the first relapse being the most scariest thing you’ve seen. sarah’s even calling you about him like “dads trying to get his doctor on the line just in case he od’s”
added this to what i'd already summarized in this ask!! hope everyone enjoys the angst 😔🫂 it’s a little long (around 7.1k)
death by a thousand cuts - r.c
pairing: rafe x pogue!reader (bartender!reader universe)
warnings: substance abuse.
Ward’s sitting at the dining table, not bothering to glance up from his phone when he walks in. That look—so cold, dismissive—always sets something off in Rafe.
His father’s eyes stay locked on the screen like the phone’s more of a son than he ever was.
“What’s wrong?” Rafe asks, already knowing this isn’t a normal night.
Ward doesn’t answer right away, only sighs as if Rafe being here is another weight on his shoulders.
“Your mother called today.”
He doesn’t have to ask which mother, Ward’s new wife has nothing to do with this. His real mom, who left.
His brain malfunctions. Static white noise, then, a flood. No rhythm, just shit pouring in. Why now? What did she say? Is she sick? Dead? Alive? Drunk? Remarried?
The name mom tries to form in his mouth and dies halfway out, too human. That’s not what she is in this house.
“She says she wants to see you. You and your sisters.”
Rafe’s eyes narrow, his heart pounding harder now. The audacity of it. There's pressure behind his eyes, no tears—he doesn’t feel sad.
She always did this—popped back in when it was convenient for her, like they were just part of her life she could pick up and drop whenever she felt like it.
When was the last time? A couple of years? It doesn’t matter, it's insulting. She always pulled this shit.
“No. I’m not doing this again.”
“No, I said no.” That all familiar burn expands in his chest. He stands there, fists clenched. “She doesn't give a fuck about us. So, no. I’m not seeing her.”
God forbid she dial his number and hear what he really thinks.
Ward looks up, calm as ever, but there's that sternest in his eyes—the one that always makes Rafe feel like a kid who’s stepped out of line.
“She’s still your mother.”
“My mother?” Rafe lets out a disbelieving bitter laugh, “She fucking left us. She’s not my mother."
Ward rises from his seat. “Watch your mouth.”
There it is, the typical shutdown, respect was ever earned in this house, not demanded. Of course Ward defends her, they're not to different after all and it's easier than facing what she did.
“Watch my mouth?” Rafe barks back, voice tearing straight from the pits of his personal hell. “I watched her leave me every time she got bored. And you—you didn’t do shit! You let it happen, over and over.”
“You gonna defend her? That’s what this is? You gonna act like she didn’t walk out on your kids and you didn’t stand there doin' nothing?"
“Stop blaming everyone else for your problems,” Ward snaps, louder now, the mask slipping. “Grow up. She left. That’s it. You’re still here crying about it, grow up."
Rafe's heart is beating inside his skull. His chest tightens like someone’s squeezing the air out of him.
"You don't get it. You never did. She fucked me up. She fucked all of us up, and you're still acting like it's nothing."
His mind is spinning, flashing back to the nights he was too high to breathe, too strung out to care if he woke up the next day.
“I’m not doing this again, dad. I’m not.”
Ward’s gaze turns cold. “She’s trying now. That has to count for something.”
“Trying?” Rafe gris out, low and brutal. “Trying?”
All those years of broken promises, all the times he was left wondering what the fuck he did wrong to make her leave—and now Ward wants him to sit down like it’s a fucking normal family reunion.
“I don’t care what you think,” Ward says sharply. “You’re going to see her. That’s final.”
“No fucking way.” He growls, chest rising, holding back a scream. “You can’t make me do this. I’m not going to sit there and pretend like everything’s okay when she’s the reason I turned into. You’re no better than she is,” he spits.
Ward’s eyes narrow dangerously, but he continues, “You let her walk all over us. You let her leave me, us, and you never said a word. You’re a shitty father."
“Don’t you dare speak to me like that.”
’ll talk to you however the hell I want,” Rafe snarls. “You want me to act like a man? Then fucking hear it. You didn’t protect me. You watched it all go to hell and let me take the fall for everything.”
“You were the problem,” Ward barks, venom surfacing. “She didn’t know how to handle you. Neither did I. You were a disaster—you did that. Not her.”
Rafe laughs but something just died inside him.
“That’s real fucking funny, coming from the guy who was never around enough to know who the fuck I was. You two were and are the fucking problem because you can’t let go of her.”
