Bad Idea! ✐ FRERARD

✩ BABYSITTER'S CLUB ✩

       FRANK'S FACE FELL faster than a corpse in steel boots.

In an instant his skin became greyed, his mouth hung with lips slightly parted and his eyes were as wide as they could stretch. There wasn't even a point in reaching for his gun. There must have been eight well armed assailants at the very least.

He had nothing to protect him but empty words and his badge.

They had always been good enough up until now but somehow he didn't think it was going to work this time. Why would it? It hadn't protected him last time.

The fear sat deep in his chest like a pillow over his mouth and nose. Enough air got by it, allowing his body to keep functioning, but it was crippling all the same.

Frank's body felt stiff as he tried to plead his way out of this, he just wanted it to be gone. He didn't care if the cost was his life, he just couldn't deal with the pressure in his bones and the breath caught in his throat- his heart ramming inexplicably fast as he felt himself crumble, one brick at a time.

Frank jolted awake.

His cheeks felt raw and irritated as he felt the dried tears across them, his body shifting so that his face wasn't nestled in his pillow. Did he... Did he try to suffocate himself in his sleep?

The thought made a shiver run down Frank's spin as he sat up as quick as he could. He threw the blankets off of himself as he carefully lifted his leg that had a cast on it, wincing as he did so. The doctor had been telling him to keep it elevated when he slept, but he often forgot and wasn't all that bothered to if he were honest.

Frank switched on the lamp by his bed, leaning against his headboard as he let out a heavy breath. He knew he should go to the bathroom to rinse his face, maybe even to the kitchen to drink some water... but he couldn't find it in himself to move himself off of his bed.

He glanced down at his shaky hands, he felt as if someone had poured gasoline onto the spark of fear in his gut.

Ever since he had gotten shot, Frank had been getting terrible nightmares. Not even nightmares, they were fucking insufferable tremors that made him want to gauge his eyes out.

His hands formed fists as he shut his eyes tightly, now far too scared of himself to even remotely fall back asleep. Scared of not just his dreams but the fact that he had nearly suffocated himself in his sleep.

It had only been a week since he had been on medical leave, and Bob had even taken time off work to help him. It was embarrassing, but sometimes Frank needed help getting in the shower with the cast or even getting into bed without hurting himself.

It made him feel weak and like a fucking pussy, but Bob had insisted he was happy to help. That didn't make it any less humiliating though.

The only okay thing in his life right now was that Gerard did sometimes come by to keep him company. It was rare though, it had only happened twice in the last week, and although it had been awkward at first it made Frank feel a lot less on edge to see Gerard's familiar face.

Though he hadn't told anyone about his dreams, not Gerard, not Bob, and definitely not his therapist Dr. Orzechowski. It wasn't as if he even needed a therapist, but he had been forced into going to departmentally mandated therapy sessions after Hurley somehow convinced him to at least try them.

He knew he didn't need them though, he just needed time.

This was all just a small default, it was a small disease in his mind that had manifested in his hands as a pistol. It was that genocidal impulse that was always in the homonids, the impulse that love cures and indifference magnifies. So he saw the gun as a poison to both him and the little sanity he had left.