"Dope Sick Boy" A/N: Embroidering on my hypothesis that Spike used Red Eye, and extrapolating from there. (Also, if you want to get really far out, like Film 391 far out, the way Spike rejects the mushrooms at the end of "Mushroom Samba." Going from Ein's hiccup, some of those shrooms had a little power, and perhaps Spike shuns them for more reason than he's just sick of the taste. Yes, this is indeed a stretch).
The title's a variation on the Rancid song "Dope Sick Girl."
KARMA: Dope Sick Boy
He feels like shit.
Hangovers he can deal with, tell himself it's just a bad headache, a case of the flu. Or tell himself the truth, it's a goddamn hangover, sleep it off and the next day everything's all right. Make himself a Prairie Oyster and drink it with his nose pinched shut.
The come-down off whatever Job pumped into him makes him itchy, makes him want to go out and find more. He thinks: It's a chemical compulsion, nothing to do with anything. Sweat it out. He strips off his shirt and puts on his sweatpants and starts his kata, but the come-down makes every muscle hurt three times as bad. Makes him tense up, makes him slow and thick, his body resistant.
There's an easy fix—fuck off, he says to that inner voice.
There are times when, as much as he respects Mao, he wants to find the man's ghost in the Afterlife and kick the living shit out of it. This is one of them. When you're already addicted to one drug, it makes it a lot easier to get into other stuff, fun stuff, recreational stuff. Spike kicks, ignoring the agony of the stretching scar.
Red Eye's no fun. Spike had no trouble keeping his hands off it except to keep withdrawal at bay. It's the other junk that gets him in trouble. Got him in trouble. Past tense.
Once this drug's out of his system, he won't want any more of it. That's how it works, at least the physical side of it, provided he doesn't fuck up and take something until he needs it to function. The mental side is the real rodeo, the part where the bull can throw him to the sawdust and go for gore.
Charlie horse. Thigh. Spike falls to one knee and massages the knotted muscle. It's balled up like a fist, striking pain all up and down his leg.
"Goddammit," he snarls.
"You alright?" Jet pokes his head around the wall.
"Yeah, peachy," Spike says. Jet starts to withdraw, but he says, "Wait."
Jet walks out all the way and stands, arms folded, watching Spike, his eyes concerned and wary.
"Break the Swordfish," he says.
"Wha—?" Jet has no reference for this.
"Don't even ask. Just go in the engine and rip something out. I mean it. And take care of the Hammerhead and the Redtail, too. Make sure I can't get at them."
"What the hell's this about?" Jet holds his up hands palm-out when he sees the look Spike shoots at him. "I'm gonna do it, I just wanna know."
"You don't need to know. It's just something I need done. You in?"
"Yeah, I'll do it right now," Jet says. He looks at Spike measuringly. "Hey, Spike. Get drunk."
Spike's dumbfounded for a second, but then he gets it and nods. "Yeah, that's a good idea. Thanks." The Charlie horse finally melts, and Spike stands. The big thigh muscle twitches but shows no signs of seizing up again.
Once a junkie... He fucking suregod loathes this about himself. He goes to fetch the booze.