“This isn’t about you. Sarah wants to see her. Weezie deserves to have a mother.”
Rafe shakes his head, mouth twisted in incredulity. “You think that makes it better? Using them makes this right?”
“Grow the fuck up, Rafe. You will meet her, or you can leave this house right now.”
All the intensive work he's put in, what he clawed through to get clean, the shit he's tried to fix, it's slipping right through his fingers.
He can’t be here, not like this. He’s out the door before he even knows what he’s doing. Door slams. Feet moving. No plan, only that itch under his skin is back—the one he thought was gone, that’s how much control his parents have over him.
Rafe’s hands are still shaking when he gets into his truck, slamming the door harder than he means to. At this point, he's not getting enough air in his lungs. His thoughts are overlapping, crashing into each other at once. The fight with his father keeps replaying in his head, louder and louder, until he can’t hear anything else.
His fingers go numb on the wheel. Jaw clenched so tight his molars ache. His whole body’s tensed preparing for another hit. Ward's voice, telling him he’s the problem. His hands are shaking worse now, and there’s only one thought pounding through his mind:
He can’t go to you like this.
The thought of walking through your door, this messed up, makes him feel sick. You’ve seen him at his worst before, but this… This isdangerous, the before. Before you, clarity and peace. He can’t let you see him like this, the old Rafe who almost lost everything.
You don’t need to see that. You don’t deserve it.
He knows where he can go instead. Somewhere he shouldn’t, where he swore he’d never go again. Unfortunaly, right now, it feels like the only place that makes sense. His body's buzzing with leftover adrenaline and anger, he needs it to stop on way or another.
So he turns the key, letting instinct and bad decisions take over. There’s a place his body remembers even if his mind’s screaming at him to turn back.
Rafe knows the back roads by heart, even though it’s been years.
He pulls up to the small shack Barry calls home, the lights still on, music thumping from inside. Nothing’s changed. The same rundown place, the same shitty cars parked out front, the same smell of smoke and liquor in the air. Time never moved here.
He sits there for a second, engine ticking, heart pounding, fists locked in his lap. He shouldn’t be here. He knows that.
Rafe steps out, heading into his grave with his hands shoved in his pockets, eyes on the dirt, trying to stay numb. When he steps inside, the familiar smell of stale beer and weed hits him like a truck, bringing back memories he thought he’d buried.
Barry’s lounging on the couch, a joint hanging from his mouth, lazily flipping through channels on the TV.
“Country Club,” he drawls, exhaling smoke. This is funny to him, a joke. “Didn’t expect to see your rich ass again. Thought you traded this dump for something shinier. Where's your pretty little girlfriend?”
He flinches when Barry mentions you. But he can’t walk out now, he’s already here. It’s already happening.
“I need something,” he mumbles, shame burning up his eyes but he doesn’t look away, already regretting this but not enough to stop.
Barry raises a brow, that smug twitch in his face. “Yeah? You always do. What is it this time—daddy made you cry again?”
Rafe’s teeth grind. “Just give it to me.”
Barry leans back, flicking ash onto the floor, watching him like an animal in a cage.
“You sure?” he says slowly, dragging out every syllable, some fucked up moral test. “You’re about to piss all that clean time down the drain? Thought you were past this shit.”
“I said,” Rafe breathes, voice shaky, “give it to me.”
There’s a pause, Barry's sizing him up.
Then, with a shrug he pretends it's out of his hands and he's doing Rafe a favor. He gets up, disappearing into the back room. Rafe waits, heart pounding in his ears, staring at the floor, trying not to think about what he’s doing, what this means.
Barry comes back a minute later, a small bag of coke in his hand. He tosses it onto the table in front of him.
Bag hits the table. Cash. Grab. Move. All muscle memory.
Rafe's already digging in, fingers acting on autopilot as he shoves another roll of cash toward Barry. He knows this is stupid, reckless, it's going to hurt you. But he needs to forget. Just for a little while.
His hands stop shaking the second he takes that first line, it burns like ice. And then—nothing.
You’re already drained when you step through the front door of the house, kicking off your shoes and throwing your bag onto the couch.
The sticky summer air is clinging to your skin, and all you want is a cold shower and to crash in bed.
The day’s been dragging—Hell day. Work was loud and messy and endless and all you’ve wanted—all day—was to hear from him.
