Author: Inca
Feedback: Don�t make me come after you - [email protected]
Rating NC17 m/m, drug use
AU Liam/Spike
Disclaimer: Whedon, Mutant Enemy and all that jazz
Spoilers: AU
Summary: Liam�s an addict
Authors notes: Consulted with knowlagable friends. Feel free to berate me and inform me that your withdrawal or experience wasn�t as depicted here, but I probably won�t change anything.
Cocaine addiction. Do not read if this will affect you adversely in any way.
***
Liam never felt the needle slide out.
�And � ya done Liam. Nice doin� business witcha.�
Liam stood, swaying, and clumsily made his way through the dark smoky apartment. A woman reached out from where she was collapsed dead on the couch and ran her bony fingers across his leg as he stumbled past. He giggled, high pitched, as his brain floated inside his skull, like it was filled with seawater and hurricanes. He felt a little sick, instinctively moving outside, fresh air would help him. He slapped the meaty bouncer on the chest happily and bounced through the open door, walking swiftly out into the alleyway.
The frigid air felt good on his hot face as he walked quickly, almost jogging. The sickness seemed to be increasing.
He giggled and stumbled into a wall that had come out of nowhere.
He made his way down the bright midnight streets. Everything was so hot and bright and backwards. His mouth was cold and he couldn�t feel his lips. It was perfect. A man asked him something but he just laughed and the man drifted off. He could hear himself talking. Rambling to anyone that would listen, he didn�t even know what he was saying; his brain wasn�t attached to his tongue or his voice. He wasn�t even sure his brain was there.
He giggled again.
He was going to vomit.
He knelt down in the gutter, knees in wet slippery puddles and felt like he was flying. He emptied his stomach into the ground watching the clumping puddle with interest as some girl voices chattered off to the side of him. He stood to try to get across the road, feeling like he was glowing. But as he stood, the blood drained from his head and the black pumped in place of it, and he collapsed, face first across the tarmac, to the sound of screeching tires.
***
The scrawny man across from Liam stood up shakily, gulping and eyes bugging. �My name is Grant, and I�ve been a heroin user for almost six years now.� He stuttered out, voice hollow in the large hall, fingers playing with the buttons of his shirt.
�Let�s all show Grant appreciation for his courage.� The counsellor, Mary, bubbled, her brown frizzy hair strapped into annoying buns today.
Liam placed the styrafoam cup of over-sugared coffee between his knees and clapped listlessly. He hated being clapped, personally.
His stomach was cramping. He felt some sweat bead across his top lip and sighed. He needed some sleep. Sleep was always the best way to ignore it all. To push it away for a few hours.
�I lost my job, my house was repossessed, I couldn�t even take care of my daughter. Social Services took her. She�s been put into foster care.� He teared up, his large surprised eyes coating with sheen.
Liam hated the crying. The new ones always cried. Once they came here a few more times their stories wouldn�t seem so sad. They�d realise they were like everybody else. The people who were losing. Would always lose, because of who they were.
�But the worst thing is, she just deserves a better father than that��
Liam�s eyes snapped to the ground. He tuned out, sipping his coffee, looking around the large room with its bright paintings and cheery sentiments. Posters of �you can do it� fame, with cheery people, or, confusingly, animals.
Liam wasn�t sure many animals became addicted to much of anything. He smirked and the movement made the tear across his cheekbone cry out in pain as it was crumpled. He pressed his fingertips gently against the cotton bandage underneath his left eye, trying to ease the pain away. He could feel the bumps of the stitches. He remembered the tarmac crashing towards him at an alarming speed and then � he was in the back of a police car.
Clapping snatched him away from his thoughts and he saw Greg� no, Gary� no, Grant, sit down in his hard plastic fold out chair, looking relieved, cheeks wet. Mary turned to Liam, happy smile on her plump face.
Oh, no.
�Liam? Would you like to share?�
He sipped his coffee and placed it on the ground. The sound of the soundless cup being placed on the floor was loud in his ears.
