This took me waaay too long to write. And proved I can't limit myself to 100 words / prompt...

Feel free to comment, concrit and let me know what you think. Flames only serve to burn wood...

Alcohol

If anyone asks, he's having a Bloody Mary. The lie comes smoothly to his lips now. Besides, it isn't really a lie. It doesn't matter that the contents of his glass is more Vodka than tomato juice.

He's functioning, doing fine. He just... increased his intake a little. Three instead of one or two. Just a couple drinks. Then, just a couple more.

He stares into the red liquid, ignoring the small, insidiously brother-sounding voice in his head, saying he's wilfully calculating with the wrong data. One ounce Vodka to eight of tomato juice is not equivalent to six of vodka to two of juice.

He brings it to his lips and swallows a deep mouthful and another, and another. He feels the burn going down his throat, the heat in his stomach. He relaxes, exhaling deeply.

His eyes fall slowly closed, his fading gaze lingering on the red liquid, like so much blood, over his hands, his soul, spilling over everything.

He brings the glass to his lips again, tilting his head back. He drains it, slams it on the table and gets up to unsteady feet. He has to get to bed. He's got court in the morning.

Crutch

He tries not to groan, the pounding in his head escalating until his stomach rebels. Bitter bile spills to the floor, the foul taste of it now familiar. It's the third day in a row, the eighth time in two weeks.

He isn't hung-over. He's just... Exhausted and sick. At least, that's what he chooses to believe.

Once the nausea passes, he struggles to his feet and to the bathroom. There, his stomach lurches again and he's soon on his knees, retching. He doesn't want to know if the crimson he sees in the toilet is Bloody Mary or just plain blood.

He emerges long minutes later, after a shower and aspirin that did nothing to cure what ails him. He blinks hard, willing away the tears as he wipes the vomit off the floor.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

He used to function okay. Mostly.

In the kitchen, he puts coffee on. As it brews, he spots the clear bottle on the counter. He forces himself not to think as he grabs it. The burn down his throat soothes him, instantly.

He closes his eyes, wondering, maybe for the first time, just when booze became his crutch.

Fight

He's using a crutch but he can still walk. He doesn't understand what the big deal is. It's not like ne hasn't been doing his job. Even with Charlie gone, his solve rate hasn't dropped.

The testimony went well. He really doesn't get what Granger's problem is.

"Let go of me," he growls, Granger dragging him by the arm until they're in an interview room.

"What the hell is wrong with you!" Colby yells.

"Excuse me?"

"Getting wasted every night, off the clock is one thing. Showing up in court with alcohol on your breath? C'mon Don. This has to stop!"

Don's eyes go wide. Where the hell does Colby get off... "What?" he squawks, furious, humiliated and most of all, outraged. "You don't know what you're talking about!"

"Yeah? You've come in to work late every day for the past three weeks, hung over most days. Bloodshot eyes, white as a sheet... You think we can't tell?"

"Colby, back off," Don growled, fists clenching.

"No. Try and hit me if you want. You think I can't handle a drunk?"

Don's fist flies through the air and before he understands what happened, he's face first in the table, his right arm twisted back hard.

"Get help, Don. Now. Or this goes to the Director tomorrow morning."

Don growls and struggles but Colby just puts more pressure onto his joints. "Fine. You want proof? Take a breathalyser and if you're sober, I walk away. I'll even forget those bottles of Vodka in your drawer and in the file cabinet.

"Fine, whatever," he snaps.

He watches Colby frown and he's defeated, crushed, humiliated. The display in his hand reads 0.098. He's drunk.

DWI. Contempt of court...

Colby's hand drops on his shoulder. "C'mon. Let us help you. Please. Before it kills you."

Honesty

Drying out takes everything out of him; his pride, his dignity, his self-respect, his strength, his determination. He's so ashamed he can't bear to look anyone in the eye. Not Colby, not his father, not his wife. They'd all known. They'd all tried to make him understand. They'd all failed, until Colby had made him face the truth, that day.

He realises so many things, now... Robin walking out didn't drive him to drink. His drinking led her to walking out. It was his fault, no one else's.

Rehab helps make order out of the chaos of his life and he slowly starts to rebuild but at times, he almost wishes he'd drank enough to not wake up.

He's an addict. Now, he has to learn to live with that. He has to come to terms that the first thing he'll think of, the last thing he'll think of every day is taking a drink.

He doesn't know how to even begin to move forward, doesn't know if he can.

He has to. It's moving forward, staying sober, getting his life back, or slowly drowning in a bottle, until it kills him.

He sits in the dark, in the old Craftsman house, eyes locked on the amber glass in front of him, his own private hell.

He hears the floor creak and just by the sound, he knows his father is watching him.

He pushes to his feet and grabs the beer, heading for the kitchen.

"Donnie," his father tries.

He lifts a hand. "There's something I gotta do."

He sits in his cold SUV for a long time, working up the courage. Suddenly, he breathes deep and simply goes in. He walks up to the front, clears his throat and speaks.

"Hi. My name's Don and I'm an alcoholic."