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Title: Fixing Caddy

Setting: Starts in Jackson Square, winds up in Trace's fort.

Log Cast:
Caddy
Trace

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A lovely day to be outside, and Caddy seems to be hating every minute of it. The slight redhead is sitting underneath a clump of trees on the side of The Square, sourly watching tourists and the like trapse by without stopping to lavish money on the poor little street artist. Don't they know a gal needs money to buy cigarettes?

Trace picks his way through the afternoon lunch crowd like a natural, ducking limbs and navigating with ease. He's got a styrafoam cup in one hand with his usual handful of chalk rattling merrily within. The boy's mood is undecisive. The sweet, blue-skied afternoon calls to him, pulls him into a lighter step, but his lips are pursed and thoughtful, eyes on the concrete. Something weighs on the boy, but not enough to press all the spring from his step.

"Hey, why don't you watch it?.." the churlish Caddy squawks to a bypasser that has neared too close, almost tripping on her outstretched feet. No politeness these days! "Stupid fuck..." the redhead mutters under her breath, glowering at the retreating back before turning her eyes away. Lo and behold! It's her blue locked friend. This draws a glimmering semblance of a smile to her face, as she raises a frail hand and waves. Look over here! "Trace...Hey Traaaaaacee!"

The bluecap blinks and peers around comically, turning full circle practically before he finally picks out who it is that's calling to him. First glance from this distance makes him think it's Jason, but the voice didn't match at all, so he's a little confused. But nearing, it's clear to him, and he grins with recognition and closes the distance. "Hey, Caddy," he greets amiably enough. "Hard at work, I see. Business bein' unsensitive as usual? Winter brings out the best in people.." Light sarcasm, though he still smiles.

Caddy snorts, setting her sketchpad down to the side. Off duty. "Aww...they're all fucks..." she asserts tactfully, the expression on her face changing from smile to glower to smile again. Trying to keep the surliness at bay. "What've you been up to...?" she murmurs, while a hand digs in her skirt pocket absently for a cigarette. Taking a break, might as well kill herself with nicotene. "Drawin' a mural?"

"Or maybe jest drawin'," Trace grins and rolls his shoulders in a shrug. "Ain't always got to be a big giant mural. The other day I was jest drawin' monster hands, all green and clawed, reachin' up outta the sewer grates and cracks in the sidewalk I passed..." He scans the ground aroud him. "Dunno what I'll do today. Somethin'. Been drawin' like crazy, while I can..." He trails off, hazel eyes seeking yours again. "You moved outta Jill's place already?"

Caddy retrieves her cigarette from her pocket, flipping it into her slack mouth in a move that must have been practiced a hundred times in front of the mirror. "That's cool. Me and Cath were fucking around down here a couple weeks ago, drawin' wolves..." Two lizards skittering down the tree trunk catch her attention, emerald eyes pulling away from yours to watch the reptiles circle around the trunk, biting at one another. "Uhh...yeah. I did. How'd you know?" The redhead pulls her lighter up from her pocket, as well....sparking the orange flame to lick the end of the coffin nail. And, on second thought, the girl holds the flame up to the lizards...just to see how they'll react. Natrually, they dart away from the flame...falling to the cobblestones and limping off. Oops.

"What'd you do that for..?" Trace demands, but he's giggling too, and doesn't seem wholly mortified by your terrorizing the lizards. He watches them scurry off and grins, then looks back to you, admitting, "You talked 'bout yer place with Ellie last time we drew together..."

Caddy sticks her lighter back in her pocket, sucking on her coffin nail almost peacefully, the acrid smoke filling her blackening lungs. A bit disappointed her lizard antics didn't turn up with a better result. You know...hoping they would stick their tongues out or grow wings or something. "Oh...did I?" she murmurs while exhaling, looking back to you. "Yeah...I moved out. I mean, I lived in the fucking attic....I could barely move, you know? And why live there when I could have my own place?" A shrug of her skinny shoulders, clamping her smoke between her fingers to hold. "There was always stuff going on there, too....I felt like I was in the way."

"Yeah, I know whatchya mean, y'know? Me 'n my friends is gonna get a place too... Right now I don't even have no room like an attic or nothin'!" Trace quirks a grin. "Jest a bean bag. But hey, at least it's my bean bag. An' it's blue." He giggles at that. "Shiny metallic blue." He looks over and murmurs, "Let's catch us a bench, eh? Jest standin' here partin' this river 'a people..." He glances towards the retreating back of a man who had recently scowled at him while he'd been speaking.