He didn�t stand. �I�m Liam. I�m addicted to cocaine. This makes me sad. I was put in here by a slack judge after I caused a five-car pile up because I collapsed in the middle of Hollywood Boulevard after a strong hit. This is my sixth visit to rehab, three times semi outpatient, one time I signed myself in, second time forced into it by a judge who doesn�t seem to realise that I�m living proof rehab blows.�
He picked up his coffee and sipped it, the noise, again loud in his ears, a slurp, long and wet. The sugar was heavy but it wasn�t helping. The group looked at each other, hands poised as if to clap, but not sure if they were meant to.
Mary looked at him, cheerily. �Oh, now that�s a bit negative isn�t it?�
Liam�s teeth were chattering. He needed something. Soon. It always started with the nausea. Then his teeth chattering. Then the skin underneath his fingernails would start to itch and he�d sweat as well, then a pot luck draw of burning behind his eyes or vertigo, some bone aching, headaches- the list went on and on until Liam could do nothing but crouch under the covers waiting for sleep.
�Liam, why don�t you share something personal with us.�
Liam was not in the mood for this. For sharing personal information with his group. For faux caring, and happy bright rooms, and people who cried because they thought it was the right thing to do. He wanted a needle. In his arm. Filled with bliss.
And none of these people could give him that, so they were worthless to him.
�Personal? Um, I have herpes.� Liam lied, satisfied with the shock value.
Mary pursed her thin lips at him, not so cheery. Apparently he was ruining her buzz.
*
He couldn�t sleep that night. He lay on the small bed and listened to his roommate, Frank, snore. Big loud grunting snores that ripped right past Liam�s eardrums and played staccato beats on his brain.
He started to imagine, fantasise, that he could feel the hot burn of the needle into his vein. The head spinning euphoria that rushed through his body, sped up his heart, made everything bright and everyone happy. He never felt the needle slip out.
He licked his dry lips and tried to get his mind off the subject. He tried to remember the French he had learnt when he was fifteen. He tried to remember how many football games he�d played throughout high school. How many different cars he�d driven in his lifetime. He even tried counting the seconds between Frank�s snores. The thoughts never stayed on track for long.
His mind slipped unerringly back to the burning snake fang of the needle. His mouth practically watered. The vein in his arm burned with coke stigmata. He cursed and turned his light on, so he could stare at the cracked ceiling for a while.
He was sweating and wide awake, every sense on hyper alert. Frank�s snores were intolerable. He had a brief but very vivid fantasy of covering Frank with his pillow, covering his face with it as he flailed. Until he foamed into the fabric.
He took a deep breath, pursing his lips to let it out slowly.
He rolled over to look at the two photos glue-tacked to the wall. The first of he and his young wife Cordy in the outpatient ward, him looking ecstatically happy, she looking like she was about to pass out, her face sweaty, her usually prom queen hair sticking up all ways from her head as Liam helped her support the tiny close-eyed baby in her arms. The second was of Connor, their son, six years later and smiling hugely, no front teeth, posing in yellow and brown - his team�s colours, his left foot up on a soccer ball. He had that shaggy bowl cut most six-year-old boys had, eyes blue in a pixyish face. Blue eyes had been a surprise. Cordy had greenish eyes, but they hadn�t expected blue. Recessive gene.
He and Cordy were the same age, separated by only months. They�d met in high school when they were fourteen, but had only started talking when they shared moderate trig for a semester when they were seventeen. Voted most popular couple in the yearbook, the vacuous award quoted under a picture of them at a football game, he in the uniform, her in the cheerleader outfit, frozen as they kissed happily five seconds after the win. He�d run off the field and grabbed her out of the cheer formation, picking her up and spinning her as she squealed louder than the excited yells of the crowd. Prom king and queen, although Liam highly suspected he�d only won by default because he was dating the most popular girl in the school. But she�d looked so beautiful in that glittery grey dress, thin straps over her smooth shoulders, a vee that teasingly ended half way down her chest and a split up her tan thigh, the one he�d helped pick out on one of the countless trips to countless dress stores. He could still feel the shimmering roughness of the material under the pads of his fingers.
