Addicted to Company

Summary: Today, he promises himself, he'll start anew. ...Just as soon as he finishes this one last line. Craig, post rehab. AU

Disclaimer: lyrics and story title belong to Paddy Casey; chapter titles belong to Cloud Cult.

Pairings: Craig/Alex (with some Craig/Ellie, and some hints of Alex/Paige)

A/N: moments in italics are Craig's time in rehab, just so you know. and of course, reviews are loved.

Lot left to tell you

...but I haven't quite worked it out yet.

This is Group:

Open up, they say, tell us your story. Cut yourself open. Show us what's on the inside; show us what really matters.

On the inside, he is screaming: You don't want to know what I'm really like.

On the inside he is thrashing and kicking; giving everyone the finger and telling them all where to put it. On the inside, he is the very definition of relentless; the difference between him and his father would be a very slim line. On the inside, he is fighting to keep his worst fears from being realized. (He wonders if they can feel him trying to tear through his skin.)

On the outside, it's a whole other story.

He pushes his hands together because they won't stop shaking (nothing will). Rehab was a good start, he knows this, but the want, the feel, the desire seems impossible to eliminate; the need still courses through him somewhere. Although it's less of an obstruction now and more of a nuisance, it's still very much a part of him.

At the front of the room, Alyce, the meeting header, waits open-mouthed, ready, and eager to hear about the weaknesses that have ripped their lives apart.

At the back of the room, there is a pitcher of some Kool-Aid/Hawaiian Punch mixture that leaves a sour, sugary sweet taste in his mouth and numbs his tongue - not unlike the feeling at the back of his throat just before he vomits.

Alyce leans forward, rolls a paper cup between her fingers. Craig notices she has yet to take a sip of her own drink; his suspicion grows threefold. "Is everyone ready?" she says.

He hasn't realized they've started until the clapping resounds around the room. He clenches his shaking hands, tells himself to pay attention. This is his second chance; he needs to pay attention.

A chair scrapes across the floor and he cringes.

He reminds himself to keep his head down, just to maintain what little sanity he has left; for Craig, it's hard to look at anyone here without seeing ghosts and reminders of people he knew, once upon a time.

The redhead sitting next to him has blue eyes and freckles scattered across her cheeks and nose, but she has this habit of looking up and through her lashes just the same as the one he's familiar with. They're sitting shoulder to shoulder, and he shifts in his seat, not at all comfortable with the memories that spark from the contact, but still not completely willing to move away. (He's always had a hard time letting go.) "Angela…and I guess I'm addicted to cocaine."

Craig resists the urge to raise his cup to her in solidarity.

"…I'm Chris, and I'm an addict."

This is the guy to his left: a meth-addicted Spinner, with B-rated 70's flick dialogue (a fountain of clichés) and even worse hair. His real name is Chris, last name not given— because, apparently, the only thing that's truly important here is the drug that's ruined his life.

"Of?" Alyce is on the edge of her seat, breathing in the moment where meth-Spinner/Chris acknowledges his faults and cracks.

"Crystal meth gets me flyin'."

Craig rolls his eyes. Typical. But then, he smiles a little, because it actually sounds like something Spinner might say.

It takes Craig half a second to realize that all eyes are on him—been a while since he's had that feeling—and he clears his throat, squeezes his trembling fingers against each other. His voice is low and cracks when he says the second part of his name. "Craig."

"And?"

"...Wouldn't be here if I didn't have to be."

Alyce frowns, not getting quite the satisfaction she wants. Her wide eyes bear into him, waiting for more. He knows the words she wants to hear but he is so damned tired of saying them. He can tell she wants to push him, wants to be the one to give him his "breakthrough". Instead, she insists, "We'll work on that."

He doesn't want to talk about this. Not yet, anyway. Or ever, maybe, but he would at least like the chance to be the one to decide it— not some humdrum doctor keeping tabs on him or some failed guidance counselor who's way in over her head and should stick to teaching kindergarten.

Once they have all spoken, it's time for the "how are you coping with the temptations of the real world?" portion of the hour. He lets out a breath, leans back in his chair and tries to ignore the fact that the majority of the room, when Alyce isn't looking, keeps peering over at him.

Ivy, a heroin addict, is the first one to go:

"—just wish I could go out sometimes, you know? Without all the pressure or worrying about temptation."

Some of the others murmur in agreement, while Craig remains silent. He doesn't have this problem which is probably because when he goes out, he does it alone. Although, more often than not, he doesn't end the night that way. He knows this isn't the recommended remedy but that's always been his technique: balance of the stable and the not, the good and bad.

His own personal form of equilibrium.

His, and his alone.

"You need help, Craig."

It's the story of his life, the mantra running on permanent loop in the back of his mind. He thinks he's finally grown tired of hearing it.

Today, he promises himself, he starts anew.

He swears to the wild and crazed man looking back at him that this is where they part, where he ends . He can hear Joey, leaning against the bathroom door and cannot summon up any ounce of righteous indignation; he deserves to be mistrusted.

Hands shaking, he nearly messes up the small neat lines he's managed to form on the edge of the sink, through the crafty and impressive use of the edge of a Q-tip. He looks in the mirror one last time before leaning forward and inhaling quietly.

Today, he'll start anew.

Just as soon as he finishes this line.

When the meeting is over, meth-Spinner is the first to block Craig on his way to the exit. "Hey, man, don't I know you?"

"I don't think so," Craig responds slowly. He shakes his head, pats his pockets for his pack of cigarettes, just for the security of knowing they're there.

"I'm pretty sure that I do bro." Meth-Spinner leans back, rest his palms flat against the doorway and squints until his eyes are nothing but slits, almost nonexistent. Craig holds his breath, and waits as Chris/meth-Spinner tries to reach inside the vacant lot that has become his brain and dredge up a memory, but nothing comes.