"Really...? That's cool. I mean..it rocks to have your own place. I decorated mine with murals and stuff." Caddy shrugs placidly, as she starts to march heavily toward the nearest bench, expecting you to follow. The girl reaches one of her booted feet up, scraping the plastic cup discard away with a kick. "Who ya movin' with? That one red haired kid?" A slight touch of amusement at that. Kinda funny that he could be her long lost little brother or something.

"Yer long lost twin, yeah," Trace agrees with a giggle. "You don't got any relatives named Riley, do ya?" He too is amused by the resemblence; you'd have to be blind not to notice it. "Anyway, him and also my other best friend Jean-Batiste. Gettin' this place on Dumaine, above Lafitte's. Cheap, but it'll suit us."

Caddy grins marginally, spitting her waning cigarette out to join the mess of other trash on the pavement. "Nah...don't think so." She reclines on the bench, tucking her hands behind her head as she watches people stroll by, enjoying the weather. "Lafitte's? Uhh...That's where that wedding was that Nadey was talkin' about. Yeah, I know that place," she mumbles, almost offhand. When you hear a place name, aren't quite familiar with it, and try to summon up conversation context to place it. "That'd be cool. You'll hafta lemme see it."

"Yeah, Walker and Ben's wedding," Trace nods, perching himself beside you on the bench. "Lafitte's is kinda a gay bar, and there's apartments above it. But um, y'know. Don't matter t'me. Not like it's gotta be gay apartments just coz 'a what's beneath it, y'know?" He twists his hands around the cup self consciously. "Anyway. I'm probably gonna be holed up there the next week or so... You won't see me around much. Would.. would you tell Grace and Star and people that, if you see 'em? I.... I jest, I won't be allowed out, so I won't see 'em. Don't want 'em to think I left town or nothin'." His gaze, when it lifts to yours, is shy.

Caddy wrinkles her nose as she turns to look at you, teeth raking across her lip in thought. "A gay bar? Nah...well..." The redhead has doubts that what's downstairs won't effect what happens upstairs, but she's not one to rail against your beliefs. "Yeah...I'm sure..." she agrees lightly, a yawn gripping her mouth and twisting it into a large O shape. Sunlight makes her tired. "I guess, but I hardly ever see Grace and...well, I try to avoid Star..." She offers a non-commital shrug. Don't count on it. "Why can't ya leave?"

"I, uh." Trace's shoulders hunch a little, and he drops his eyes, looking down at the chalk piled at the bottom of his donation cup. He rattles it gently, just for the pleasant noise against the white walls of the cup. "Dryin' out," he says softly. "Home detox, y'know? I won't be allowed out for awhile.. Not til Bat an' Jason say it's okay. And not til' I'm ready."

Okay, this is going to take a few good minutes of thought to figure out, since the redhead has never been made aware that Trace has a drug problem. And since she isn't really the most perceptive of souls, the telltale track marks on his arms have never been given too much thought. "You mean...like...drug..stuff?" she says slowly, the realization slowly on dawning on her. Eureka! "What...like...you're on drugs?" Just a question to clarify. No criticism or anything. Heck, you're sitting with the Pot Princess. "What drugs?"

You're on drugs. Trace nearly giggles, more from surprise than any real mirth. It's just, he hasn't heard anyone put it that way before, except in jokes like 'you're on crack, man!' or in bad TV movies. But his expression drops the grin quickly, clearing his throat. "Um. Just junk." He releases the cup with one hand and rubs at his forearm self consciously. "Been on it two years now. It... it'll be rough." He chuckles, again without humour, at the understatement. "Gonna do it, though. We talked to a doctor 'bout how to set up a room for a good home detox. An' with them helpin' me, it... won't be so bad."

"Oh...cool..." Caddy offers quietly, hoping you'll get the understanding in her voice. For all her shortcomings, she just isn't a judgemental person. We all have our vices, right? Some are just...worse than others. "Ya wanna smoke...?" the redhead murmurs, digging around in her jeans for one of the sticks and a lighter. "Oh...you don' smoke, huh?" she murmurs, realizing just as the hand reappears with two sticks. Well, damn. Now what's she gonna do with this other one? Putting it back in the pack would be too hard, so she just slips it behind her ear for safekeeping. Easier to reach when she wants it, anyways. "Well...good luck...I hope ya can do it, Trace...If ya need anything...uhh...well..I'll be around or something." So supportive.

