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“You think this asshole got jacked up in prison?”
Frank’s voice is a low rumble. He’s never been the guy that feels the need to fill uncomfortable silences. That’s more Billy’s shtick, to break the tension with a wisecrack and a dumb joke. But Billy’s not acting like his usual self. Gone is the loud-mouthed jackass that Frank knows so well. For once, Frank’s aching to hear some inane comment that’ll make him roll his eyes and call the other man a moron. But he gets nothing.
So Frank’s there to fill in the pieces.
He mostly talks to keep Billy’s mind distracted. The other man tends to get lost in his own head sometimes. Frank knows the signs by now. The first time it happened, it caught him by surprise. It was the first time they met up in New York while on leave. He never saw it coming. But now, Frank knows the signs. And he knows the triggers.
He gets the barest hint of a shrug for his troubles. Just a lift of the shoulders. Billy sits stiff and silent, dark eyes glued to the street, refusing to meet Frank’s gaze.
“Child molesters always get jacked up in prison,” Frank grumbles. He turns his head back to the shabby looking house in the middle of the block. The windows are drawn shut, heavy curtains preventing anyone from looking inside. Frank imagines the creaking of the rusty old gate that surrounds the place. Maybe they could jump it instead. Without a hint of life coming from it, the house looks practically deserted.
Frank shifts in his seat and spares another glance at his friend.
Billy sits stiff as a board in the passenger seat, like any sudden movement might make him lash out like a cornered animal. Frank knows first hand just how dangerous Billy can be. He can’t wait to see Billy unleash his rage on this bastard.
But something about Billy’s face makes Frank pause. His eyes are almost glassy, pupils blown wide. His mouth is a thin line on his face. It’s the look of a desperate man, or a terrified child. Not the toughest, most stubborn, most ambitious guy Frank knows. A shiver runs down his spine.
“Bill, we don’t gotta do this,” Frank says suddenly. “If you don’t want to go through with it,” he lets his voice trail off. He shrugs. If it’s too much for you... He doesn’t say that part out loud. Because they’re marines. Nothing’s supposed to be too much for them. But this is one situation Frank doesn’t quite know how to handle. He was never trained for this.
“I’m good,” Billy finally manages through gritted teeth.
Frank lets it go. He turns an apprehensive gaze back to the empty street. There’s not a soul in sight, and on a street like this he would have expected kids running around the sidewalks, with bikes maybe, screaming and hollering and playing. He’s glad he doesn’t see any.
Frank feels it when Arthur shows up. He hears the sharp draw of breath through Billy’s teeth. He sees Billy flinch from out the corner of his eye. The wave of anxiety that radiates off of him chokes the air in the small car like a sickness.
“That him?” Frank’s eyes are glued to the guy climbing out of the station wagon that had pulled up in front of the residence they were watching. The man has graying hair. He’s slightly overweight with a short, stocky build, and he walks with his head bowed low. “Bill, is that him? That piece of shit—”
“Drive.” Billy’s voice is tight. “Fucking drive.”
“What?!”
Frank’s head swings around. His pulse is already racing. The blood pumps wildly through his veins. He’s so fucking ready for a fight. He’s been itching for one since they got back to the states.
And then he realizes that Billy doesn’t look like a guy who’s about to deliver a beatdown of epic proportions. Billy doesn’t look like Billy at all. He has his head bowed, chin tucked to his chest. His shoulders are clenched and trembling. A solid moment of confusion passes before Frank realizes the wheezing he’s hearing is his best friend hyperventilating.
“Shit.”
Billy’s having a goddamn panic attack.
“Drive the car. Please.”
Frank’s hands clench around the steering wheel and he’s pulling them into the street without another glance at the barren-looking house they’d been staked outside of for the better part of the afternoon.
He doesn’t know how many blocks they get between them and that house. His head whips between the road and the way Billy rocks in the passenger seat like he’s about to jump out of a moving car that’s currently breaking the speed limit. And when he sees Billy’s hand wildly pawing at the door handle, he realizes that might actually happen.
