This scenario has already been done to death. I just think that the scenario is hysterical. Please give me your feedback because I'm trying hard to keep Spike more in character (and freaking out a whole lot less). Regardless, it's been fun.
Spike lay on the old yellow sofa, under an old scratchy blanket that he was sure Jet had taken from a dead homeless man on the streets of Ganymede. In one hand, he held a lit cigarette. In the other, a half-empty bottle of bourbon. And nearby, on the little table, stood a bottle of Vicodin.
Spike had had his share of injuries. He'd been sliced up one way and slashed down another. He'd taken multiple bullets to nearly every extremity. He had scars in places he didn't even know he had. But there had been nothing, nothing like this to land him flat on his back in such agony.
A kidney stone.
Damnit, he thought, as he took another swig. Even the motion of his arm made him hurt. He took another look at the bottle of Vicodin. There weren't many in the bottle, and Jet had admonished him to make them last. The damned doctor hadn't been any help either. His only suggestion was fluids. Narcotic painkillers were hard to come by lately, thanks to all the fat cats using them, buying them, selling them, trading them for whatever fat cats used for pleasure these days since they couldn't get their dicks up anymore.
Christ, where did that come from? That sounded like Faye. Usually her long tirades about dickless wonders made him laugh, but even that hurt like a mofo right now.
And then she gave him a big bottle of cranberry juice, "the remedy for the female UTI everywhere" she had cackled, thanks a fucking lot, you skanky-assed bitch, he'd snapped at her, and then she'd smacked him a good one right in the gut, which would have been enough to make him puke his guts out, except that he had already done that about an hour before.
Yes, he deserved that one, and rightly so, but this pain was enough to make the Pope shit in his own hat. He'd apologize later. When he felt better. Maybe.
His cigarette burned out. His last one. He knew there was another pack in his room, but that meant movement on his part. And he was alone on the ship. Well, not fully. The kid and the mutt were still aboard but if he had to make a choice between not having a smoke and having the brat in his face, well, he'd have to sit right down and think about it.
He flicked the cigarette butt across the room and rubbed his face. The fever was down again, thank heavens. He reached for the bottle and touched something else instead. Confused, he fondled whatever-it-was for a minute before he realized it was a human head.
"Spi-spi tum-tum still hurt?"
Spike groaned. "Yes, Ed. Spi-spi tum-tum still hurt."
"Faye-Faye say Spi-spi should drink lots of berrycranny juice."
Faye-faye can kiss Spi-spi's ass, thought Spike. "Spi-spi doesn't like berrycranny juice. Spi-spi would rather have juice made from sour corn mash, thank you very much." And why the hell am I talking like this? Must be feverish again.
"Ed tum-tum hurt too."
"Is that so?"
"Yes."
"And why, pray tell, does the tum-tum of Ed-ed hurt?" Christ, I must be delirious.
"Ed doesn't know."
Sigh. "Stand up. Lemmee take a look at you." Ed obligingly stood up. Her face looked sad and pinched, like something was indeed hurting her. "Where does it hurt?"
"Here." Ed demonstrated, rubbing her thin hand low across her abdomen.
"Do you feel like you're going to be sick?"
"No."
"Did you eat something out of the refrigerator that's in the cargo bay?"
"No."
"Did you drink the water out of the load pans again?"
"NO." Her voice almost sounded wavery, like tears were close to the surface.
"Geez, Ed, calm down. Is the pain like, stabbing? Like someone's turning a knife in your gut?"
"Sometimes."
Well, that's progress. "Is there anything else you're able to tell me?"
"Ed doesn't know. It just hurts. It just . . . funny hurts."
"Funny ha-ha or funny weird?" Like there's a difference with her. Ed just shrugged and pulled at her t-shirt. "Ed, look, I can't help you. I'm sorry. Go take a nap or something." Ed looked crestfallen, and she pulled her shirt even more out of shape against her thin body. Spike draped a hand over his eyes.
After a few moments, Spike's mind began to wander. What could be wrong with the kid? Upset stomach, cripes, kid's stomachs were always upset. But she didn't eat anything weird, at least not this time. How old was she, anyway? 13? And then a fleeting image went through Spike's mind: when she pulled her t-shirt down so it was tight across her chest. And the chest that was so recently distinctly flat now had little bumps.
Oh. Oh, oh, oh.
"Ed?" The girl was still nearby. "Ed, tell me, how much . . . do you know . . . about how a body, a human body, um . . . matures?"
Ed didn't answer.
