Big Lebowski fic- Dire Straits
Title: Dire Straits
Fandom: The Big Lebowski
Pairing: none
Rating: T for language
Disclaimer: Clearly not mine
Summary: When Cynthia leaves, Walter takes it badly. Luckily, he has friends to help pick up the pieces.
The night Cynthia left he sat in the recliner for a full six hours. The beer in his hand grew warm. Shadows crossed the room through the half drawn curtains and then darkened. The colour of the sunset- what he could see of it- reminded him of wedding night lingerie and commie flags.
After a little while he realised that the TV was off, but he couldn’t really see what that had to do with him. He got up eventually, and found that the whole house was made up of well-trodden lovelines. He walked along them aimlessly before going to take a piss. After that he headed for the bedroom- not really seeing any reason to stay awake if he weren’t doing anything productive- but upon entering and seeing one half of the room gone he realised why he had been sat in the recliner in the first place, and returned to it, where he eventually fell asleep.
*
The night after she left he got completely, utterly, devastatingly drunk. What few personal effects that had been left behind were almost completely hidden by bottles, cans, glasses and cartons- empty, full and spilled.
The Dude, and even Donnie, the weedy little shit, were there trying to keep up with him. Built like a rhino, however, Walter was totting neat whiskey long after The Dude had fallen asleep and Donnie had seemingly passed out. He could almost bring himself to appreciate the gesture, at least, but felt mostly disgust as he looked to The Dude, who was sprawled out across the floor under the TV. Light from the muted talk show hit his face and bounced off his shades. He could sleep- whereas Walter could not- because he’d never been married, or engaged, or anywhere near any kind of adult relationship whatsoever at, what- forty something years of fucking age? He could fall right to fucking sleep because he couldn’t bring himself to care that Walter had lost his wife- one of the only things Walter wasn’t ashamed of loving- really, one of the only things that he wasn’t ashamed of about himself- and he’d wake up afterwards with a hangover, and he’d complain about it, because he didn’t have anything goddamned fucking worse to complain about.
The bottle in his hand, despite being half empty and resting on the arm of the couch, grew heavier. He knocked back another mouthful as he watched The Dude twitch and grunt. He didn’t need one either- a meaningful, adult relationship- The Dude, that is- and that made Walter fucking sick too. The Dude wanted for nothing, despite having nothing.
Walter had always been aggrieved by that. He’d given up a huge chunk of his glory years for his country (not begrudgingly, of course), fighting in a war he only half understood, and that was halfway across the goddamned world. He hadn’t needed letters from his mom when he’d been shipped out, he hadn’t needed reassuring when he’d shot a real person for the first time, he hadn’t needed valium when they’d fished around to remove the bullet in his ass cheek- but when he needed his fucking wife he couldn’t have her, and just what the hell did that say about the world?
Walter felt mostly disgust as he looked to Donnie, too, but that seemed about right so he pushed that to the back of his mind like he usually did and carried on drinking.
It was only when the talk shows turned into infomercials, and his drunkenness had him teetering on the brink of passing out, that Walter was really able to forget about Cynthia. Even then the pain was still there, coating his insides like Pepto Bismol, leaving him drowsy, hurting and bitter without quite being able to remember why.
His head had fallen to his shoulder, pressing his shades into his face, but he was beyond moving. If only he could lift that bottle to his mouth. He had no idea how much time had elapsed when he heard Donnie slowly shifting beside him on the couch, but it didn’t matter. It was only when a pair of hands reached out, peeling his fist away from the bottle, that things began to matter.
Donnie had taken his drink. Carefully, because he thought he was asleep. Walter was about to protest, loudly, but then the empty bottle was set on the floor next to The Dude and Donnie was crossing the room to the recliner, picking the blanket up off it. It was Cynthia’s. She’d forgotten it. He felt too sad to yell at Donnie for touching Cynthia’s things so he sat in silence. He didn’t really know why she’d left.
She had spoken to him, briefly, but he hadn’t heard anything past ‘my bags are packed’. There was a letter too, but that had been placed on the kitchen countertop and buried under bills because, frankly, the thought of reading it was like lying face down on a camp bed, being held in place, his belt between his teeth, balmy air and gunfire, medicinal alcohol, a frightened nurse, agony.
The blanket over him was warm though, and familiar, like Donnie returning to sit beside him on the sofa.
He closed his eyes for the night, only opening them when a small, smooth pair of hands took off his shades and tucked them into his shirt pocket.
*
The night after that The Dude bought him a new bottle of whiskey, and he beat Donnie at bowling- two strikes to one.