#I’D DIAL DRUNK I’D DIE A DRUNK I’D DIE FOR YOU

[torturedbitchesdepartment]

and the dial tone is all i have btw. if you even care.

[theworldasheatherseesit]

I beg you, sir, just let me call

I'll give you my blood alcohol

I'll rot with all the burnouts in the cell

I'll change my faith, I'll praise the flag

Let's wait, I swear she'll call me back

"Son, are you a danger to yourself?"

FUCK THAT, SIR, JUST LET ME CALL

I’LL GIVE YOU MY BLOOD ALCOHOL

I’LL ROT WITH ALL THE BURNOUTS IN THE CELL

I’LL CHANGE MY FAITH, I’LL KISS THE BADGE

LET’S WAIT, I SWEAR SHE’LL CALL ME BACK

"Son, why do you do this to yourself?"

[hazardsoflove]

what does he know about grantaire……

[knifvd]

when my time comes around , lay me down in the cold , dark earth . @killerhubby !

[burninagoodway]

梦向发言

有时候真的好希望他是现实中存在的人这样我们就可以一起把游戏再玩一遍，想要和他一起通关拉斐尔，带他看喝不完的泉水，地狱里的希望，拉斐尔的音乐剧。我好遗憾这些回忆里面没有你，我好伤心，兴致勃勃地从传送门里出来才得知原来我叫你伤心了。因为我在地狱里真的玩得很开心我想要和你分享，因为我也想要你认识一下希望，我好喜欢她。我希望这么问没有太过分但是也请你在地狱里保持希望好吗，不要失望，不要，对我，失望。

[knifvd]

@killerhubby !!

MAYANS M.C. ↣ 3.09 “The House of Death Floats By”

[sippihippie]

I dial drunk. I’ll die a drunk. I’d die for you

[kjack89]

Dial Drunk

5 times Enjolras bailed Grantaire out of jail, and one time, well...

The door of the holding cell clanked open and as one, the nine men sitting inside glanced up. “Alright,” the booking officer said in a bored tone, glancing down at his clipboard. “Bail’s been posted for arrestees Bahorel, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Enjolras, Feuilly, Joly, Lesgle and Prouvaire. You’re free to leave after you sign out at the front desk.”

There were a few grumbles as the men started to get to their feet, but Enjolras remained resolutely seated, his brow furrowed with a frown. “What about Grantaire?”

The man in question chuckled darkly, tilting his head back to rest it against the wall of the holding cell. “Is that actual concern for me that I hear, Apollo? I could die happy.”

Enjolras ignored him. “Pontmercy was supposed to post bail for all of us,” he said instead, aiming his words at Courfeyrac as if the man was somehow still responsible for the actions of his former roommate some five years after they had stopped living together.

Courfeyrac just shrugged. “Don’t look at me,” he said. “I mean, we all know Marius is a bit of an idiot, maybe he miscounted.”

Combeferre shook his head. “I’m probably wrong and should defer to the lawyers amongst us but I thought I remembered reading something in one of the articles about reforming pre-trial detention that an individual can only post bail for 8 detainees at a time.”

“And so I must’ve drawn the short straw,” Grantaire sighed. “Story of my fucking life.”

Bossuet clapped him sympathetically on the shoulder. “On the other hand, you could take it as a compliment that Marius thinks you’re the one most likely to survive an extended stay behind bars.”

Bahorel snorted so loudly the bars of the cell almost rattled. “Sorry but literally not a single one of us would survive an extended stay behind bars.”

“Speak for yourself,” Feuilly said. “I know how to whittle.” At the blank looks he received, he huffed a sigh and added, “So I can make a shank. No wonder none of you would survive in jail.”

“This is making our goal of prison abolition seem oddly self-serving,” Joly murmured in an undertone to Jehan, who stifled a laugh.

Combeferre cleared his throat. “Not that I’m not sympathetic to Grantaire having to be stuck in here, but I’d just like to remind everyone that since Marius posted bail, we’re technically now here voluntarily.”

“Yeah so GTFO,” Grantaire said with a grimace masquerading as a smile. “Let me rot in peace, etcetera.”

Enjolras looked like he wanted to argue more, but Combeferre muttered something in his ear and he made a face before filing out of the cell. “Serious miscalculation on Marius’s part with this one,” Courfeyrac said brightly as he followed everyone else out. “Because God knows you’re going to complain about this for the rest of all time.”

Grantaire gave him the finger and Courfeyrac winked as the officer closed the cell door behind him.

Sighing again, Grantaire sat upright, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck before settling back against the bench. “You need anything?” the booking officer asked.

Grantaire shook his head. “Nah,” he said dismissively. “Not my first rodeo. Hopefully I won’t be stuck overnight, but I’ve slept in worse places.”

“Oh, yeah?” the officer said with mild interest.

Grantaire nodded. “Central booking at the 16th Precinct is a piece of shit,” he said brightly.

The officer barked a laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He gave Grantaire a long look. “Should I ask what you were picked up for previously?”

Considering the answer to that question was a vast litany of misdemeanors (and felonies reduced to misdemeanors) that the boys in blue tended not to appreciate, Grantaire hesitated. Thankfully, he was saved from having to answer at all by the crackle of the officer’s walkie-talkie. “Just a moment,” the officer told him, heading out of the booking area and Grantaire let out a sigh of relief as he slumped on the bench.

“You’re free to go,” the officer said upon returning, and Grantaire looked up, surprised.

“Really?”

The officer nodded, opening the door to the holding cell. “Bail was posted. So I guess you’ll have to save your rap sheet for the next time you’re in here.”

Grantaire snorted a laugh. “I’d say there won’t be a next time, but…” 

He ducked out before the officer could respond to that, making his way to the front desk, stopping in his tracks when he saw Enjolras leaning against the desk, clearly waiting for him. “What’re you doing here?”

Enjolras straightened. “It didn’t feel right leaving you in there,” he said with a shrug that didn’t quite come across as nonchalant as he’d probably intended. “And I happened to have some cash on me, so…”

“Between this and being worried about my welfare, you’re gonna give me the wrong impression,” Grantaire said.

“Guess that depends on what impression you’re getting,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire’s eyes flickered to his and away again, feeling suddenly tongue-tied. Enjolras cleared his throat, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. “Anyway, we should get to the Musain to debrief.” He glanced at Grantaire. “Unless you’ve got something better to do.”

Grantaire just shook his head, and gestured for Enjolras to lead the way. “After you,” he said, his voice low, and together they walked out of the precinct, their arms just brushing against each other as they headed to meet their friends at the Musain.

— — — — —

“Jesus Christ,” Enjolras muttered as the booking officer removed the handcuffs from a sheepish-looking Grantaire. Well, as sheepish as a man sporting the beginnings of a pretty impressive black eye could look, anyway. “Here,” Enjolras said roughly, holding an ice pack out to Grantaire. “I posted your bail as well.”

“Thanks,” Grantaire muttered, taking the ice pack and wincing as he pressed it against his eye.

Enjolras pursed his lips as he gave him a once-over. “Any other injuries I need to worry about?” he asked.

Grantaire just shrugged. “Nothing that won’t heal on its own.”

