A/N: I've always kind of had a soft spot for Glen, even when he was being kind of an asshole. His character just has that sort of endearing quality, I think.
Story deals with his addiction, and an almost relapse. Inspired by Alanis Morissette's song Not As We from her new album.
Not As We
Glen is standing in front of the open refrigerator, staring. Waiting. For what, he doesn't know, just... something.
Everything seems like too much to take, and that's bad, because that's when he wants to take something. He thinks briefly about calling Chelsea, but the thought leaves his head as quickly as it comes. Sure, it's nice to have someone you can rely on. That's different from having a crutch, and he's walked the fine line very carefully up until this point.
His finger twitches against his leg. The glow from the fridge that was soft just moments ago now seems garish, and he can't quite seem to grasp this feeling on the edge of his consciousness. There's the familiar itch of his addiction, the thing that's always been there in the back of his mind, even before he started taking the pills.
I'm not good enough. Love me, please. Want me, please. Notice me, please. Think better of me than I do myself, and maybe I will too.
He slams the door closed, ignoring the muted clinking together of glasses and cans. Sometimes it gets to the point where he wants to tear off his own skin, just so he doesn't have to be in it anymore. 'Cause sometimes he's so fucking tired of fighting himself.
I am good enough. People love me, and they care. I am better than I was. I am a good person.
And usually he believes it, all of it. He can come out of it seeing what's in front of him; good things, things that matter more than the lesser parts of himself. But right now all he can feel is all of it slipping away, and he doesn't even know why-
why he's standing in the middle of the kitchen with a bottle in his hand. He carefully places it on the kitchen table and tries to leave it there. His hand doesn't want to let it go. A glance at the label, and he's trembling. Time is his worst enemy when there's too much of it.
He tries to think, really think about... everything. Chelsea's gone, but not really. Spencer's gone, but she's still here. Clay is gone. Clay is really, really gone. Clay would take the bottle from him and pour it down the sink before he'd let him take even a sip of this beer. And, God, does he want to. Just a sip, and maybe that will be enough.
But it's never enough. He knows, and he remembers the meetings, and the stories. How one slip-up can bring you tumbling right back down to rock bottom. And really, when it comes down to it, he has to be the one who lets it go. So he does.
Nothing is easy. Nothing seems as real as this moment.
The phone is in his hand, and he's dialing the number before he can even begin to think about it. The voice on the other end is deep and soothing, and Glen sighs, shaking. "I feel like I'm slipping," he tells his sponsor, rubbing the fabric of his t-shirt between his forefinger and his thumb.
"You did the right thing, calling..." He can't quite smile yet, but he will.
And he'll know, again, that he's the only one who can fight his addiction. He'll realize, for the hundredth time, that that doesn't mean that he can't find support in the people who love him.
What he knows right now is that he never wants it to get to the point where he could just pass out one day and never wake up; that he could not care so much that he ends up leaving everyone behind. And that- that is enough.
