Wasted
Disclaimer: I don't own the Matrix or any of the characters in the movies.
Summary: During her recuperation at the hotel, Bronwyn becomes addicted to narcotics and Smith decides that he will use their effects on her to his advantage.
Author's Note: A big thank you to Cecilia for all of your valuable & advice! Also, to BlueJ: the reason Smith was so eager to have a child of his own is that a) in my story, there was never a program/human hybrid in the Matrix' history and he realizes the significance and importance of his child being the first and b) since his own "rebirth" altered his programming so drastically, he wanted to experience fatherhood for himself.
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.Bronwyn hurriedly searched through all the bottles of liquor that were in the bar in her hotel room and was dismayed to discover that all of them were empty. How the hell could all that liquor just disappear, she wondered. Could I actually have drunk all of it?
She did have hazy memories of the last few days, but couldn't remember a period of any length of time where she did not have a bottle in her hand. I've gone from complete abstinence to a boozehound in the course of a few days, she thought sadly. It would seem that aside from drinking, all I've done recently is sleep and cry. Well, after all that I have gone through recently, I am perfectly entitled to do all three and to hell with what anyone else may think.
"GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!" Bronwyn cursed loudly, angry and peeved at herself, for she knew that the only thing in the room that contained any alcohol was wine. She made a face and took a drink, almost tempted to spit it back out again. She sneered as she read the label on the bottle: Chateau Mero. Ooh fucking la la. This stuff tastes like someone made it in their bathtub, not a vineyard.
Whoever invented wine should be shot, she thought darkly, as she deftly tossed the bottle into a nearby wastebasket. She quickly amended that thought, as it was the Ancient Egyptians who did so and Bronwyn revered their accomplishments and contributions that benefited mankind even thousands of years later.
Almost immediately, she heard a tentative knock at the door. Terrific, Bronwyn thought, exasperated. That woman from the boutique downstairs is here making sure that the clothes Smith sent up to me are satisfactory and I wouldn't be surprised if he sent her to spy on me as well.
Well, I guess I should be grateful to Smith for buying some clothes for me in the first place since he would not let me go back to my apartment to pick up a few things. It was too dangerous he had told me when I asked him. Maybe he was right, I don't know, but the real reason I wanted to go back is to pick up my necklace. It is the only memento I have of Jones, the only thing I have to remember him by.
"Is everything all right, Madame?" the girl inquired as she stuck her head inside the door. Bronwyn turned her head and quickly wiped her tears away before the girl could see them. If she knew I was crying, she'll go straight to Smith and the last thing I need is him asking me if I'm okay.
"No, everything is NOT all right! All I have to drink is some crappy French wine that tastes like fucking horse piss!" She turned and faced the girl directly. "Unless you know where I can get something else? Something other than alcohol, if you know what I mean? Like drugs, maybe?" she asked hopefully, "name your price and I'll pay it."
"Did you say drugs, Madame Smith?"
Bronwyn tried to keep her temper in check but failed. "Yes, I did, and don't you ever call me 'Madame Smith' ever again, you hear me? You know what my name is, and it sure as hell isn't that. Just call me Ronnie, please?"
The girl shook her head. "Monsieur Smith told me to only address you as Mad-."
Bronwyn furiously interrupted the girl before she could call her by that awful title. "Yeah well, Monsieur Dickhead isn't here for once, is he?" Bronwyn snarled, and was surprised to see the girl hide a smile behind her hand, her eyes had gleaming with amusement for a moment before she became serious. Apparently, she has the same opinion about Smith that I do, thought Bronwyn, heartened.
"Listen," the girl said, with a furtive glance over her shoulder to see if any of Smith's clones were within earshot. "I think I can help you."
"How?"
"I know someone who can help you get what you need."
"Like what?"
"Pills. Would you like me to get you some?"
Bronwyn's face lit up at this unexpected and very welcome news. "Are you fucking kidding me! Yes! Can your friend get me some percocets or oxycontin?"
"Certainly, Madame. How many would you like?"
"Fifty of each to start with, anyway. How much?"
The girl did a quick mental calculation. "Five hundred." Actually, it was more of a guess and the girl named a figure so exorbitant she was sure that Bronwyn would attempt to negotiate the price down to a more acceptable amount. It was common knowledge among the hotel staff that the man who had rented out the penthouse suite and the entire floor below it was extremely wealthy and he was perfectly willing and able to pay any price to keep his lady friend safe. No one from the hotel had been able to even catch a glimpse of Bronwyn and it was rumoured that she had never left the hotel suite since Smith had her checked in, so it was with barely concealed curiosity that she looked at Bronwyn.
"Deal! How soon can I get them?"
"I seem to have forgotten the two boxes of shoes that Monsieur Smith wanted you to have as well. I must go down and get them. I should be back within the hour," she said loud enough for her voice to carry to the door where a clone was watching both women with a vigilant eye. The copy was under strict orders to observe Bronwyn closely if she were in the company of anyone who might be a potential target for an agent to hijack into. "I need the money up front, though," she said in a whisper to Bronwyn.
