Notes: So I know I said I might double-update, but I, er, kind of fell asleep in front of the TV. Mea culpa. *pushes chapter across table hopefully* S'okay, yes?
What Happens in Omaha
"I want to kick start this meeting myself," McCoy said when everyone was settled. "Last night, I went to a convenience store near my apartment in Iowa City and bought a six pack of Stella."
Every face turned to stare at him, most in shock and some in mixed shock and pity. No matter how often he told them that he was in the same boat, they always seemed to surprised to get any evidence of his own issues.
"I've got a little girl. She turned eleven years old yesterday. I sent her a card and a present and I called at noon and got to wish her a happy birthday in person. Which is more than I get most of her birthdays. And she started tellin' me about this boy at school. She's eleven years old, and she's started noticin' boys, and I'm here in Iowa instead of doin' my duty by parking out on the front porch with a shotgun."
He noticed Jim grin and duck his head suddenly. About half the men in the room, old or young, wore similar expressions. And hell, they were right to. It was a man's duty, damn it. It was one of the responsibilites of being a father, right up there with teaching your son how to shave and offering to break the kneecaps of the first boy to break your little girl's heart.
And he couldn't do it.
"And suddenly I needed a drink. So I went out and got 'em. Bought a six pack of shit that even at my worst, I was too proud to touch. I took it home, cracked one open, and sat there staring at it for maybe an hour. I wanted to drink it. I really wanted to drink it. Hell, that's when any father needs a good stiff drink – and more when he realises he's missed that. For me, she's gone from being my little princess who wanted to wear her damn gumboots and ballet dress at the same time, to an eleven-year-old who's got a crush on Johnny Carlisle in her math class."
There was a short silence as he gathered his words, then he sighed.
"I threw it at the wall."
A surprised chuckle went around.
"Landlady's gonna kill me. Threw it at the damn wall. Haven't actually brought myself to clean it up yet, so there's a damn mess. Chucked the rest of the pack down the sink, one at a time. I'll admit to imaginin' they were this Johnny whatever's balls when I crushed the cans into the recycling, but that was it. I got rid of 'em, every last one. Closest I've been in about a year now."
"But you didn't do it," Sandra said, reaching to squeeze his hand sympathetically. "You didn't do it."
"Nope. Got all the way to openin' it, but I didn't do it. Still sober."
He sat down, not bothering to add any more words. They knew what he was trying to tell them – hell, they'd probably known the moment he said he'd bought a drink.
"Well, let's not mope. Who's got a happier week than me, huh?"
To his surprise, Jim rose to his feet, hands jammed in his pockets and looking once more like an overgrown schoolkid. "Um. Me."
"Go on, then, Jim."
"I've…" Jim took a breath. "I had a drink Monday night. It was just the one, though, and I…I called my friend and he came over and we watched some curling programme – seriously, curling. So I only had one. And that was my first drink since last Monday night."
A ripple of applause went around the group, and McCoy grinned.
"Well done, Jim. Work on your Mondays and you might be onto a winner. What was it this time? More rice?"
Jim grimaced. "Fuckwit boss."
"I hear ya, honey!" Sandra laughed. It was generally agreed that Sandra's boss would've driven Jesus himself to the bottom of a bottle.
Jim managed a shy smile and collapsed back into his chair gracelessly. By the time Sandra had gone through her week and passed the baton to Christine, he had drawn out that picture again and was stroking it absently while he listened to the other group members. Wasn't looking it, but stroking it all the time, the way some people brought their boyfriends and girlfriends along and held hands. As if he could draw the same support from a picture.
Maybe the kid was going to make it.
"Jim, c'mere."
Jim stuck his hands back in his pockets and meandered over to McCoy in a wholly unhurried fashion. McCoy imagined that once upon a time, he would have been the type to swagger. Hell, with that lopsided smile and leather jacket, he would have been the type to get in bar brawls just for the way he looked.
"Here," McCoy pressed a thin package into his hands. "It might not help, it might do wonders. Just a thought."
Jim peeled the brown paper away to reveal a plain wall calendar.
"Mark off every day you spend sober. If you drink, leave the day blank and don't start marking again until you spend one sober."
"Does it help?" Jim asked.
McCoy shrugged. "Helps some, not others. If it doesn't, you got a free wall calendar. Try keeping it near your bed – it'll be most effective to remind yourself of how well you're doing each morning."
"Or not."
"Or not," McCoy agreed.
Jim stared at the calendar for a long moment, not really looking at it. "Does it…does it get easier?"
"Most times, yes," McCoy said. "I can go weeks without thinking about it. But every now and then, you realise you're outta rice, and the longing is just as strong. It will always require you to be strong about it, Jim. You can't let your guard down. That's why distraction is the best tactic – if you don't think about it, you don't want it."
Jim's hand shifted in his pocket, and McCoy noticed the edge of the photograph peeking out as he fiddled.
"And you've got an extra strength."
"What?"
"That boyfriend of yours," he said.
"Yeah, well..."
"You've got a goal in mind. And in my experience, that makes you much more likely to be able to beat this."