You haven’t gottena text from him since this morning, which would be fine. It should be fine. He’s busy. You’re busy. But it isn’t.
There’s this nagging feeling in your chest, something’s off.
Monica calls from the kitchen as you grab a glass of water. She’s scrolling through her phone, half-distracted. Milo’s at kindergarten.
“Hey,” you mumble back. “Everything alright?”
She shrugs, not looking up. “Yeah, mostly.” She pauses, frowning like she’s trying to piece something together. “I think I saw Rafe’s truck earlier. Over by Barry’s place.”
Your heart drops before you understand what that means. You blink, trying to process what she just said. “Barry’s?”
“Yeah, you know. The guy who used to sell—Whatever.” Monica shrugs again, more casual than you feel. “I was driving back from work, and I swear it was Rafe’s truck parked outside Barry’s house.”
“Looked like his truck,” your sister nods, “Thought it was weird. Figured maybe he was helping someone out or something.”
A cold sweat breaks out over your skin.
Rafe talked about Barry, sometimes. He confied in you that when things were bad—really bad—Barry was the one who kept him hooked, pulling him deeper. He told you everything about those years when he was drowning in addicatio.
Barry’s name came up more than once.
And if his truck’s outside, you know something’s wrong.
It’s like a pit in your stomach, this gnawing feeling that’s been sitting with you all day.
“What? Why’s that such a big deal?”
You swallow, trying to keep your voice steady, but it’s impossible. “Rafe doesn’t… he doesn’t go there anymore. He hasn’t in years.”
Now she looks up. “Oh. Shit. You think—?”
“I don’t know,” you lie. You do. You just don’t want to say it out loud.
You pull out your phone, fingers wobbly as you open your messages, scrolling through the last texts from Rafe, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary. He’s usually better at checking in, especially when he knows you’ve had a long day. But today? Nothing.
You stare at your screen, debating if you should call him. But deep down, you already know something’s happened. He wouldn’t go to Barry’s unless things were really bad.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” your sister offers, but her voice is hesitant, “Maybe he was stopping by. It doesn’t mean—”
She doesn’t finish her train of thought and you don’t need her to. You know what it mean, feel it in your bones. He’s back in that dark place, using—And he didn’t come to you.
Why didn’t he come to you?
Your voice cracks on the last word but you’re already moving, keys in hand.
"Wait—what? Where are you going?”
She steps toward you, alarmed now. “Is it really that serious?"
“If he’s at Barry’s, it’s bad.”
Rafe had told you everything—the ugly details about the years he spent losing himself, the drugs, the fights. He had opened up to you after your first time together. And for the past two years you’d seen him, the real Rafe, the one who tried so damn hard to be better.
And yet, he didn’t call you. Didn’t text or let you help.
Your mind is racing as you drive. You think about how good things have been with him—how far he’s come. He’s not the guy he used to be. He doesn’t party like he used to, doesn’t numb everything with lines of coke or bottles of whiskey. He told you about his time in rehab, how scared he was of becoming that version of himself again.
Something must’ve happened.
Why didn’t he tell you? The thought is suffocating and recurring.
You know him—he’s reckless and impulsive sometimes, sometimes still smokes weed to take the edge off, but this…This is worse.
You don’t remember the red lights or the turns.
His always had this chokehold on him, making him feel like he’s never good enough. And whenever his mom gets brought up—whenever she’s even mentioned—it fucks with him in ways you're still trying to understand.
You slam your fist against the steering wheel, frustrated.
He’s dealing with this alone. And now he’s gone back to Barry. To coke. To everything that almost killed him before. You pull up to Barry’s place, stomach churning. Rafe’s truck is parked haphazardly outside, and your heart skips a beat.
He’s dealing with this alone, and now he’s gone back to Barry. To coke. To everything that almost killed him before. You pull up to his place, your stomach churning. You can see Rafe’s truck parked haphazardly outside, and your heart skips a beat.
He’s here, and he didn’t come to you.
You sit there trying to calm down, trying to figure out what the hell you’re going to say when you see him.
You get out of the car and practically run to Barry’s front door. You know this place, the people who come here and what they’re looking for. You’re pretty sure your dad spent half his life here back when Barry’s dad still ran the business.
You don’t bother knocking. You push the door open.
Barry’s on the couch, looking up when you walk in, and you see Rafe—sitting in the corner, eyes bloodshot, jaw clenched.