"Thanks," the boy murmurs softly. "I do 'pershiate it. Kick date's real soon... Right after Bat's birthday party." He sighs softly and sets the styrafoam cup down on the bench beside him, hunching his shoulders a little more as his elbows rest now on his knees. "Nothin' t'do but wait fer it." A chuckle. "An' splurge on what stash I got left." He flicks a glance up at you, brief, before it falls down again. "You ever try it?"

Caddy shakes her head in the negative, putting the stick between her lips and lighting it with her cheap Bic. "No...I wanted to...but Ellie stopped me..." Grey smoke spirals out of her nose and mouth as she inhales and exhales, a slight smile creasing her face at the feeling of it. "Why...ya got some? I'd wanna try it." It's all a thrill, anyways.

Well, that surprised him. Trace sits up a little, pulling his elbows off his knees and curling his fingers around the edge of the bench. "Yeah," he admits. "I jest..." He looks up at you and quirks an odd grin. "Ellie'd kick my butt, though. Right? I mean..." That's not really his fear, though his eyes definitely flash, anxious and uncertain. Gee... this would probably help further paint himself with that image some people have gotten of him being a bad influence. He's quiet a moment, lips pursed and looking out towards the crowd. When he speaks, his voice is quiet and very thoughtful, and his gaze is still aimed outwards. "Some people can handle it. Batiste, for instance. He uses. Usually snorts it, but sometimes he'll fix with me..." He drops his gaze down to his knees. "S'called a chipper, someone who jest fucks around with it. An' it's possible. Gotta be strong, y'know? That's..." He looks up at you sadly. "That's the kinda user I wanted t'be."

"Oh, fuck Ellie..." Caddy snorts, toking on her cigarette and puffing slowly, savoring the cancer. "She ain't my mother or anythin', I mean...." The redhead trails off, watching you....the slightest bit of compassion in her face. "Well...Trace...I mean..." Gotta think of something...profound. Comforting. "You'll be all right." Gave it a try. One of her frail hands comes out to touch your shoulder, and a fumbling squeeze will be given if her hand is allowed to meet its mark. "I mean...if ya wanna be clean, or some shit...I'm sure ya can do it. You're a strong kid." There. That was nice and motherly. A waning, trying to be reassuring smile touches her lips to back up the vote of confidence.

Trace flashes a weak grin as you squeeze his shoulder, but still shakes his head in denial. "I ain't strong. And I d'wanna be clean. I mean, sure, it'd be nice not t'have t'bother with it anymore, always lookin' t'score, an' the jonesin' when m'stash runs thin. But... f'truth, I'm doin' it for someone else. Left on m'own, I wouldn't quit. It's too good." Wow, that's the first time he's admitted that, or at least said it out loud. He looks faintly startled with himself after the words escape his lips. "But I will. I... I *gotta* do it. Coz... I love them, they're my very best friend. Half my heart... And he can't bear t'see me trapped by this." He sighs softly. "You think yer strong? I mean... Keep *weeks* between hits. Seriously. It's the only way. You start makin' it every couple days, then every other day, then... it's got ya. Got ya good."

Caddy sniffs, shrugging as she spits her cigarette out again....this one suffering the same cruel fate as the last, being smushed by some bypasser's shoe. "Well, fuck Trace..sure, ya love them...I understand that. But fuck them. You know what will happen? If -you- wanna be on junk you'll be on junk...." Wouldn't your friends just love to hear her say that? "But...well...fuck. I mean, course it ain't any good for you...." But neither is chocolate and cigarettes. That's the redhead's reasoning. "You do what you gotta do Trace," she murmurs in a way that suggests it's not what -she- would do...but she really isn't you. The girl shrugs feebly, looking over to meet your hazel eyes with her emerald ones. "You can do whatever the fuck you want. Mind over matter." Or something. Right?

"Naw," Trace shakes his head a little. "I... it isn't fair to them. Sure, it was fine when nobody cared 'bout me. But. But, when somebody cares 'bout you, and you them, s'like... you see the hurt in their face. The disappointment, and the fear... Like yer makin 'em deal with the fact that someday they might find you sprawled over, blue lips, some fuckin' needle hangin' outta yer arm. An' Jason... He had someone who died from it. An' it tears him up. Earlier, before we were such good friends, he didn't care, y'know? He was like fine, fuck it. But he... he loves me now, like family. Like closer than family. And he's half my heart,and I can't do that to him..."

