Addicted to Company

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

Rated: M for inappropriate language and drug use (and all that comes with that).

And is there something you're not sure of?
Are you looking for a sign?
Waiting for somebody
To throw your heart a line,
Or a quick and easy answer
In a dark, uneasy time?

In a moment of desperation:

It's nearing two in the morning by the time he's finished his gig at the club and he's leaning over the gritty bathroom counter, inhaling fine white powder with his eyes closed shut. Craig tries in vain to erase the image of Ellie's face, awash in disappointment and heartbreak, her mouth turned down in a way that meant she was struggling not to cry and scream, as she asked him, "Was it worth it?"

Craig wipes his nose hastily with the back of his hand, his eyes blinking rapidly as he allows the temporary high to engulf him. He knows it won't last long, but he probably savors it that much more for just that reason.

He is moments away from accepting the phone number scrawled on a cocktail napkin from some blond whose name he knows he won't remember come tomorrow morning when he gets a text from Alex that says, "Please come over now."

The blond is disappointed at his haste to leave her behind. "You'll call me?" she pouts, her hand on his sleeve.

"Yeah," he assures her, tossing a playful grin over his shoulder. Craig doesn't think about his response long enough to decide if he's lying or not.

He's worried, partly because he hasn't heard from her in over three days but mostly because Alex never bothers with normal polite words like "please" and Craig's left wondering, on the brisk walk over to her apartment, what he'll find and how he'll be able to handle it when he gets there.

He only knocks once before she comes to the door. "Who is it?"

Alex's voice sounds harried and rushed and distorted and just so completely unlike her.

"It's me. Craig," he adds, hastily, as an afterthought.

She pulls the door open and he takes in the sight of Alex's red-rimmed eyes and overall disheveled appearance. It doesn't take much else for him to deduce that that she's probably been crying, or getting high, or both. The thought alone is enough to make him a little sick. He's never even heard her cry much less been around to witness the aftermath. "What happened?"

She shakes her head, pulling him inside by tightly gripping his forearm and slamming the door shut behind him. "Alex-"

He keeps trying to get her to talk while she pulls at him, tugging on his belt and pulling his shirt over his head. Once the shirt is off and tossed in the opposite direction, he finally, really looks at her. Craig doesn't know why it's taken him this long to realize she's been standing in front of him in nothing but her underwear. "What the hell happened?" he repeats.

But Alex seems to be in a daze, ignoring his question while still, inadvertently, managing to answer it anyway. "Fuck her, right? I mean she doesn't know anything about me. I don't know why I ever -" She cuts herself off, shaking her head. "Fuck her. I don't need her."

"This is about Paige," he realizes out loud. Alex seems to bristle when he says the name out loud and that's when she goes back to what she was doing - her hand sliding down the front of his underwear and jerking him off in the middle of her living room. The situation is so bizarre and it's strange, the way she's acting, almost like the conversation in her bed yesterday morning never happened. "Alex," he manages to choke out in the form of a strangled gasp, "maybe you should—"

She cuts him off sharply. "Look, Craig, do you want to talk or do you want to fuck me? Because I want you to fuck me. So stop with the bleeding heart bullshit 'cause that only works on Ellie—"

Hearing her name does to him whatever that that particular conversation with Paige did to Alex. It affects him, even though he would give anything to wish it didn't. It hurts him - and he wants her to hurt too but she isn't here and so he'll have to settle on Alex. (Later - much, much, much later - he'll reflect back on that thought and wonder if maybe he should consider going back to Group and NA meetings.)

Their kisses are rough and bitter and unrelenting; Alex nips none too gently on his bottom lip. He backs her into the kitchen counter, not caring at all when she hisses as her back collides with its edge, since Craig knows it's what she wants. His hands slide to her center and her nails sink into his back before she suddenly says, "No," and pushes him away with abrupt force. He's in a lusted haze of confusion until she turns around, her back facing him, her stomach pressing into the counter's edge and her ass pressing into his crotch. All she does is place his hands on her breasts and choke out a strangled, "Please" in order for him to agree and go along with the new position. His hands roam her body freely and she spreads her legs to allow for better access. They're loud; shouting, screaming, moaning, and the walls in her tiny, one-bedroom apartment are paper thin and he knows that Alex's neighbors already hate her so this definitely isn't helping. But, as is fitting to Alex's personality, she doesn't care. "God Craig harder!" she insists. He's almost certain that she's going to get marks and scratches across her stomach from the way he's going at her now and her hips are definitely going to bruise, but he is as desperate to forget any self-inflicted hurt as she is. (And she sinks her nails into his flesh whenever he attempts to be gentle, letting him know that was the furthest thing from her mind when she asked him to come over.) So he complies until she's arching her back against his chest and they've both reached that release they've desperately needed.

"Better?" he asks, just a little breathless.

"...Not even close."

