The night was a cocoon for him, warm and dark and comforting, such a stark contrast to the house. Before he'd ventured out of the patio doors he'd felt like he was suffocating. A space he'd once felt so comfortable in was turning against him, walls were closing in, and air became hard to breathe. The oblivion he'd been hoping to find at the bottom of the bottle of whiskey didn't exist; intoxication simply knocked down the barriers he'd meticulously built around his emotions.
In the end there'd only been two options, stay and let the weight of the last few months come crashing down on him, crushing him entirely, or get up on unsteady legs and let the fresh air outside clear his mind. Only the second option was feasible. Getting out onto the dock had been difficult, his limbs refused to co-ordinate themselves to the signals being released by his brain and one hand was busy grasping a second bottle of whiskey, but finally the house was 25 metres behind him and he felt the claustrophobia lifting.
"Here's to you, Billy," Curran whispered. A flick of the wrist and the fiery glow of grain alcohol once again flooded his throat. And here's to Dane and Rexer and all the other innocent people that'd died at the hands of Al Shuhadah, and here was to his relationship with Claire Varens that'd fizzled out just two weeks after he'd been hauled, bleeding and doped to the eyeballs, from the waters around Lebanon. Shot after shot followed the first, filling him with a heat that slid to the tips of his limbs and seared the edges of his mind. His flesh felt like it was practically flaming, molten iron ran beneath his skin.
He needed to quench the heat somehow or it would consume him, drag him down into the black depths of unconsciousness where fragmented dreams haunted him. Using alcohol as a numbing agent was a difficult job, too much and you passed out, cancelling the desired effect, too little and the agony of loss was still there. Curran knew he was growing close to total inebriation and unconsciousness. Somehow he needed to ground himself, needed to give himself more time to get that balance right and say goodbye to the friends who'd given their lives in Beirut. If he tipped the scales too much there would be another night of torment, another pair of sweat soaked sheets in the early hours of the morning. Curran had to finish it tonight, give the send off he'd needed since the night he'd held Billy's body on his shoulders and carried him out of Beirut.
Bile rose in his throat as the sudden rush of memories made his stomach churn. The need to settle his body and steady himself grew stronger. He was losing control and that was dangerous, that sort of recklessness had contributed to the death of his friends. Numb fingers pulled at his battered Nikes and socks, flinging them onto the dock before Curran plunged his feet down into the dark water of the ocean.
It was like the quenching of a sword blade after its many firings. Hot instantly turned to cold, his skin prickling at the sudden change of temperature, he could practically feel steam rising from the surface with a hiss. Whatever he likened it to, it had the desired effect. The chill of the ocean rushed through his body, speeding along nerve and bone, settling in the scars of still healing wounds like balls of ice before reaching his brain. Slowly the sensation calmed the feverish workings of his mind and sharpened his confused thoughts, drawing them into neat lines that could be easily read or tucked away in storage.
Still clutching the open bottle of whiskey, Curran laid back against the dock. Splinters and uneven slats dug into his skin. It was enough to make him feel uncomfortable but the feeling also served as another anchor to reality. Above him the white crescent of the moon dominated the sky, painting the dock and its lines of silent boats with a silver glow. The view was familiar, both full of sharp memories and calming images.
In years gone by he'd lain there dozens of times, just looking at the sky on sunny afternoons and the nights he couldn't sleep. Sometimes the form of his best friend was there beside him, a six pack of beer dangling on a length of string in the water between them. Their moonlit talks had become less frequent during his short lived marriage and after Billy had started dated Jolena, but they'd always been there when they'd both needed them. The realisation that there would never be another one hit hard, pounding Curran's chest with icy fists. Billy and the others had gone and there was no bringing them back.
A wave of memories assaulted Curran's mind, bringing bitter tears to his green eyes. On the six-month anniversary of his divorce, he and Billy had sat out on the dock, drinking until the sun had streamed over the horizon. For the most part they'd discussed happier times, they'd laughed together but right at the end, just as they'd been gathering up the empty cans, Billy had told him something that'd bitten into his brain and refused to let go.
