Flashpoint ficlet : Starting Over
I'm on a serious Hugh Dillon kick at the minute, and apparently the Headstones + Flashpoint = pointless, plotless, angsty addiction fic.
I think I'll go listen to something light and fluffy now. Happy music.
Title : Starting Over
Rating : PG13 for some profanity
Wordcount : 668
Preseries, so no spoilers.
Two months in, he doesn't fall off the wagon so much as hijack it and drive it over a cliff. A weekend bender leaves him wth the mother of all hangovers on Monday morning, and he only just manages to call in sick before collapsing on the couch with a bottle of whiskey.
He's woken by someone banging on his door. He squints at the clock - 6:30. Shift ended at six, say thirty minutes from the station to his house... He slumps back on the couch and ignores it. After a while the banging stops and Greg thinks attaboy, Eddie. Give up and go home to your loving wife and your beautiful boy and your perfect life and leave me the hell alone. Then the phone rings. He curses, stretches for the handset, and Ed's voice growls at him, "Open your goddamn door or I will kick it in."
He sounds angry enough to do it and that pisses Greg off, too, because Eddie has no right to judge him, no right to tell him what to do. He stumbles out to the hall and yanks the door open, intending to tell Eddie to go to hell, but he's too slow. Ed pushes in, slams the door and pulls the bottle out of Greg's hand all in one move.
"What the fuck, Parker?"
Greg follows him through to the kitchen, protesting and making an ineffectual grab at the bottle. There's a brief tussle, but Greg is swaying and flailing wildly, and Ed fends him off easily and shoves him down hard on to a chair. He watches as Ed pours the last of the whiskey into the sink, finds the other bottle in the cupboard and the cans of beer in the fridge and does the same with them. He's talking the whole time, saying something about you're damn lucky I didn't tell the sarge; get yourself kicked off the team and at this point I think that'd be a good thing; stupid asshole, but his voice sounds very far away, under the gurgling of liquid.
When Ed's finished, he braces his hands on the edge of the sink, drops his head and sighs. "You got any more booze stashed away?"
Greg doesn't even try to lie to him. "In the garage."
Eddie nods wearily. "Ok." He pushes off his hands to stand straight, and disappears towards the garage.
Greg folds his arms on the table and puts his head down and waits there, suddenly exhausted. The scrape of chair on tile startles him and he winces, anticipating an angry lecture. But Ed just sits down beside him and says quietly, "Why are you doing this to yourself, Greg?"
He raises his head far enough to meet Ed's gaze, lifts one hand off the table and lets it flop back in a helpless gesture. He doesn't know, anymore.
"Ok. Ok. You know what we're gonna do? We're going to have some coffee and let you sober up a bit, and then you're coming home with me and we're gonna have dinner, and talk about this, and you can tell me what went wrong. And tomorrow morning, you're going to go talk to the sarge and then you're going to find a program and check yourself in. And this time you're going to stick to it, you hear me?" Eddie is looking at him with the same intensity that Greg has seen directed at his rifle scope and it's disconcerting, so close up, and Greg just nods and looks away. He doesn't think it'll be that easy.
"Hey," Eddie says. "Hey. We'll get through this."
He says it with such conviction that it sounds like a fact, and Greg starts to believe it. The rush of relief is unexpected and welcome and leaves him feeling near tears. He puts his head back down on his arms to hide it, and thinks about we and Sophie's cooking and salvation.
Ed's hand lands warm and reassuring on his back, and stays there.
I think I'll go listen to something light and fluffy now. Happy music.
Title : Starting Over
Rating : PG13 for some profanity
Wordcount : 668
Preseries, so no spoilers.
Two months in, he doesn't fall off the wagon so much as hijack it and drive it over a cliff. A weekend bender leaves him wth the mother of all hangovers on Monday morning, and he only just manages to call in sick before collapsing on the couch with a bottle of whiskey.
He's woken by someone banging on his door. He squints at the clock - 6:30. Shift ended at six, say thirty minutes from the station to his house... He slumps back on the couch and ignores it. After a while the banging stops and Greg thinks attaboy, Eddie. Give up and go home to your loving wife and your beautiful boy and your perfect life and leave me the hell alone. Then the phone rings. He curses, stretches for the handset, and Ed's voice growls at him, "Open your goddamn door or I will kick it in."
He sounds angry enough to do it and that pisses Greg off, too, because Eddie has no right to judge him, no right to tell him what to do. He stumbles out to the hall and yanks the door open, intending to tell Eddie to go to hell, but he's too slow. Ed pushes in, slams the door and pulls the bottle out of Greg's hand all in one move.
"What the fuck, Parker?"
Greg follows him through to the kitchen, protesting and making an ineffectual grab at the bottle. There's a brief tussle, but Greg is swaying and flailing wildly, and Ed fends him off easily and shoves him down hard on to a chair. He watches as Ed pours the last of the whiskey into the sink, finds the other bottle in the cupboard and the cans of beer in the fridge and does the same with them. He's talking the whole time, saying something about you're damn lucky I didn't tell the sarge; get yourself kicked off the team and at this point I think that'd be a good thing; stupid asshole, but his voice sounds very far away, under the gurgling of liquid.
When Ed's finished, he braces his hands on the edge of the sink, drops his head and sighs. "You got any more booze stashed away?"
Greg doesn't even try to lie to him. "In the garage."
Eddie nods wearily. "Ok." He pushes off his hands to stand straight, and disappears towards the garage.
Greg folds his arms on the table and puts his head down and waits there, suddenly exhausted. The scrape of chair on tile startles him and he winces, anticipating an angry lecture. But Ed just sits down beside him and says quietly, "Why are you doing this to yourself, Greg?"
He raises his head far enough to meet Ed's gaze, lifts one hand off the table and lets it flop back in a helpless gesture. He doesn't know, anymore.
"Ok. Ok. You know what we're gonna do? We're going to have some coffee and let you sober up a bit, and then you're coming home with me and we're gonna have dinner, and talk about this, and you can tell me what went wrong. And tomorrow morning, you're going to go talk to the sarge and then you're going to find a program and check yourself in. And this time you're going to stick to it, you hear me?" Eddie is looking at him with the same intensity that Greg has seen directed at his rifle scope and it's disconcerting, so close up, and Greg just nods and looks away. He doesn't think it'll be that easy.
"Hey," Eddie says. "Hey. We'll get through this."
He says it with such conviction that it sounds like a fact, and Greg starts to believe it. The rush of relief is unexpected and welcome and leaves him feeling near tears. He puts his head back down on his arms to hide it, and thinks about we and Sophie's cooking and salvation.
Ed's hand lands warm and reassuring on his back, and stays there.