“Because that’s reassuring,” Enjolras sighed, rubbing his forehead, but when he looked at Grantaire again, there was something almost soft in his expression. “You didn’t need to do that.”

What he could see of Grantaire’s expression tightened, just slightly. “You didn’t hear what that guy called you.”

He said it calmly, evenly, but his hand automatically balled into a fist at the memory. Enjolras reached out automatically to rest his hand on Grantaire’s fist until it relaxed. “It doesn’t matter what he called me,” he said, his voice low. “I can take care of myself.”

“Of course you can,” Grantaire scoffed. “But that doesn’t mean you should have to.”

Enjolras just shook his head, running his thumb across Grantaire’s bruised knuckles, a testament to the fact that despite the black eye, he’d emerged from the fight victorious. “I should’ve brought another ice pack,” he murmured.

Grantaire just half-smiled, twisting his hand so that he could lace his fingers with Enjolras’s. “It’s fine,” he said softly. “It doesn’t really hurt at the moment anyway.”

Enjolras cleared his throat and looked away, but he didn’t try to untangle his fingers from Grantaire’s. “Well,” he said, “we should, uh, get out of here.”

“Before they realize you have about a half dozen outstanding warrants for your arrest?” Grantaire asked with a smirk, his voice quiet enough that only Enjolras could hear.

“You’d be amazed what having a multi-million dollar settlement pending against the city will do to the police’s willingness to bring you in,” Enjolras said with a smirk. “Not that I want to test that, of course.”

“Liar,” Grantaire said, grinning. “But better safe than sorry, I suppose.”

He started toward the door, pausing when Enjolras didn’t immediately follow. “Thank you, by the way,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire glanced back at him.

“Anytime,” he said simply. “Thanks for bailing me out.”

Enjolras gave him a look that was half-amused, half-exasperated. “Just don’t go making a habit of it,” he warned. “One day I won’t be here to bail you out.”

“Only because you’ll probably be locked up with me,” Grantaire said.

“Well,” Enjolras murmured, not quite able to stop his smile, “you’re not wrong.”

— — — — —

Grantaire rested his elbows against the bars of the holding cell, his arms dangling into what was technically freedom on the other side. The booking officer, some new guy he didn’t recognize, gave him a look but didn’t say anything, which he took as a small victory, and he allowed himself a small smirk.

A smirk that faded as soon as he saw Enjolras, escorted by another officer. “No dice on bail?” Grantaire asked, seeing the look on Enjolras’s face.

Enjolras shook his head. “No, they’re going to go through the whole arraignment rigamarole. I’ve already let Pontmercy know.” He made a face, casting an irritated look at the booking officer who was pretending not to listen to their conversation. “Apparently they take battery of a police officer pretty seriously these days.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Grantaire muttered. Enjolras sighed and Grantaire gave him a look. “Don’t even start,” he warned. “This wasn’t about you not being able to take care of yourself—”

“That wasn’t what I was going to say,” Enjolras interrupted, his voice tight. “I’m well aware that cop would’ve bashed my head in if you hadn’t intervened.” He shook his head and sighed again. “I was going to say thank you.”

“Oh,” Grantaire said, managing a tight smile. “You’re welcome.”

Enjolras just shook his head again. “You still shouldn’t have done it,” he continued, “because honestly, I’m not worth all that—”

“You are, though,” Grantaire said, in a tone that brooked no argument. Enjolras scowled and Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Fine, then why don’t we make a deal?” he said. “I’ll stop defending you when you stop bailing me out.”

“At the rate you’re going, I won’t be able to anyway,” Enjolras said sourly. “Not without putting up some major collateral.”

Grantaire shook his head. “And I’m definitely not worth that,” he said.

Enjolras’s eyes met his. “You are, though.”

For a moment, it looked like Grantaire might argue. Instead, he reached for Enjolras’s hand, bringing it up to kiss his knuckles through the bars of the holding cell. “No touching,” the booking officer barked, and Grantaire rolled his eyes as he reluctantly let go of Enjolras’s hand. 

“Will you be at my arraignment?” he asked.

Enjolras shrugged. “Someone’s got to post whatever bail amount the judge decides,” he said.

Grantaire half-smiled. “In that case, I’ll be the one in the front.” 

“Pretty sure that’ll be the judge,” Enjolras murmured, grinning when Grantaire rolled his eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I promise.”

“It’ll be the only thing that gets me through spending the night in here,” Grantaire told him, and it was Enjolras’s turn to roll his eyes, though there was obvious affection in the motion.

“Pretty sure Bahorel was right,” he said. “You definitely wouldn’t survive in jail.”

Grantaire just shrugged. “Only if you were in there with me.”

Enjolras shook his head, reluctantly backing away toward the door. “Still time,” he said, and Grantaire’s eyes narrowed.

“Don’t you dare do anything stupid while I’m locked up in here.”

Enjolras just smirked. “See you tomorrow,” he called over his shoulder as he left, and Grantaire sighed, though there something strangely content in the noise, despite, or maybe because of, the circumstances.

— — — — —

Grantaire didn’t meet Enjolras’s eyes as he rapped his fingers impatiently against the front desk at the precinct, waiting for them to bring him his personal effects. “Do you have any idea what time it is?” Enjolras asked, his voice tight. Grantaire looked pointedly at the conspicuous clock on the wall and Enjolras’s scowl deepened. “Exactly, it’s 2 in the fucking morning. I have a 7 o’clock meeting, which you knew damn well, so why you had to go pick a bar fight with some guy twice your fucking size—”

“So sorry to be an inconvenience to you,” Grantaire drawled, slurring his words just slightly. “Can’t imagine what it must be like to have made plans that get interfered with by someone else’s priorities.”

Enjolras ground his teeth together. “Are we really doing this here and now?” he asked.

Grantaire just jerked a shrug, not meeting his eyes. “Do you have something better to do?”

Enjolras sighed and scrubbed a tired hand across his face. “I’m sorry that I had to cancel tonight,” he said, with as much patience as he could seemingly muster, considering the circumstances. “But I needed to get this proposal done ahead of the meeting tomorrow, and I don’t really see what the big deal—”

“You never do,” Grantaire interrupted, still not looking at him. “That’s the problem.”

“You knew going into this—”

“Just like you knew going into this that I’m a drunk and a disaster,” Grantaire interrupted, finally looking at Enjolras, his expression hard. “Well, congratulations, Apollo, it looks like we both knew what we were getting into and yet somehow, we’re both still disappointed.”

Enjolras just shook his head. “I’m not,” he said tiredly. “I’m not disappointed, Grantaire, because that would require me to actually expect better from you, and I learned my lesson on that a long time ago.”

Grantaire just grinned, a horrible, twisted grin. “Right back atcha.”

The officer returned with Grantaire’s belongings, and Grantaire grabbed his phone, wallet and keys, returning them to his pockets. Enjolras took a deep breath, but whatever he clearly wanted to say seemed to stick in his throat, and he looked away. “C’mon,” he said instead. “Let’s go home.”

Grantaire nodded once, shoving his hands in his pockets as he slumped after Enjolras, neither man touching the other.