Alex is curled up on the other side of the bed when he reaches for the phone, her heavy-lidded eyes watching his movements and not seeming to bother with any form of modesty as the bed sheet pools at her waist, exposing her bare chest. Her hand rests on his thigh, centimeters away from his groin. "Don't be pathetic," she warns him. The (three? four? he can't really be certain) lines of cocaine that they shared seemed to have the opposite effect on both of them. She's calmed down considerably since he first came to her apartment while Craig is anxious, his nervousness heightened as he dials the number he knows by heart.

It rings three times before she answers, and Craig feels his heartbeat pick up because every time he's called so far, she hasn't answered, causing him to leave rambling messages, begging her not to turn her back on him, on their friendship.

"Ellie," he breathes. "You answered."

"Well you won't stop calling." He hears her sigh and then, "Craig..."

"Just talk to me. Please."

"I really don't have anything to say to you. Except stop calling me."

"I meant what I said before-"

"You always do, Craig,"

"I meant about group or NA or whatever. It's different this time."

"Why? What makes it so different?"

Because I'm desperate, because I'm pathetic, because I'm hopeless because I've never really felt those things all at once before and I don't think there's anything I can do about it.

"It's different-"

"Is Alex there with you?" He doesn't respond, doesn't want to lie anymore than he already has. "That's what I thought. And I'm pretty sure the two of you haven't been playing Yahtzee! all night long."

"No," he admits quietly at the exact same time Alex inches her fingers closer to allow her hand to wrap around him. She smirks when he flinches at the unexpected contact.

"Well, then there's your answer."

"Ellie-"

"Bye, Craig." The dial tone resounded, loud and with an echo of finality, in his ear.

It doesn't take long for him to grow weary of rehab, and for Craig to start to wish that he never bothered to come here in the first place.

It feels like a never-ending process, almost as though he's stuck in some bizarre state of limbo that he won't ever be able to get himself out of. His hands shake from the withdrawal and the anti-nausea medication that's supposed to help him through detox is nothing more than a joke. The road to recovery is long, the journey endless, and at barely the halfway mark, Craig fails to see the point in him even being here if he still feels this worthless.

Dr. McIntosh is rhythmically clicking her pen every three seconds, pointedly waiting for Craig to be the first to speak about his state of mind during the withdrawal. It's currently the only sound in the room and Craig is perfectly fine with keeping it that way. Honestly, he's never really been a fan of therapy - of any kind - even when he was required to go after first being diagnosed as bipolar. "You don't say much during our group sessions. You don't talk about your past, or what brought you here."

"I'm here to kick an...addiction." The word is still hard for him to say, still turns his mouth sour at every syllable. "Talking about how my dad used to use my face to practice his golf swing or the fact that I was in the car accident that killed my mother isn't going to help with that."

Dr. McIntosh blinks slowly but Craig doesn't miss the pity that flashes in her eyes. He's seen it so often it would be odd if he wasn't able to recognize it so well. "It might," she offers.

He's not sure whether or not he truly believes that.

"...Looks like you got yourself a problem."

Don, the guy who got him this gig, is standing in the doorway of the bathroom. His arms are crossed over his stomach and his mouth turned down into a frown that could either be a show of disapproval or simply Craig's own paranoia and a projection of his own self image.

It's not a problem. Tell him it's not a problem! His hands are shaking. He's nauseous. Craig looks up at the scratched mirror hanging on the bathroom wall and doesn't recognize the person he sees. It's a familiar scene, only somehow it's so much worse this time, because he's been here before. (And, he knows, he shouldn't be.)

"...Yeah," Craig admits, laughing humorlessly. "I think I do."

Don sighs. "Think you can you do your set?"

"Yeah. I just - can you give me a minute?"

On his cellphone is a voice-mail he's saved from Ellie, the only communication he's had with her since the night he called her from Alex's apartment. He presses one, holds the phone to his ear, and listens to her voice:

"I care about you and I want you to get help. I want you to be happy." There's a pause, a distinctive sniffle. "...But I can't have another addict in my life, Craig. I just- I can't. Please understand that. Respect that."

He hasn't seen Alex since he first got the voice-mail and now he thinks as he's turning over a baggie of fine white powder he's pulled from his wallet, he thinks that he's an idiot for trying to do this cold turkey, and alone. Ellie's not returning his calls, Alex is only using him as a means to an end, and lately the music he's written has been, at best, worse than horseshit. Craig can't remember what it is to be inspired without being high and he's starting to think it's just not worth it.

Even if it is a problem.

"Fuck it," he says to himself before giving in to temptation - like he always seems to do - and spills out some of the coke onto the counter near the sink before cutting it into three decent lines. He hesitates, just a little, before leaning forward, middle and forefinger placed over one nostril, to quickly inhale the drug. He briefly wonders if Alyce, the counselor, would consider that hesitation as some twisted form of progress. Probably not, he thinks.

He stumbles out onto the stage, carefully sidestepping the mic, his guitar in hand. He takes in the crowd in front of him and the bright spotlight shining overhead. He squints, smiling listlessly.

"This is kind of an old song," he says into the mic. "And it was inspired by a friend." He picks up his guitar and strums the familiar chords to "Drowning".