, but it’s easier to breathe now. It doesn’t feel like the whole world is collapsing around him.
Marc and Frank hadn’t spoken for years after Marc got discharged. That was the way it went, most of the time. You went over with a bunch of guys, you shared the worst days of your lives, you watched as friends died, and then you went home to separate lives and separate families in separate states and never talked about the bloodshed or the passionate nights alone in tents to distract from it. Then, years later on a particularly hard anniversary, Marc Spector appeared on Frank’s doorstep. A few too many beers in and they were right where they’d left it years ago, except this time they weren’t deprived of sleep and going through hell day in and day out. Marc had practically moved in after that, because they were both so alone and they understood each other in a way no one else could hope to. Their long silences, just existing in the same space, had been too much for everyone else but worked perfectly for them. They knew when a nightmare needed to be left alone and when a flashback needed to be dealt with.
Frank blinks back into the world on the couch with Marc staring him down. By the time Frank scrubs a hand over his face, Marc’s gaze is on the floor, but Frank’s pretty sure Marc’s eyes had been on him from the second his breath hitched. Marc reaches up to take his hand, but it falters and drops to Frank’s shoulders. He rubs a few circles into the skin there, then pats Frank’s knee and gets up. Frank watches him until he disappears into the kitchen, and then as he walks back to press a glass of water into Frank’s hand. Marc studies his face for a second before catching himself and looking away. Frank drinks without questioning it, because it was Marc who poured the glass.
“I’m here. Door’s locked. You got out.” Marc murmurs to Frank, hands hovering uselessly as he tries to figure out what to do. Eventually, Marc’s palm rests on the back of Frank’s neck. Frank sets down the glass and leans forward until his forehead rests at the curve of Marc’s neck. Marc’s breath hitches in surprise, but he awkwardly moves to hold Frank there. Slowly, clumsily, Marc leans down to press a kiss into Frank’s hair, staring down at Frank like he represents everything good.
“I saw her.” Frank whispers, voice hoarse and broken against the warmth of Marc’s skin. “Lisa. The way she was after they…”
“I know, but that was years ago. You’re here now. You’re with me.” Marc brushes his thumb up to the nape of Frank’s neck, drawing patterns there in attempt to be soothing, something that he has never had to be.
“I want her back. Every day. Every second I breathe.” Frank presses further into Marc. He stays perfectly for a moment, then takes in a breath and reaches up to swipe a tear he knows Marc will ignore from his cheek.
“I know, Frank. I know you do.”
Frank yanks away from Marc like he’d been burned. He stands up and starts pacing the room, tugging at his hair and his shirt between frantic gestures with no meaning.
“But you don’t know. No one fucking knows, no one fucking gets it. I don’t wanna fucking hear it, goddammit!” Frank stops abruptly to slam his fist against the wall. Marc gets up and walks away silently, giving Frank space as he slides down against the wall. When Frank looks up again, Marc’s still standing there on the opposite side of the room. He didn’t leave. Frank can’t keep eye contact for more than a couple seconds.
“M’sorry.” Frank says quietly, hands reaching up to cover his face. Marc blinks, not expecting an apology.
“It’s fine. I get it.” Marc shrugs and walks over to the couch. He flips on the tv, turns the volume on low, and pretends not to be watching Frank’s every move out of the corner of his eye.
Eventually, Frank migrates back over to the couch. Marc doesn’t say a word, just hands him the remote and a thin blanket. They’re a movie and a half in before anyone says anything again. Eventually, Marc speaks up, just loud enough to be heard, softer than he ever thought he’d get—even if Frank pretends not to notice.
“You hungry?” When Frank shakes his head, Marc nods. He gives it a second, then reaches over to adjust the blanket Frank had thrown haphazardly over himself. “You should go to sleep. You need it.”
Frank huffs, but doesn’t fight it. Eventually, when his head tips back, Marc almost smiles. Marc guides him down so he’s laying on the couch, curled small to fit, with his head on Marc’s thigh. Frank stirs at the movement, blinking awake again because he was trained to wake at any movement for years. When his eyes find Marc, he just moves his hand up to Marc’s knee and goes back to sleep.
Marc doesn’t move, not even when his legs start to ache, and then go numb. He stays right there, looking down at Frank, until eventually, sleep takes him too. The two of them sleep for longer than they have in years—and tomorrow, when it all comes back, they’ll reach for this safety again.