Addicted to Company

Summary: Today, he promises himself, he'll start anew. …Just as soon as he finishes this line. AU Craig, post rehab.

Rated M for horribly inappropriate language and drug use (...and certain situations).

No one has self tragedy and confusion and I
Don't wanna act to this day love illusion, I
Just telling you stories that don't belong in your head
And I think I'd rather just watch you dance instead and
Maybe I'm just addicted to company.

This is Disillusionment:

After Alex has straightened out her clothes and they are both breathing a little easier, Craig steps forward and, without thinking, cups her face in between both of his hands, his thumbs grazing her jaw and settling against her bottom lip. When he kisses her this time, there is nothing brusque or blunt or rough about it. He will never know what brought her crawling to him of all people that night all those months ago, but he thinks he wants to try to make it better.

She pulls away from him, shaking her head, probably sensing his intentions to make this out to be more than it is, more than it should ever be. She smiles sadly shaking her head. "Don't, Craig."

"Why not?" he asks. Alex doesn't answer, instead she pushes him back and unlocks the door.

When she opens it, they are both surprised to see Ellie standing on the other side, with Marco and Paige standing not too far behind her, looks of judgment and angry disapproval affixed upon their faces.

"Oh, hey, Elle, long time no see. I love your hair." Alex slides past her, intoxication adding a slight sway to her step. Ellie's eyes dart back and forth between Craig and Alex's retreating form, taking in their frenzied state of dress, the redness of his nose, and, of course, the razor and mirror lying forgotten on the edge of the sink. "Paige-y! What's up?"

"You're an idiot," Ellie hisses at him, and he feels his throat tighten at the quiver in her tone, the flash of unabashed anger in her eyes. He's never really seen this side of her before. "God, Craig... Was it even worth it? Honestly?"

Hard to say, really.

"Ellie, wait - just wait a minute, okay? Can we talk? Please?" He knows how ridiculous he must look: struggling to pull up the zipper on his jeans and trying to follow Ellie through what seems to be a gathering crowd, his eyes wide and hair wild.

She stops just as she reaches the exit and whirls around to face him. Her eyes are red and shimmering from tears she refuses to shed, but Craig can still see the pain he's caused. "What do we have to talk about? What the hell were you thinking, Craig?"

"Ellie, this— it wasn't what you think. Alex and me, we aren't even together-"

"You think I care about that? Craig, what happened to rehab?"

"What do you mean? I went, you saw me leave—"

"The whole point of you going was for it to actually work. For it to change something." She shakes her head, but all he is focused on is the shine of unshed tears in her eyes, still feels the wave of self-hatred wash over him. He always does this, doesn't he?

"It hasn't changed anything, has it?" Ellie asks rhetorically, sadly.

He goes quiet for a moment, trying to think of the right thing to say, trying not to think that his high has been completely ruined, and considers reaching out to her. Though he doubts that any form of physical contact would go over well.

"I don't know...I really wanted it to, Elle."

"Well obviously you didn't want it badly enough."

"Elle-"

"I'm done, Craig," she chokes out, and she turns away just in time for him to see the tears falling down her cheeks. He can hear, behind him, his name being announced to perform on stage.

So it's official:

He's pathetic.

Craig stares down at the picture he never had the balls to remove from his wallet, the corner of it creased down and nearly faded. Ingrid, another messed up coke head who's been lingering around him lately, leans over his shoulder. If Craig tilts his head and squints his eyes just right, he sees that Ingrid is oddly reminiscent of Ashley, B.C. (Before Craig), from the pictures he's seen and stories he'd heard as the new kid from Jimmy, Paige, Hazel, even Terri.

So he tries not to look at her too often if he can help it.

Ingrid's rock bottom: trading sex for coke in a Hilton hotel (Daddy issues), then getting beaten up and robbed anyway, and left for dead. It's a story that's not as bad as most, but still worse than some. Same as him.

"What are you doing in here?"

"Visiting you, of course," Ingrid replies. "We're good as long as you leave the door open. I promise, no funny business." She pushes her hair behind her ear, uncovering a faded scar near her hairline. She tilts her head, her chin hovering above Craig's shoulder. "Who's the redhead?"

"A friend," is all he says. Ellie is an untouchable subject in this place (one of many) and probably always will be.

"They are hard to come by," Ingrid agrees, her hand on his shoulder. He doesn't shrug her off, even though he has a feeling that he probably should.

He doesn't tell her how true he thinks that statement is.

Alex is pulling at his hair, practically yanking it out his scalp, while her other hand grips the back of his neck with a pain that lets him know it will probably leave a fairly large sized bruise.

He isn't sure how much time has passed since his gig at the club where Ellie, Paige, and Marco discovered them in the bathroom and uncovered his fall from sobriety. He is completely unaware of any guilt or remorse Alex could be feeling and Craig wishes he didn't care so much—or, at least, he wishes he could pretend he didn't care so much.

It seems to be so much easier for Alex. (Either that, or she's a damned good liar. Both are an equal possibility.)

Alex says nothing about his red rimmed eyes and lack of focus but the sad, knowing look in her eyes tells Craig everything.

She knows what he's dealing with, he might even go as far as to say she feels an emotion that approaches empathy. For him, having her around isn't what he would call comforting ("sugarcoat" does not seem to be a word that is part of her vocabulary) but more of a reliable constant.

Oddly enough he finds it easier; his day goes a little better when he talks to her. Addict to addict, a verbal sharing of needles. It's certainly not the most stable of relationships that he's formed (he has a feeling that if he would have kept up with going to his meetings Alyce, group counselor would have been more than eager to express her concerns)—but then again, that's always been his technique. A balance of the stable and the not. The good and bad. His own personal form of equilibrium.

Alex tugs on his pants and Craig doesn't have it in him to stop her from taking him into her hands. He's not strong enough, he realizes. He's not sure if he ever will be. "Was it worth it?"

He wishes he could get Ellie's voice, Ellie's face, out of his head.

Easier said than done.

He's really fucked up. His mind drifts between Alex and Ellie and he's so fucking lost he doesn't whose name he ends up calling out when he's finished. But Alex must be in the same place he is - or is just too gone to care - because she doesn't push him away like she usually does when they're done (and when he grips her face, kissing her fiercely she kisses him back with equal fervor).

He's barely even pulled out of Alex when he picks up the phone to call Ellie, the words spewing out in a rush of desperation once he hears the harsh, monotonous beep signaling her answering machine.

"Elle, I'm sorry you're right. I...fucked up, really bad. Call me back. Please. I know I don't deserve it. I just - I fucked up and I don't what to do to get you to forgive me, Ellie. I'll-I'll go to Group or NA or whatever you want. Just call me back. Please? Please, just call me back."

Behind him, Alex laughs, giggles, actually. "Don't hold your breath," she says.