— — — — —

“He’s not technically under arrest,” the cop told Enjolras as he led him back to the holding cell. “But that’s because we couldn’t really mirandize him when he was passed out.”

Enjolras eyed Grantaire, sprawled across the bench in the holding cell, and sighed. “So once he’s coherent, he’ll be charged with, what, drunk and disorderly?”

The officer nodded. “Yeah.” He glanced at Enjolras. “Look, it’s not my place, but, uh, maybe look into getting your friend some help?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras murmured, his expression drawn. “Maybe.” He sighed and turned. “Guess I’ll go preemtively pay his bail—”

“Apollo?” Grantaire croaked, and Enjolras sighed again.

“Give us a moment?” he asked the officer, who just shrugged.

Enjolras crossed to the bars of the holding cell, his arms crossed tightly in front of his chest. “Tell me,” he said, his tone clipped, “were you trying to get hit by a car by passing out in the street, or would have just been a fun little side effect of this spectacular attempt at blowing up your life?”

Grantaire groaned as he forced himself into a sitting position. “Honestly don’t remember if it was deliberate or not,” he muttered, swaying slightly as he blinked unfocusedly at Enjolras.

“There are easier ways of killing yourself,” Enjolras said.

Grantaire managed a small, sharp smile. “Don’t worry, I’ve considered those as well.”

Enjolras’s expression tightened and he looked away. “You used your one phone call for me,” he said.

Grantaire shrugged. “Didn’t know who else to call.”

“Probably anyone besides your ex.” Grantaire flinched and Enjolras sighed before telling him, as firmly as he could manage, “This is the last time. Do you understand?”

Grantaire barked a dry, humorless laugh. “If there’s one thing I can promise, Apollo, it’s that this won’t be the last time.”

“Maybe not for you,” Enjolras said. “But I’m done. So the next time you get picked up for a bar fight or public intoxication or whatever suicidal shit you decide to get yourself into next time, call someone else.”

He didn’t wait for Grantaire to answer, just turning on heel to leave him in the holding cell while he went to go pay his bail.

One last time.

— — — — —

The phone rang, and rang again, and Grantaire’s grip on the phone tightened. “Come on,” he muttered to himself. “Come on, pick up, pick up.”

But the phone just rang until the tinny, robotic voice informed him that no voicemail had been set up for this phone number, and he heaved a sigh as he hung up, a headache blooming in his temples that had absolutely nothing to the better part of a handle of whiskey that he’d worked his way through that evening. 

“Nothing?” the booking officer asked, and Grantaire ground his teeth together at the fake sympathetic tone.

“Nope,” he said, popping the ‘p’, and he scrubbed a hand across his face before heading back to the holding cell.

The booking officer trailed after him. “Do you, uh, want to try calling someone else?”

Grantaire just shook his head. “No,” he said, crossing his arms in front of his chest as the officer opened the door of the cell for him. “I’ll try again later. He’s probably asleep.”

The officer glanced up at the clock that showed it was barely 10pm, and he shook his head as he closed the door after Grantaire. “Your choice,” he said with a shrug.

Grantaire sighed heavily as he slumped down onto the hard metal bench, his fingers twitching as if he wanted to reach for an absent glass or bottle of beer, or else for a hand that used to be his to hold. His throat felt tight and he swallowed hard, tilting his head back to rest it against the wall of the holding cell.

He closed his eyes against the tears that he could feel prick in the corners of his eyes, though he honestly didn’t know if he was crying because Enjolras hadn’t picked up, or because there was a part of him that still thought that maybe, in the morning, he would. One more time.

[harrywavycurly]

I’d die to have a conversation between Eddie and maybe Dustin? About how Eddie told reader his feelings! Maybe they can be at the hideout so Eddie is drunk and just telling Henderson everything 😂😩😢

Hiiii babes!! I will happily give this to you, I might’ve tweaked this just a little but either way I hope you enjoy!💖

-find all things Trouble Next Door here✨

*friendly reminder Dustin is of legal drinking age in this story*

“Wait…you did what?” “Told her I loved her man…and she looked fucking terrified like I just told her I killed someone or something.” “What? No way she looked like that…maybe she just wasn’t prepared for you to tell her.” “She’s the one who asked if I was in love with her or not.” “She asked? Jesus…that changes everything.” “No shit!” “If she asked that means she probably already knew the answer and she more than likely feels the same she just wanted to make sure you really loved her before she said anything embarrassing.” “That makes no fucking sense Henderson….she would’ve said something by now it’s been like a whole week!” “Dude I’m telling you she feels the same she just needs time…aren’t you seeing her tomorrow?” “Yeah she invited me to dinner..oh she says hi by the way….she was all worried there’s something wrong with you and that’s why you wanted me to meet you here.” “I’m fine I just figured you could use a drink…you’ve looked like dog shit the last few times I’ve come by the shop.” “Gee you’re just so damn nice Dustin really it’s a wonder you don’t have a lot of friends…” “enough bullshit…what are you gonna do about this? You clearly love her and if she doesn’t love you what’s gonna happen? I can’t pick sides…I refuse so you’ll just have to share custody of me.” “You’re so annoying…but I don’t know what’s going to happen…I guess I have to see how weird and awkward things are tomorrow and go from there.” “You two have been bestfriends for too long to just all of a sudden go your separate ways.” “I know..but if it’s what’s for the best then I’m prepared to do it…I know she won’t.” “What do you mean she won’t?” “If it’s too hard to be friends there’s no way in hell she’d ever say it…she’d go on being miserable because she doesn’t want to hurt me so…it’ll be me that has to end the friendship.” “Damn…that’s fucked…I’m sure it won’t come to that…I’m telling you she loves you too.” “Do you know something I don’t? Have you talked to her?” “I haven’t talked to her about that…but things happen for a reason dude okay? It didn’t work with Steve because it’s supposed to work with you…now you just have to make sure you don’t fuck it up whenever it happens.” “If it happens you mean…” “no jackass I mean when…” “you sound like Wayne…” “I’ll take that as a complement…now another round or are you trying to stay sober enough so you don’t drink dial her and embarrass yourself?” “Sure you little shit I’ll have another…just don’t let me call her if I get too hammered…okay?” “Deal.”

[stardustbarbarians]

Dial Drunk

A Samuel Kiszka / Daniel Wagner fic

Tags: angst disguised as humor, drinking, getting arrested, sam-centric

Trigger Warnings: implied alcoholism

A/N: Hi guys I swear I'm alive. Good Omens just has me in a goddamn chokehold rn. Anyway, I recently became obsessed with Noah Kahan and so this is the result. Cover made by the incomparable @ofthecaravel (thank you, Karou <3). Title from Dial Drunk by Noah Kahan (once again, not required, but I highly encourage you listen to it). Enjoy!

Words: 4.5 k

+++

I'll dial drunk, I'll die a drunk, I'll die for you

Sam was sloshed. And wasn’t that just the understatement of the century. He’d stumbled into this bar after the other one had kicked him out yelling something about him needing to stop causing a ruckus. It didn’t matter. 

What did matter was that the alcohol flowing through his veins was encouraging him to make the worst of decisions. His brain had long been soaked in tequila, taking close to ten plus shots over the course of the night. 