Never having experienced or seen these kinds of emotions herself, Caddy grunts..."Yeah...well...I just think when you do somethin' it's gotta be fer you and no one else. Like...you wanna be clean...but the fact that you would still be shooting up if they weren't around makes it seem like..well..pointless. You know?" The redhead pulls her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them as she continues..."Really, when you think about it... I mean...I'm not trying to discourage you.." Has a funny way of showing it, doesn't she? "But what is there to be clean for? Life sucks." Her philosophy. "Something to take the pain away is always the best thing. Even love can't do that." A pause, as she considers. "Love sucks too, so there you go." Another pause, eyes turning away from you to scan the crowd.

Trace chuckles softly. "Yeah, I guess. I mean.. about life, not love." He hunches his shoulders and relaxes them again, like a shrug made jittery with the subject matter. "It does... smooth away everything. Like rain on my murals, it all washes away, goes all soft and non-descript. Pain loses sharpness, detail, and you're just... in the perfect place. Nirvana, rapture, whatever." He runs a hand through his braids, rakes the fingers through ungently. This isn't helping. Makes him want a shot bad. Well... he's st ill allowed, technically. He looks to you and says, "But I mean, you really think you could handle it? Because..." He wrings his hands together slowly. "If you can keep it fun, it's the best. Nothin' like it. But if you let it get away from you, it's no fun anymore. It's jest... like maintenance. Y'know? Rou tine."

Everything, everything, everything sucks. So what's the big deal of sticking a needle in your arm if it takes the edge off the pain? "Yeah...sure..." Caddy says, shrugging...not putting much thought into the whole deal. "Well....listen. If you're getting clean, I don't wanna be the bitch that fuckin' stops you. So, I'll only do it with you if you really want to." What is this? Morals? Where have they been hiding? "You understand? I mean...we're like friends, Trace...and I want you to do what you wanna do. Even if I don't quite understand it." The redhead nods firmly at that, believing that this is a good decision. Clarify.

"Two days yet till' I kick," Trace chuckles. "You ain't stoppin' me from nothin'. I fully plan on givin' myself a real nice hit when I get home." He shrugs. "I'll share with you, if it's what you want. It's always the best doin' it with a friend, not in front'a some fuckin' dealer's cold gaze. Gotta know some stuff though. I mean... It's gonna make you sick the first time, sometimes the second time too. Y'know that, right? Y'prolly throw up, specially if y'skinny like me." From the faint grin he casts your way, it seems you are indeed deemed skinny like him. "Y'never care, though. Feels so fuckin' good, s'like you hardly notice yer pukin' yer guts out." His grin is still quirked, slightly sardonic.

Oh! Well...in that case..."Yeah, let's fuckin do it!" Caddy says, like some sort of battle cry. "Well...wait...I'll be sick...while I'm doing it? Or after?" For all her talk, the slight redhead is still a hard drugs novice. Her exuberance is lost for a moment at the thought of tossing her cookies, but after slight contemplation...it vanishes. So, what's a little puke? "Well...okay...yeah. I mean, I don't care. You'll be there, right?" Not gonna go off and leave her and eveything will be good. "Where should we go...I don't think we can do it here."

Trace laughs aloud at the idea of shooting up right in the middle of Jackson Square. "Uh, no. I don't think we could do it here." Well, it's happened again. He's been talked into being a bad influence. How do these things always happen to him? But he's pumped for the idea. Hell, he can rationalize with the best of them. She would've gone to someone else eventually, if not him. That's the ticket. Pat yourself on the back, Trace. "Two places we could go," he says. "Walker's house, tuck ourselves up in the cubby or the bathroom or whatever.. or my fort. It's this little shelter, hidden by the city park's playground. I got bleach there an' everything, so I can get the needle steril for you n'stuff. My friend showed me how; it's totally safe. I been tested an' all that anyway, but even so, don't spect you t'take my word for it, so we'll do it right."

The thought of something new makes Caddy's eyes glitter with anticipation. Something new...and illegal. That makes it just that much more fun. "Okay...if you have bleach there...let's go...To the fort thing," the redhead says, picking herself up from the bench and grinning deviously at you. "I don't really wanna stick myself...though...so you gotta do it for me."

"Sure thing, yeah," Trace agrees easily, picking himself up off the bench and holding out a hand to help you up. Such a gentleman! Not only gonna help empty a syringe into your arm, but he'll help you up off park benches too.