Barry snickers from the couch, taking a drag from his joint. “Well, well, look who it is. Didn’t think I’d see the two of you here together.”
“Shut the fuck up, Barry,” you snap, crossing the room. Your eyes are locked on Rafe. “What are you doing here?”
He tries to stand, his movements slow, his body isn’t responding the way he wants it to. His eyes are bloodshot, unfocused, pupils blown wide, and he’s swaying.
“I just... I needed to clear my head,” he mumbles, slurring. His hand goes to his hair, trembling, and he can’t meet your eyes. “It’s not—”
“It’s not what?” You feel your heart breaking with every word, the cracks widening as you take in the mess of him.
His clothes are disheveled, his face pale, his hands twitching.
“I d-didn’t... didn’ wanna...” His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. “Didn’ want you t’see me like... like this,” he slurs, voice scratchy and low. He finally meets your eyes for a second before dropping his gaze again. “Didn’ want you thinkin’ I was still..."
“You’re not that guy anymore,” you cut in softly, even though right now, he looks so like him. “But you’re acting like him.”
is head drops. Shoulders sag. “Didn’ know... wha’ else t’do.”
“And you didn’t think to come to me?” Your voice cracks. “You went to Barry instead of me?”
“I told you to shut the fuck up,” you snap, glaring at Barry. Then softer, back to Rafe, “You always come to me. Why’d you run here? Why would you go back to this?” You glance around, disgusted. “You’re better than this. Come on. Get in the car. We’ll figure it out.”
Rafe shakes his head slowly, blinking hard, trying to clear the fog. “C-Can’t... can’t do this right now.”
“Yes you can. Why would you run here? Why would you go back to this?” You glance at Barry, who’s watching the whole scene with a smirk on his face, enjoying every second of your heartbreak.
"Can’t… can’t be with you right now.”
“Jus’... too much,” he breathes. “Hurts too much. I—” His voice breaks. “Didn’ wanna you t’see... me like this.”
“Then get in the car,” you plead. “We can figure it out together.”
He sways again, holding onto the couch. “I... I can’t,” he whispers so quietly you barely hear it.
It pushes something inside you.
You'll regret it later. If he doesn’t want your help, he doesn’t want you. And if he doesn’t want you right now he doesn’t deserve to want you when he’s better.
"You can either get in the car and fight with me, or you can stay here. But if you stay—”
“Y-You’ll... you’ll leave?” he mumbles, squinting like it’s taking all the effort in the world just to stay present. “Leave me?”
“E-everyon leaves...right?"
He’s never said anything like that to you before.
“I’m not leaving you, but if you stay here, with him,” you jerk your head in Barry’s direction, “I can’t help you. I can’t pull you out of this if you don’t want to get out.”
You know you can’t fix it for him. He has to make that choice willingly.
“I love you, but I won't watch you destroy yourself.”
You think you’ve gotten through to him, because his eyes soften behind all that darkness in his pupils. But then he shakes his head again, looking at the floor, making his decision.
“I... I don’ wanna hurt you,” The words are sticky, they’re fighting to come out. “I dunno how t’stop.”
Your heart breaks a little more at that.
“Yes you do, baby. You do. You just need to believe it.”
If he doesn’t come with you, you don’t know where this ends for him.
He’s stuck—frozen in place and time, trapped by whatever war is raging in his head. And you realize, as much as it kills you, no matter how deep your love runs, you can’t force him to choose you.
“You have to decide,” you say quietly, voice breaking. “Me or this. You can’t have both.”
Rafe lifts his head, eyes red and glassy. For a second, hope blooms pitifully in your chest. Maybe he’ll say something—anything—that makes this okay.
Except, he doesn’t. He just stands there, torn apart by his demons, his lips pressed into a thin line.
You feel the pit in your stomach grow deeper.
“Okay,” you nod, holding back tears. “I guess that’s my answer.”
You turn and walk out the door, heart shattering with every inch of distance you put between you and him. You don't look back, knowing that if you do, you’ll drag him out yourself, and you can’t do that.
As you get into your car, the sobs come anyway. You don’t want to leave him. God, you don’t want to. But he didn’t choose you.
Rafe doesn’t register the sound of the door slamming behind you.
To him, he's watching everything happen from somewhere far away, body senseless. You said something, you were upset—he knows that much—but the words never hit him, only floated around. He sinks back down into the chair, staring at the floor, heart racing but completely detached.