They�d dated past graduation and into the same college and then one day in their last year, when Liam had skipped visual design 314 to smoke opium, he�d gotten a phone call from a teary Cordy telling him she was pregnant.
They had stoically decided to finish their courses, and Liam had gotten an entry-level job in a design firm, a month before their shotgun wedding. They had planned to get married and have a family, just not so soon. It had all happened so fast. With Cordelia�s father shooting him death glares as he walked his six months pregnant daughter up the isle, they had been married a week after Cordy had turned twenty-one.
Frank woke himself up with a particularly loud snore and proceeded to walk around the room for a good half-hour making gargling noises.
Liam rolled his eyes, pulled the pillow over his face and fell asleep in a sudden crash. He dreamt of sterilised steel and dancing with a smiling Cordelia, slinky grey dress shimmering as they twirled on the empty gleaming dance floor.
**
His foot tapped furiously on the ground. He breathed deep, fought the urge to throw up and tried to focus. Apparently they were planting trees today. Great. His bones felt like they were shifting around, the back of his tongue was furred and itchy, the last thing he wanted to do was plant a fucking tree. He fidgeted, the heat of the day making him prickle under his long sleeved shirt and jeans.
He sighed.
Three months, sixteen more days. That�s all he had to get through. He shoved a cigarette into his mouth and picked up a pot, the thin sapling slapping in his face.
He sighed.
His cheek cried out at the irritation, the patch of skin over his cheekbone was still sensitive after the stitches had come out. He was lucky it was only a little scar. He got to a space, thumped the tree down and started digging. The trowel they had given him was useless so he snarled and began scraping the dirt away from the hole with his fingers. He shoved the tree in, kicked the soil back over it and thumped down onto a small brick wall, out of the hot sun, and lit another cigarette with shivering fingers.
He breathed in, feeling the hot cloying smoke fill his lungs, and held it for a moment, before exhaling, watching the puff dissipate into the clear air. He smirked at it, happy to be polluting the aggravatingly clear blue sky if only a little, and looked over the garden-plenty grounds of the rehab clinic. He was always surprised when the rehab places were so nice. You think you�d give addicts shitty accommodation so they would never want to come back.
Actually, Liam himself never wanted to come back but that was more to do with campsite sing-a-longs than anything else. Mary came trundling over with another plant, giving his previous effort a disdainful look that conveyed she was not appreciating his unhelpful attitude. He didn�t care. He grabbed the tree, plonked it down carelessly and started scraping out a new hole with his hands.
�Liam, it�s supposed to be a calming exercise.� She noted dryly.
�Quicker this way.� He grunted, cigarette clamped between his teeth, pulling the black plastic off the rootstock and shoving the plant into the hole. He dusted his hands off on his jeans and sat back on the small brick wall as Mary slowly walked after him.
�You have it no harder than anyone else here, Liam.� She said blandly, looking down at him as he sat on the wall, hands crossed across her expansive yellow and lime green tee shirt.
He plucked out the cigarette. �Bet I have it harder than you.� He commented blithely, breathing out the smoke as he talked.
She looked at him, unimpressed, before tossing her frizzy head and stalking off. He grunted in frustration and scratched at the prickles of sweat over him. Soon, he heard her shrill gym whistle sound through the air and obeyed like a dog, sliding off the wall and making his way towards the sound, seeing the other people dropping their trees and following too.
�Good job guys! Well done. Now run inside and have a shower, clean up, and free time until seven, cause it�s trivia night!� She jumped down from the seat and headed inside chatting to some young tired eyed girl he thought was named Beth.
