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You find him in one of the last places you look, a bar way down a back alley. The bartender is a stooped old man who eyes you coldly as you walk in, and the only other occupants are two men in blood splattered clothes playing a game of cards, and a woman wearing an impossibly short pink dress and 3 layers of grimy makeup.
Jesse is slumped over the bar, not moving, a half full glass of whiskey in his hand. An empty bottle of Fireball is knocked over beside him, and there are about 5 other empty glasses around him.
With a heavy sigh and a leaden weight in your heart, you approach him slowly.
The bartender watches you with bloodshot eyes as he polishes a glass with a rag. The floor is tacky, and the walls are stained and splattered with what you tell yourself obstinately isn’t blood. It reeks of depression and ethanol, and also faintly of piss.
You understand why Jesse might have come here. It’s out of the way, unpopular, not a place he’d think anyone would come looking for him.
You stop beside him, dithering between shaking him and trying to talk to him. His eyes are half closed, and he doesn’t appear to be particularly responsive. However, you’d made that mistake before; grabbing his shoulder thinking it would rouse him and instead being smacked in the temple with the butt of his gun.
You touch his arm gently, enough to be felt but not enough to appear threatening.
“Jes? Jesse, it’s time to come home,”
His eyelids flutter, and he grunts softly. The first thing he does is feel around for his glass. He grabs one of the empty ones and sits up slowly, pressing it to his lips, and then looking groggily confused when nothing enters his mouth. You rub his arm gently, moving into his line of sight.
“I’ve been looking for you for ages,” you tell him softly, “come on, come home now,”
He stares at you from beneath the few stray hairs that hang across his eyes. Then, he turns away and shrugs.
“Oi, ‘nother shot ‘a whiskey,” he says, rattling his glass at the bartender, who shoots you a poisonous look and moves slowly to the alcohol cabinet.
“Oh, no,” you say, raising your voice a little, “thank you, but he doesn’t need any more,”
“Damn fucking right he doesn’t,” the bartender mutters as he gives you another look, and slinks away from the cabinet.
You ignore him and grip Jesse’s arm.
“Come on, Jes. We gotta go home, it’s really late,”
He blinks down at the assortment of glasses in front of him, and then picks up the one still half full of whiskey, swirling it around.
“Jes, don’t drink that. We need to get home,"
“Haven’t finished m’ whiskey,” he mutters, staring down at the glass and raising it to his lips. Gripping his wrist gently, you take the glass from his loose fingers and set it down.
“Yes, you have,” you say firmly, “come on. We need to go home,”
He waves his hand dismissively and feels around for his hat. Upon locating it, he shoves it roughly onto his head and pushes himself up, leaning his weight on the bar.
“Nah, I’ll buy ya'drink,”
“Neither of us are drinking any more tonight,” you say as you slide an experienced arm under his arms and begin to take his weight.
Most nights, he slumps easily enough onto you, and you’re forced to do a walk of shame to the door, and stagger home, but tonight, he grabs your arm in a surprisingly firm grip and pushes you away.
Oh no.
Oh no.
It’s going to be one of those nights.
“Get th’fuck off me,” he mutters, and then slams his metal hand onto the bar, “get m’nother fuckin’ drink!”
“No, Jesse, come on,” you say, tugging his arm, “no more alcohol,”
He ignores you completely, but the bartender doesn’t move, just stares hard at the wall as he polishes the glass.
“Oi!”
“Jesse, stop!” you hiss sharply, grabbing the front of his shirt and jerking him round to face you, “come home. Now,”
He stares at you, and for a moment, it seems as though he doesn’t even recognise you. Then, slowly, he slips off the stool, flicks one of the glasses over so it rolls across the bar and shatters on the floor, and slumps against you. You almost buckle under his weight, and you stagger to the side slightly, but muscle memory kicks in and you’re able to just about drag him to the door.
“I’d recommend investing in a better model, sweetheart,” the woman says unsympathetically, taking a drag of her cigarette. You smile sarcastically at her as you shove the door open and drag Jesse through it.
The night air is humid and warm. In any other situation you’d enjoy the balmy breeze against your skin, but the closeness of the air quickly makes sweat bead on your forehead and arms as you tug Jesse down the alleyway.
He’s completely limp, his feet dragging along the floor, his head slumped on yours, twisting your neck at an awkward angle. His breath is sour with alcohol, and he mutters gibberish under his breath occasionally.
At least he hadn’t turned violent you think to yourself.
The street that the alleyway led off of is mercifully empty, what with it being almost 2am and all. The moon is high in the sky, and outside of the alleyway, the air takes on a slight chill that you are incredibly grateful for. Your house is, thankfully, only about half a mile from here, but your legs and arms are already burning with the effort of dragging your burden up the alleyway.
