Bones

Nick is lonely but never alone. He’s the kind of man that is alone in a crowded room. Lately, Nick has been a popular man. For example, there are now a total of four, yes that’s right four, new messages on his cell phone right now, all from separate people – none of whom, it must be noted, are his parents or step-parents or brother, of whom the quaint list is mostly comprised of.

He sees the last alert out of the corner of his eye, but he ignores it, and goes back to breaking up the green in front of him. He’s at Macy’s house, along with Ben and Bailey. He’s been hanging out with co-workers more after work lately. Which actually means that Nick feels safer leaving Jamie home alone for extended periods of time; safer than he’s felt about doing that in years, even when they didn’t live together.

And, what Nick has found from this whole experience is that damn, this isn’t as hard as he remembers it to be.

Nicks feels the bud between his fingers, rolling it back and forth between his thumb and forefinger, and then sprinkling it into the pipe on the table. He can’t do this at home. The smell makes Jamie sick since he stopped using it, and sick Jamie is worse than sick sick Jamie, ye gods.

And Nick thinks, in his informal professional opinion, that Jamie is doing better. And that’s saying something. But there’s still this tug in his gut that something is going to happen, that something is happening, and oh God, maybe since he’s been away from home more that he’s just not noticing it and-

“You ‘bout done over there, space cadet,” Ben asks from the hideous-but-comfy, oversized green recliner. Nick jerks his head up, and he’s no longer slumped in the bathroom with Jamie, holding him until the convulsions stop and he’s not dry heaving anymore. He’s no longer wiping away unnecessary tears and cradling the broken China doll that used to be his brother. He’s not treating flesh wounds and watching Jamie do nothing but sleep. Nothing but die slowly in front of him.

“Yeah, sorry,” Nick says, wetting his lips and turning his attention back to his previous task.

There’s a tug in his gut that says things aren’t okay. And they aren’t going to be okay. Because Nick’s been through this many times, and it’s always the same. Nothing is ever okay.

But you live with it. And that’s really all the best you can do.


Back at their apartment, Jamie’s curled in the fetal position in Nick’s bed with the covers clutched around his body, shaking and whimpering to himself. He hears Nilla meow beside him, and the light pawing to be let under the blankets with him. Jamie obliges her, and welcomes the feel of warm fur and whiskers against his stomach, while choking on another sob.

Where’s Nick? That’s the real question.

Jamie’s having a bad day. A very, very bad day.

He probably took a few more lorazepam’s that he really should have, but really, what is one plus one plus one compared to two plus two plus two?

Nothing.

Because, more often than not, nothing is closer to infinity than you’d think.