"The Prince of Vices" A/N: Again with the Mother disclaimer. And I really thought Stoned!Spike would be a little funnier, but such is not the case... maybe I just can't write funny. That's probably it.

FAQ about pupils: I figure the cybernetic pupil wouldn't respond to biological impulses like being drugged up or aroused, because it wouldn't need to. That kind of thing is an evolutionary response, a means of communication, which is so utterly what Spike's right eye is not about. This isn't borne out in canon, but what the hell, it's nifty to write it in.

KARMA: The Prince of Vices

Aw, look at this mess.

Brains on the bar bottles, abandoned clothes everywhere, Faye slumped in a pool of congealing blood.

Someone sings in the distance.

"Spike," Jet groans. Only one person can sing that badly: Spike when he's three sails to the wind.

A wild-eyed man limps out of the back hall, looking over his shoulder, and collides with Jet's solid mass. He goggles upwards. His nose cants sharply to the right and blood pours down his chin.

"You must have bugged him," Jet says. He wraps his cybernetic arm around Job's neck and squeezes until the man stops struggling. Then he cuffs him to the bar runner and he's finally free to check Faye.

Her pulse is weak and her lips are pale. The wound is ugly, but all bullet wounds are—a dark little hole drooling blood onto the floor. Jet decides he can't waste time worrying about whether he'd have company. The Hammerhead is blocking the main entrance and since Job came running that way, there's probably no back door. The cavalry will have to find another way in.

The bullet passed clean through her side, going through muscle and skin, but it didn't hit bone, which means Jet doesn't have to worry about bone shards causing internal injuries. Faye's life isn't in immediate danger unless she dies of hydrostatic shock, but he sweats anyway. He bandages her and gives her a painkiller to keep her under. As he pulls her away from the bar, he sees the small hole in the siding... on a whim Jet pries the slug out of the faux bois and pockets it.

Footsteps, unsteady. Jet stands and turns. "Took you long enough," he says.

Spike grins lopsidedly. Sweat stands out in drops on his forehead and temples, drips off his nose and chin. He staggers, half-falls, half-jumps onto the bar and tips back his head, singing to the ceiling. If you want to call it singing, which Jet doesn't.

"Hey, there you are!" Spike says jovially, finally recognizing him. His pupils don't match up. His left eye is fully dilated, a large dark hole, while his right looks as sane and sober as ever. It gives Jet the willies.

"Think you can carry Job?" he asks, hooking a thumb at the unconscious smuggler.

"Cash and carry only. Fifty thousand woolongs, my man," Spike says, and laughs.

"Nevermind. Just get your ass on the Hammerhead, if you can find it," Jet growls. "How could you let yourself get drugged? Unbelievable." He gently lifts Faye, the sticky warmth of her blood on his arm a cause for alarm.

Spike swings his legs over the bar and grabs bottles of liquor. After he makes his selections, he knocks the rest off the rack, shattering them. The sudden, shocking smell of sugar and rye boils up, making Jet's eyes smart. He shakes his head as he walks out the door. It's amazing how Spike's brain works. High off his ass, he still finds a way to snitch booze and cover up for the theft at the same time.

Stinking of alcohol, Spike pops up at his elbow like some bizarre jack-in-the-box, a prince of vices, the bottles in his arms chiming against one another. With difficulty, Jet keys the Hammerhead open to put Faye in. Spike climbs in after, clambering to kneel by her head. "She's not dead, is she?"

He drops the bottles in his arms. Thankfully, none of them break, but unthankfully, some of them are the ones with the brains, and it's getting all over his cockpit.

Spike doesn't notice. He puts his hand on Faye's hair. "Jet. Jet, she's shot."

"Yeah, but it's no big deal, she's fine," he says, scowling. "Wait here and don't touch anything until I bring out Job. You got that?"

Spike shudders and stares at him. Even with his mismatched eyes and bloodstained clothing, he suddenly looks like nothing more than a little kid, his eyes huge and brilliant with the effects of the drug. "I don't feel good," he says.

"I bet, bud," Jet says, closing the door.