"Look, I really just want to get—"

"Relax, man, it'll be just between friends," Chris insists but from the far-off look in his eyes Craig can tell it's just one in a line of the many things he says that have no meaning. Empty sounds. Useless words. (Craig is sick of them; but at the same time, he needs them.) "Are you sure we haven't met?"

He can feel meth-Spinner's eyes on him as he tries to move past him; feel his unasked questions, his greedy desire to know what Craig refuses to say.

"Craig?" Blue-eyed Ellie/Angela snaps her fingers as the light bulb finally flicks on. "You're Craig Manning? 'Red-Headed for Trouble'?"

"I thought we weren't allowed to use last names here… Uh, yeah," he admits. In his pocket, his fingers nervously roll a cigarette between them. His eyes, he feels them shift just above her shoulder. He'd rather not look at her if he can avoid it.

She flicks her eyes over him, unblinking in her judgment. "You look like shit."

"Name?"

Through the haze of his bleary-eyed vision and dark, dark sunglasses, he is able to make out the faint line of the registration desk. He blinks and a clipboard with paper too white for his eyes to handle is shoved in front of him. The nausea clawing at his stomach is almost unbearable. "Name?"

Craig winces at the sharp sound of a pen tapping off to his left. He reaches out to grab it, bring his suffering to an end, but suddenly the ground disappears from beneath his feet.

"Craig." Joey's voice, emitting his name in a disappointed sigh. It's all that he recognizes before the world goes black.

After the stint in rehab, he guesses he is edgier, grittier. He's 're-discovered' by a club with an owner who recognizes him and actually wants him around, gives him the chance to play. He's surprised but still Craig (desperately) snatches up the opportunity before it can wither up and die in front of him.

He is, by definition, an addict.

Once he starts something, there is no cutting back, there is no pulling away. Music, photography, cocaine…if he's not immersed completely and consumed by what he's gotten himself involved in, it's not even worth considering.

Women are no exception.

Ashley, a karma chameleon through and through, first love and all that comes with it, the only one whose heart he's hurt who was able to play a hand in hurting him back. ("I need space. I need to get away.") Manny, with her soft, wide brown eyes begging him for something he couldn't possibly give her. (More, more and always more. "...She doesn't love you as much as I do.") Ellie, confidant and friend; Ellie, broken and mended. Ellie, the reason he's still here, really. Ellie, who he always seems to disappoint but has never wanted to stop believing in him. ("I love you, too.") Ellie, Ellie, Ellie.

He keeps his eyes open as he tilts his head back, hopes the liquid making its way down his throat will erase the name burning on his mind. Or, at the very least, numb him into a state of temporary amnesia.

The brunette at the end of the bar has her eye on him from the moment he walks in. It's clear from the look she gives him—she skips over being demure and cuts straight to seductress, doesn't even break gazes as she sucks down on the straw in her drink—that he has her where he wants her. Craig raises his eyebrows at her, tilts his head in a gesture that she come over but she does nothing to follow through. Figures.

His eyes sweep across the floor, past a slim girl with red hair just barely brushing her shoulders, huddled together with a friend. Absolutely not.

The drink in his mouth already turned bitter at the sight of her hair, the color far too familiar for him to just ignore.

He's finishing up his set when he sees her, cradling a drink and fidgeting with an ashtray filled to the brim with cigarette butts.

He turns toward her, tips his glass to hers. She does the same, which surprises him. Unlike the brunette—who is all gumption but no action—she has the nerve to come over to him. He smiles, though more of his hormones and the alcohol are involved than his heart. She doesn't seem to notice; they rarely do. "What do you say I cap you off?"

It's a line, and a terrible one at that but he's sure the only reason she smiles back is because she's already started the night off with a few drinks well before his arrival. She tilts her glass towards his and with a clink they are united.

He expects her to look away when he catches her staring. She doesn't. She licks her lips, quickly, and leans back in her chair. He wonders what she's doing here, in a smoke-filled bar in the heart of Toronto, looking like a completely different person from who he'd expect her to be. Actually, definitely...womanly.

"What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for everyone. Marco, Spinner, Ellie…" He wonders if she lets the last name linger on purpose, wonders if she's just trying to get a reaction out of him. "The whole gang is getting together for a reunion."

"Really?" he asks in spite of himself.

"No." She snorts, asks if he's always been this gullible. Probably. He's never really thought about it before.

"I was supposed to have dinner with Paige, but…" She holds up the phone she's been scrolling through all night and he reads the abrupt, if dismissive, message:

Need to cancel. Something came up. Rain check? – Paige

"I haven't answered back yet. I've just been staring at it all night. Isn't that pathetic?"

"Yes," he replies, without any hesitation.

"Brutally honest," she murmurs. "I like that."

"I didn't think you appreciated being bullshitted."

"You're right. I don't. Thank you." Alex sets her drink to the side, ignoring the coaster and dragging her finger through the small ring of water that will no doubt ruin the wood.

"You're welcome."

She isn't touching him, but he can feel her body heat through the material of his jeans and realizes, as his eyes connect with hers, that she doesn't have to.

In the back of his mind, he can vaguely recall "The Signs" as his adviser ("Because I'm not your therapist, I'm not your mommy and I'm not here to hold your hand. But I am here to help you") put it. Signs that what he's doing is probably not the best idea and will probably lead him towards "A Setback".

("And you don't want that. It's a hell of a lot harder to stay clean when you let yourself get caught up in the moment all the time.")

Three hours later, he's snorting cocaine off the smooth planes of Alex's stomach, the tip of his nose dipping into her navel. It's the first time he's ever gotten high this way, and he thinks, as the heel of her foot digs into the curve of his back, that he's fallen in love with the drug all over again.