The room is spinning a faster, but he can’t feel anything. Can’t let himself feel anything. It’s better this way. Safer.
He knows it happened, but it doesn’t mean anything to him right now. He can’t process it in this state, when the drugs are still in his system, making it seem like he's underwater. He blinks a few times, trying to get his brain to catch up, but it’s not working.
Barry’s voice is somewhere in the background, laughing about something, he doesn’t hear him either, the world’s on mute. His body’s still buzzing from the high, fingers twitching, but inside? He's as empty as he gets.
Hours pass, maybe. Time doesn’t exist here when he’s this far gone, but the light changes through the window, it could be minutes or days for all he knows. He drifts in and out, his head heavy, eyes closing, but sleep never comes, only darkness. He did too many lines.
At some point, Rafe wakes up—if you can call it that. His body feels like it weights over two hundred pounds, his head is spinning, his mouth dry and sour. He blinks against the light, his vision blurry, trying to recall where the fuckl he is.
It takes a second for everything to catch up.
To realize he’s at Barry’s.
It hits him all at once. You. You were here. You were mad. And then you were gone.
A sick, sinking feeling crawls up his throat. He sits up too fast, nearly thowing up in the process. Fuck. He drags a hand over his face, his thoughts still sluggish. Y
ou left. You walked out, and he… he didn’t stop you. Didn’t try to.
Before he can dwell about it, Barry saunters in, a easy-going grin on his face, holding a beer in one hand, a joint in the other. He takes one look at Rafe, slouched and disoriented, and lets out a mocking laugh.
“Good mornin'," Barry drawls, leaning against the doorframe, “Look who’s finally awake. You done fucked it up, Country Club.”
Rafe doesn’t say anything.
Barry raises an eyebrow, taking a drag from the joint, shaking his head. “Damn, man. Thought you were smarter than that.”
Rafe just stares at the floor, his stomach twisting. He can’t remember exactly what he said to you. But the look on your face… he can’t forget that. The disappointment. The hurt.
Barry chuckles, settling down on the couch across from him. “What was it? You running your mouth again, or did she just get tired of you being a fuckup?”
The shame is settling in, creeping up his spine. He doesn’t want to hear this. But Barry keeps going.
“Should’ve seen it coming, man,” He continues, “Girls like that? She was bound to leave eventually.”
If he felt strong enough to move, he would’ve pummeled that joint out of his mouth, his teeth following next.
Who the fuck did he think he was? He knows Barry’s trying to get under his skin, it’s working. He feels sick.
“You done fucked it up, Country Club,” Barry repeats, leaning back with a satisfied smirk. “You’re back here. Same old Rafe.”
He told himself he’d never end up here again. He swore he was done with this. Done with the drugs, done with the guy he used to be. Now he’s right back where he started. He let you see it.
He doesn’t know how to fix this. Doesn’t know if he can fix this. But the one thing he does know? He should’ve crawled after you.
Rafe doesn’t say a word. His hands are already moving, reaching for the small bag of coke on the table. His fingers tremble as they close around it, the weight of the plastic barely registering in his hand.
Barry watches him, that same shit eating smile never leaving his face, taking another drag of his joint, exhaling a cloud of smoke with a low chuckle. He’s not surprised.
"Of course," Barry mutters, shaking his head in amusement. “Of course, you're takin’ that shit with you.”
Rafe’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t fight him. He can feel Barry’s eyes on him, feel the judgment radiating off him.
He stuffs the bag in his jacket pocket, standing up on shaky legs, stumbling toward the door. His mind is on autopilot, moving without him.
"Attaboy, Country Club," Barry calls after him, voice dripping with condescension, laughter bubbling up from deep in his chest. “Just keep runnin’. That’s what you’re good at, right?”
Rafe’s hand tightens on the doorknob, teeth grinding together. He can’t look at Barry—he can’t look at any of this—so he does what he always does. He walks away, out of the door, into the night, the bag burning a hole in his pocket.
It’s been two weeks since you last saw him.
Fourteen endless days of silence. Your messages unanswered and unread. You told him you were leaving, but it wasn’t a threat or a goodbye. You only wanted him to choose himself.
You can’t stop thinking about him. It physically hurts.
Rafe's everywhere and nowhere all at once. He’s in the spaces he used to fill, in the empty side of your bed, in the mirror when your face crumples before you can stop it.
