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There exists a small amout of time between things where everything is calm. It's calm and the worst is over, it only gets better from here on. A mantra you repeat over and over to yourself. You repeat it after Nick hangs up the phone, following him telling you to come get him, and you repeat it when you're getting text after text from Carly telling you that he's not worth your time, just leave him there. But you already know your fate. You repeat it while you hand five-hundred dollars in cash over to the cop at the front desk of the police station.
This time, you've taken pity upon yourself and chosen to wait outside. It's so pretty at this time of night and you can ground yourself with the cooler air and one of Nick's cigarettes. Last time, the lights in the station were so white and bright, and the chairs were so scratchy that just being in there felt like a punishment, but it's one you probably serve for enduring.
When they let him go after what seems like hours, he waits outside your car for a while. Leaned over the passenger side, head resting on the roof. This calm is ruined once he finally gets in.
"Hey."
He shuts the door a bit too harsh, ignoring you entirely. Then he starts patting his pockets down, digging through the glove box and centre console, looking for something he doesn't bother asking you about. But he's easier to read than he thinks, you can see right past the glass wall he puts up thinking nobody can see through. You knew this would happen, when you were waiting earlier. He's gonna want a smoke, you thought, so I'd better leave him a couple. And the lighter's about to die so I should stop now.
You hand him over both the pack and lighter before starting the car. There are no thank-you's or apologies once he takes the first drag, rolls his window down, partly because he knows those words won't make anything better, and it doesn't look like there's much that Nick is grateful or sympathetic for nowadays.
Maybe it's the nothingness that reassures to you that he doesn't hate you. He's not screaming and yelling and throwing things, he's not cursing at you for coming to get him, he'd asked you to come and get him. So he doesn't hate you, he needs you. And if it wasn't for this incurable sick that rests at the pit of your stomach, contentment would replace the worry instead.
There's too much unsaid and too much tension to just let this pass by like he usually does, because last time was 'I'll stop doing stupid shit, I swear, alright,' and now there's motor vehicle theft and DUI charges telling you different.
Tonight he starts from nothing. "Was just trying to have some fun."
Nick is a good liar, he is so good at it that he's learned to do it with his eyes. Its normal to be able to tell when someone is happy or angry, it shows on their face and in their voice. It's a whole other thing to notice when something is usual and cruel.
"Well did you?"
"No," Nick scoffs. "And that cop was a dick."
You entertain him absentmindedly. "The one you're on a first name basis with?"
"You think he'd cut me some slack since he knows me so well."
You try to define what this is in your head. Maybe it's normal. What else is there to call this, what Nick and you have been through and done countless times without any real reason? It's hard to figure out what's wrong when things have never truly been anything but. He's been arrested more times now than he's thrown a football, and he's been getting high for longer than he's ever worked at a real job.
It's an easy fix most of the time. It's not your responsibility, it never is but you do it anyways. It's silly and stupid and turns any anger into sweetness. Just forget about the bad, make room for the good. It always passes over, so what's the point of getting mad when you know nothing ever comes of it.
You look over at Nick for a moment, the road now empty and straight enough to take your eyes off of it. Swampy ditches where sidewalks were, and dirt and gravel where flat paved road was underneath. He looks tired, hand with the cigarette hanging out the window, slouched down, clothes all dirty and wrinkled, a couple bruises across his face, typical— but it's in moments like this where it feels like, just for a second, he's alive. He's a human with real emotions and feelings, and you're reminded of the fact that he's not just the Nick that got arrested again, or the Nick that comes home high and is only nice to you once he gets his fix. He can get hurt and feel things like everyone else, no matter how stoic and careless he wants to present himself.
"Are you okay?" You ask, cringing at the amount of worry in your voice.
"Yeah, why?"
"Dunno, you look rough."
"I've been in a holding cell all night," he huddles into the corner of the seat, rests his head against the window. "I'd say I'm pretty good considering the circumstances."
You sigh. "Right."
Neither of you want to say anything else and so you put your full attention to the road infront of you. Maybe a deer'll jump out of nowhere, or you'll see an owl or a pair of glowing green eyes from the treeline.
Just as you're about to turn down a familiar road though, Nick speaks up again. "Keep going. Just drop me off at Dalton's."
"Dalton's?" Your face scrunches in confusion.
Nick turns his head to look at you and widens his eyes all sarcastic. "Yeah."
It figures that's where he'd wanna go, but you wordlessly agree and stay on the main road. You don't have the willpower to argue or fight with him now, there is never any reconciliation with Nick and you don't need him holding a grudge against you just because you refuse to enable him, or because you're prying too much.
Whatever, you think. If this is what he wants.
Dalton's driveway is small, and it's crowded when you get there. His work van, Blake's truck, so you stop on the side of the road, don't even bother turning off the car. Nick hurries to snatch up the lighter and smokes. Then he leans across, places a quick kiss to your head out of habit. It leaves your head empty. You return the sentiment by smiling up at him sadly while he jumps out of your car.
"Wanna come in?" He asks. He must already know your answer by the way he's smirking but you guess he feels bad, maybe just a little, and offering this is his way of trying to make you feel appreciated.
But you laugh, shifting the gear. "Ha, no."
Nick shrugs and turns away, walking up and into the house. You see someone meet him at the door, and then he's gone.
You take a second to collect yourself before leaving too, so you're not crying all the way home, driving with blurry vision and inevitably throwing your car into a ditch or wrapping it around a tree. It's calm again, and it's not that bad. It can really only get better from here.