'Uh, careful.' Ethan clears his throat once, making an awkward gesture above their heads.
She immediately frowns before looking in the direction he's pointing to, as if he's done her another wrong.
'Oh, that one.' She says flatly. 'Yeah. I will be.'
His small smile soon contorts, face picture of regret at seeing her so dejected and downcast. Some of it his doing, no doubt, and some of it the time of year. Losing three loves in one year - two boyfriends and a father - all woefully attested to the statement she'd drunkenly made on several occasions.
No more booze. Definitely no more men.
Of course, she wasn't able to abstain from the alcohol for very long. As he'd seen in many patients, alcohol was a comforting coping mechanism able to numb the pains in one's life. It felt like a punch to the stomach to think Alicia felt the need to resort to it. In the back of his mind, she was still his. His to look after, his to worry about. Except she wasn't. She really wasn't. She stood in front of him, steeliness in her glare.
Her eyes drop to the floor, not even giving him the courtesy of a look. The floor, its scratches, discolouration and all, seem to be of more interest to her than him. This hurts the more he thinks about it. Now they're standing in an odd bubble of silence, one that he rather wishes he could pop and escape from. Unfortunately, it's too compelling to just stand there, love and hate burning in his chest.
One of them is waiting for the other one to speak. That was always the way it used to be, and that was how they broke all those months ago.
'Sorry. I shouldn't have referenced the mistletoe. It was... insensitive of me.'
'It bounced right off. I'm not breakable.' She tells him quietly, beginning to fumble in her locker.
'-Inappropriate, rather. Bad choice of words. You know me with words.' He adds, unable to stop a slight raise of the eyebrow at the pretence she displayed.
She hesitates, stopping all movement. He wills her not to say the four words he suspects are circulating her mind.
I don't know you.
The wool in his jumper is scratchy, irritates his skin as he stands behind the desk helplessly. It's new, but he regrets bringing it to put on after a long day in the ED. The idea of his pyjamas - sensibly button-up, striped cotton - is far more appealing. If he could unfasten his self-consciousness and lie it aside, he knew he would have packed them. But he couldn't. So he suffered in the name of public image.
'Anyway. I'll- I'll go now. Things to do.' He stutters, dithering in the doorway. 'Have a lovely few days off.'
-x-
Her head pounds, the last stale drop of alcohol landing on her chin. She's crumbling. It's terribly easy to feel weak, like a failure. No reassurance from anyone. Nobody even stays around. The one common denominator is her. It's-
Oh god.
It's an awful noise. No matter how many times it happens after a few too many, her own ears don't recognise it. Still, she doesn't shudder. She nudges the bucket aside, hoping it doesn't slosh. Instead of doing anything about it, she pulls the blanket tighter around her chest and blinks her eyes closed until there's a knock on the door.
Swinging her heavy limbs into motion, she rises from the sofa with a groan. She made it clear to everyone that she didn't want any company, but rather a quiet night in.
Ethan's there. She's as surprised as she is unsurprised. It would be easy to close the door without a word, but like her, he looks a wreck. Purple circles sit below his eyes, which are a telling deep green colour. They only change when he's a certain kind of tired. She pauses, contemplative, before a reluctant nod of the head signalling him to enter.
He doesn't ask, or even try to talk. He sits down on the sofa, not even wincing at the takeaway wrapper that he's definitely on top of. His nose doesn't even wrinkle at the smell.
'What made you come?' She asks, eyes lazy and unfocused.
'A hunch I had.' He admits quietly, slightly furrowing his brow. 'You're not-'
'I've just had a few too many-' She hiccups loudly, before collapsing back against the leather with a throaty, defeated sob.
Subtly he reaches downwards, fingers curling round the chunky glass bottle. He holds it up, squinting to read in the dim light. She watches.
'Forty percent, uh-'
'I know.' She chokes, tears welling.
'Have you drunk it all?' He lifts it up, inspecting, noticing that a good two thirds of the bottle are gone.
'A lot of it.' She mumbles weakly. 'A lot.'
Concern flashes across his face, something which makes her sob louder. She recoils when he produces his stethoscope, outstretching an arm in an effort to keep him back.
'Alicia, let me check.' He says, calm.
'I don't need that!'
'You do, darling, please-'
Both lock eyes, the slipped term of endearment sobering her up instantly. She moves the shirt material aside with lazy fingers for his access. Though inebriated, she flinches at the cool touch and waits as he listens intently.
He removes it quickly, heading towards the kitchen. He doesn't ask where the glasses are - he knows which cupboard is which.
Before she fully realises, she's drinking the water in gulps. The face of the man crouched beside her is nothing less than the picture of concern; the face of an anxious angel. He's worried. It's only the start of things. Without communicating this, they both know.
The pieces are lost and broken. The full picture can't be built back up without them.