“Another,” he slurred out, slamming his empty glass on the bar to alert the bartender. He realized that he couldn’t focus his eyes on the man and something in the back of his mind told him that was cause for concern. Another shot would shut it up. 

“No, son. I’m cutting you off,” the bartender informed him sternly. At least, that’s what Sam thought he said. 

“I don’ CARE. Gimme ANOTHER,” Sam yelled, slamming the empty glass so hard onto the bar that it made the ice inside fly out and onto the floor. 

The bartender made for the glass, saying something about shattering it and getting Sam hurt. Sam, despite his sluggish brain, was able to yank it away and out of reach. 

“NO!!” 

The barman huffed and made another attempt at reaching for the glass Sam was holding. He pulled back even further to get out of the man’s reach only to find himself falling flat on his back onto the floor. 

“Yeah, you’ve had enough,” the patron on Sam’s right had declared. She got up from her stool and plucked the glass from his hand, Sam too stunned to try and fight her. 

The drunk slowly picked himself up off the floor, heavily relying on the arm the woman who took his glass offered. She was a burly woman, probably worked on the assembly line in the auto plant right down the road. She easily hoisted him up, Sam being about as heavy as a boiled noodle. 

The young man slurred out what he thought was a thank you, but it came out as more of a “thaa-oo” than actual words. 

Sam, still leaning on the woman without realizing it, locked eyes with the barman. “More.” 

“No. You’re done. If you’d like me to pour you a glass of water, I’d be more than happy to.” The man lifted his chin up just a bit, crossing his arms over his chest. 

It finally seemed to get through the sea of tequila that was Sam’s brain that he’d been cut off. Well, he understood that this gentleman was no longer serving him. And nothing as trivial as one person would stop him from getting what he wanted. 

Finally, he pulled away from the woman he was leaning against and rounded the opening in the bar. Unfortunately for Sam, this particular barman had guessed that would be his next move the minute he formulated the plan in his mind. However, he wasn’t fast enough. Sam was able to round the bar, but ran right into the bartender. Sam was hardly fazed, making a reach for one of the bottles of tequila behind the man. 

“If you don’t quit it, I will throw you out,” the bartender warned, pushing Sam’s arm down. He wouldn’t quit, trying to move past the annoying man to get his desired drink. 

“C’mon, man!” Sam was rapidly becoming more frustrated, his attempts becoming increasingly more violent. He eventually planted both of his palms onto the man’s chest and shoved him back. He stumbled a step or two but was able to recover, using his forearm to pin Sam against the bar. It hurt as it pressed into the small of his back, his arms attempting to shove the unwanted touch off of him. 

“Call 911 and tell them we’ve got a reckless drunk here,” the bartender ordered, looking at the woman who helped Sam to his feet. Sam was vaguely aware that his end goal was coming to fruition, but he was too preoccupied with screaming at the bartender to “get off me” and shoving his arm off. 

It was within the blink of an eye that Sam was being yanked from his shirt off the bar. He came face to face with the man he recognized as the bouncer. 

“Get a grip, man,” his deep voice growled out. Sam, whose brain was long past thinking through his actions, did probably the stupidest thing he could’ve. 

“Get OFF!!” he roared before rearing back and punching the man in the face. He stumbled back a few steps, nursing his jaw. But most importantly, he released the grip he held on Sam’s shirt. 

He took the opportunity and bolted for the door. Unfortunately for Sam, other patrons in the bar had begun to take notice of the massive disturbance he was causing. As he made for the exit, about four people took action and tackled him to the ground. He attempted fighting back, only to find himself completely pinned to the floor. 

“Take him outside,” the bouncer ordered from somewhere behind Sam. He felt hands strongly grasp him by the shoulders and pinning his hands behind him as he was marched out the front door. He tried to thrash against the hold on him, but it was no use. He was completely restrained. When they reached it, Sam was pushed forward out the swinging door. 

“Thanks, guys. I’ve got it from here,” the bouncer announced. The hands left his arms and shoulders. However, he wasn’t able to make an escape like he wished. Instead, he felt a tight grip on his shirt from behind him. He wasn’t getting anywhere. 

Sam was forcefully sat down on the curb, that hand on his shirt never leaving. He attempted running a few times, but each time he was yanked back violently. After the third time, he’d given up when he scraped his elbow on the rain-slick concrete. Since when did he get woozy at the sight of blood?

“You ain’t going nowhere until the cops take you away for punching me, you son of a bitch,” the bouncer spat, using the hold on Sam to yank him back once more. He sat on the curb, the cold of the rain sinking through the thin material of his shirt and seeping into his skin. He had to keep wiping the rain off his face, droplets trickling down his skin. His breath ghosted out of his mouth with each exhale, a chill long since setting into his bones. 

It wasn’t long until Sam saw the lights in the distance, the wailing of the sirens following quickly after. The cruiser with “sheriff” painted along the door pulled up right next to the entrance, an officer stepping out a moment later. That’s when the reality of the situation sunk in for him. 

When he finally looked up into the face of the policeman - having difficulty with the bright lights burning his retinas - Sam groaned. Could his luck have been any worse? 

“Samuel,” the officer greeted, a cold amusement in his tone. He had his arms crossed over his chest, a corner of his mouth twitched upwards. It was hard to see behind his large mustache, but right as rain, it was there. 

“Deputy Russell,” Sam grumbled, a pained look on his face. 

“How come when we got the call for a drunk and disorderly I knew you’d be the one waiting for me at the bar?” Deputy Russell towered over Sam from his involuntary seat on the curb, the latter having to crane his neck in order to look at him. 

Sam buried his head in his hands, groaning loudly. He felt like a scolded toddler after breaking a window. Except, this was significantly worse. 

“I don’t know. Maybe you’ve just got a crush on me, Alexander,” Sam managed to say relatively comprehensively. He even managed a pretty charming smile. 

That earned him a laugh from the policeman, albeit a small one. Still, it gave Sam hope that he’d go easy on him. 

“You’re not my type, Sam,” Russell lightly commented, his attention turning away from him to the bouncer, “Alright, tell me what he did this time.” He produced a small flipbook and pen from his brown rain jacket that had light brown piping along the arms and his badge embroidered onto the left breast pocket. 

The bouncer launched into a lengthy account of the events of the night; how Sam became increasingly violent as people tried to stop him. He became a lot more animated when he got to the part where Sam socked him. 

“...And that’s when we dragged his sorry, skinny ass outside. He tried making a break for it a few times, but he never got away,” the bouncer finished, his hand never leaving Sam’s shirt. It was probably going to be permanently stretched at that point. That’s not even mentioning the crimson staining the fabric from the injury on his elbow. Pity, Sam liked this shirt. 

With a sigh, Deputy Russell finished taking his notes on the bouncer’s story. “Did he manage to hit anyone else?” 

“You’d have to ask Jerry about that one. I only intervened when he went behind the bar,” the bouncer answered. 

 There was a deep-seated look of disappointment that had crept onto his face as the bouncer went further and further into his account of the night. The deputy scribbled something else down on his paper before flipping it closed. 

“Arlight, Sam. You know the drill,” the deputy sighed in a resigned tone as he removed the cuffs from his belt. 

