a/n: something ridiculously not happy and uncomfortable set post season 4 finale. some mention of jenny's illness.

dipsomaniac:
any person who has an uncontrollable and recurring urge to drink alcohol;
the insatiable craving for alcohol

He sought her out, after they found nothing at the marina, because he couldn't shake the haunting sense that everything was wrong, and she was spiraling out of control—and she had been, right before his eyes, since he came back from Mexico, and he had selfishly refused to notice, because he wanted to pretend he didn't care—

He was proved right when he got there; her house was barely lit, and there was a dying fire in the hearth—her face was tear streaked, and there was a broken glass tumbler on the desk in front of her, and she seemed to be staring at it like she couldn't believe it was there—

"Jen," he said gruffly.

She looked up.

Her eyes were red, her lips thin, and her hands were shaking—bleeding.

"Jen," he said more aggressively, and stormed over—he crouched down by her to look at the injury; she'd cut herself with the glass, and the wound was bleeding steadfastly down her arm and staining her shirt.

He wrapped his hand around her wrist as a sort of tourniquet and yanked her up—but he hadn't realized how drunk or—sick—she was, and she stumbled dizzily and fell against him. She moaned weakly, protesting the sudden movement, and he reached out to wrap his arm around her waist. He hesitated, and then he picked her up and held her head firmly—careful not to let it move too much. She swallowed hard, her breathing hitching a little, and his only immediate concern was making sure she didn't get sick all over him. He took her upstairs to her bathroom and set her on her feet. She leaned heavily against the sink.

Her brow furrowed.

She clenched her jaw tightly.

He watched her warily and—when she seemed to take a deep breath and—be okay—he took her hand and ran the faucet, cleaning off the blood. She winced, and made a hurt, small noise in her throat. He kept the cool water running over her, letting it flush out the blood.

He tilted is head, studying her intently, and he nearly jumped out of his skin when her knees buckled and she yanked her hand out of his, sliding to the floor with little grace and banging her head back against the cabinet. He slammed his hand down to turn the faucet off and crouched down abruptly, his hand reaching out to soothe her head.

"Hell," he muttered to himself.

She moved her head like she was dizzy, and then spun rapidly and threw herself over the toilet.

He moved to yank her hair back for her—but came up short. There was nothing to grab, nothing to hold back. Instead, his hand fell to her back, and he shifted forward to his knees, running his palm over her spine. She didn't seem to have anything in her stomach; it was over quickly, and she dry heaved and coughed painfully for a few minutes after that. He tugged on the back of her shirt and she slumped for a moment, ignoring him, and then she shifted and curled up on the floor. He waited to see what she would do—move, talk, anything, but she just breathed in steadily, and so he leaned back against her bathroom wall, sitting, and drew his knees to his chest—and rested his arms over them.

"How much have you had to drink?" he asked coarsely.

She moved her head slightly.

"I haven't," she whispered huskily. "I poured it out—after I broke the glass," she broke off, and she started crying. "Jethro," she moaned, curled up there on the bathroom floor. Her bangs fell in her eyes and her hand shook badly as she shielded her eyes. "I—I'm addicted to it."

He knew—somehow, he knew. On instinct, he knew she'd been drinking too much—after hours, at casual dinners—he knew. The Frog, Jeanne Benoit—had only exacerbated it; had pushed her from precarious balance into utter addiction.

He shifted, after a moment, and lay down next to her, pulling her hands away from her eyes. She was so pale—and so thin, and so distressed. He looked at her eyes, and the lines in her face, and he squeezed her hand. Her blood ran onto his palm—blood from the cut.

"Help me," she said to him, biting her lip between her teeth.

He reached out and gently pried her lip loose, rubbing it with his thumb. He shook his head—he wasn't in a position to do that; didn't she understand he wasn't even halfway stable from his time in Mexico? He was still getting through the fresh pain of losing them—

"Can't, Jen," he denied gruffly.

He squeezed her hand tighter.

"Help yourself," he ordered—demanded.

She shook her head, and squeezed his hand back—and winced, not only because the wound hurt, but because there was something in her now that scared her, poisoned her, always made the littlest things hurt.

She gasped heavily, and said:

"I can't."

~alexandra
story #160