"So if I told you that the reason your tum-tum hurts is most likely because you're growing up, would you have any idea of what I was talking about?"
"Is Ed getting taller?"
"Perhaps." Damned if I know, I try never to look at you, kid, and now that I know that your boobs are growing, I'll be damned if I ever look in your direction again. "You're getting older, Ed, and um, certain things on a girl change as she gets older."
"Like these?" And damned if Spike didn't open his eyes to see Ed with her shirt pulled up to her chin, exposing two plum-sized breasts with light pink nipples. Spike slammed his eyes shut.
"Yes, yes, those, for the love of everything good and holy, pull your shirt down. And don't . . . show me those again."
"Ed has bumps. Bump-bumps!"
Jesus.
"Ed will call bump-bumps Agnes and Mildred!"
Oh sweet Jesus.
"Will Ed's Agnes and Mildred get as big as Faye-faye's Agnes and Mildred?"
Spike stammered, "I . . ." then he shut his mouth. He couldn't even fathom finishing a statement regarding this comparison. First of all, he'd have to visualize Ed's bosom once more, a thought which made him nervous and ill to even conjure, and then he'd have to re-visualize Faye's bosom, which he tried not to do, despite the tops she barely wore.
Note to self, thought Spike. Burn out eyes with acid at next opportunity. It's the only way to stay sane around here.
Spike opened one eye to see if Ed had pulled her top down. Not only had she not done so, she was now chanting "Agnes and Mildred" as she pressed on her nipples as if they were buttons. Spike covered his eyes with one hand.
"Don't do that."
"Why not?"
"Spi-spi doesn't like it, Agnes and Mildred don't like it, no one likes it, just pull down your shirt, for the love of god!"
Silence. Spike braved a glance at Ed. Her shirt was down, thank heavens, but now her chin was wobbling and tears were in her eyes. Jesus. For a moment, Spike wished with all his heart that either, A: they had been stuck with a boy as a stowaway, or, B: they'd never had a damn stowaway in the first place. A second dog would be much better at the moment.
Sigh. "Ed . . ."
Ed's chin wobbled even more, and then she burst into tears.
And another part of Spike's manhood died a little death. In response, he reached for the bottle of Vicodin and swallowed two with a bourbon chaser.
What kind of sins should a man commit, thought Spike, that he should be flat on his back with a kidney stone, alone with a girl who has just hit puberty?
Meanwhile, Ed had dropped to her knees beside him and had buried her head in his chest. Through her weeping, Spike caught snatches of speech: "Agnes and Mildred . . . nobody understands . . . tum-tum still hurt . . ."
Spike stayed silent and dreamed of living alone in a cave. Under a rock. At the bottom of the ocean. He waited for the storm to pass. Then he took a breath so he could undergo the next fact-finding mission.
"Ed, do me a favor. Go to the bathroom."
"Ed-ed doesn't need to go."
"I don't care. Just go. And report anything . . . unusual."
"Does Spi-spi need to see?"
"Spi-spi needs to see nothing. Nothing whatsoever. Just. . . go."
Ed scampered off, singing some ridiculous little song about potties that made Spike shudder. He looked at the Vicodin bottle again. Only a couple left.
Another note to self, thought Spike. Don't breed. Get a vasectomy. Get two, for crissakes.
There was suddenly a shriek from the direction of the bathroom.
Revise note to self, thought Spike. Just shoot self in the head.
As a precaution, Spike closed his eyes and covered them with a hand. From the hysterical tone of the shriek, there was no telling what state of undress the kid would be barreling out here in. Ed came tearing into the room and skidded to a halt on her knees next to Spike, babbling about what she saw. When Spike had managed to ascertain that his worst fear had, in fact, come true, he reached out with a hand and grabbed her by the top of her head.
"Ed."
Ed fell silent.
"You are not dying." Although right now I wish I were. "You are experiencing what is commonly known as 'getting your period'." And yet another part of Spike's manhood died a little death simply by uttering the words. "The clinical name escapes me at the moment, and would you please hand me that bottle of Vicodin."
After another course of narcotics and alcohol, Spike sent Ed to look up her condition on the web. After a short while, she returned to Spike's side, looking sober.
Spike looked at her. "Now what?"
"Tomato says that Ed-ed needs supplies."
He hadn't considered that. With a heavy sigh, he said, "In the bathroom, under the sink, there's a box." He shuddered and said, "Bring it here."
"The pink box?"
"Yes."
"With the flowers?"