As you begin walking, Jesse stirs slightly.
“Fuck,” he mutters. You keep walking, dragging his dead weight behind you, and ignore him.
“Fuck,” he says again, louder, head lolling against your shoulder.
“What?” you ask. He doesn’t reply for a few seconds, and then his weight seems to increase a little.
“‘m gonna b’sick,”
“Jesus Christ,” you growl, just managing to throw his weight off you and against a wall before he hunches over and retches, and then expels most of his stomach’s contents onto the dusty ground. He coughs and spits onto the ground, then hunches over and throws up again. You stand, arms folded, head turned away, eyes closed.
He coughs and spits onto the ground again, and then straightens up. You shuffle forward to take his weight again, careful not to stand in the puddle of vomit. You suppose it’s a good thing, because at least now his stomach is empty and some of the alcohol has left his system.
“Better?”
He grunts loudly, and then swings around, stumbling and slumping back over you. You take an unsteady step forward, and then another, and another.
It’s like this the whole way back. One step, then another. Jesse’s heavy weight on your shoulder, his sour breath in your ear, his drunken groans of protest threatening at screaming matches to come.
Finally, you’re taking the last few steps up to your house, and you should feel relieved. Once inside, once Jesse is in bed, you can set about fixing your hair, re-doing your make up, straightening your clothes, and erasing all signs of your alcoholic boyfriend in his inebriated state.
But instead, your heart just becomes heavier and heavier as you drag him the final few metres to the alcove.
He slumps against the door as you struggle to unlock it, and as soon as it swings open, you shove him through it. He stumbles in and manages to catch himself by grabbing the wall. He steadies himself, then whistles.
“Try an’ be a bit gentler, would’ya?”
“Ok,” you say quietly, not intending for him to hear, as you shut the door behind you and put the keys down on the shelf by the door. You slip your shoes off, and Jesse stumbles away to the kitchen.
You slump against the wall and wipe the sweat from your brow, inhaling and exhaling deeply and slowly, trying to calm your racing heart and soothe your burning legs and shoulders.
A crash from the kitchen draws your attention again, and you let out a dry sob as you hear the clatter of a glass bottle being put down on the marble countertop. You debate just leaving him. Just going upstairs and putting your pillow over your head and falling into a dreamless sleep.
There’s another clatter, and a soft whisper of “fuckin’ hell” and you sigh heavily. You can’t leave him.
Your tread is soft as you go to the kitchen. Jesse is slumped over the island, an opened bottle of rum beside him. The shot glass in his hand is full to the brim, and it slops over as he raises it to his lips and knocks it down.
Being soft and kind won’t work. Clenching your jaw, you harden your resolve and march up to him with the air of a woman going into battle. Seizing the bottle, you hold your hand out.
“Give me the glass and the lid,”
Dark eyes meet yours; the threatening, cold look of an animal.
“Give me th’ fuckin’ bottle,”
You lick your lips and straighten your spine.
“No,”
The change is sudden, and more than terrifying. Rearing up like a beast, Jesse stands, slams his hands down on the island, and growls.
“I said, give me the fuckin’ bottle,”
You set it down hard on the counter behind you.
“You’ve had too much to drink,” you hiss, “go to bed,”
He moves, suddenly, storming around the island and coming to a halt in front of you, swaying slightly. You’re suddenly very aware of the gun in his belt, and your fearlessness begins to ebb at an alarming rate.
“Give. Me. The. Bottle,” he enunciates as best he can with his alcohol-swollen tongue.
You stare up at him, fearful, like a rabbit caught in the headlights.
“Jesse, you need to go to bed-"
“Y’can’t fuckin tell me what t’do!” he roars, making you jump and yelp, “‘m Jesse fuckin M’ree, what th’fuck d’you think y’are tellin fuckin me what t’fuckin’ do?!”
You slide towards the door, trembling hard, all courage gone.
“Jesse, please, just go to bed,” you say, your voice becoming shakier and more pleading, “please, come on,”
“Come the fuck back here,” he growls, lumbering after you and gripping your arm hard enough to bruise. He brings his face close to yours.
“Think y’can fucking talk back t’ me?”
In a move fuelled purely by fear, you twist your arm from his grip and dart backwards.
“Go to bed!"
He stares at you for a few seconds, swaying on his feet, then waves his hand, as though hitting out at you.
“Stu’id cunt,” he mutters, then looks around, “when was th’ last fuckin’ time ya cleaned this dump? It’s’a shit’ole,”
You retreat into the shadows of the hallway, beginning to seriously fear for your safety, if not your life.
“Jes, please, go to bed,”
“Fuck off!”
You flatten yourself against the wall with a quiet scream as he suddenly lunges forward, stumbling out of the kitchen, past you and almost slamming headfirst into the door opposite.