He knew this part was coming. It was what he was hoping for. 

“Breaking out the cuffs tonight? Awww, Alexander, what’s the occasion?” Sam teased. He rose up from his spot on the curb; or, at least, he tried to. The bouncer still had his hand fisted in Sam’s shirt and he ended up nearly falling onto his face if it weren’t for Deputy Russell’s lightning-fast reflex to grab Sam by the shoulders. 

“You’ve proven that you can’t be trusted,” Russell grunted, righting Sam on his feet before twirling him around. 

The metal of the cuffs was cold as they dug into the skin of his wrists. It didn’t help the chill that had nestled into his bones at all. The noise as they snapped into place was a unique one - a cross between a snap and a creak - and one that was not unfamiliar to Sam. 

“Hope you rot in that cell,” the bouncer spat as he watched the young man get loaded into the back of the patrol car. 

“And that shiner looks real cute on you. I can give you another one as soon as I’m out, sweetheart!” 

“I didn’t hear that,” Deputy Russell firmly stated, accentuating his point with the slam of the car door. It wasn’t that he was trying to get Sam out of trouble, he just didn’t want to add another charge atop his mountains of assault paperwork he would have to file in the incident report. 

+++

“Samuel Kiszka… I should’ve known it was you,” someone drawled from within the precinct. Sam knew that voice all too well. 

“You owe me a twenty, Alice,” Deputy Russell yelled as he hauled Sam inside. 

Sheriff Alice Langston was the best Sheriff the county had seen since 1967. She wasn’t a strict by-the-book woman, but knew when someone deserved some leeway and when they deserved the wrath of God. She was in her mid fifties, gray streaking her black hair that was always pulled back into a very professional bun. Smile lines had creased themselves besides her dark brown eyes along with the ridges in her forehead. 

“You thought someone else was being an annoying drunk?? Alice, I am deeply hurt…” Sam joked, his face pulling into a look of fake offense. He was rather good at acting and perhaps in another life he would’ve pursued a life on the stage rather than attempting to break the local record of most arrests before 30 years of age. 

“What can I say, I’m an optimist,” she replied to Sam before turning to her deputy, “what did he do this time?” 

“The usual. Drank himself stupid until someone tried to stop him and got violent,” Deputy Russell recounted, a wariness in his voice that came with months of dealing with Sam’s tiring behavior. 

Sheriff Langston put her hands on her hips and shook her head. A sigh that originated deep within her bones escaped her lips. “When is this going to stop, Sam?” 

Sam just shrugged his shoulders. “When I’m dead, perhaps.”

The sheriff placed a hand on her forehead, her fingers rubbing at her temples. Sam knew how much of a pain he was to the local law enforcement and underneath all of his heartache, Sam was sorry for it. But, it was the only way he could have a valid excuse for calling him. So he wasn’t going to stop until Sam finally got his ex back. 

“Lock him up,” Sheriff Langston ordered her deputy with a sigh. 

“Wait, wait. Don’t I get my phone call first?” Sam frantically asked, his head whipping around back and forth in order to try and get a better look at Deputy Russell who was behind him. It made his head spin even more and increased his feeling of nausea, his stomach churning aggressively and making Sam want to keel over. 

“Not this time, I’m afraid,” Langston informed as she made her way to her office.

“That’s not fair!! I want my one call!” Sam screamed, attempting to wriggle away from the deputy’s grasp on his arms. It wasn’t as effective as he hoped given the fact that he could hardly walk unassisted and was about one sharp movement away from vomiting all over the carpet of the precinct… again. 

“And I want a million dollars. We don’t all get what we want, Kiszka,” Deputy Russell grunted as he moved Sam towards the holding cells. 

Sam was uncuffed before he was pushed into a holding cell, the door slamming behind him with a resounding finality. It echoed off the walls of the holding area, making the pounding in Sam’s head worsen. 

“Can I at least get a towel or something?? I’m gonna die of hypothermia at this rate,” Sam pleaded, his hands wrapped around the bars and pressing his face in the space between them. 

With an eye roll dramatic enough to win him a Tony award, Deputy Russell turned on his heel and disappeared out of the hold cell area and down a hallway that Sam had never been down. A few minutes later, he reappeared with a beach towel in his hand. 

“Thank y-” his gratitude was cut short with the towel being thrown in his face. Sam, in his drunken state, fumbled the folded cloth for a moment before he secured it in his hands. He was just thankful he managed to grab it before it touched the floor. He knew firsthand how fucking disgusting the floors of these cells were. And considering his shoes were sticking to the floor, he’d rather not let the thing he wanted to wipe his face with touch it. 

He unfolded it without ceremony. He had to laugh at the fact that Ariel was featured prominently on it. The towel was probably one that came from Russell’s personal locker, one he probably took from home. He had a daughter who was now in her teens; Sam had seen pictures and heard stories from Russell about her. Sweet kid. Brilliant. 

Sam threw the towel over his head and began scrubbing his hair, the droplets dripping off the strands and down the skin of his face and back had been driving him crazy since he was thrown in the patrol car. Next he patted his body down, knowing it was nearly futile as he was soaked to the bone. Once he was done with that, he threw his hair up into a towel tie, thankful the wretched stuff was off his neck. He liked how long his hair had grown - to the middle of his back - but it was certainly a pain to maintain. 

“So. Just us again, huh?” Sam asked Deputy Russell after he’d finished toweling off. 

“Yes, considering god hates me,” the officer grumbled under his breath. 

“Awww, I’m not that bad."

The glare that the deputy threw at him was deadly. Maybe he wasn’t as much of a loveable nuisance as he’d thought. 

“Tell you what. I’ll cut you a deal,” Sam began, his hands back around the bars as he got as close to the deputy as his enclosure would allow him. 

“Because you’re in a position to negotiate,” Russell laughed, the sound bordering humorless. He’d taken his hat and rain jacket off at that point. One of his hands had come up to his face to fiddle with his mustache, a habit he tended to enact while he was idle. 

“You give me my phone call and I’ll keep my mouth shut for the rest of the night,” Sam continued, ignoring the deputy’s comment. 

“Not happening, Sam.” Deputy Russell’s voice was stern, the words a finality. 

“I’ll praise the flag-”

“Nope.” 

“I’ll kiss your badge-” 

“No.”

“I’ll change my fucking faith-”

“Nice try.”

“Man, why?? Why the hell won’t you let me call anybody??” Sam whined, going so far as to stomp his foot like a toddler throwing a tantrum. Though, to be fair to the toddlers, they sounded far more mature than Sam just had. 

“Because,” the deputy began slowly, his patience already wearing thin, “Sheriff Langston said so.” 

With another frustrated stomp of his foot, Sam groaned petulantly. It wasn’t fair! He always got his phone call and all of the sudden they just cut him off??

“That’s not a valid reason and you know it, Alex!” 

“It is fair.” 

“How?? ‘Because I said so’ is the answer you give to a child!” 

“Well,” the deputy leaned forward in his chair, hands clasped together as he rested his elbows on his knees, “maybe if you started to act like an adult, I’ll treat you like one.” 

Sam groaned in frustration, hitting his head on one of the bars in front of him. 