You ache with it, not figuratively. It’s a dull, consuming throb behind your ribs that refuses to let you breathe.
You think about where he might be. If he’s safe. If he’s even conscious. If you still cross his mind—or if he’s already let go.
You miss him. God, you miss him.
You’ve haven't been doing well at work. When you try to concentrate, a memory of him sneaks in—wild-eyed, unreachable—and your hands start shaking. Twice you’ve called in sick just to lie in bed and cry until your chest physically hurts. It’s pathetic.
You reached out to Sarah a few times. She was trying to be honest, but it didn’t help. “He’s gone off the grid,” she said a week ago. “Not talking to anyone."
Here you are—perched on your bed, phone in hand, debating whether to try again. One more message or one last call, it can’t end like this. Rafe's the love of your life. That hasn’t changed.
Sarah’s name flashes on the screen, and you nearly drop the damn thing. “Sarah?”
“Hey,” You can hear it immediately—something’s wrong. “Are you home right now?”
Your stomach knots. “Yeah. Why? What happened?”
You hear her inhale shakily. “It’s Rafe. He’s—fuck, it’s bad. Really bad.”
“What do you mean bad? What happened?”
“Dad’s calling his private doctor,” she says, her voice beginning to crack. “He thinks he might OD.”
“The doc's not answering,” she rushes on, “Dad’s freaking out. Rafe’s been using nonstop—he’s not making sense anymore. I didn’t know who else to call. I thought maybe if you—"
"I’m coming,” you say, cutting her off, already on your feet.
You hang up and bolt out the door, keys in hand, not fully aware of the motion. The drive to Tannyhill is a quick. You can’t feel your hands on the wheel. You can’t hear the road beneath your tires.
If Sarah is calling you…it's bad.
You’re already sprinting up the steps when the door swings open.
Sarah’s by the stairs, face blotchy and eyes bloodshot. She nods toward the living room.
And that’s when you see him.
He’s slumped on the couch, his body limp, eyes half-open but glazed over, he’s not even seeing what’s in front of him. His skin is clammy, his hands twitching every few seconds, and there’s a sheen of sweat on his forehead.
Ward’s pacing the room, his phone pressed to his ear. “I don’t care if he’s busy, get him here now. He’s going to fucking die.”
No flicker of recognition. He’s not seeing you—he’s not seeing anything.
Sarah’s standing behind you now, “He won’t talk to us."
You drop to your knees beside him, swallowing back the panic, fingers brushing his arm.
“Rafe,” you breathe. “It’s me. I’m here, okay? Look at me.”
But there’s nothing. Just silence.
His head lolls to the side, his eyes flick to yours—but they’re vacant, it's like looking into someone else’s body. The person you know, the person you love, isn’t there. You keep whispering his name, pleading for him to wake up, to do something, but nothing works.
Ward's still on the phone, his voice a angry hum in the background.
His eyes flick over to you every few minutes, but he doesn’t say anything. Sarah’s standing off to the side, her arms wrapped around herself, face puffy from crying. You can see how scared she is, you’re glad they got Weezie out of the house before she could see this.
After what feels like an eternity, the doctor rushes in, followed by a paramedic with a bag of medical equipment. He's already kneeling beside Rafe, muttering instructions, checking his pulse, prying his eyes open.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “He’s lucky he’s still breathing.”
The paramedic starts unpacking equipment, slipping an oxygen mask over Rafe’s face as they move with urgency. You try to stay calm, try to keep your hand on Rafe.
Ward ends his call and stands there, watching as they hook Rafe up to monitors and prep him for transport.
“Is he going to be okay?” he asks, voice strained because god forbid he shows more emotion.
The doctor glances up, his expression grim. “We’re stabilizing him now, but if this had gone on much longer… we’d be having a very different conversation.”
They move fast, lifting him onto the stretcher. His limbs dangle uselessly. His body looks small, somehow. Beaten.
Ward steps forward, watching his son being carried away. For the first time, you see it—real fear in his eyes.
“I should’ve seen it coming,” he says eventually. “Should’ve stopped it. This is on me.”
You feel something snap inside of you.
“I’m sure it fucking is.”
He doesn’t say anything, only stands there like a fucking idiot.
Sarah’s beside you now, her hand a small pressure on your arm. “Come on,” she whispers. “We need to go with him.”
You nod, swallowing as you follow her out of the house, leaving Ward standing there alone.
