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You'd pretty much always been a drinker. Nearly as soon as you were old enough to even know what alcohol was, you'd practically been glued to the bottle. In and out of foster care as you were growing up, it was the easiest way to get through life, really. When you were drunk, everything was fuzzy and vague, like you were going through a dream instead of reality—and, when you were drunk, everything hurt a little less.
The booze was a habit you hadn't kicked as an adult, even when you had gotten your own place, deep in the heart of the city, and you were happy and safe. You were familiar with the drink. It was your friend, a better friend than most people in your life if you were honest. That didn't bother you.
As a general rule, you liked to keep your drinking confined to your apartment, on your balcony, watching the world go by as it slowly got fuzzier and fuzzier, nicer and nicer. Bars weren't really your thing, or clubs; they were loud, overwhelming, full of too many people drinking to forget too many things. Joints like those were more up Smokes' alley; he would rather go on an all-night bender at a strip club and then come home, sleep until dusk, get up, and do it all again. You respected that. That lifestyle had its charms, for sure, but it wasn't for you.
Not to say you didn't indulge in a night out, on occasion, usually when you were especially bored, or restless. On those nights, you would pull on your coat and go to the nearest bar that you hadn't shown your face at for a while, get absolutely plastered, leaving yourself only sober enough to call a cab and stumble back to your apartment. This was fine. Usually, anyway. There was nothing wrong with a little indulgence, you figured.
The light is still on in Smokes' room, after one such a night, the door still open. A dim sense of surprise weasels its way past the alcohol-induced haze you are in when you notice; he's almost always out. But, you suppose, it is a Sunday night, and even a guy as crazy as him needs a break sometimes. You wave lazily as you pass his room, your other hand on the wall to keep yourself steady, and you think maybe he mumbles something in acknowledgment but you are too drunk to tell. Your vision swims, and in the darkness of your bedroom, you can’t exactly see your bed. But you know it’s there, and it is so unbelievably inviting. So you step forward. Try to flop down in bed. Miss spectacularly.
Blinding pain flares immediately in your face; dimly, you are aware of the sound of the lamp crashing to the floor and you realise you fell against the nightstand. And, if the way your face is now aching spectacularly is any indicator, busted yourself up good. The pain cuts through the drunken haze in your brain, but replaces it with the vague confusion of shock as you lie there on the ground. Something is warm on your lip. Blood, you reason dimly.
Your ears are ringing, the pain continues to flush some of the alcohol from your mind, and as you fumble around, your hand brushes the shattered remains of a lightbulb. You hiss in pain, rolling onto your side and trying to prop your arm under you.
"Holy fucking shit," says a voice from the doorway. Light is spilling in from the hall, framing your friend standing there with one hand on the doorframe. You can't see his expression, but his posture suggests he isn't exactly pleased to walk in and find you sprawled on the ground surrounded by shattered glass.
"Hey," you manage weakly.
"Hey yourself. What the fuck did you do?" He flips the light on and you groan as the light pierces your eyes, but Smokes seems entirely unsympathetic as he crouches before you, carefully avoiding the glass.
"Fell," you reply. Your head spins as you sit up, and Smokes makes a small noise that's half concerned, half exasperated as he reaches out a hand to steady you. Your gaze lands on the overturned lamp; luckily, most of the glass had been contained inside the cover, and the thing itself appeared to be relatively undamaged. A quick inspection of your hands where they brushed the glass reveals only the smallest of cuts; you seem to have avoided getting any stuck in your hand, too. Your eyes wander up to Smokes' face, and you're touched to see concern in his eyes.
"Aw," you say, too dazed from shock and alcohol to have too much of a filter, "You do care."
"Shut up," he says forcefully, "And stop talking; your mouth's busted."
He drags you to your feet, "Come to the bathroom, let's clean you up. Hopefully, we don't have to take you to the stupid doctor, you absolute idiot."