Sigh. "Yes."
"That's Faye-faye's box, the one that Faye-faye said Ed-ed should never touch."
"I'm fully aware that it's Faye-faye's box, we won't tell her, this is an emergency, just bring it here."
She scampered away. Why did I tell her to bring it here? Jesus, I'm delirious again, he thought. He pictured the box in his head. He remembered when it appeared beneath the sink. He remembered recognizing the box for what it was, what was inside, what it represented. And he'd died a little death inside. He had known when Jet saw the box for the first time too, because Jet had exited the bathroom and his eyes met Spike's. And in his eyes was the same look of a little death.
Ed returned presently with the non-descript box that for Spike represented everything that was wrong with the human race and a man's place in it. He resented that box and what that box meant. He had felt the same way when Julia had placed a box similar to it in his grotty little flat so many years ago. He might be a misogynistic ass, in fact Julia had called him that on a number of occasions, but he longed for the days when he knew nothing about the internal workings of a woman. Because he knew that as soon as he'd gained that knowledge, the little deaths had begun. And there was no unlearning that kind of knowledge.
By now Ed had the box open, and inside was what Spike expected to see. 3 for 3. Sometimes I wish I were more of a betting man. Ed held up one of the tampons and said, "Does Spi-spi know how to use these things?"
"God, no, Ed. Just . . . put that down, put the box away."
"Ed can't use these?"
"Ed could but Spi-spi has no intention of explaining how they're used. Put the box away. And give me the Vicodin."
You know what you have to do, Spike thought grimly. Give me strength, he prayed to a god that he didn't believe in. Spike swallowed the last of the Vicodin with the last of the bourbon, rose, and strode to his room.
As he was dressing, he had a memory of times past, when Julia had sent him out on a similar shopping expedition. Back then he'd promised himself that he would never go on such a shopping trip again without either: A, a gun to his head, or B, a complete personality transplant.
And since I think I've had neither A nor B, what the hell is the reason? Other than all the little deaths have piled up and now I'm actually dead. Good choice. That means I don't have to pass the damn kidney stone.
As he pulled on his shoulder holster and strapped in the speedloader, he had another memory. A little something for emergencies. From the old days.
He opened the side drawer on the bureau. There it was, wrapped an in old handkerchief that had probably belonged to Vicious. He took out the small parcel and unwrapped a pneumatic injection of morphine. Ah, lovely morphine. It may not take the pain completely away, but it certainly would take away the ability to care.
Spike stood for a moment, weighing the decision to use this little item. The Vicodin and the alcohol had left him slightly numb, but for how long? This little angel would certainly be very helpful. But why use it in this situation? What a waste. But then he thought of Ed.
Poor kid. She only has us.
With a sigh, he touched the pneumatic injection to his skin and he felt the little phft of air and the small jab. And then, shortly, oh, sweet, blessed, relief.
Spike slipped on his jacket, cricked his neck quickly to the side to pop the vertebrae, and said, "Showtime."
He strode through the common area saying, "I'm going shopping. I'll be back." By now, Ed had crawled onto the ugly yellow couch, and was hugging the horrible blanket. She nodded and closed her eyes. Spike slid on his sunglasses and climbed into the Swordfish. He fired the engine and sped out of the hangar towards the city centre. He found the super-drug-store and landed, taking up eight parking spaces with his speedster, next to the mini-vans and other family-type vehicles. He purposely marched into the store alongside the housewives with pin curls and strollers, snagged a basket and went straight to the "feminine products" aisle. He mused briefly that the two current women in his life (yes, women, now Ed had moved into that category) were about as feminine as a muffler on a damned Harley. Then he looked at wall of products before him.
Now I finally understand why women take so damn long to shop. Why there were so many choices was beyond him, but he gamely scanned the shelves, trying to remember which product was the one that Julia had sent him out for. She had even been so kind as to remove the box top from her depleted supply and send it with him. Wait a minute. Spike flipped open his wallet, and under a folded pile of IOUs, bar receipts, and parking tickets, was a dog-eared, rumpled box top. He laughed out loud, drawing the stares of some other shoppers. Thanks, Julia, he thought, as he found a matching box. Wings? Fly me to the moon, baby, and he laughed out loud again. This time it was harder to get control, and Spike figured he'd better finish this mission quickly. His eye caught on what looked like a bottle of medicine. For the relief of menstrual symptoms, including fatigue, bloating, and mild mood changes. Ah yes, one of those for Ms. Ed, one for Ms. Faye-faye, it couldn't hurt, it might even help with that ticking time-bomb, and, hell with it, one for me.