“Jesse, please!” you cry. He leans against the door, and then pushes himself off it, caging you into a corner.
Your immediate reaction is to dart away and under his arm before he advances too close, and just in time too, because his palm slams into the wall where your shoulder had just been.
Your heart is pounding, and you breathe in and out quickly, almost hyperventilating. This is dangerous, as in, you could get your head smashed in dangerous.
As you twist around, he comes barrelling at you, and you manage, in a stroke of luck, to grab his upper arms and steady him, and also render him unable to hit out at you.
“Get th’fuck off me, ya whore. Don’t fuckin’ touch me, a’right?” he snarls, immediately breaking your grip and shoving you back again.
You’re at your wits end. Clenching your fists, squaring your shoulders, and filling your lungs, you yell,
“JESSE, PLEASE JUST LISTEN TO ME FOR ONCE IN YOUR DRUNK FUCKING LIFE."
You don’t register the slap, but you do recognise the sharp pain that shoots through the side of your head as the force of the hit slams your skull into the opposite wall. Crumpling on shaking legs, you raise your arms over your head, half to cradle your aching head, and half to shield yourself from another blow.
You cheek smarts painfully, and your vision swims with tears as you breathe in and out sharply, keeping your eyes fixed on the ground. The side of your head throbs painfully, and you can already feel a small lump forming through your hair.
Neither of you move, until you raise your tear filled eyes to Jesse’s. They’re dark and blank, and he looks slowly from his hand to you. There’s no remorse or recognition in his glare, just confusion and the bleary look of a drunkard.
Slowly, as though walking with great weights on his feet, he turns away from you and lumbers to the stairs, dragging himself up them and out of sight.
You watch him go, shaking like a leaf and trying not to dissolve into outright tears.
It’s not his fault, it’s not his fault he’s like this. His life has been terrible. It’s not his fault.
Somewhere in your relationship, the lines between his past and your excuses had blurred, so much so that you can now barely differentiate between what he knows he’s doing and what he plain just can’t control.
Like now.
You move eventually, shifting so you can lean back against the wall, touching your stinging cheek gently. The sharp pain in your head has faded to a dull throb, and for about half an hour, you do nothing but stare at the wall, phasing between awareness and a blank, half-dead disassociation.
Loud snores float down the stairs to your ears, snapping you back. Your head aches slightly, and your cheek has stopped stinging, but your heart and stomach are clenched with fear. You feel sick.
The journey from your place on the floor and up the stairs seems monumental, like climbing Mount Everest. Pausing outside the door, you listen to Jesse’s snores, just to ensure he really is asleep, before creeping in.
His shirt is pulled half off one shoulder, half of the buttons undone and exposing his chest, and his belt is unbuckled, the leather crushed under his body. His pants trail around his ankles, and his serape is abandoned on the floor. He’s passed out on his stomach on the bed, lying across it diagonally. His hat is crushed beneath his head, and he snores loudly, dead to the world.
You feel a sudden flood of compassion and sympathy, which corresponds with another dull throb from the side of your head. With a hard sniff, you harden your heart and set about repositioning him and covering him with blankets. Nothing comforting, nothing loving, or sympathetic. Just the bare minimum to make sure he doesn’t roll onto his back and choke on his own vomit.
You lift his head and place it on a pillow, and then back out of the room.
The house seems so normal. Every corridor is familiar, and your hand finds the light switch to the dark bathroom with practiced ease. You feel as though when the light comes on, everything will be different, but it’s the same sink, same bath, same cramped shower, same toilet (with the seat up, of course), same row of shampoos and conditioners and shower gels. Yours and Jesse’s toothbrushes on the sink, the same turquoise soap in the soap dish. The same mirror hung up over the sink, but a different reflection staring back.
Wide, red eyes, and ashy skin, a bruise forming on the height of your cheekbone. Tears tracks and wet eyelashes, and a defeated aura.
Tearing your gaze from the stranger in the mirror, you fill a glass with water and carefully carry it back to the bedroom, setting it down on the bedside table beside Jesse before retreating to the chair in the corner of the room, ready to take over the night watch to check he doesn’t hurt himself or get into trouble.
It’s going to be a long night. At first, you don’t believe you’ll be able to sleep at all, what with the thudding of your heart and the tightness in your throat, but soon, your mind drifts, and you find yourself slipping in and out of sleep, frantically rousing yourself before you can slip off properly. A glance at the clock tells you that’s it’s only 3:48am. You settle yourself in a deliberately uncomfortable position, hoping it’ll help keep you awake.
Time seems to pass awkwardly, with entire hours slipping away like water, and some seconds seemingly lasting years. You become disorientated and begin to slip between consciousness. It feels as though your sanity is breaking.
