Billy didn't question it when she turned up on his doorstep. For a split-second he'd stood frozen, glasses slipping down his nose and fingers white-knuckle tight around the door handle. The faint light of the dusky evening sky beyond had shadowed her face, and she'd given him a faint smile.
No, it hadn't really been a smile at all. But he'd hoped it was.
He'd stepped back and gestured wordlessly, mouth dry and eyes fixated on the small suitcase which rested on the doorstep beside her.
She hadn't asked if it was okay, and somehow that meant more to him than the quiet 'thank you' she murmured as she had passed over the threshold.
They'd sat, that evening, on the floor of Billy's living room with a bottle of whiskey and two cut-glass tumblers. The television had droned on to itself for hours, and in the room little else had been said. But Billy thought it was okay, and smiled when he picked up her unconscious form from beside the empty bottle. Because she was home now.
The days turned into weeks, and he'd finally finished clearing out the spare room. But as it turned out, she only slept in it for one night. The next evening he arrived home, and the first thing he noticed was her sprawled out on the sofa - not the dimmed lights, and not the empty beer cans - both were nothing out of the ordinary. But usually she managed to maintain a semblance of sobriety. He felt a tightening in his chest and strode across to kneel beside her.
"Billy..."
She whispered his name and almost smiled. He gently pushed some of the tumbled hair from her eyes, and everything was still fine, because she was here. But then she ran a finger down his cheek and told Billy that she was fond of him. He tried not to notice his heart breaking.
He choked out her name, and she pulled him toward her, suddenly kissing him desperately as though to silence him. Of course he let her, and convinced himself he hadn't seen pain in her eyes. She pulled away to catch her breath, and sat up with surprising lucidity. She gazed down at him, flushed, full lips momentarily twisted in - he couldn't tell. But as he began to look away she caught his chin with her fingertips, and then it was as though her eyes had always been so gentle, and her smile so kind.
She pulled him up beside her, and he tried to kiss away the alcohol he could still taste in her mouth.
Time passed too quickly, and suddenly she was gone as abruptly as she had arrived.
Barely a backward glance, barely a moment of hesitation. He wasn't a fool; he knew she hadn't loved him. But as he returned to their room with the bedsheets still unmade, he couldn't stop the sorrow and betrayal from weighing heavy in his chest.
Perhaps they had used each other, but he loved her, still. He'd fed her addiction and protected her from whatever it was she'd been running from. She'd accepted his love and he'd almost begun to believe this could last. They'd needed each other.
His hands fisted the sheets, and he felt sick as he stared at her clothes, still strewn carelessly across the floor.