“Fuck!” Frank curses loudly as he slams on the brakes.
He’s barely stopped the car before Billy’s out and running, nothing but a blur of dark fabric. And the son of a bitch is fast. But Frank already knew that. He just wasn’t expecting to have to chase him today of all days.
“Bill! Bill, stop!” Frank pulls the keys out of the ignition and takes off after Billy while cursing under his breath.
Billy always outruns him. Always. No matter the field or the obstacles. And he never lets him forget it either. Whereas Frank is built like a tank, Billy is long limbs and slender, toned muscle. If it’s a race, Billy wins every time, not for lack of trying on Frank’s part.
But Frank never lets Billy out of his sight.
Billy takes them past a park, running like his life depends on it. Like he’s trying to outrun something impossible to leave behind.
Frank’s heart clenches when he suddenly recognizes the baseball field.
Billy doesn’t stop at the bleachers though. He doesn’t stop until he hits the treeline, ignoring the loud calls of his name.
Billy collapses with his palms against a tree trunk. Out of breath and like a man unhinged, he raises a fist and slams it into the trunk. He does it again and again. The thunderous smacks of his fist against rough wood are deafening, and they make the panic grip Frank’s heart in a vice-like grip.
“Christ, you’re gonna break your goddamn hand!”
Billy ignores him and keeps punching until he sees red.
“Billy!” Frank roars, as he struggles to pull the other man away. He’s winded and feeling ragged. But it’s nothing compared to how Billy looks. Billy screams like a madman and Frank prays that no one calls the goddamn cops on them. He finally manages to pull them both back and they fall, tumbling to the ground, wheezing and groaning in a tangle of limbs.
Billy slowly rolls off of him with a pained, muffled cry.
For a while, neither of them speak. Frank huffs and bites his tongue to keep from calling the other man a goddamn idiot. They catch their breaths as they lie in the grass, staring at the green trees above them as their chests rise and fall from their exertion.
“What do you need?” Frank asks fiercely. “Just tell me what you need, Bill.”
Billy’s eyes slip shut. He waits for his racing pulse to calm as he recalls the breathing exercises he learned as a child to keep it together when it felt like his whole world was falling apart. He slowly sits up and shakes his head. He shrugs his shoulders, his arms resting listlessly at his sides. His busted knuckles pulse with a relentless throb. “Fuck, man. I don’t know,” he murmurs.
Frank sits up and watches him. Watches the way Billy stares down at his lap and rocks slowly. There are so many things he wants to do. He wants to go back to that house and beat the old man to a bloody pulp. He wants to rant and rave and throw things and break ‘em. Because that’s what he’s good at. That’s what he’s trained at.
But he does none of these things. He just sits and watches in silence. ‘Cause he’s got to let Billy make the first move with this one. Billy’s a natural born fighter. A survivor. The toughest goddamn son of a bitch Frank’s ever met in his life. He’s not going to be okay with Frank taking the reins on this.
Only when his breathing is finally even, does Billy speak. “He took something from me.”
“Yeah,” Frank says softly, carefully. “I know, bud.”
“I’m not talking about my fucking shoulder, he—” Billy shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut. He draws his knees to his chest and curses, “fuck!”
“Hey,” Frank reaches out a hand before thinking twice and pulling it back. He winces, hating how helpless he feels, all the while knowing what Billy’s going through is a hundred times worse. “The guy’s a piece of shit. I want to fucking kill him. I want to stomp him into the goddamn ground. He’s not worth this, Bill—”
“I know he’s not worth it!” Billy screams. His eyes glitter like black diamonds as he rages. “Don’t you think I know that?!” He growls in frustration and runs his fingers through his hair. He draws back into himself again. “But I can’t forget, alright? I can’t forget what he did to me.” He groans, the sound weak and quiet. He hates it the second it reaches his ears. It’s pathetic.
