Siren's Song
Title: Siren's Song [2/3] Crash
Author: SnoopyScenester
Pairing; young!Billie/Mike, Jimmy/Christian
Rating: PG-13/R overall
Warning: Language, drug use
Disclaimer; I own nothing but the words, which I don't really own anyways since I didn't invent the English language.
Summary: Four people find themselves intertwined when, relationship crumbling, Billie and Mike seek advice and solace from the King of the Junkies, himself.
Part One
Crash. If Jimmy had to pick one word to describe his life at this very moment, that would be it. It’s simple and to the point, and that has J written all over it. His life is simple; his needs are basic. Drink. Fight. Fix. Fuck. That’s all, only now he has something else to add to his list, something grinding his teeth into dust and drawing his body into violent, wracking shivers.
Crash.
He hasn’t taken his medication in four days. It’s not that he refuses; he knows better than most that it’s easier for everyone if he’s docile and slightly less homicidal than usual; but last Wednesday (perhaps; the days all seem to bleed together) marked the day he popped his last anti-psychotic, and the day he was supposed to venture out of his shitty, crumbling apartment to score some more.
He didn’t.
“J? Jimmy? Jimmy, can you hear me?”
If he wants his drugs - his legal ones anyway - he has to visit the kindly Doctor Halfpenny; an elderly man who was placed in charge of Jimmy’s care some years ago, and has since taken quite a liking to him for reasons he will probably never understand. Naturally, Jimmy hates him.
Jimmy hates that he has to sit down in that uncomfortable chair and force a grimace of a smile. He hates that he has to lie, when he usually has no shame in admitting that he’s a beaten-down, broken, junkie street kid with nothing but a vague high school education and a burnout Christian brat for company.
No, to admit that would offer him a one-way ticket to a clinic, or worse, the asylum. And that is somewhere Jimmy will happily lie through his teeth to avoid.
“Jimmy!”
With a long-suffering sigh, a “Why me?” sigh, Christian falls to his knees in front of his (lover? Fuckbuddy?) keeper and starts shaking his shoulders to rouse him from his thoughts. He’s learned from experience that this can often be harder than it looks, and nine times out of ten receives a punch to the jaw that Jimmy never apologizes for, but today he just blinks and stares at him.
“What?”
Christian gives him a knowing look that he doesn’t like. He doesn’t like that five months of living under his roof gives the kid a backstage pass into the darkest recesses of his mind that even Shanks - his best friend, his second-in-command, has no idea exists.
He doesn’t like that Christian sees him.
“Jimmy,” he says, softly now he knows he has his attention. “You’re-
Crash
“-ing, aren’t you?”
J blinks; shrugs. “S’pose.”
Christian frowns. It never fails to amaze the King of the Junkies how much this kid actually cares about him. “And you’re off your meds.”
Same reaction. “So?”
“So,” annoyed now, Christian continues, “Take somethin’, will ya? You’ve never tried to get clean before. You’ll hurt yourself!”
Scowling, J pushes his hands away and is surprised by how weak he is. The
Crash
Is obviously taking its toll more than he thought.
“Not only do I not care,” he snaps, “But it ain’t none of your Goddamn business what I do, Christian. Just ‘cause I fuck you into the ground every so often don’t make us best buddies, get it?”
There was once a time when he took pleasure in hurting the kid, certain that eventually his harsh words and cold demeanor would drive him away. But Christian knows better now; Christian has been here too long to fall for the same old tricks, and he won’t let his friend suffer in silence just because he’s a stubborn bitch.
In his own, humble opinion, anyway.
“Fine, jackass,” he spits, getting to his feet and scanning the room for J’s kit. It’s never more than five feet from his person at any one time, and he quickly locates it spilling its contents over the mattress from the last customer. “Don’t think I’m gonna let you wallow in your misery.”
J watches him through eyes narrowed to slits as he storms across the room and picks up the familiar utensils; syringe, lighter, spoon, and a tiny plastic packet that causes him to give a soft groan of longing.
He pushes it back and snarls, “Leave it, Christian!”
His tone makes the blond shiver, but all he does is look over his shoulder and say, quite simply, “Shut up.”
Before J has a chance to reply and kick ten bells of shit out of the kid if he’s feeling jaunty, he finds himself with a warm body pressed against his own; strong hands on his arm and a needle in his vein, and he forgets his indignation instantly. His head lolls forward onto Christian’s shoulder, and the kid supports him, gently running his fingers through his hair.
“Why’d you do that?” J gasps, his hands clenching in Christian’s shirt.
The blond smiles, easing away to look his mentor in the (admittedly glazed and a little lifeless) eye. He kisses his forehead; his nose, before finally pressing his mouth to his for a long moment that makes J’s stomach twist, even with the poison in his veins. He strokes his hands absently down Christian’s back, and that encourages him to speak.
With compassion in his voice that the junkie doesn’t really register, he whispers, “For you.”