He walked inside, sighing in relief as the cold air conditioning circulated around his body, cooling the sweat on him. He made his way back to the rooms and turned left at the communal showers. He made sure no one was around before slipping off his shirt and hurrying into a shower cubicle. He lifted his arm, hand under the elbow and inspected the line of track marks on that arm. Angry red and sore looking, black or dark spots in the very centre of most of them, dotting down the vein from above the crook of his arm to about four inches up from his wrist. His other arm, left arm, had a red black splotch in the very crook of his arm, and it hurt sometimes. The left arm was the one he used most often, and it bore the red marks of continual abuse. Needle bites, lines of evidence down his arms.
A head-dizzying wave of embarrassment flowed through him desperately, his body instinctively curling tight, hunching his shoulders as he anxiously scrutinised himself. The lines on his arms were disgusting and ugly and always, without fail, made him feel like a fuck up. He washed the sweat and dirt from his body, careful with the open spots on his arms, dabbing them gently with the slightest amount of water. He didn�t want them getting infected; they stung like hell when they got infected.
He dabbed some cream the centre had given him; on the angriest looking spots, hoping they�d calm down soon. As he was tending to his arms, he heard the main shower room door open and he cringed, crossing his arms, backing right up until he felt the freezing tile against his shoulders. He watched his shower door. They couldn�t see him but he didn�t even like being naked near other people, shy they might catch a glimpse of the scarred decay on his arms. The men were chatting and taking their time, before they continued their conversation over to the shower stalls, walking into one each, their laughter echoing off the tiles. Liam made sure he heard two showers running before he slipped out of the shower quietly, pulled his old clothes back on and slinked off to his room to sleep until he was expected to do something else just as inane and ineffectual.
*
Liam bit the inside of his bottom lip in frustration. Harshly. His fingernails niggled at the tingling on his forearms. Some of the scabs were infected, he could tell. Scratching them had become a nervous tic, and it only served to aggravate them. It was like a nail biter who kept going long after they�d bitten past the bloody quick.
�What type of bird,� Winnifred, a counsellor every bit as perky as Mary, asked the congregation while smiling at her palm card, �lays the largest egg?�
Why was this important? What does it matter? Who gives a wank?
People scurried away their answers, chattering in their groups. Liam wasn�t participating with his group, much to their distress. He scratched at his itchy forearms. Felt like lice bites all up his arms, but they were so painful when they were scratched. He rolled his eyes, sighed and lifted his butt so he could sit on his fingers.
�Which �A� list actor, initials TC, once wanted to be a priest?�
He would kill everyone in this room for a snort. Didn�t even have to mainline it, just a quick snort into his already over-abused nostrils.
His table, dead. Next table, dead. Counsellors? Dead first. Kill all of them. His teeth clacked together. Somehow his fingers were back scratching at his track marks. He sat on them again, frustrated.
Ignoring the cramps in his stomach, he looked around the room, trying to distract himself, surprisingly relieved there were a few other men and women there staring blankly ahead, looking like they were making deals with the devil to get a fix, just like he was. He saw a forty-year old woman rubbing at her forearm, throwing glances to the door and felt a strong camaraderie with her immediately. That was a woman who understood. That was a woman who would�ve lost her job shooting up in the bathroom. That was a woman who was divorced, with a kid, trying to be good, but feeling everything close in on her. That woman didn�t care about trivia or planting trees, that woman was just trying not to pass out and Liam loved her intensely for a few moments. She stood up shakily and went to the bathroom.
Now that she had left, Liam could see behind her. And sitting at a table up the back, chair tipped back and leaning against the wall was a man whom Liam had never seen before, lean and pale, the white of his skin emphasised by his dark clothing and the shock of peroxide hair gelled back from his brow. He was young, he looked younger than Liam, and apart from the slight tic of a clenching jaw, he looked fine. Out of place amongst the crowd, he watched the stage with a smirk, completely ignoring his group, arms crossed in a tight short sleeve black shirt that clung to his body. He had what looked like an ear full of metal, and a silver ring curving around his bottom lip, moving with his mouth as he periodically allowed himself a private teeth-showing laugh at the nonsense on the stage.