"So mean," you mutter.
"For calling you an idiot? I'm not mean; I'm just stating facts," he replies.
It's cold in the bathroom. You're shivering as he guides you down onto the toilet seat and begins to rummage through the medicine cabinet, and when he notices, he looks even more worried.
"Are you cold?" Smokes asks, grabbing some disinfectant and gauze.
You nod, then shake your head, "A little. But not that much."
"You're shaking like a leaf," he comments, then sighs, "You're in shock. I'll get a blanket or two on my way to get a towel to clean you up with."
He leaves, and you sit there, shivering. It's far too quiet there, in the little bathroom, the lights buzzing overhead, and your face hurts. A shaking hand goes up to prod at your lip, ignoring the searing pain, checking to see if all your teeth are still there. You're almost disappointed to find that, yes, all your teeth are in their right, proper spot. It would have been fun to be missing a tooth. Although, you suppose, if you did lose a tooth and anyone asked about it, you wouldn't have that cool of a story to tell; you would have to make up something else.
Smokes' returns and you drop your hand back into your lap, smeared with bright red blood. Smokes looks you over and winces as he throws two blankets around your shoulders, "You look like shit."
"It's a shame none of my teeth got knocked out," you muse.
"Don't say that. You're lucky all you have is a busted lip."
"But wouldn't it be sick as hell to have a tooth missing?"
"Not with a story like yours as to how you got it."
"I'd make something up. Say I got it knocked out defending a beautiful woman from a gang. Or pushing a kid out of the way of a bus."
"You're an idiot." Smokes rolls his eyes.
"So you've said," you smirk, but the movement makes the pain flare up again and you wince.
Smokes just sighs and sits down on the edge of the tub, a gentle hand on your jaw pushing your face towards his. You turn obediently, allowing him to begin to dab away at the blood with a damp cloth. The water on it is hot, and you feel your shivering start to ease, aided by the warm softness of the blankets. You pull them closer to yourself as Smokes cleans away the blood with hands that are unbelievably gentle.
"Alright," he finally sighs, sitting back, "It doesn't look too bad, and the bleeding stopped. You should be fine, but you should try to keep some ice on it when you can."
"You know a lot about this," you comment.
"I'm a man of many talents," he replies with a smirk, then picks up the gauze, "Alright, let me just put a bandage over it. You should try not to touch it; this would be a bitch if it got infected."
"How's my moustache?" you ask suddenly.
He barks a laugh, "It's fine. You look as dashing as ever. The bruising even gives you a rugged, tough look."
"Nice," you grin back, or try to. The movement sends pain through your face again, and you hiss, "Ow…"
"Yeah, don't do that," Smokes huffs a laugh, "Shut up and let me finish this."
You do, allowing him to press gauze to the wound, holding it in place with pieces of surgical tape. It hurts, but you force yourself to stay still. The silence of the bathroom is deafening, the only sound that of your own breathing, and your friend's. As the pain in your mouth begins to ease, you become conscious of a dull, pounding ache in your head, and hope you don't have a concussion.
"There," he eventually says, voice quiet, "All done."
Your hand goes up to brush the gauze. It's a bigger chunk than you'd expected, but you suppose you had fallen pretty hard. You get up, and Smokes reaches out a worried hand as if he's expecting you to fall over. A valid assumption; you have to reach out a hand to steady yourself on the counter as the world tilts.
"Shit," Smokes breathes, standing up and settling a hand on your back to steady you as you look in the mirror, "Did you hit your head too?"
"No," you say absently, inspecting yourself in the mirror. The bruises already beginning to form on your face are impressive, and you decide you're going to stay inside for the next couple of days while it heals. Don't want anyone thinking you got mugged or something.
"Look at me," Smokes orders, but before you even have the chance to respond, he's taken your chin between his thumb and forefinger and turns your head towards him. He covers your eyes with his hand, ignoring your confused protests, then studies you intently when he takes it off.
