#implied overdose

It's three A.M. and there's blood on his hands, under his fingernails. Coppery and sickening and mixed with the vomit on the knee of his jeans. He picks at it absently, too tired or perhaps too shell-shocked for disgust. Exhaustion sits heavy on his shoulders, and every glance from that woman has his skin crawling. It's irrational and unlikely but he imagines somehow she knows exactly why he's here, who he's brought and the six care rules he'd broken in the process of doing it.

No more late night wandering, if you can't sleep have a cup of goddamn tea Egan.

If tea doesn't help text Brady, yes even if Ev complains fucking text Brady

Don't text Curt

Don't let Curt text you

Don't go see Curt, no matter what he says or begs or promises, you can't save a man determined to drown

Stop trying to save the world.

Not the world, Johnny, just one man.

He stares so long and so hard in front of him the linoloum floor tiles begin warping and sliding against each other as if waves of the ocean. Florescent lights buzz above him, a mosquito whine in his ear and he tries not to picture Curts pale grey face, the way his teeth had unconsciously sunk into the meat of John's hand until it drew blood as he choked around his desperate begging fingers.

Don't be too far gone, please Cutty don't be too far gone.

Solid black shoes, shined to a modest polish step into John's field of view, a steaming cup of coffee pressed into his hands. (his bloody, bloody hands)

Father Cleven, who had been Gale to him now for longer than he hadn't been, folds himself gracefully into the chair beside him with his own cup of coffee. Takes a sip and hisses but doesn't complain beyond that.

"Drink, John," comes the pastor's quiet rumble.

He drinks. The coffee is made how he likes. Heavy on the creamer, light on the sugar but never wholly unsweetened.

"They said he's awake." Gale says, "But since I wasn't an emergency contact or family they couldn't tell me more."

John was Curt's emergency contact, or at least he used to be. He wasn't quite sure whether the man had kept him on the papers after not speaking for over two years.

He nods, takes another sip of his coffee and tastes none of it.

"John," Gale says and there's a slightly uncertain wobble to his voice. He's dressed in a white shirt and worn-soft jeans. Glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose and his hair was sticking up in odd places, flopping over his forehead and tangling around his ears like the ruffled feathers of a duck.

Hello?

Gale- fuck sorry I know it's late-

It's fine, John, are you alright?

Yes- no. Yes I'm alright but I need- fuck

Take a breath, what's going on

I need you to drive me somewhere. It's my friend, he's in trouble.

John sits his coffee on the floor and pushes his fingers into his browbone, exhaling slowly.

He's taken something.

A hand rubs along his back, an excusable away touch of a Paster comforting one of his flock only not twelve hours ago Gale had pressed John down into the mattress with that same hand on that same spot and made him muffle his cries into a pillow.

"What do you need John?"

He swallows. Swallows again. Swallows again and then gasps for a wet breath, tears clogging his nostrils and avoiding his dry eyes.

"Take me home," he pitches his voice lower, only for them, "take me home and let me hold you."

He feels Gale exhale just as shakily and braces himself for spitting bitter rejection.