“You know I’m just going to keep asking until I get what I want.” It was very much a threat thinly veiled as a promise. 

“Oh, I know.” The deputy turned his attention away from his prisoner and onto a book he just pulled out of one of the desk drawers. Sam only got a glimpse of the cover and in his drunken state it took him a lot longer to process the two word title: Good Omens. 

Well, if Sam was anything, he was a man of his word.

Taking a deep breath, Sam began singing. “Baby shark, doo-doo-do-doo-doo-doo…”

This went on for about twenty minutes - Sam singing Baby Shark on loop - and he had to admit he was impressed. The deputy had put up a pretty good resistance, but Sam was nothing if not a stubborn bastard. 

“FINE!! YOU WIN!!” Russell yelled, his hands unclamping from his ears to ball into fists onto the desk. 

Sam ceased his singing, a victorious smile spreading across his lips. It didn’t fall in the slightest as he was yanked out of the cell and put back in handcuffs. 

The deputy maneuvered the criminal towards the payphone that hung on the far wall of the precinct. It was an ancient thing, probably having not been replaced since the mid 70s. There were marks all over it in multiple colors of Sharpie, more than a few of them cursing out the police. Gouges and scratches littered the once proud, shiny, black plastic. A seat was placed just to the left of it, equally as trashed as the payphone itself. 

Before Sam was set down in the seat, Deputy Russell removed a cuff off one of Sam’s wrists before moving his arms from behind his back to in front of him. He then snapped the cuff onto the arm of the chair after Sam sat in the dirty and ripped upholstery. 

With his hand not holding the receiver, Russell snagged a quarter off one of the nearby desks and slid it into the coin slot. His finger poised to enter the number into the rotary. 

“Who am I calling,” the officer tiredly asked, his head turning towards Sam as he brought the receiver to his ear. 

“Daniel Jean Louise Marie Wagner, please and thank you,” Sammy answered, flashing a superficially sweet smile at the deputy. 

“I don’t even know why I asked,” Alexander Russell muttered under his breath. He didn’t even need to access a computer to enter the number, having it memorized just from the sheer amount of times Sam has made Daniel his emergency phone call. 

When it began ringing, he handed the phone off to Sam. He went to grab it with his cuffed hand at first, then made the quick adjustment to reach with his free hand. 

It rang for a lot longer than Sam had hoped. He just about gave up and believed that it would go to voicemail when the line went quiet… then a brief amount of rustling on the other end. 

“....Hello?” a bleary voice croaked out; Daniel’s voice. 

“Daniel! Danny, baby, so uh… yeah…” 

Sam hadn’t thought Daniel would actually respond so he had no idea what to say. 

“Right, so I’m at the county lockup and-” 

“Oh, for FUCKS-” 

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep

Crestfallen, Sam slowly let the phone drop from his ear. His mouth fell agape as he felt his hand fall into his lap. He couldn’t believe it. After all that… 

“What happened?” Russell asked, his stern demeanor softening slightly at the sight of his favorite troublemaker so dejected. 

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but no sound would come out. Well, there was a sound, but it sounded like if you scuffed your shoe against a hardwood floor. So hardly word material. 

“Did he hang up on you?” 

All Sam could do was nod. He finally snapped his mouth shut, forcing himself to act like a human again. He slammed the receiver back onto its hook so hard it caused the bell inside the phone to jingle. 

“Damn. That’s… That’s wrong. Son, why do you do this to yourself?” 

It was a good question. Why did he continue to ruin his life for a man who clearly wanted nothing to do with him? 

Sam didn’t respond. He just sullenly gazed down at the wretched linoleum as if it were to blame for Sam’s pathetic love life. Stupid fucking tile floor. 

“Well, I can’t let you stay there. Let’s get you up.” Russell didn’t even bother to put the cuffs back on Sam. He knew the kid was too broken to try anything, not to mention stumbling drunk. 

When Sam was back in his holding cell, all he did was sulk. He laid down on the uncomfortable and scratchy cot that was stuffed into the corner with his back against the wall. He wanted to get some rest, but every time he closed his eyes it felt like he was in a washing machine with the spin cycle on high. So he just let his head rest against the wall and stared up at the ceiling. 

Deputy Russell made a few attempts at conversation, but Sam would only respond in these two word sentences. He wasn’t in the mood, frankly. He felt like an ass, but that happened more often than not these days. The pain would metastasize when the sun would peek over the horizon, leech into all of his bones and burn inside him with glowing shame and embarrassment for his actions the past night. 

But that’s tomorrow. 

Tonight was reserved for wallowing in his self pity and-

“Samuel?” It wasn’t Russell that asked, but Alice Langston. 

The man in question snapped his eyes open and whipped his head forward. He moved too fast, his stomach churning and making him have to press his hand into it to keep the nausea at bay. 

“Yeah,” he weakly responded, his eyes pinching shut to stop the room from spinning. 

The cell door opened. That made Sam crack his eyes open. 

Staring back at him with a rage and fury that could rival only the wrath of God Herself was none other than the man he wanted to see most in the entire world. 

“Daniel,” Sam sighed, a smile spreading so wide across his face that he started to feel his cheeks hurt. 

The frown on Danny’s face deepened and that’s when Sam noticed the dark bruises underneath his sunken eyes. He hadn’t slept. Or, rather, he had slept, but it was interrupted. The scowl on his face aged him about five years. Or maybe it had just been so long since the last time he’d seen Daniel. He wore a pair of ratty gray sweats, a maize and blue sweatshirt he got from his alma mater. He also had on a black rain jacket that was covered in droplets, grass sticking to his converse. So, it was still raining. That was also evident by the few strands of his curls that stuck to his forehead that had fallen out of the bun he had hastily thrown up. He had his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, his shoulders tensed as his eyes bore into Sam’s very soul.

He’d never seen a more gorgeous sight in his whole life.

“You’re here.” 

Daniel didn’t speak, just glared at him before turning on his heel and walking towards the front door. Sam, dumbfounded and a bit star struck, swung his gaze back and forth between the two officers of the law standing at the door to his cell. 

“Your bond has been paid; you’re free to leave,” Langston informed him. Her voice was soft - well, soft for her. 

Sam’s smile somehow brightened, doing the impossible. He jumped off the cot (having to rest his hand against the wall for a second to let his vision stop spinning) and followed after Danny. 

“Daniel, wait,” he called as he tried his best to run after Danny, the guy having the advantage of both sobriety and longer legs. Damn him and his nice legs. 

The man halted in his spot, his back ram-rod straight. Sam was close enough to hear the heavy sigh he let out as he did stop. 

“Why did you… What are you doing here?” 

Danny swiveled his head towards Sam, that death glare probably permanently fixed in Daniel's eyes as they beheld Sam. It made Sam stagger back a few steps, swallow down any words he might’ve had on his tongue. 

“You will keep your mouth shut for the rest of the night, you understand me?” Daniel’s voice was cold, his finger pointed at Sam with an intense look fixed towards him. 

Sam gulped. There was a mix of several emotions swirling around inside him that he was far too drunk to parse out. Despite that, he nodded his head and flashed a nervous smile. 