"What?" you ask.
"You're concussed. You must have hit your head on the floor when you fell, or something," he replies.
"I didn't, though!"
"Well, apparently you did, or you just magically got a concussion some other way. Your pupils aren't dilating, and you're dizzy. Your head probably hurts like hell, too," he says, shaking his head.
Smokes begins to lead you out of the bathroom and towards his room, hand still on your back as if he's afraid you'll fall over. You're not sure you won't; for all your protests, you feel awfully unsteady, although you're not totally sure that it's not from the hours of drinking you completed.
"I'm fine; I'm just drunk," you say as he guides you to the bed.
"Like hell you are; a hit like that would have sobered anyone right up," he replies with a dismissive wave of his hand, "Stay here; I'm going to get you some sleeping clothes."
"I'm not concussed!" you call after him.
Smokes doesn't even deign to reply, damn him. You flop back on the bed, regretting it immediately as your head pounds and nausea swirls in your stomach. You roll onto your stomach and fight to not throw up. Okay. Maybe you're a little concussed.
You hear a sigh from the direction of the door, and then the bed dips as Smokes settles down by your head. A hand brushes hair from your face, "You alright?"
"Nauteous," you reply.
He hums in acknowledgement, "Let's get you changed, and then I'll get you some water, and you can sleep. How's that sound?"
"Aren't you not supposed to sleep if you have a concussion?" you ask.
A point in his favour, Smokes does not comment on what you realise sounds very much like you're admitting you have a concussion, "That's a myth. Sleep is as good for you with this as any other injury."
You aren't so sure that's true, but suppose that your friend seems more knowledgeable about things like this than you could ever dream of being, so you don't argue as he helps you out of your shirt and pants, and into shorts and a soft t-shirt. He keeps up a steady stream of conversation as he does so, although it's more him talking at you than with you.
"I'll stay home at least for the next day or two to make sure you're okay. You should be fine as long as you aren't feeling bad for, like, longer than a few weeks, but it'll suck. No throwing up on me, okay?" he says as he finally steps back and lets you sit back down.
"You don't have to do that; I'll be fine," you say with a smile, even though your head is really hurting now, nausea is still making your insides squirm, and you kind of feel like you're sitting on the deck of a moving ship.
Smokes waves a hand, like the comment was audacious enough he can't even stand to have it hanging in the air with him, "Nonsense. Of course I do; you're my friend."
A warm feeling blossoms in your chest at that, and it must show on your face because he raises an eyebrow, "What?"
"You said you're my friend," you reply gleefully.
To your surprise, a blush fills his cheeks, and you laugh, "And you're blushing about it!"
"Shut up," he snaps, looking like he wants to shove you, and only the fact that you have a concussion is stopping this from happening, "Not another word."
"You've never said that before!" you continue, probably pushing your luck but too high off the glee of the situation to care.
He doesn't even reply to that, just tosses his head and stalks out of the room. He returns a few minutes later with a glass of water, which he shoves in your general direction. You take it, trying to hide your smile, "Thanks."
"Of course," he responds, sitting down again at his desk. Only the lamp on the desk is on, casting the room into deep shadows. You drink your water and set the glass on the nightstand, then crawl under the covers and curl up. As you do so, he speaks up with a soft voice, "I do consider you my friend. Just so you know."
You smile, closing your eyes, "Nice. I do too."
He just hums in response, as good a reply as any, and you burrow deeper into the blankets with a contented sigh. It's warm, the mattress soft, and you fall asleep quickly to the sound of Smokes' pencil scratching away at paper, and the whir of the fan overhead, your sleep dreamless. When you wake up, Smokes will be in bed beside you, still asleep, arm draped across your middle, and you'll stay there until he wakes up. He'll fuss over you, probably, and force you to eat and drink some water, almost definitely. Because he's your friend. Your friend. And that makes all the coddling and worrying far easier to bear.