"Turkey Strut" A/N: Just a good-old, near-required drinking scene. Mother disclaimer.
Runner-up title for this section: "The Good Times Are Killing Me."
KARMA: Turkey Strut
Spike takes another swig and holds the bottle at arm's length, closing one eye. The label wavers, but it's still legible.
"Not quite," he mutters, and brings the bottle back for another take. His arm seems three times as long as it should be.
Julia. Rocco. Vicious. Faye. Giraffe. Azimov, his fellow junkie in arms. Julia... One little bullet lets out life. Wait, Faye didn't die. Well, whatever. She definitely passed out. Bad enough. What is it with people? Spike swallows another mouthful of bourbon. He's eaten dozens of bullets at a time and stayed on his feet for the win.
"I'm lead-plated," he says. "Whoa. Getting a little slurred here."
"I'll say."
Spike looks up at Faye. "There's still only one of you. Go away. I can't deal with you unless there's two." He blinks. "That came out wrong. Let alone the fact that it rhymes." He grins.
"Hoo boy. You want some company? It's bad luck to drink alone," Faye says. She takes the bottle from him and holds it up to the light, peering at it critically. "Was this full when you started it?"
"Yup."
She swirls the remainder around. "You're going to wind up with alcohol poisoning you don't watch it. Screw Jet. Someone needs to baby-sit you."
"Screw Jet? He wishes. Gimme that." Spike snatches the bottle from her and takes a swig. His tongue and teeth are furry and carpeted. The bourbon is warm in his belly, undoing all the knots.
Faye settles carefully in the chair, crossing her legs. Spike squints at her.
"You're dressed different. Better. I approve." He finds this extremely funny and decides the joke deserves another drink.
"I don't need your approval," Faye says, taking the bottle by the neck and bringing it to her own lips. Spike watches intently as she takes a dainty sip.
"No, no, no, that's all wrong," he says. "Open your throat and let it in."
Faye coughs and stares at him.
"What?" He is drunkenly indignant.
"Not a damn thing," she says, but then she laughs. It hurts her and she winces.
"Drink enough and that won't bother you," he says.
"That's the plan," Faye says. "Okay, you watch me this time and tell me if I'm doing it right, okay?"
"Thought you didn't need my approval," Spike says. Her presence sharpens him up a bit when what he wants to be is dull, but he's far enough from sober to not really give a damn.
"I might not need it, but I'll take it if I can get it," Faye says. She tilts her head back and holds the bottle vertical. The gold fluid rushes down the neck into her mouth. Her throat works. Then she sits bolt upright and hands the bottle back to him. "Oh God, I do that again I might hurl." Her voice is choked from the strong liquor.
"Yeah, even I don't try to chug Wild Turkey," Spike says, peering at the bottle. "You took down about four shots. You stupid or just got a deathwish? That's it. You're cut off."
"As if," Faye says. "I'll fight your skinny ass for that booze and I can beat you too."
"With a hole clear through you? Hardly," Spike says, taking a drink.
"You're like, melted all over the couch. I think you couldn't defend yourself right now if your life depended on it."
"Good thing I only drink in the company of friends then, isn't it."
Faye looks thoughtful, and that's no good. "Hey. Bad things happen when your face gets that expression. I take it back. Have some more." He gives her the bottle.
She accepts, drinks, passes it back. Sometimes they drink together, the three of them, Jet and Faye and Spike, but there are always glasses with ice cubes, music playing and Jet monitoring everyone's intake so no one passes out before the appointed hour. This is different—in silence they fall into a ritual, drink, pass, drink.
Some indeterminate amount of time later, Faye stands and wobbles. "I want some music," she says petulantly. "I wanna dance."
"Better not," Spike says, but he's lost his consonants somewhere along the line. What comes out is a mumble even he can't understand. He brings the bottle up to his mouth, but it's empty. "That's not right," he says, holding it at arm's length and squinting. There are three bottles and the turkey on the gold label struts. It's a bar bottle, enough to completely tank three or four people split evenly, and he and Faye have killed the thing.
"Well, that's us well fucked," Spike says, laughing. The bottle falls to the floor.
Faye spins around in a slow circle, her slim arms above her head, each hand holding an opposite elbow. He watches her and finally says, "Faye. Uh. Faye? There's no music playing."
She moves her hips, tick-tock, back and forth like a pendulum clock, but slow. "It's all right," she says. "I've got some in my head."
"Really?" After an epic struggle, Spike hauls himself into a sitting position on the couch.
The hem of Faye's blue tank top rides up, showing the bloodstained bandage. Suddenly it's very important that he stand, and when he stands, it's very important to go over to her, though at each stage in the process he forgets what was so almighty important about the stage prior.
Then he's standing in front of her and she wraps her arms around his neck and he puts his at her waist, his long fingers almost spanning its circumference. He moves with her in silence because he can't hear her music, but it doesn't matter all that much.
Why did he need to do this? He feels stiff fabric beneath his palm, warmed by her flesh, and remembers. Forming each word meticulously, he says, "Don't get shot again. It's not good."
"You said you were happy, you wished you did it." She buries her face in his neck. He feels her breath against his skin, uneven and rapid with drink.
"Did not. And you shot at me once. Twice. So be fair."
"Missed. Meant to," Faye says. Her voice is slowing, slurring, and some sober part of Spike suspects that only they can understand what they're saying to each other right now. It's fine, the sober part adds. You won't remember a thing about this tomorrow, so whatever.
Faye's still mumbling. "You said bullet made you happy. Even if you didn't mean to say it, that's what you said. I don't like it. Mad at you. Better ways to be happy."
"Kidding. Sorry. Okay, cruel, but it was a real bad day. Don't hold it against me."
"Yeah," she sighs. "Bad day. Bad life of Spike. It's all right, just not again. Okay?"
"Okay," Spike says, but he hasn't got a clue what she's talking about. Which is how it usually is between them. Situation normal.
He rests his cheek on her hair and lets his eyes close. He's tired, really goddamn tired all the sudden.