He looked healthy. No track marks on his arms so he wasn�t a needle jockey. Or hasn�t been one long. Wasn�t alcoholic, not yellow waxy looking enough�
He started nodding his head a little, lower lip jutting out a bit like he was one of those teenagers on the trains with ear phones wedged into their heads, pulling angry constipated faces as they listened to impossibly loud rock music.
He mouthed a few words as he watched the stage, bopping his head and tapping his hands on his thighs in a beat.
He wondered what he was in here for.
�Are you going to help at all?� A short girl asked him with a sneer on her face. Her name was �Cam, and she was an alcoholic. Almost. Liam suspected she just wanted to be bad, she�d checked herself into rehab after she�d woken up, once, on her lawn.
�No.�
She huffed and looked back to the stage, the effervescent Fred still perkily reading from her cards. How can someone be that perky? He looked back to the blonde man who now felt his insistent gaze and turned his head. God, he was pretty. Blue eyed, sharp Swedish cheekbones, high and elegant. He couldn�t be a junkie. Maybe just another Cam- getting a thrill from being oh-so-bad in rehab.
He didn�t stop watching him, lean muscled body, showed off to maximum exhibition in his clinging shirt and jeans. Liam tended to find everyone hatefully beautiful when he was aching for a needle, though, so he doubted his initial judgement. He cocked his head under Liam�s unwavering eyes, and Liam smiled, realising he�d been staring at him, abashed about being caught. The man blew a kiss at him and instead of feeling like an ugly worthless junkie waiting for a shot, he felt like a beautiful worthless junkie waiting for a shot, if only for a few seconds.
He turned back to his group quickly, hiding his face and his reaction from the man. It was nice to be noticed.
But god, he needed a fix or a fucking snort, he�d even settle for a k hole, even roll over for some acid. Anything. Anything. To take the edge off, even some fuck panadol would fucking suffice.
He had to get out. He felt tears rising at the bottom of his eyes, spilling up to blur his vision. He had to get out. Get out and see Doc, pay him for happiness in his crack smoky apartment and be able to fucking function again, instead of stuttering around like a car without petrol. He was running on the old coke fumes and he was about to collapse, the last hit wouldn�t suffice much longer. He needed another one. He needed it. Needed. He didn�t just want it. He needed it. He fucking needed it.
All his life he�d never depended on anyone, and now he was dependent on powder and needles to get through a day. When had that happened? What day had flicked him over from user to addict? What day had he woken up and felt the creak of his bones crying out for some relief? When had that first happened? When was the first time he�d withdrawn money without telling Cordelia, or pawned something? When was the first time he�d �
No. No. He hated being like this. It wasn�t a life. He felt a crying jag coming on; sneaking up on him, winding long claws of desperation and hopelessness around his heart. As low as his pride was at the moment, he didn�t think it could take him bursting into tears in front of a hundred odd people in the middle of trivia night.
He rushed, as the woman had done moments before, to the bathroom, feeling eyes on him, hearing the gibberish hum of the chatter.
He reached the white, shiny room, and went inside, locking the door behind him. He ran to the sinks and flipped the faucet on, patting the sweat off his face with wet hands. He covered his eyes with his trembling hands as he hunched over the sink, holding the tears back with all the strength of his will, holding it at arm�s length as it pushed back viciously, wanting him to collapse on the cold wet floor.
His hands shook against his clammy skin. He breathed deeply, trying to calm himself down.
�Alright, it�s alright, you don�t need to do this...� His voice was comforting, even though it was tinny and hollow and strange against the tiles. He began breathing normally.
He looked up and caught sight of himself in the mirror. His lungs suddenly filled with the musty toilet air, shocked. His eyes were unblinking as he took himself in. He leaned closer to the mirror; his defeated eyes dark circled and face sallow, emphasised by the fluorescent tube lighting. He blinked and swallowed. This wasn�t him. Dark patchy stubble on his chin and cheeks from where he hadn�t shaved, a sheen of greasy sweat over his forehead, an angry pink scar on his cheekbone from his latest failure. He reached a hand up to make sure he wasn�t seeing things. He looked old. Worn out, and blank, like his life and his personality had been grated away.
