A/N: Again, I can't take credit for Andy's dialogue—credit goes to Lizzie B. Thanks for the great reviews. I live for feedback, good and bad.
Bobby kissed Andy's shoulder before slipping from bed, careful not to wake her. She'd fallen asleep easily while he just stared at the ceiling for an hour. This was nothing new; although the last couple of nights he had slept all the way through, but he was apt mark that down to the Vicodin more than anything else. He pulled on an NYPD sweatshirt and headed for the living room, grabbing the pack of cigarettes from the dresser on his way. He shook his head as he walked over to a window, the city lights blurred by the rain on the glass. When he wasn't drunk, he was stoned. He was a fucking mess.
The Vicodin was an almost necessary evil, but he'd rather take the pain in his hand over the heavy narcotic. He'd actually taken two on Saturday which was one more than he felt comfortable with, but didn't want to be miserable while his and Andy's friends helped her move in. Instead, he'd just made an ass of himself, giggling like an idiot at absolutely nothing. Apparently everyone else had a good laugh too and while he normally took pleasure in eliciting laughs from people, he preferred to go about it differently. At least he could take comfort in the fact that his likelihood of voluntarily becoming a junkie was slim to none. No, just an alcoholic. After all, he was either genetically or environmentally predisposed to that.
He slid open the window, then the screen and perched in the window frame. The wind blew the rain around like a spray from an ocean, equally as cold. What was left of tropical storm Barry was drenching NYC, but it was a fitting end to an emotionally gray day. Saturday had been good, even if he couldn't remember details because of his pharmaceutical haze. He tapped the cigarette pack against his cast half a dozen times before awkwardly pulling one out and lighting it.
Saturday had been real good. He'd thought about moving forward, about going back to work, and thanks to 2-year-old Nicholai Hoffman, he'd thought about kids. Watching Logan with the little boy struck something in him. It was wistful, especially coupled with the conversation he and Andy had Friday night... and that feeling was completely alien. The idea of having kids was one he'd written off a long time ago, but now? Well, now it didn't matter. He'd crossed the idea off today. Going back to work was more feasible. Hell, there was no reason he couldn't go today. No logical or obvious reason, anyway. He couldn't go until he felt together again, not until he knew he could get through a week without turning to old Jack. Not until he'd learned to allow himself to lean on Andy.
He took a deep drag on the cigarette, blowing the smoke out into the wet darkness in rings. A half-smile graced his lips as he thought about what Andy had said earlier tonight. Even thought today had been a low day, she still insisted he was making progress. He couldn't agree, though. The way he saw it, a lost fight with a wall was more than a minor setback. He had spent the better part of today, listening to Andy on the piano, thinking about his mother. All that did was dredge up old feelings. He had stuck to the promise he'd made to himself on Friday by talking with Andy about it and he could see that made her happy, if not sad at the same time. To her, that was progress.
"Can't you see it? I can see it. You were in hell only two weeks ago, and now you're with me. You joke, you laugh, you smile at me. Bobby, you may not be all the way back, but you're getting there."
"I broke my damn hand on Thursday. That's not progress."
"I think the fact that you've started sleeping better, you're eating and that you've stopped relying on alcohol to solve your problems is progress."
"I couldn't even if I wanted to."
"You know what the biggest sign of your progress is?"
"What?"
"You came to me first."
Flicking the end of the cigarette into the dark alley below, he unfolded himself and stood up. He closed the screen, then the window, but continued to stare at the distorted lights in the raindrops on the glass. Progress would be when he could go more than a day with out anything stronger than Advil and without any more setbacks that resulted in turning to alcohol. He felt like the only reason he was sober was because he couldn't allow himself to mix it with the narcotics. Or maybe he just didn't trust himself. The lack of faith wasn't helping, either. Andy has faith.
He yawned and pulled away from the window, retracing his motions from earlier. Cigarettes on the dresser, sweatshirt...wherever it lands this time.