You and Sarah sit in the car, neither of you speaking. You watch the ambulance disappear down the driveway, sirens off.
“I’m scared,” Sarah admits.
You shut your eyes. “Me too.”
You have to remind yourself to breathe.
At the hospital, everything moves in slow motion. You’re ushered through paperwork, redirected by nurses, given vague updates. Eventually, you end up in a waiting room—those hideous, rigid chairs that feel like they were made for purgatory.
Minutes drag by like hours. You scroll through your phone without seeing it. Sarah bites her lip raw, blinking too fast. Every time you close your eyes, all you see is him—slumped, slipping away. After what feels like forever, the doctor finally comes through the doors, and Sarah and you jump up at the same time.
The doctor looks exhausted, his face lined like he’s delivered this kind of news too many times already today.
“We got to him in time,” he says, voice low. “He was close. Closer than I’m comfortable with. But he’s stable now. We’ll keep him under for at least twenty-four hours.”
You finally take a deep breath, it shudders on the way out, not doing much to ease the knot in your chest.
Sarah’s already moving when the doctor finishes speaking. She doesn’t ask where his room is—she doesn’t need to. She has to see him. You don’t follow. Your legs feel like they’ve turned to stone. If you try to stand, you’ll collapse.
As much as you want to be with him, to hold his hand or just… see him breathing, you’re not sure you can stomach it—seeing him like that again. You've been walking a tightrope for weeks, bracing for a call like this.
What you need more than anything is to get out of here, close your eyes for more than a minute without the image of him passed out burned into your brain. You need sleep. You need to feel something other than panic. He’s gonna be okay.
Rafe's alive, that’s enough for now.
You leave the hospital, but the image of him doesn't leave you.
You come back the next morning.
Just outside his room makes your stomach churn. You grip the handle, remind yourself you have to go in, he’s still here, he needs you.
Propped up by the pillows, pale and worn down to the bone, but his eyes find you the second you step through the door. It’s like he doesn’t believe you’re real.
“Hey,” You manage to say, You don’t trust your voice to be strong enough to say something more.
His eyes widen faintly. “You came.”
You take a cautious step closer. “Of course I came, Rafe. Where else would I be?”
He’s genuinely shocked, he thought you’d just walk away from all of this. His eyes flicker away from yours, settling on the IV in his arm.
“Sarah called me. She didn’t know what to do.”
His jaw tightens. “She shouldn’t have.”
“She shouldn’t have had to, Rafe. You scared the shit out of her—out of everyone. I’ve been sitting here for two weeks, waiting for you to say something, anything, and you just—” You stop yourself, throat closing up, biting your lip to keep from crying. “You almost died.”
You can see his chest rising and fallin, you don't think he's going to answer at all—until he speaks.
“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he admits quietly. “I didn’t want you to see how fucked up I am.”
Your heart twists. You’ve already seen it. Every fractured, spiraling version of him—and you’re still here. Because you’ve seen it and you love him anyway.
Rafe shakes his head, his hands gripping the blanket.
You step sit on bed, “Don’t say that,” you murmur, reaching for his hand. He flinches but doesn’t pull away. You link your fingers with his. “You’re gonna be okay. We’ll get through this. I need you to let me help you.”
He closes his eyes, his face twisting in pain, “Ward wanted us to meet mom and I just—”
You’ve never fully understood what his mom meant to him, or maybe what losing her did to him, now you do. The deep-rooted pain that calcifies in the bones and takes root in the places people don’t talk about.
“I didn’t want you to see this mess. I don’t want anyone to. I’m a fucking disaster. Every time I try to fix something, I make it worse. I just—” He breaks off, trying to swallow the rest of his words, the ones he can't confess out loud.
“You spent years sober, that’s not easy,” You scoot closer, wrapping your arms around him carefully, “Baby, I know you’re hurting. But I’m not going anywhere.”
“You should,” He confesses, “I hurt you.”
“You have,” You murmur into his shoulder, “But that doesn’t mean I’m leaving. I’m not gonna give up on you.”
Rafe looks away, like he doesn’t believe you, he's waiting for you to walk out of that hospital room and never look back.
Instead, you squeeze his hand.
"I’m here because I love you."
“You shouldn’t.” he whispers.
You shake your head, leaning in, your hand resting on his cheek.
“But I do, Rafe. Together, okay? One step at a time.”
He nods, barely, but it's something. It’s a start.
