A/N: The style for this chapter was an experiment in hallucinogenic illusions--inspiration drawn from late-night thoughts, broken records, skipped CDs, stuck in traffic. Amazing how many thoughts we can sum up in brief sentences, half-thoughts, really. Just one or two words can convey everything, whole stories, whole lives. Our imaginations take the unusual and run with it. Let them.

Ballad for Eurydice

-irishais-

3. Mushroom Hunting

"Well."

"Yeah, I know."

Pause. Long pause.

"Gotta go?"

"Where to?"

A dry laugh. Bitter.

It was something, and something was always damn better than nothing at all. It echoed off dingy walls and into the speaker of the video phone.

"Come back."

"I can't."

That wasn't what she wanted to hear.

"...Still thinking?" The word was said as if it were something foul. To her, it probably was.

"I guess."

"Well, why don't you call back when you've got something to say?" The call disconnected.

Shit.

Frustration knotted itself down his spine. He'd called. He'd made the attempt to do something. He had just wanted to let them know he was still alive, no matter how difficult it had been to bring himself to call. At least he was starting to feel, albeit only difficulty, frustration, loneliness.

No, scratch that.

Not lonely. He wanted to be alone, was why he'd come here in the first place. Spike fell back on his couch and stared at a ceiling that threatened to collapse if he looked at it crosswise. "Shit, shit, shit." He reached for his cigarettes, hand blindly searching the floor for the box. Success.

He lit up and wondered if the ceiling would cave if he blew a big enough smoke ring.

Did he miss them?

Not really.

Yeah, he did.

No, you don't.

His coffin nail was growing short quickly as he tried to figure out if he was lying or not. He didn't know. Hell, he didn't know anything, it seemed like, at least that was what Faye always told him.

What everyone had always told him. Reckless, just looking for a place to die.

Julia.

The voice of a ghost tugged at the farthest reaches of his hearing. He tried to remember what she smelled like...leather? Lace? Musky scotch, well aged...smoky.

Little boy looking for a man in the moon.

Sucker for a hard luck woman, sucker for a lost cause.

"I need a drink."

Damn neon did nothing to chase away the ghosts. As a matter of fact, the intimate conversation he was having with Jack and friends wasn't doing too much, either.

"Fancy seeing you here," a voice that attempted to be seductive whispered into his ears.

He didn't respond. Took a sip.

"Whatsamatta, lover boy?" Long, skinny arms wrapping themselves around him. Familiar arms.

Spike found that he didn't have to try terribly hard to ignore her, and motioned over the bartender. "Leave the bottle."

"Drunk."

"No, just forgetting again."

Ophelia disentangled herself from him and plopped down onto the worn stool next to him. "Lost cause," she responded. "How've you been?" she asked, taking a generous swig from the bottle. He plucked it from her fingers and poured himself another glass. "That good, huh?" She grabbed the container from him as he went for another glass. "Easy, tiger. Might as well just give it to you intravenously if you're that desperate."

"Probably help me faster, anyway."

"What, to forget or to get you into a grave?"

He shook his head.

"I can help you forget."

"Not in the mood."

Ophelia laughed. "Well, that is a shame, but I actually wasn't referring to sex. For once." She got hold of his arm and traced out the long vein down his arm. He raised an eyebrow. "Trust me," she whispered, and took him out the back door.

Trust you?

The world felt like it had been turned on its head. He was fairly certain his brain had exploded--either that or his head had become home to a very small, very violent drum corps. Everything was ghost-like in his vision, and he wondered why death was so damn painful.

She was waiting for him, holding out her hands like some strange angel.

"Let's go, loverboy!"

Mushroom hunting!

He grabbed her hands.

gotta knock a little harder gotta knock a little harder gotta get someone to open the lock there's a door he can't get through let him in let him in no matter how hard he knocked no one was answering he wanted to know why he couldn't get in was he dead? had to be dead they'd let him in if he was alive wouldn't they?

gotta knock a little harder gotta break down the door.

He woke to music.

Angel chorus.

No, a familiar? voice, not singing but saying something...Spike pried his eyes open and found wide violet eyes looking down at him. "What are you doing here?"

"Nice to see you, too." A flare of a lighter and smoke clouded his vision. "Feeling better?"

He tried to move and found that moving was a little too much like work. "Is that a trick question?"

She laughed, a throaty sound that sent a shiver down his spine. "It depends on what you felt like before, I guess." Uncrossing her long, long legs, Faye Valentine looked like she belonged painted on the nose of an ancient aircraft. She tapped her cigarette against an ashtray that Spike couldn't see. "Nice place you got here." Sarcasm abounded.

Spike grunted.

"You really love slumming, don't you?" Faye continued, her eyes everywhere except on him. "Got a call from an...Ophelia, I think was her name. Looked like a hooker." She pursed red lips around the slim white smoke. "Are you doing drugs?"

Straightforward.

Blatant.

Threw him for a loop. He blinked. She blew a cloud of smoke angrily.

"I didn't expect you to become a junkie," said Faye, and walked out of his life for a second time.

Addict?