"Don't let the Navy take over your life, pale face. Don't let it destroy what you are inside. If you do, it'll kill you. Won't be as fast as a bullet or a knife but it'll make you die just the same." Then the sombre, dark skinned SEAL had paused, weighing up his next words carefully before he spoke them. "Your team are your family, you know we'll always be there for you, but you need something outside of that. You need to let yourself live, man." The speech had probably been born of too much beer and worries about the recent divorce but Billy's words had held a raw and powerful truth. You needed something there outside the teams to keep you grounded, to keep you from getting too involved and screwing up. Plain, simple and true.
Knowing the truth hadn't been enough to stop Billy getting killed out there. Maybe if the marriage had gone through, if they hadn't been called on the rescue mission at the last minute, things would've been different. Billy taking that last step would've made him more careful, less willing to stick himself into stupid situations at Hawkins' side. Who was he kidding, he thought bitterly. Deep down inside they would always be SEALs; they'd always stick their necks on the line for the safety of others. Having a life outside the Navy just gave you something to come home to, a harbour to retreat to at night when the floodgates broke and the pain and the suffering and the anguish ran free. Having someone there at those times was priceless. Graham had found it, he'd wanted his best friend to find that sort of happiness too.
Curran let out a growl of frustration and scrambled to his feet. He knew he owed it to Billy and to Dane and Rexer to find that. Hiding away from the world, drowning his sorrows in a crate of whiskey wasn't going to get him that. James Curran needed to stop feeling sorry for himself and start living again. The new knowledge he had found ran through his blood and made his muscles tremble and his nerves sing.
Tightening his fingers around the neck of the bottle, Curran forced his inebriated body into action, winding it up like a major league pitcher before letting it all explode at once. With a loud cry he flung the whiskey away into the night. It landed with the tinkle of broken glass far down the dock. Curran rocked back on his bare heels, chest and lungs heaving as he now fought to get oxygen into his body. He took a step back, glistening green eyes moving skyward. The moon still kept its glowing watch over him, surrounded by stars that looked like tiny diamonds on midnight blue velvet. Somewhere up there he knew Billy, Dane and Rexer would be watching over him, hopefully approving of their Lieutenant's final goodbye.
He locked his eyes onto a tiny cluster of three stars as he sank down onto the dock. The press of the wooden planks against his knees sent a lance of pain through his thigh. The injuries he'd received in Beirut were healing but it would take time before he was truly whole again. Tonight would go a long way towards his recovery. Words that should've been said an eternity ago spilt from his lips. "I can't go on like this. I'll never forget you but I can't do this any more."
Letting out a deep breath, Curran finally shut his eyes, letting tears spill over his lashes as he felt the faint stirrings of peace and hope in his chest. Earlier he'd thought this would drag on, never ending, night after night but he'd taken that final step and there would be no going back.
"You know you shouldn't waste good whiskey like that."
There was a voice in the darkness where there should've only been silence. Instinct cut in and Curran was on the move. A trembling hand swiping away tears as he rolled away from the voice and came up in a crouch. He peered into the shadows, searching for the source of the words that'd startled him. Curran sighed with relief, taut muscles relaxing as recognition hit. Hawkins.
"How long have you been standing there?" he asked hoarsely.
The dark haired hotshot flashed a wry grin as he stepped into the light. "Long enough to get whiskey splashed all over my pants. Hope you know you're paying for my dry cleaning."
"Right," Curran mumbled, slowly getting to his feet. He narrowed his eyes as realisation hit. "What are you doing here anyway?"
"Dunne sent me over. Got your latest medical report in this evening. Looks like you're going back to training in two days. Been trying to call you all night to give you the news but he couldn't get through and started getting worried. You okay, boss?"
Was he? Curran took a moment to consider the question. He was drunk and still recovering from the damage that bullets had done to his body. The grief he felt at the loss of Graham, Dane and Rexer still lay in his heart but saying goodbye tonight had started the healing process. It would take time to make amends to the living friends he'd withdrawn from since his return from Beirut but his life was coming around. He wouldn't slowly kill himself, Lt. James Curran would live.
"Yeah," he said quietly, a faint smile curving his lips. "I think I'm gonna be just fine."
THE END