"Yeah?" a smile tugged at the corners of Jim's lips.
"Yeah. Now I'm going to set you another goal. I want you to come in next week and be able to tell us you haven't touched a drink since last night. Think you can do that?" McCoy asked as they walked out to the parking lot.
Jim shrugged, and smiled again. "I can try."
"That's the spirit. You try for him or for you, it doesn't matter until you can break the habit. Once you've broken it, it does get easier."
"Distraction worked," Jim offered. "I cleaned out my piece of shit house. Haven't really done it since...since he left. He had plans for the garden too, and I'm goin' through the study trying to find them."
"Very housewife."
"Shut up," Jim grumbled, but with no bite. "Hey, are you...are you ever going to try and make things right with your ex?"
"Nah," McCoy said. "No can do, not really. The drinking was the result, not the problem. I'm a doctor first and foremost, Jim. I run these things on the cheap. We're not technically AA here; we just haven't been caught by no lawyer for it."
Jim snickered.
"When I was married, I was on duty in A&E six times a week. Odd hours, long hours, never saw my wife or my kid as much as Joss – that's the wife – wanted me to. Eventually, she got tired of being married to an unreliable man, and...well. She found someone else."
"She cheated on you?" Jim had gone faintly grey under his summer tan.
"I don't know about that," McCoy grimaced. "I couldn't have proved that if I'd wanted to. But the moment the divorce had gone through, she'd shacked up with some other guy so, I dunno. Maybe she did."
Jim looked faintly sick.
"You okay, kid?" McCoy caught him under the elbow as he swayed almost drunkenly and sat him down on the steps. "Whoa. Deep breaths, Jim. You're alright. Okay?"
"Sorry," Jim mumbled, face tucked between his knees. McCoy could hear him performing deep, steady breathing exercises.
"Don't worry about it," McCoy said. "You feeling faint?"
"A little bit," Jim mumbled. "I'm sorry. It's just...shit. Fuck. Fuck it."
"What?"
"I'm your fucking ex-wife," Jim mumbled.
"Sorry, Jim, you're gonna have to spell this one out for me. You may be a pretty-boy, but you sure as shit ain't my ex-wife."
"No, I mean..." Jim sat up properly and took a deep breath. "Okay. About...about eight months after Spock and I started dating, one of my high school buddies got married in Omaha. A bunch of us went over and I booked a hotel room – but just for me. I mean, Gary was a great guy and all but you wouldn't bring your boyfriend to his wedding, know what I mean? Hell, I don't even think he knew I was pitching for the wrong team. And Spock was busy with work and didn't want to go to a jock's wedding anyway, so I went by myself. And Gary was marrying some pretty rich scientist lady from the East Coast – had a doctorate and everything..."
"Divorced now?"
"Yep."
"Thought so."
"Yeah, we all saw it coming. But there was a free bar, and fuck man, I wasn't going to turn down free vintage champagne. So I took advantage of it, and got real drunk – like, real drunk, good and plastered drunk. Couldn't remember my own name drunk. You've been there, right?"
"Sure I have."
"Okay, so I got absolutely fucked – and then I woke up the next morning in my hotel room with some guy. The bride's brother, it turned out. And I didn't remember a fucking thing – still don't. I remember being introduced and thinking he was hot – all thin lines and dark hair, just my type – but I don't remember pulling him. And he didn't remember either – he had a worse hangover than me, but...but I...shit, I ended up naked in bed with him. I mean, what else must I have done?"
"Did you tell your boyfr – Spock?"
"Yeah," Jim croaked. "Never driven so fast in my life. I brought him flowers and I was babbling apologies before he even got the door open and I was begging him to forgive me and give me another chance. He kicked me out but I kept calling him and posting notes through his mailbox and turning up at his workplace."
"Jesus, Jim."
"I kept expecting him to get out a restraining order on me, but I would've broken it because fuck, I loved him. I still do. I couldn't stand it if one stupid drunken mistake fucked it all up. I gave up the booze, you know – I didn't drink again until the following Christmas, and I cheated in July. And when he decided to give me another chance, shit, I splashed out something awful, took him anywhere he wanted to go, just trying to prove I wouldn't ever do it again..."
"Did he trust you again?"
"Eventually," Jim mumbled. His voice sounded oddly hoarse – thick and unwieldy. "We got back to normal. He moved in with me the following May."
"Why do I get the impression that this isn't the last of it?" McCoy asked quietly.
"Because it isn't," Jim croaked, then shook his head. "I can't. I can't...not right now. I just...I can't, I just can't..."
"Alright. Hey. Hey, c'mon, kid, it's alright. It's alright. C'mon." McCoy had dealt with plenty of people in tears before, though less commonly young men, and wasn't shy about slinging an arm around Jim's shoulders and squeezing tightly. "C'mon, s'alright," he soothed as the wracking sobs began to ease. "C'mon, that's it. Okay? Okay. C'mon, up you get. I'll drive you home."
"Can't," Jim breathed thickly. "Can't."
"Why not?"
"I don't know where home is, 'cause he's gone."