Bronwyn grinned wickedly and went to get her purse. The only good thing I can say about Smith is that he is not stingy, she thought, taking several bills from the stack of one hundred dollar notes he had given her. She handed the money to the girl, who tucked the folded bills into her bosom, winked at Bronwyn conspiratorially, and left the room.
Just under an hour later, the woman returned with the promised goods. Bronwyn impatiently snatched the shoebox out of her hand and went to her bedroom, closing the door behind her. Opening the box, she removed the pills that had been hidden in the high-heeled leather pumps and she stared at the bottle for a long time.
It's been so long since I've taken any drugs, she thought. Not since I found out that I was pregnant, I think. She took a deep breath, shook a few tablets into her hand, and washed them down with a mouthful or two of wine.
It didn't take long for the narcotic effects of the pills to hit her and she fell backward on the bed in pleasure. Ah, drugs, my old friends, Bronwyn thought fuzzily, how I have missed you. By the time Smith knocked at her door nearly an hour later, she was more than a little stoned, to say the least.
"Come in," she said, happily.
"I just wanted to see if you liked the clothes that I had sent up?" As he entered, he did a cursory examination of the room, he could not help but notice that the boxes of clothes he had arranged to have sent up were unopened; however, the wastebasket was full of empty liquor bottles.
I'm as high as a fucking kite from drugs I bought with your money, but you don't have to know that, she thought recklessly, looking directly at Smith with a defiant air and suppressing an overwhelming desire to thumb her nose at him.
"I saw them, Smith," she lied glibly. "They are lovely. Thank you."
She has definitely been drinking more than usual, he thought, amused, or else she would've cursed at me by now.
She rose up off the bed, got to her feet and stumbled, and would have fallen if Smith had not caught her. He knew immediately that if he tried to put her on her feet again, she would only fall down again.
Therefore, he held her in his arms and waited for the inevitable explosion of her temper. However, it didn't happen. He expected her to react in revulsion to his touch and close proximity to her by shoving him away, but she did not. In fact, she didn't seem to mind the slightest bit that she was this close to him at all. Emboldened and encouraged by her lack of resistance to his touch, Smith surreptitiously shifted his hold on her so that one of his hands was firmly cupping her derrière, but Bronwyn never noticed.
"Whoops!" she giggled. "Good thing you have fast reflexes, Smith, or else I would have ended up on my ass. And you're strong too," she said, squeezing his forearm muscles and grinned at him appreciatively when she felt the strength within.
She is drunk, thought Smith, bemused in spite of himself. She must have drunk it pretty quickly to be running low now, he thought. However, alcohol by itself could not bring about this amount of change in her demeanor towards me. It's almost as if…..he peered into her eyes and saw how small her pupils were. She's on something all right, and it's certainly not just alcohol. He analyzed her Matrix code and the data streams clearly showed that she was under the unmistakable influence of narcotics.
She caught him looking at her eyes and matched his expression by scowling back at him exaggeratedly.
"You're always so stern and sombre, Smith, you need to lighten up. Seriously." she said, before she started to giggle again. "Are you going to put me down or are you just going to stand here and hold me?"
I could hold you like this forever, he thought languorously, before he shook his head to clear his mind of even considering acting on any of the thoughts and ideas that were filling his head as he pondered her words. However, I have to admit that I like seeing Bronwyn this way—happy, cheerful, and full of fun—and whatever it takes, I will see to it that she stays like this, for it seems that when she gets drunk or high, like she is now, she tolerates my presence much more than she would if she were sober.
I will take full advantage of her growing dependence on the drugs and alcohol that she feels she needs to make it through another day of existing without our daughter or Jones for that matter.
Perhaps, with enough time, she will be able to forget all about her affection for Jones and she will realize that she loves me. I want her to realize just how much I have grown to care for her.
Jones is gone, but I am here. She is too alive, too passionate, to continue to mourn for a phantom much longer. She is not aware that I've heard her moaning in her sleep several times; and from what I was able to ascertain from listening and observing her while she is sleeping, it isn't fear that causes her to cry out in the night, it is desire. She is used to having a man in her bed every night and being sexually satisfied quite often; her body still needs and demands fulfillment even if her mind wants nothing more than to grieve.
She is the kind of woman, I think, that once she has experienced and shared in the passion I feel for her, she will feel it as well. She will learn to love again; her heart will open to me and we can be together as we were meant to be.
And if I have to keep her inebriated or high-or both—until I achieve that goal then so be it, Smith thought to himself with a grim smile. It was too soon to act just yet, but he knew he would use the effects the intoxicants were having on Bronwyn to his advantage. However, to keep her in this state, he made a mental note to have the hotel fully stock the bar again.