So he focuses on the red that paints his knuckles. He flexes his hand, hisses quietly at the pain. Not broken. He’s not broken. “I see it, all the time,” he murmurs, his voice evening out as his good hand clenches into a fist. His nails dig into the meat of his palm, the pain is something to hold on to, like a lifeline. “I—I feel his hands on me. I remember the fucking leer on his face and I… I remember the pain.” He shakes his head as something twists painfully in his chest. “I’ll never forget it.”
Frank’s breath leaves his lungs in a short huff of air. He sniffs. “Just say the word, Bill.” His throat feels rough as he speaks. He’s so angry, he’d started to shake. “Just say the word and I’ll kill that motherfucker. I won’t even think twice about it, I swear.”
Billy finally looks up. He looks tired, he feels exhausted. Just drained, emotionally and physically.
“I swear it,” Frank says again, meaning every single word. “I’ll fucking kill him. Just say the word and I’ll do it.”
He wishes Billy would say yes. He wishes Billy would say yes just so Frank could pound that child rapist into the ground. He looks down at the blood, fresh and wet, dripping from Billy’s knuckles. His white-hot anger rumbles dangerously in his chest. He wants to beat the piss out of the man who ruined Billy’s childhood. He wants to choke the life out of him. To make it slow, and make it hurt, just like they were trained to do. They are trained killers. He just needs to wait for the word.
Frank swallows and slowly draws air through his nose.
Billy blinks when he suddenly feels tear tracks on his face, cooling in the crisp fall air. He jerks and looks away, quickly wiping his face with his sleeve.
Frank turns away.
Billy never got this way overseas. Only rare moments when they’re in New York. But never around Maria. Mostly not even around Frank. Just when he’s alone. Billy gets dark whenever he’s alone. That’s the real reason why Billy indulges in women and drink. It helps to keep his demons at bay. Sometimes men help too. Frank never mentions it and Billy never brings it up. But he knows Billy has taken guys home on more than one occasion.
The fucked up thing is, they both feel out of place when they’re home. Frank would never admit that to Maria. Hell, he hides it best that he can from her. But Billy gets it. And Billy’s family. When they’re home, Frank invites him over every chance he gets. Billy gets an invitation to every family outing, every trip to the park. Maria certainly loves him. Most people do when they’re only treated to his charismatic side. The kids are still too young, but Billy dotes on them like an uncle. He smiles around them, genuine and loving.
Seeing Billy smile makes Frank smile.
His craving for violence has mostly faded, but it’s left a bitter taste in his mouth like bile.
As the silence stretches between them, Billy finally shakes his head. “I found out later, there were others,” he says, his voice dull and lacking emotion. “Before me, and after me.” He tugs his bottom lip between his teeth and gnaws. “Ten years he got for what he fucking did. Ten years,” he growls and a huff falls past his red lips. “I’ll be living with it for the rest of my life.”
Frank lets the silence settle, his eyes on Billy’s face are warm and gentle.
“It ain’t right, Bill. What happened to you, it ain’t fucking right.” He shakes his head and rubs the back of his neck.
He’s not going to push it. Billy doesn’t need the guy who pushes for a confrontation with the monster that hurt him. He doesn’t need lies about fairytale endings, or some bullshit that a therapist would spew, everything will be okay, just hang in there.
The truth is, Frank doesn’t know if it’ll ever be okay.
And suddenly he’s hit with a wave of longing. A yearning that hits him deep in his soul for the barracks. To be back in uniform, in a place where things are simple. Just follow orders. Kill the bad guys, survive another night, protect your brothers. Black and white.
The irony is, when he’s overseas, Frank’s counting down the days until he can come home to his wife and kids. And when he’s on home soil, he’s missing the dirt and the blood and the gunpowder. The familiarity of a weapon in his hand and his brothers by his side.
Frank sighs and reaches out a warm, heavy hand that he lays gently on Billy’s shoulder. His throat tightens.
“It ain’t fucking right.”