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Infinity Smashed: Auld Lang Syne
Auld Lang Syne
Prompt: Stuff100 “New Year,” H/C bingo “depression”
Summary: Biff and M.D. fall off the wagon.
Words: 747
Notes: This story has been brewing for a while, and it’s a direct follow-up to Six Weeks to Recovery and Happy Godbirth, and Many Blessings On Your Meat. Warnings for self-harm, depressions, and suicidal ideation. I listened to a lot of Tom Waits writing this.
Biff didn’t see M.D. until New Year’s Eve, when for the first time ever, she knocked. With the twilight behind her, she was just a black lump on the fire escape, but Biff would know her anywhere. After a moment’s internal debate, he sighed and got up to get the window, already gearing up a retort about how she never cared about knocking before, never cared about locks either…
Then he saw her bandaged hands, white against the darkness.
He pulled the window up and leaned his head out. “Oh,” he said.
“Yeah,” she said.
“Thought you was doing better.”
She shrugged, and he caught a glimpse of bandages going up her sleeves. “So did I.”
Biff just held up the bottle in his hand.
“Oh,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“Holidays.”
“Holidays.” He took a pull from the bottle and she didn’t try to stop him. “Fuck ‘em. I told you, I never make it through…”
But she wasn’t angry or scolding him. She wasn’t doing or saying anything at all, just sitting there like she was too tired for anything else, and he let it go.
He pulled back from the window, waved inward with the bottle. “You coming in?”
She was, and she did, scrunching forward on her knees so she wouldn’t have to grasp the frame with her ruined hands. Her hair hung lank and dull over her face; with the bandages, maybe she couldn’t manage pulling it back. “I hate having friends. I can’t just carve myself a new one anymore; people care now…”
He flopped on the couch, a little heavier than he wanted. “’M your friend?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re something.”
“Something. I like that. You something too.” He thrust the bottle at her. “Y’want some?”
She stared at him. “That’d be a very bad idea, Biff.”
“Uh huh.”
“Alcohol’s a depressant, and I’d rather not test how low I can go.”
“Sure.”
She sighed and gave him a pleading look. “It’s a blood thinner.”
Oh. He let the bottle drop back down to his side. “That bad, huh?”
She ducked her head behind her hair. “I had a day.”
And she flopped on the other end of the couch next to him, folding her legs up to her chest and letting one bandaged arm dangle over the edge. She rested her head on his knee and didn’t appear to care, staring off at the wall.
“If I died, would you miss me?” She asked.
Biff hesitated, then decided he was just drunk enough to be honest. “Yeah.”
She sighed. “Darn. That’s what Raige said too.”
Biff didn’t know what to say to that, so he reached over and ruffled her hair, and she let him. For a moment, he felt her mind—leaden and dull and too tired to care he was there, or cry about it.
“What a lousy year,” she said.
“Fuck the year.”
“Next year will be lousy too.”
“Fuck it too.”
“Is there even such a thing as a good year? I’ve yet to experience one.”
“Fuck ‘em all.”
“I wish I could. Last year, it would’ve been so easy… it’d’ve been weeks before anyone even noticed…”
Again, he couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so he ruffled her hair again, and she didn’t shove him off or zap him. She didn’t have the energy, and though her face was turned away from him and her body was bone still, he could feel the damp soaking through the denim of his jeans.
"We are so broken," she said, and her voice had nothing in it.
"Yeah."
“Happy New Year.”
“You too.”
That was it. They sat there in the cold, dark apartment, listening to the traffic crawl and the drunks laugh, watching the sky darken past maroon and the stars slip past the city glare, and Biff kept his hand in her hair till he felt her mind go soft and quiet in sleep. He finished the bottle, and he knew there were still two on the counter, and he wanted them, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to move and wake her up. He couldn’t pull the blanket down off the back of the sofa without the weight making her jump, but his jacket was on the arm, and he draped it over her. She lurched a little, then settled underneath and dropped off to sleep again with a mumble.
He fell asleep before the ball dropped and made her breakfast the next morning.
