It's a new day and a new fic to write, a new pairing to discover and more possibilities to unravel. It's whatever. Enjoy. / set of drabbles, because I can.
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(what does it take for you to stay?)
Mack secretly thinks it's pathetic.
Sad, ugly, horrid, bitter, dark - but most importantly, pathetic. Tanner is such a gentleman, quite an idiot he is, but a gentleman nonetheless. Smiles too sweet, touches too soft, and never really raises his voice about anything, or to anyone. He doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve watching her drinking away, mocking him for her own stupid fucked-up mistakes, and watched as she slowly wasted her life away; gave it away to the bottles of liquor.
Poison, he called them. Poison.
But he never walk away - never stop trying to persuade her, never stop repeating the same bloody word ("It's not your fault, Mack."), never stop waiting by her side, waiting to catch her fall. Always the same routine: she'd come to the bar, order bunch of stuff she once swore to never touch (to never be the replica of her good-for-nothing father), and he'll be somewhere close. By the time midnight falls, she'd have too much and he'd carry her home - she struggles, mock, punch (she'll do anything for him to just let her be on the moment) but he never lets go.
She sometimes cry.
He'll open the door to her apartment with her in his arm (she doesn't know how he does it, but she never ask) and he'll set her up on the bed, sometimes the couch. He'll touch her face, push the messy brown strands of hair away and wipe those (pathetic!) tears with his thumb. He'll say words she silently longs to hear, and leaves her when she never says anything more.
But tonight, as Tanner once again carries her, she sobs into the crook of his neck - she thinks how pathetic this is. How pathetic she is. "Hey, Tanner." Her voice is hoarse - she seems to be snuggling closer, the night air travels across her skin.
He looks down, the softness of his face perplexes her. Is he really alive? She sometimes think. "I never like to drink the poison either," she hiccups, sounds ashamed. She wants to defend herself, though, by saying that the liquor soothes her down sometimes (not really) but nothing comes out.
He kind of smiles - a genuine one, one that comforts her more in one way. "I know," he answers, a whisper against the wind.
They reach her apartment soon enough. He opens the door and sets her on the bed, when she insists so. Her bed is small, her room is untidy. It wasn't always like this, she bitterly thought. She feels hollow now, as Tanner sets her down on the cold mattress, his warmth slowly leaving her body. He doesn't touch her this time, just switches the bedside lamp off. She thinks she sees him smile again, a silent wave of goodnight: I'll be leaving now.
She grabs his hand quickly - like a natural reflex. She watches his face changes, surprised, shocked. But he doesn't move his feet - he isn't walking out the door. "Stay," she manages through her scratchy throat. She lets a beat passes, before she repeats - voice clearer and louder. "Stay, please?"
Tanner comes closer, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles (she feels the butterflies, but she brushes it off as the liquor working out on her). "Are you sure?"
She nods slowly, closing her eyes at the way he touches her. "I want you here. I-Is that okay?"
Tanner suddenly smiles, his eyes shining a bit in the dark. "Y-yeah. It's fine. Oh Mack, I'm so worried about you." His face changes now, a frown etching on his lips. Worried. He's so worried. She could see it now.
"Stay," she fumbles her fingers until it touches the lines of his jaw, the underside of his cheek. "I think I'll be better tomorrow."
Her words are promises. For him. For her.
He does stay.