As he turned away and made for the door, Sam swore he saw Danny’s face soften for a fraction of a second. It was enough. 

For the rest of the ride, Sam couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. Daniel would act cold towards him all he’d like, but his actions spoke volumes louder than the message he was trying to convey to Sam. 

It was a start. And that was enough for Sam. 

+++

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[deancoded-deangirl]

destiel x dial drunk

i’ll dial drunk

i’ll die a drunk

i’d die for you

[tiniedemon]

. . .

dial drunk

stan marsh / reader

cw . . . angst, alcoholism, police

stan wasn’t an alcoholic. he swore on his mother’s grave he wasn’t. he enjoyed alcohol, sure. it erased all his childhood memories, the mistakes he’d made, the mistakes he would make once the vodka touched his tongue.

his biggest mistake was you, loving you, more than his fickle heart could handle. he wasn’t sure when your love for him turned sour, when your affection turned to a cold shoulder. he imagined it was somewhere between the first shot and the fifth beer, somewhere between the beginning and the end.

he missed you. he missed you and your shimmering eyes, your honey voice, your silky skin. he missed you, every last inch, every word. he craved you like he’d never craved anything before, like a man hiking in the desert craved water, like an alcoholic craved his next drink.

somewhere between the fourth shot and the sixth, somewhere between half the bottle and the entirety of it, he decided. he had to see you. he had to drive across this small beat down town and he had to see you. his keys slid into the ignition almost too easily for a man who could hardly see around the intoxication staring him in the face. it was two in the morning, the roads were empty, and he needed you.

whoever paved this road needed to do a much better job in the future. the lines kept disappearing and reappearing in the center of his car. he was driving straight, he swore he was, it was the streets that curved under his car. since when was the road so bumpy? during the sober times, it was much smoother. had they broken up the pavement? was this road closed?

he wasn’t sure, and he didn’t care, because your house was so close. he was only a few blocks away. even in his drunken stupor, he remembered the way to you. he’d always remember this stretch of road, whether he was sober or drunk, alive or dead, loved or hated.

the red and blue lights in his rear view were a death sentence. he took a swig from the days old water in his cup holder, pulled crookedly on the side of the road, clambered to slip the car into park, and waited. he waited for the reaper to descend, to feed him a throat of poison and fit him into a hearse.

he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten here, but he was cushioned by the back cushions of the chariot, illuminated by aqua and rouge, blinded by the gates of hell. he needed you, and fast.

“do you have an emergency contact?” the officer asked grimly, and against his better judgement, he listed your name and number. if anyone could save him from the clutches of evil, it was you.

the dial tones were like gunshots, each one growing closer and louder, echoing in his hazy brain. he was no stranger to the purgatory of dial tones, especially when you were involved. you never seemed to answer him these days. the ache in his chest amplified with each ring, reminiscent of the first few phone calls of the night, reminiscent of the hate you harbored towards his unacknowledged addiction.

“hello?” your voice crackled over the phone, and it was like heaven to his ears. the officer handed the phone to him, and with fumbling, cuffed hands, he held it. he held it harder than he ever had, sobbed into it, cried your name.

“please, y/n,” he blubbered, voice tumbling out in a slurred mess. “i’m in a cop car. i’m so sorry. please come get me. i love you. i’d die for you. i love you so much, dove. please come get me.”

there was a sniffle, hitting his heart harder than any knife could. a long silence.

“please,” he begged, but he had a feeling that this time it would be as easy as arguing with a brick wall. you’d been his rock, saved him from the confines of a cell far too many times for him to count in his fumbling intoxication. he knew you were tired, and he was too. he was so tired. “please, y/n. please help me. i need you.”

“i love you stan,” your voice responded, and it was refreshing to his ears. you loved him. he loved you, more than anything, enough to take a bullet for. he’d do anything for you. “i can’t do this anymore. i love you and i always will, but you need help. i’m sorry.”

the call ended, and his fate was sealed. the door shut, the car rumbled away from the place where his life ended, and he was alone.

stan was an alcoholic. he drank too much for his liver to process, for the love of his life to handle. he drank away his sorrows, and in the process, drank you away too. he knew now. even so, he couldn’t wait for the next drink, for the next drop of alcohol to touch his system.

he needed it like he needed air to breathe.

[ameliora-j]

dial drunk by noah kahan x post malone except it’s ex boyfriend!eddie x reader

he’s shit faced in the back of the police car after speeding through a red light trying to get you to pick up your phone. he’s pleading with the cops, his eyes rimmed red as tears streak down his cheeks. “i beg you sir, just let me call i’ll give you my blood alcohol, i’ll rot with all the burnouts in the cell.”

and the officer is telling him how serious this charge is, that he doesn’t get a phone call and he has to spend a night in the cell and pay a DUI fine. and so he pleads some more, “i’ll change my faith i’ll praise the flag, just wait i swear she’ll call me back.”

and officer what’s his face is raising a brow as he gazes down at eddie asking “son, are you a danger to yourself?”

and eddie becomes more passionate, more tearful—needier. “fuck that, sir just let me call. i’ll give you my blood alcohol i’ll rot with all the burnouts in the cell. i’ll change my faith, i’ll kiss the badge. just wait, i swear she’ll call me back”

so the officer asks him “son, why do you do this to yourself?” even though he didn’t like when they threw him in the car, he immediately gave your name as his emergency phone call. when it rang and rang, even the cops thought you were wrong for hanging up.

and all eddie can answer is “i’d dial drunk, i’d die a drunk, i’d die for her…”

[knifvd]

@killerhubby asked : ❛   you are my heart, my life, my one and only thought.  ❜   katawina ♡

              (     you've  never  really  been  allowed  this  in  your  life  :   know  it  somewhere  deep  and  down  that  you  weren't  made  for  LOVE  ,  not  really  ,  but  even  now  you  find  yourself  indulging   .   it's  something  so  GREEDY  of  you  ,   you  know  it  because  you  still  find  yourself  indulging  ,  still  find  yourself  deeper  into  the  ever  consuming  CHASM  that  is  dante   ,   pretending  you  can  have  a  life  with  him  .     )

                 eyes  flicker  to  the  OTHER   ,  mulls  over  her  now  cold  americano  ,   cigarette  held  loosely  in  between  fingers  ,  as  ash  falls  off  of  it  and  onto  the  GROUND  .  the  air's  a  bit  chillier  than  she  had  expected  ,  and  while  beige  coat  keeps  her  warm  ,  still  finds  herself  leaning  into  HIM  ,  letting  paper  cup  of  now  cold  espresso  rest  on  the  GROUND  .  eyes  flutter  close  ,  and  a  sigh  escapes  katarina's  lips  ,  body  untensing  as  she  almost  seems  to  melt  into  the  OTHER   .

                 ah   ,  what  a  romantic  he  is  ,  even  now  .   an  amused  hum  escapes  her  lips  ,  and  brings  cigarette  up  to  her  lips  . 