The walk to Trace's promised hide-away wasn't such a huge journey as it might have been, thanks to a bumpy yet efficient bus ride that desposited you both to the edge of New Orlean's Garden district. The adventure of initiation lends an excitement to Trace as well, shown only in his eyes and hasty steps. He leads you to the city park and on through the playground, past the swings, insisting with a grin that he does in fact know where he's going, and in truth, they're nearly upon it. He reaches into the brush with practiced ease and latches onto something hidden in the greenery there, pulling up a hidden length of plastic. The makeshift door opens, and a well-traveled though short tunnel leads through the high brush on into the tiny shelter. He waves you on in first, explaining in a mock-pompous tone, "My summer home. Hope it pleases you, my lady." He grins.

Not much complaining from Caddy. The redhead returns the tone with a fake, low to the ground curtsey..."Oh, very much...my..." What's the correct phrase here? "Highness?" Yeah, that'll work. She ducks down into the tunnel, scurrying quickly inside the shelter, careful not to snag her stockings on any errant branches. Once inside, she observes the artwork appreciatively..."Wow, Trace....this is really fuckin' cool. Like, a little hideout. I never knew this was here...."

"Yeah, most people don't," comes the blue-haired boy's voice trailing after you as he follows you on into the hidden place. It's rather impossible, standing up all the way inside the fort, so Trace walks slightly hunched over as he makes his way over to the mattress and has a seat. His blush just barely tints his cheeks, bashful and highly aware of your eying his artwork. "The plastic bags keep the rain out... That's the amazing part. Looks messy, but someone built this real clever, coz all this stays dry..."

Caddy sits back on her haunches, eyes dancing across all the art. "Wow....this is great Trace..." she murmurs quietly, brushing at a strand of hair made damp from the wet air. Green eyes finally get levelled back on you, a crooked smile from the pinky color in your cheeks. "Trace is bluuuuuushin'!" she says in a sing-song voice, accompanied with a laugh. "You look like a giiirl with blush on...Trace is a giiirll.." Look at the girl with blush on!

"Am not blushing," Trace laughs, rubbing at his cheeks shyly and then reaching out to thwhap at your shoulder. "You suck, y'know? Come on, get up here." He reaches back behind the mattress, the side opposite the door, and pulls out a candle, thick and white, though half burned and riddled with wax rivers down the sides. "Got a lighter?" As soon as he says it, it seems a foolish question. As much as Caddy smokes, he's only seen it like eighteen times since they met up today in the Square.

Caddy's laughter raises when you deny it and lash at her, because it just seems to make it that much more funny for her. "Don't be embarrassed Trace....you're cool," she informs soberly as she crawls over to join you on the mattress. Lighter? "No.." she says, managing to keep a straight face for about two seconds. Like the Nicotene Whore doesn't have a lighter. The redhead ferrets out her cheap little pink Bic, extending it toward you as her eyes goggle at the candle. "You have to tell me what's going to happen to me. Where should I puke if I gotta? Am I gonna die?" Pertinent questions. "I don't really wanna die...."

"You won't die..." Trace says honestly, in spite of his little grin at the question. "I'm shorter'n skinnier than you, an' I ain't died. M'only gonna give you a little. It'll look like I'm shootin' tons compared t'you, but it'll be enough to send you off real good, since you're new t'this." He shrugs a little and murmurs, his expression smooth and sincere, "I'll take care of you. We'll be able t'get ya outside, if you throw up, I think. An' y'won't even feel sick, really. Least, I didn't. It jest happens, but yer too gone to feel bad at all." He glances towards one wall and murmurs, "F'ya like, I kin' open up the window. There's a piece'a plastic that comes down, lets the moonlight in on clear nights. You could jest stick yer head out there..." He's almost flushed again. This is weird, talking so casually about this, like planning vomit. And with a girl, no less.

Caddy inclines her head, listening to all this information. With all the promise of feeling so good and far gone, the redhead is anxious to get started. "Okay...okay....yeah. You'll be here. I'll be all right..." More assuring herself than anything. "Let's cook up...?" Is that the right lingo? A small laugh escapes her, mouth quirking to the side in a devious half grin. Look ma, she knows the drug dialect! "Don't poke me hard..." she warns, pushing a finger into her forearm as if simulating the needle.

Trace dips his head, "Alright." Seems you passed the lingo test, if there'd been one. A spark of the bic strobes the room once, and then the warm little flame is touched to the charred, black wick of the candle. He gently sets the candle down on the ground, then hands you bic back. "I'll do yours first, then mine. Right now it's steril, since I almost always bleach my pick before strapping it back on..." The kid reaches down and tugs up the left leg of his too-baggy jeans, revealing his gear, a slender syringe tied to his leg with a length of rubber tourniquet. He tugs at the knot, and it comes away easily, but once he's holding the gear and looking down at it, it occurs to him to ask, "Maybe y'oughta snort it, yer first time?" But after he says it, his tone shifts, as though he's now trying to talk you out of it. "But you gotta take more than you would mainlining it, and even still the high won't be near as good. Not so intense." He rolls his shoulders in a shrug, and still leaves it up to you.