A shell. Hollow and empty. Empty eyes. When Connor looked at him, did he see the happy man from the picture tacked up on his wall or did he see the hollowed out thing in the mirror? He couldn�t bear to think about it. When his son got older, and he understood, would he be so forgiving? Would he still be happy to see him, or would he turn away?
Liam�s heart sped.
He couldn�t imagine that. Connor was the only thing he�d ever done, the only thing he�d ever been proud of.
The man�s voice, from that group session drifted into his head. �But the worst thing is, she just deserves a better father than that��
His hands came up to grip around the back of his neck. He nodded solemnly, making the hollow thing in the mirror nod back. Connor deserved better than this. It wasn�t his fault he�d drawn a dud card in the parental deck, but Liam would make it better. By making himself better.
He could do this. He could stop. Be a success story instead of a failure. This time would be his time. Sixth time lucky.
He nodded again, assuredly and the man in the mirror started to look a bit more like him. He gave himself a lopsided smile and pushed back out into the chatter feeling a little more hopeful, a distant optimism sneaking in to lift his chin.
He made his way back to his seat, ignored the glares from his group and nodded to himself again. He could do this. He would do it. He watched the man again, calmed by his calmness. His resolve built and he ignored the cravings and the shakes with a whole new will. He rolled his shoulders, hearing a bone pop. He didn�t want to be what he�d become. He didn�t want to see that thing in the mirror again.
The man smiled at him. Liam looked back to the stage, trying to hold his head higher against the cramps in his belly. He had to do this.
�When was the Titanic built?�
**
The next day the blonde man was in his group. He must be new, must�ve just come in, Liam thought. He smiled at the man as he came into the room, tight black jeans and shirt again, and was happy when he smiled back. He sat in the last seat, next to Mary, keeping his eyes on Liam as he sleekly folded into the chair. He also had a bar through his right eyebrow that he hadn�t seen last night. He counted the rings in his ears. Ten on the right, four on the left. Liam tried to pretend he didn�t notice the man was looking at him. Then he tried to pretend he hadn�t just eaten twenty-three sugar packets to try to tamp the craving down. He sipped his ever-present coffee disinterestedly.
�Alright, you may notice that today we have a new addition to our little group, why don�t we make him welcome with a nice big round of applause.� Mary said, almost jiggling with happiness.
Liam was still confused about the clapping. Yay, you can�t function in society! It would be a lot more real if they gave each other sympathetic smiles, a knowing nod of the head. Yes, I understand, I�ve been there too, down at the bottom of the social ladder, scummed and humiliated. I understand how you feel. You are not alone.
�Why don�t you stand up and tell us about yourself.� Mary said, solemnly.
The man stood, a smirk trying to edge its way onto his face as if he found the whole thing amusing. �My name�s Spike.� He said, blue eyes locked on his, introducing himself to Liam as if no one else was there, speaking with a deep voice flavoured with a rough cockney accent.
�Third time to rehab, but not this place. Went to two over in England. Came to America to sorta � get my life together. Didn�t work. Fell off the wagon. Love me some jellies, E, speed�s good too. Party drugs really, �cept the jellies. Also did �em in my flat.� As he spoke Liam caught a glimpse of silver in his mouth. A tongue stud? Liam didn�t know what to think about that. �Anyway, got put in here cause I didn�t want to go to jail. I got hopped up on blue lips and drove my car through a McDonalds by accident.�
Liam snorted with laughter and the man, Spike, smiled at him, letting out a laugh of his own.
�It was about one in the morning, so no kiddies were hurt.� Spike said, huge grin on his face. �I was after a Big Mac.�
Liam bent forward slightly and tried stifling his laughter as some of the other people in the group started to snigger as well. His belly cramped up at the clenching.
