That's why it won't work. This kid must be crazy. It's that simple.
A home is your safe place away from the dangers of the world, from the irritation, the agitation, the temptations, the dark, diseased sicknesses of society… Yet a stranger has the potential to bring in all of said dangers to disrupt that tranquility.
For all this kid knew, McCoy could be a sociopath, a junkie, a kleptomaniac, or even worse—crazy himself. Only a crazy would let in another crazy.
"You're just a drunk." Scotty lifted his menu, half dismissive of McCoy's fidgety behavior.
"I didn't say anything," McCoy insisted. Scotty shook his head, "You didn't say it, but you were thinking it… Jim knows I wouldn't push a masked murderer to live with him, so relax."
"Relax? How can I relax when I—" McCoy paused when he felt a weight against his chair. As he glanced over his shoulder, he found himself face to face with who he assumed to be Jim.
"I don't mean to interrupt such a nice date, but is there room for one more?" Jim's palms rested against the top of the chair back, elbows bent and body leaning down towards McCoy.
Jim might have been coming on a bit too brash. To him, he was only testing the waters. If they were going to be roommates, given both of their situations, he needed to know how McCoy handles his personal space.
"Always room for one more," Scotty announced with a grin as McCoy's brows pinched together in annoyance.
Jim eagerly took his seat and introduced himself, then explained the living conditions, rent, and all of those wonderful goodies—however that wasn't what McCoy was interested in. It was helpful to know, sure, but… he had other questions.
"Why?" McCoy took a sip from the bottle in hand, letting the beer swish around between his cheeks like mouth wash. It was disgusting, but well worth it to savor the taste.
"Have you ever lived alone? It's boring." Jim's answer seemed reasonable, especially since McCoy could sympathize. Living your life alone isn't as boring as it is lonely, that's for sure. He'd never admit to it, though.
"Why me?" McCoy paused and brought his glance down to the table. "You have a vague idea of what you're letting into your home, but you've only scratched the surface of what you're getting into. So why me? Why not someone else?"
There was an awkward silence… and a longer silence… until McCoy looked back up to that god damned cheeky smile. It was cocky, smug, and oddly charming, but most of all annoying and quite frankly, he wanted to rip it right off of Jim's face. Why the hell was he smiling like that, anyways? Was this a fucking game to him?
"I like a challenge, that's all." As annoying as that answer was, it was still an answer. If he wanted a challenge, he was sure to get one.
The rest of their lunch went as smoothly as it could go with only mild bickering about the fact that McCoy was doomed to sleep on a pull out bed that extended from the couch. It was a shitty place to sleep, but he couldn't argue with the rent. Only one hundred a month. One hundred even, Jim takes care of the rest of rent, the utilities, and their food. Yet, the more he thought about it, the more he hated the idea. A couch? Really?
The rest of the week also went by pretty smoothly. By the time Friday rolled around, McCoy had four boxes packed with his clothing and a back pack stuffed with a few bottles of whiskey, two CDs, deodorant, and a toothbrush. He could have sworn he had toothpaste to go with it, but the little white tube was no where to be found. Otherwise, he didn't have much else to his name, not anymore.
"Welcome to my abode," Jim leaned against the door with his ever persistent smug ass grin. McCoy knew Jim wanted a reaction out of him, of fondness and good impression, but McCoy wasn't about to give him one. The apartment was nice, but not nice enough to feed more ego through Jim's irritating grin.
"Great," was all he could conjure up as he began to open the first box to unpack. "Now where can I put my things?"
"With my things," Jim's smile only grew as that provoked a brow raising reaction. "Because there are going to be rules. You're not bringing alcohol into my place. You're trying to quit drinking, so this shouldn't be a problem, should it?"
McCoy's body began to react in a way that made him feel incredibly uneasy. Fear and panic started to arise, causing his heart and mind to race and jump to conclusions. What if he couldn't do it? What if he can't quit? That word, that fucking word—it made his mind scream in panic, "I didn't agree to this," his words began spilling out helplessly, accidentally, without really taking any thoughts to process what he was actually saying. "I'm not quitting, not—not cold turkey. I've tried that and it doesn't work, I will die that way. You will kill me," McCoy persisted, finger pointed towards Jim for added assertion.
Jim watched the mess before him—panicked, white knuckled, and obviously defensive. "I know you can't quit cold turkey and even if you wanted to, it's dangerous, but that's why I'm going to try and help. We'll wean you off of it. That's what you were trying to do anyways, wasn't it?"
Jim had a point. That was his plan, even if it wasn't the best. Weaning off of the alcohol wasn't necessarily the right way to quit, but it was still a way to quit—which seemed more convenient than getting into rehab.
"Give me what you have now and that's what we'll use. If it's bad enough that I have to get a little more, then I will, but I have a feeling you have plenty to last us a week or two." Which, Jim was right, at least for the average drinker.
McCoy reluctantly let the other man go through his things as he unpacked, making it a point to set aside the bottles of whiskey. They'd be hidden, he knew that, but it took a little reasoning to realize that it wouldn't be the end of the world. Even if he did struggle and Jim fell through on his word to help, McCoy was a grown man, fully capable of going out and buying a drink at the bar.
Then again, the concept of self control was one that McCoy would have to work on if things were to go as according to plan, otherwise it'd be wasted effort.
He had to admit though, that this kid had an over abundance of confidence and oddly enough, it seemed to rub off on him. What provoked a panic suddenly didn't seem like such a big deal, not with Jim's persistent overly optimistic reassurances that continue through the rest of the evening, like "You'll be fine," and "I'm not going to leave you alone."
It puzzled McCoy, how a complete stranger could make him feel at ease and appear to actually give a shit. Not many could, but Jim managed, despite not really knowing anything about each other.
"You're crazy," McCoy breathed out. There was no other explanation. It was that simple.