Addiction // Gavin Reed x Reader

Partial

The first drag of a cigarette never evokes much thought from Gavin. It's always the second or third puff of air that makes him think.

I'm miserable.

The fourth drag is always the hardest, as it makes him existentially evaluate his life's decisions. He thinks about his motives, or if he even has any, and breathes in a fifth cloud from the paper drug.

I could be doing better.

But the fifth breath of ashes from Gavin's lungs is also the one that gets him caught most of the time.

"I smell that fucking nicotine from over here. How many times do I gotta tell you to stop smoking in my bar?"

Gavin scoffs at the bartender, and takes in a suck from the cigarette for a sixth time. He blows the air out in full view of the 'tender, earning an annoyed eye roll from the man in question.

"You're lucky that I pity you, Reed. Or else I'd kick you the hell out."

He turns back to the sink to tend to the remaining glasses sticky with night-old tequila and whiskey. The latter of which, sat in the former detective's glass along with a few cubes of halfway melted ice. Gavin sipped from the glass slowly, not wanting to possibly impair his charisma before the clock struck midnight. There was still the looming chance that he could meet a pretty girl-- a real hot-rocket-- and take her back to his place where he'd-

"Put that cigarette out before people start complainin'. I don't want to have to tell you again."

Fucking Terrance and his rules, Gavin thought. Because to him, a night out drinking and a fresh pack of cancer sticks was the perfect remedy for curing his lonely state of mind and hopeless nature. That specific combination of "medicines" was his only antidote; without them, he was angry, bitter, and openly desperate. A soulless creature with no care for his actions. He needed this.

"Terrance," The ex-detective pleaded, indirectly, but the aforementioned bartender would be having none of his shenanigans tonight. Especially not tonight. He wanted to start the new year off right and not have such patrons get in his way.

"You either take it outside or I take it and put it under the sink," The large man reprimanded. It set Gavin aflame, causing him to snap the very stick in half with just his fingers, and press the butt of the cigarette against the bottom of his stool.

If only he would've seen... you surely would've gotten kicked out then, Gavin. I can't let him do that. I need somewhere to drink away my fucking misery.

Looking down at his half-empty glass of whiskey, he flicked the nail of his thumb against the skin of his left ring finger, watching as the flesh creased and then retracted in the span of a single millisecond. He was never one to focus on such things, but his two glasses of whiskey helped him clear his vision. Yeah, the drink was able to drown some of his thoughts back into the pit of his mind, but there were always the few stubborn ones that knew how to swim and were able to resurface faster than he could push them down. Pesky, irritating thoughts-- such as the feeling of long lost weight against that certain pressure point on his ring finger. The very one he flicked at and was currently fascinated with.

Man, how much he wished he still had that damn cigarette.

He paid no mind to the muffled conversations and vibrant lights around him. It was just Gavin, and his beloved glass of whiskey that needed to be refilled. He was well aware that the longer he stayed, the more he would regret it tomorrow. The money on the table seemed to stack and stack... and soon his wallet would be as empty as himself. Gavin had barely lived his life since being let off from his old job at the Detroit Police Department.