�Well anyway. I stopped before, cause I started using �heroin over�n England, and well� I�ve seen people addicted to that and it wasn�t pretty. Yeah. So that�s me. Oh, and I �ave a cat.�
He sat down and smiled at Liam again, looking him up and down as he sat in his seat. Liam focused on trying to nonchalantly seem like he wasn�t hunched over the cramps.
�Yes, well that�s very open of you, Spike. We actually do like using real names here��
�Real name�s Spike.� He said, frosting her with a blue gaze, pulling a soft pack of cigarettes out from his back jeans pocket and shoving one into his mouth. He lit it with a flip pack of matches, which Liam found endearing.
The next story was introduced, Cam, and her drunken passing out on her front lawn after a party. Spike cocked his eyebrow in disbelief at her and then shook his head slightly, laughing silently through the rest of her story as she started to cry.
�How old are you?� Spike asked her suddenly.
She sniffed. �Twenty one.�
�And when was this drunken party?�
She looked confused. �When I was twenty.�
�You�re allowed to, at least once, pass out on your front lawn, drunk, when you�re twenty. I promise. Go home, and be happy for a while.�
The group started chattering and Mary started trying to get them back on track. Cam looked like she�d been slapped while Spike calmly smoked, looking out the windows into the gardens of the grounds. Liam grinned down at his coffee, watching his face ripple in the dark brown liquid.
**
The dinners there were quite nice, considering. It was fish tonight, grilled with some type of herbs on it. Liam only knew how to make breakfast foods, pancakes, eggs, bacon, hash browns. He was pretty much useless with the rest of his meals.
He wasn�t hungry, hadn�t been in a while, but it was good to pick at it, eyes on the television up on the wall, hanging over all the communal eating tables, showing Futurama.
He couldn�t get into it; his mind kept straying past the colours and the voices. He grew edgy and irritated, and started playing with the fish disinterestedly, stabbing it with his fork, scraping lines across the soft meat. He picked off all the spiky herb things the fish was dressed with and nibbled on them.
�Looks like you�re enjoying that.� Spike�s voice commented, as the man sat down right next to Liam, sliding his large plate onto the table.
Liam smiled. �Not hungry.� He said as he grinned up at him, watching him light up a cigarette.
He shifted his plate over a little, putting down the knife and fork. He stole glances at the shiny metal through Spike�s flesh. It was definitely interesting. His bottom lip, the one with the ring through it, seemed to rest out a little further because of the piercing, putting his face into a perpetual almost pout.
He wondered if Spike found him attractive, and that�s why he was sitting here. He�d run with that, it was nice to be wanted by someone, after being invisible for so long. Even if the someone was a man.
It was hard to go from high school and college, where all the girls and some of the boys had wanted him �jealous that he was with Cordy, to the office, where he was the bottom of the chain in his job- but at least he went home to his wife, to now when no one even noticed him and Cordelia looked at him with disdain in her eyes whenever she came over with Connor.
�Yeah me neither.� Spike said, indicating his fish just had a hole in the centre where he too had been playing with his food. Tiny scraps of fish were scattered over the salad and potatoes like snow.
�Nice design.� Liam commented.
�Thanks, put a lot of effort into that.� He offered Liam a cigarette, lighting it with his own when he accepted, holding it out for him to take. He did, gratefully taking the cigarette with a nod of his head. �So, what�s your name?�
�Liam.�
�Ah. Well you know mine�s Spike.� He clamped his cigarette between his lips so he could stick out his right hand. Liam shook it.
�And next question, what�re you here for?�
�Cocaine.�
�Snort?�
He paused. �Mainline.�
Spike cocked a black eyebrow. �Others weren�t strong enough?�
�Not after a while.� He said, regretfully. This kind of conversation happened a lot when you came to these clinics. Knowing Spike had a history with drugs helped him divulge his own; he�d never tell anyone else who asked. People who didn�t use, tending not to understand the ones who did. Cordy didn�t understand.
He shook his head. He didn�t want to go down that path.
�Mind me asking why you�re here?� Spike asked in a breath of heavy smoke.