               (              ❛     when's  the  earliest  i  can  send  an  extraction  team  ?    ❜      

                your  heart  stops  .    level  voice  ,  even  tone  ,  but  even  that  seems  far  ,  so  far  ,  voice  doesn't  even  sound  like  yours  ,   sounds  foreign  ,  odd  ,  like  hearing  someone  else  in  your  body  speak  with  your  voice   .        ❛     you  needn't  do  that   ,    ❜      she  says  ,  so  eerily  calm  ,  so  peculiarly  still  .  the  darkness  surrounds  your  body  ,  and  you  feel  like  a  STRANGER   trapped  in  your  own  body  .            ❛      you've  seemed  to  forget  where  i've  come  from  .  you  don't  think  i  could  handle  a  MEASLY  man  and  his  worser  men   ?      ❜     it  brings  bile  up  your  throat   ,  but  you  swallow  it  back  down  .

               you're  not  sure  where  it  came  from  .  not  really  .  it's  something  you  swore  away  ,  long  before  since  you  met  mirage  ,  a  mental  OATH  not  only  to  special  services  ,  but  to  yourself  .  the  piece  you  swallowed  down  with  your  pride  :  vengeful  little  girl  with  nothing  but  BLOOD  on  her  hands  and  with  nothing  but  a  goal  to  spill  more  ,  and  you  know  it  ,  you  know  it's  HER  ,  came  back  so  easily   ,  so  willingly   ---   but  it's  different  .  it's  not  just  for  her  ,   for  your  survival  .  it's  for  him  too  .       

              a   chuckle   over  the  line  :  you  can  practically  hear  the  older  one  rubbing  at  the  bridge  of  his  NOSE  .  good  .     he's  as  stupid  as  when  you  left  him   .   you  don't  mean  that  .  not  really   .  but  you  just  met  someone  you  care  about  more  ,  isn't  that  it   ?   it  would've  brought  you  comfort   ,  especially  in  such  a  dark  ,  small   room  .  but  it  just  seems  empty  ,  and  dark  ,  and  you're  alone  .   you've  always  been  alone  .         ❛     you  missed  a  status  report  last  week  .  don't  miss  it  again  .      ❜      and  then  there's  a  click  ,  and  it  all  goes  silent  .  it's  just  you  ,  the  person  you  swore  you  swallowed  away  ,  and  the  familiar  ,  cold  ,  enveloping  darkness  to  take  you  home  .     )

              ❛      you'll  be  the  death  of  me  ,  you  know  that  ,   shakespeare  ?      ❜      lilting  tone  ,  as  she  takes  another  DRAG  from  the  cigarette  ,  before  bending  it  gently  between  fingers  ,  and  drops  it  to  the  ASPHALT  ,   to  which  she  squashes  it  underfoot  .   (     would  he  still  love  you  if  he  knew  ?   would  he  even  look  at  you  ?   )         ❛      come  on  .  we  should  get  back  home  .        ❜      stands  up  ,  and  picks  up  cold  coffee  ,  slinging  TOO  EXPENSIVE  bag  over  her  shoulder  ,  holds  hand  out  to  lover   .            ❛      i've  had  enough  of  pretending  to  like  the  trees  here  .      ❜      

                                               𝙬𝙖𝙮𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚. 𝙖𝙘𝙘𝙚𝙥𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜.

[gryffindorbandit]

i dial drunk, i’d die a drunk, i’ll die for you james potter to peter pettigrew

[thewolvesof1998]

I ain't proud of all the punches that I've thrown

I ain't proud of all the punches that I've thrown (826, T) 

"I ain't proud of all the punches that I've thrown

In the name of someone I no longer know

For the shame of being young, drunk, and alone

Traffic lights and a transmitter radio

I don't like that when they threw me in the car

I gave your name as my emergency phone call

Honey, it rang and rang even the cops thought you were wrong for hanging up

I dial drunk, I'll die a drunk, I'd die for you"

-Dial Drunk, Noah Kahan

_______________________________________

Eddie rubs at the knuckles on his right hand, pressing into the raw and bruised skin, relishing in the ache. It settles the rage that simmers just below his skin, grounding him in the now, ending the constant replay of why he was sitting in a jail cell. He let out a long groan, leaning his elbows on his knees and pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Stupid. Stupid. So fucking Stupid. What was he going to do? He could lose his job, what if Christopher had seen him do that? What kind of example is he setting for his kid? Fuuuuuckkkkk.

He pushes upright, his left hand rubbing at bruises again, trying to ground himself again.

He almost jumps out of his skin when the door of the cell opens, revealing a uniformed cop. He wonders briefly if he should ask for Athena but dismisses it, whatever Athena knows, Bobby knows and he really doesn’t want this getting back to his captain. He's already screwed up enough already for one day, hell a year even.

“Diaz, time for your phone call,” The cop says

Eddie nods, stands on solid legs that want to shake, spine straight, chin up, just like they taught him. He follows the cop to a phone that wouldn’t have looked out of place in his childhood home. He lets out a breath before stepping up to it, receiver to his ear, pressing the first few numbers, finger hovering over the next, twitching to punch in the rest of the number that is burned into his brain. One that he doesn’t think he will ever forget, even with how unnecessary it is nowadays to memorise a number.

His heart drops, and his jaw aches from how hard he’s grinding his teeth. Rage, like a broken window to an oxygen-deprived room that’s already in flames, explodes within him and almost takes him out. He resists the urge to slam the phone’s receiver into the wall until it's just fragments of plastic that dig into the palm of his hand, drawing blood. He breathes through his nose and then out of his mouth and repeats that until he gets himself under control.

He had been about to call Buck. His body had betrayed him, had automatically started to dial his best friend, who he can’t even talk to because of the stupid fucking lawsuit.

Eddie closes his eyes, seeing what could have happened if he hadn’t stopped himself. The phone rings and rings and in his own anger he could almost picture Buck sending it to voice mail but he knows, he knows that Buck would always pick up.

Lawsuit or not. Buck would always pick up for Eddie.

He could almost hear Buck’s voice, the uncertain whisper of his name, a little breathless in surprise and nerves...

“Go for Buck,” Buck says in his usual cheery voice, of course, he wouldn’t recognise this number.

Eddie tries to swallow around the lump in his throat, but it doesn’t work, “Buck,” he says his voice rough and filled with too many unsaid emotions.

"Eddie? Is Chris-“ The cheerfulness was replaced with surprise and then anxious concern. Of course, Buck would think Eddie was calling because of Chris, that Chris would have to be hurt or in trouble before Eddie would reach out to his best friend. How did they get to this point?

“He’s fine, I- uh”

“Eddie, what is it?”

"I need you…” Shit, that’s not what he had meant to say, he clears his throat, “Can you post bail for me?”

"Eddie,” he says concern dripping from his voice, Eddie can almost picture the crease between his brows. Eddie’s fingers flex with the urge to smooth it away, not that he had ever allowed himself to do that even before everything.

“Please Buck” He begs, he knows they haven’t talked in so long but he needs-he needs Buck.

“Of course Eddie, anything for-”

A throat clears itself next to Eddie, he opens his eyes and realises he has just been standing there with his eyes closed for who knows how long. He can feel the flush of his cheeks as he puts down the receiver and picks it back up, dials a number he hopes he gets right. It rings and rings…

“Hello”

“Bosko, I- uh- It's Eddie, I'm at the police station downtown could you come and-uh-bail me out of jail?”

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