Spike headed toward the check-out when he was struck with another memory of Julia. She'd only sent him to fetch "feminine supplies" (and, despite her gang-member proclivities, "feminine" did suit her as a description) once, yet he remembered being sent in search of the ultimate time-of-the-month panacea on many occasions: ice cream.
He went down the cooler aisle, taking only a glance at a replacement bottle of bourbon, when he saw his quarry. The store even carried the good stuff, the 700-calories-a-spoonful stuff that Julia had always chided him for buying, yet she never relinquished any to him. Hence his habit of buying two quarts, knowing that she'd never eat what he chose for himself. Choices, choices. Well, the kid is just going to have to deal with chocolate raspberry truffle, unless she's really into rum raisin. And she doesn't strike me as being a rum raisin kind of girl. Spike almost giggled, and he thought, Now I remember why I stopped taking morphine, recreationally and otherwise. Gads, but it's wonderful.
Finally, Spike made his way towards the front, when another display caught his eye, a kind of craft-project-in-a-box. Actually, it was a box, one that could be decorated with the included glitz and stuff. Impulsively, he snagged one of these as well. The kid will have her own under-the-sink-box, and the men on the ship will die another little death. Hallelujah and amen, sister. By the time he had made it through the checkout lane, he felt like he was floating about 2 and 3/8 inches off the ground (the 3/8-inch was extremely important, yes in-god-damn-deed) and he gave the checkout girl a smile and the admonition to have a wonderful day. He ignored the parking ticket on the Swordfish, and took off back to the ship.
He found Ed in the same place, curled up on the sofa. He felt sorry for the kid, as usually she'd be knocking him over looking for "souvenirs" but this whole experience had taken the wind out of her sails. And knowing that now she'd passed, unwillingly, into the next stage of her life, with no turning back -- that made even his hardened male heart die a little death. He handed over the bag with the napkins and the craft box, telling her in no uncertain terms, that: A, he never wanted to see the box of "supplies" nor its contents in any way, shape, or form, as long as he lived, and B, to decorate the craft box to hold her supplies in such a way that everyone on the ship would know it was hers, and to put it under the sink, next to Faye's.
The floaty feeling of the morphine was lessening, to Spike's dismay. He went in search of his cigarettes and found not just one pack, but two. Excellent. He then returned to the sofa, where Ed was trying to peek into the other bag, the one with the ice cream.
"Ed?"
"Ed didn't touch!"
"Does Ed want ice cream?"
Ed's eyes grew wide and shiny again. Oh, Jesus, now what? But instead, Ed soberly came up to Spike and caught him in a hug around his waist and held him tight. And oh, how it hurt. It made Spike die another little death, but this time, it was okay. Spike let the girl stay there a while, holding him. Then he ruffled her hair and said, "The ice cream is melting."
Ed released him with a squeal and dove into the bag. She contemplated the choices briefly, and thankfully, gave Spike the rum raisin with an admonition that he shouldn't mix his alcohols. She scampered away with a chant about how chocolate was bad for dogs, pink ice cream was for grown-up girls, and Spi-spi liked drunken raisins.
Spike winced as the pain in his gut came back with a fresh and sharp pang. He took a breath and eased himself onto the sofa. There was no more Vicodin. But there was ice cream.
Jet returned to the ship a while later. Spike was smoking a cigarette, stretched out on the sofa with his feet on the table.
"Spike."
"Jet."
"What's been going on?"
"I didn't pass the kidney stone. Ed got her first period. Oh, and Ein ate one of your bonsai."
A pause. "What?"
"Ein ate one of your bonsai."
"No, about Ed."
"Got her first period."
Another pause. "Is she okay?"
"All taken care of."
"You took care of Ed?"
"No problem."
Jet went silent, contemplating just how Spike had "taken care" of the situation. Then he noticed, on the table: the empty bottle of bourbon, the empty bottle of Vicodin, and the empty ice cream container. Aha.
And then Jet realized the import of Spike's statement about Ed. And Jet, being a man, died a little death.
"Men are stupid, men are vain,
Love's disgusting, love's insane,
A humiliating business." -- Stephen Sondheim, "Every Day a Little Death"
Special thanks to my Hubster, who laughed when I told him I was writing this, and who revealed that he had died his own little death when I put "supplies" in his bachelor bathroom, way back when.
Also thanks to the real-life Agnes and Mildred. Party on, girls.