Prompt: Stuff100 “New Year,” H/C bingo “depression”
Summary: Biff and M.D. fall off the wagon.
Words: 747
Notes: This story has been brewing for a while, and it’s a direct follow-up to Six Weeks to Recovery and Happy Godbirth, and Many Blessings On Your Meat. Warnings for self-harm, depressions, and suicidal ideation. I listened to a lot of Tom Waits writing this.
Biff didn’t see M.D. until New Year’s Eve, when for the first time ever, she knocked. With the twilight behind her, she was just a black lump on the fire escape, but Biff would know her anywhere. After a moment’s internal debate, he sighed and got up to get the window, already gearing up a retort about how she never cared about knocking before, never cared about locks either…
Then he saw her bandaged hands, white against the darkness.
He pulled the window up and leaned his head out. “Oh,” he said.
“Yeah,” she said.
“Thought you was doing better.”
She shrugged, and he caught a glimpse of bandages going up her sleeves. “So did I.”
Biff just held up the bottle in his hand.
“Oh,” she said.
“Yeah.”
“Holidays.”
“Holidays.” He took a pull from the bottle and she didn’t try to stop him. “Fuck ‘em. I told you, I never make it through…”
But she wasn’t angry or scolding him. She wasn’t doing or saying anything at all, just sitting there like she was too tired for anything else, and he let it go.
He pulled back from the window, waved inward with the bottle. “You coming in?”
She was, and she did, scrunching forward on her knees so she wouldn’t have to grasp the frame with her ruined hands. Her hair hung lank and dull over her face; with the bandages, maybe she couldn’t manage pulling it back. “I hate having friends. I can’t just carve myself a new one anymore; people care now…”
He flopped on the couch, a little heavier than he wanted. “’M your friend?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re something.”
“Something. I like that. You something too.” He thrust the bottle at her. “Y’want some?”
She stared at him. “That’d be a very bad idea, Biff.”
“Uh huh.”
“Alcohol’s a depressant, and I’d rather not test how low I can go.”
“Sure.”
She sighed and gave him a pleading look. “It’s a blood thinner.”
Oh. He let the bottle drop back down to his side. “That bad, huh?”
She ducked her head behind her hair. “I had a day.”
And she flopped on the other end of the couch next to him, folding her legs up to her chest and letting one bandaged arm dangle over the edge. She rested her head on his knee and didn’t appear to care, staring off at the wall.
“If I died, would you miss me?” She asked.
Biff hesitated, then decided he was just drunk enough to be honest. “Yeah.”
She sighed. “Darn. That’s what Raige said too.”
Biff didn’t know what to say to that, so he reached over and ruffled her hair, and she let him. For a moment, he felt her mind—leaden and dull and too tired to care he was there, or cry about it.
“What a lousy year,” she said.
“Fuck the year.”
“Next year will be lousy too.”
“Fuck it too.”
“Is there even such a thing as a good year? I’ve yet to experience one.”
“Fuck ‘em all.”
“I wish I could. Last year, it would’ve been so easy… it’d’ve been weeks before anyone even noticed…”
Again, he couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so he ruffled her hair again, and she didn’t shove him off or zap him. She didn’t have the energy, and though her face was turned away from him and her body was bone still, he could feel the damp soaking through the denim of his jeans.
"We are so broken," she said, and her voice had nothing in it.
"Yeah."
“Happy New Year.”
“You too.”
That was it. They sat there in the cold, dark apartment, listening to the traffic crawl and the drunks laugh, watching the sky darken past maroon and the stars slip past the city glare, and Biff kept his hand in her hair till he felt her mind go soft and quiet in sleep. He finished the bottle, and he knew there were still two on the counter, and he wanted them, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to move and wake her up. He couldn’t pull the blanket down off the back of the sofa without the weight making her jump, but his jacket was on the arm, and he draped it over her. She lurched a little, then settled underneath and dropped off to sleep again with a mumble.
He fell asleep before the ball dropped and made her breakfast the next morning.