�Recovery Court appointed.�
�Gotta love it.�
Liam smiled. He couldn�t help it.
�So why?�
�Strong hit, caused a five car pile up by passing out across Hollywood Boulevard.�
Spike let out a deep belly laugh, rocking back in his chair. �I read � That was you?� he asked incredulously. �Newspapers loved that story.�
Liam nodded and smiled a little. �Well it�s my last strike before prison. Had to do something memorable.�
�What was the first?� Spike said, still giggling after he�d calmed down. He pushed his plate away from him so he could rest his elbows on the table.
�Reckless endangerment. Driving after I shot up.� He didn�t mention he�d had his three-year-old son in the car at that time. Even in rehab, some things were private.
Spike nodded. �Well I went to rehab twice in England. But my father put me in, paid for it. Tried to make it work but�� He trailed off and shrugged and Liam understood him.
�This is my sixth time.� He ventured.
That made Spike raise his eyebrows. �Four times you put yourself in?�
�Yeah. Kinda half-half with outpatient treatment. Fourth time was full time.� He said, cracking his neck a little, trying to soothe the upset bones.
�Oh. Long visit?�
�Yep.� He nodded, trying not to look sad. �Expensive too.� Damn right it had been expensive. His last stay, the stay before this one had been for six months. Cordy and he had already been separated by that time, but she had put a mortgage on the house to pay for it in a last attempt to help.
He tried so hard. But it wasn�t enough. He started drinking to stop the gnawing cravings but it only succeeded in making him lose his focus and resolve long enough to get to his dealer.
�Rehab just doesn�t work for some people.� Spike murmured, lighting another cigarette. Liam shook his head to his second offer. He drew a long breath from the cig, coughing out a cloud of smoke before smoothly breathing out the rest.
His fingernails were painted black, chipped around the top. He had a thick silver thumb ring on, and four other rings around random fingers.
�God I could use some jellies right now.� Spike breathed, watching the television.
Liam snorted. �I�m sure that�s exactly what the court thought you would be saying in here.�
Spike laughed. �Well, I�ve only been in two days. Give me a week and I�ll be trying to climb out the windows for it.�
Which is exactly what stage Liam was at. The need cackled and burnt his bones. Suddenly, his body started shivering uncontrollably and he rested his face in his hands, trying not to throw up or overturn the table or take someone hostage in exchange for a hypodermic needle. His stomach was cramping and rolling like it was trying to break out through his skin.
Spike�s hand was on his back. �Don�t stress luv. Well, I mean you will, but I�ll get you some orange juice.�
He nodded. God he was pathetic. He rolled his head on his hands and desolately watched Spike wander off to the counter and talk to the serving woman. She nodded and Liam rolled his head back onto his hands, fingers over his eyes.
The fucking letdown drugs they gave him. They did nothing. They were probably placebos.
He heard Spike come back and sit next to him. The crack of the sanitary lid being broken and then the bottle placed under his nose. The sweet citrus smell tickled at his nostrils and he gained the strength to pick it up.
�Thanks.� He mumbled, humiliated.
��S�Fine, do the same next time I have a problem, yeah?�
Liam nodded; looking down at the table, watching his black tipped fingers tap against the shiny wood and felt a swell of warm emotion for him. He sipped at the juice slowly sighing at the retreat of the nausea. The fingers tapped quietly. He stole a look at Spike�s face to gauge his reaction to the breakdown but he was watching the screen with interest.
Liam bent back down to his orange juice. He felt sleepy. Overwhelmingly sleepy.
�Listen I�m gonna go to bed. Nice meeting you.� He mumbled, picking up the juice in a shaky hand.
Spike nodded, a smile curving his lips, shifting the hoop through it. �See you �round.�
Liam nodded and left Spike watching the TV, shakily making it to his room and falling onto the bed. He sipped the last of the too sweet juice before closing his eyes and falling asleep.
TBC
Chapter 2 Back to Inca's Fic