You’re so tired.
So drained, mentally, physically, and emotionally.
Time slips and drags, and your mind blanks for seconds, then minutes, more and more frequently.
Your chin bumps against your chest and you jolt awake with a gasp. The first thing your scrambled mind registers is the light pouring in through the window, even though you’d only dropped off for a second. The next thing you realise is that Jesse’s serape is draped over you, tucked around your body. The third thing is that the bed is empty and neatly made.
Empty.
Jesse’s gone.
Throwing yourself out of the chair, you stumble to the door, your cramped, numb legs buckling beneath you. You grab a fleece, ready to sprint down the stairs and out of the house. You slam into the wall opposite, and almost fall down the stairs, panting. Trying to ignore your thudding heart, you listen hard, checking for any sounds.
Silence.
Oh god, oh god. He’s gone and left. He’s done something stupid
Once some feeling has trickled back into your legs, you dash down the stairs, sprint down the hallway and come to a panting, shaking halt in the kitchen doorway.
Jesse is sitting in the kitchen, wearing nothing but underwear and a loose white shirt, sipping coffee as he looks out the window dreamily. A book lies in front of him, and he taps his fingers on the table gently. There’s an empty plate too, and the delicious scent of bacon and eggs and slightly burnt toast. You try to creep forward as silently as you can, but your hip knocks against the door handle, and the quiet squeak of pain that escapes your lips catches his attention.
His turns his head towards you, a smile already on his lips and a sparkle already in his eyes. He looks tired and slightly pale, but normal.
He’d always been good with hangovers.
“Mornin’, sweetpea, Sorry I didn’t move you from the chair to the bed, I didn’t wanna wake ya, an’ you looked so comfortable. I made your breakfast, it’s in the-"
He’s halfway to opening his arms for you to run into before he goes still, his eyes flickering over your face and your trembling shoulders as he trails off. You hadn’t had a chance to check your appearance since last night, but your hands immediately goes to your tender cheek, which is no doubt bruised badly.
His eyes flicker from the bruise to your gaze, his mouth hanging slightly open. Then, he looks down and away, and knuckles his fist into his eyes.
“Dammit,”
You edge into the kitchen a little more, the tiles cold against your feet. He wipes his eyes hard, and when he looks back at you, they’re red and teary. He gets up slowly, and moves as though approaching a startled horse, stopping about half a metre in front of you. He extends his hand as though to touch you, but it hovers in the air between you, trembling slightly.
His expression is one of shock, and his eyes flicker over your downcast expression.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers hoarsely after a time, letting his hand drop to his side. You turn your head away, hiding the bruise from him, and nuzzle into the thick collar of your fleece, trying to draw some comfort from it. You hate to be so passive aggressive. You desperately want to forgive him.
“You always say that,” you reply quietly.
“What…what happened?” he asks, sounding horrified.
You sigh heavily, shifting uncomfortably.
“You were at the Snake’s Head bar,” you say softly, and he flinches slightly, “and I came and got you at about 2am. You put up a fight leaving, and I dragged you all the way home. You threw up twice, and when we got in, you kept trying to fight me, and I kept telling you to just go to bed and…I shouted at you, and you slapped me,” you voice is trembling, and you blink quickly, “my head hit the wall, and I fell, and you just turned around and went upstairs, and fell asleep,”
Jesse says nothing, just stares at you, looking as though he’s about to faint.
“I stayed up all night,” you whisper, tears beginning to leak down your cheeks, “to make sure you didn’t roll onto your back and choke, or vomit, or do something else to hurt yourself,"
That’s when he visibly breaks down, tears spilling down his cheeks and then, to your surprise, he drops to his knees and takes your hand, holding it firmly between his own.
“You’re too good for me. Please,” he says, his voice cracking slightly, “please, (Y/n). I’m so, so sorry. I don’t care about forgiveness, I don’t even care if you kick me out. Please, just know that I’m sorry, and know that you’re too good for me,"
You say nothing, not even bringing yourself to look down at him.
“You’re a good man,” you say awkwardly, “but you need to get help,”
“I know, I know I do,” he says, “but it’s hard, what with me being an outla-“
You pull your hand out of his.
“Stand up, Jesse,”
He does, slowly, with a hang-dog expression on his face and a downward cast to his shoulders.
“You always have an excuse,” you murmur, looking down at your hands. You twist a loose thread around your finger, biting your lip hard.
“I know I do, please-“
“Will you get help?” you ask, raising your eyes to his. He stares down at you, and then sighs heavily.
“If you can find someone who’ll not turn me in on sight, then I will,”
You open your arms to him, on the verge of bursting into tears again, but this time for a different reason.
“They’re right here,”