Bleaching the pick before strapping it back on? Now what does that mean? Caddy looks confused for a moment, eyes rolling in her head toward the ceiling as she works that phrase over in her brain. After a long moment, she still hasn't figured it out....but no matter. You know you're talking about, right? The redhead accepts her lighter back, tucking it safely into her skirt pocket as she watches the flame of the candle burn, the yellow reflected in her eyes. "No...I don't like snorting stuff. It feels funny in the back of your throat..." Guess that settles that. "Which arm..? I heard it was better in one of them...."

"Naw, don't feel better in one or the other," Trace explains as he scoots down onto the floor so he can be near the candle. He reaches way over to snatch up a spoon.. Eww, a little bit of dirt on it. He scrubs at it with his thumb til it comes off. There, all better. Shiny clean. "I'll do yer right, though. Common courtesy. Veins blow out, y'know? Can't keep usin' the same one over an' over, coz it closes up after a couple shots, so you gotta find new ones." He digs into his pocket as he's talking now, and comes up with a cotton ball and little plastic baggie, twisted tight to keep the brownish powder packed hard into the corner. "Since yer left's easy to hit on yer own, I'll do yer right. Save the good veins fer when you gotta fix y'self." He seems to be forgetting that you're not supposed to be making a longtime habit of this, and looks up at you. Maybe to correct himself? But no, he only asks, "Wait, you *are* right handed, right?"

"Oh...yeah...vein blow out..." Caddy murmurs, grinning at you. "I know all about it...." 'Cause she's so experienced. The redhead pokes at her right arm, gnawing hard on her bottom lip as she continues to mumble..."Yeah...m'right handed....." And with that, she just falls silent...lips pressing into a line as she stares at the light brown powder. What else is there to say, really? Anticipation radiates from her, like a kid on Christmas waiting for their parents to wake up and come downstairs so they can open presents.

"Kay, we do the right then." Trace gently sets the cotton and the junk down and scrambles back up onto the mattress, reaching back between the bed and the wall again to pull out a bottle of water with a plastic screw cap. It's about half full and the sides are scuffed, the clear plastic creased white in places that have taken the most abuse. The lable claims it was once Evian, but it'd be a pretty safe guess to assume it's just tap water now. He sits down on the ground again. Now the bottle is uncapped and then the baggie is twisted open. In goes the charred (though now dirt-free) spoon, and he sifts out an amount, holds it up, then glances over at you. Hmm. A little is shaken back into the bag. "Like I said, it only takes a little in the beginning. This'll get ya feelin' fine." He holds the spoon carefully and picks up the water with the other hand, *very* carefully letting a a little spill out onto the spoon. Doesn't even measure. The kid's clearly been doing this awhile, he moves with such smooth efficiency. The bottle is set down and he plucks up the needle, and uses the tip to stir the mix around briefly. Then it's held out to you, though he doesn't look back, concentrating on the spoon before him. "Check the spike, wouldja? *I* know it's clean, but just do it, see if there's caked blood around the head inside the barrel. Always do that if you gotta share, an' if it's crudded up, make 'em do a bleach shake."

Caddy watches all this deft movement silently, the only sound coming from her the soft tapping of her heavy boots against the floor. "Uhh..." What with the -what-? The redhead accepts the item from your hands, but just stares at it with big eyes for a long time. What is she supposed to be doing? "Uhh...yeah...it's clean..." she reports, hoping it's true. "Yeah..." she murmurs again, shrugging without the faintest clue what she is supposed to be checking for or where. Or why, for that matter. "Yep...nice and clean!" That's almost cheerful, punctuated with a laugh. We're all clear over here, doctor.

While you fumble with checking his syringe, Trace holds the spoon over the candle and starts the cook, waiting. Intent eyes on the spoon. You've gotta love a ritual. There's something sacred in it. It's like lighting all those candles or whatever at church, except with *his* ritual he's sure to get to heaven. The little flame licks at the bottom of the spoon, and the brown-tinted liquid starts to swirl very slowly. "Jest' make sure you check it all over for blood every time," he murmurs seriously. "All kindsa shit you could catch. An' I don' mean jest AIDS, neither. Bad case'a hep will lay you up somethin' terrible." His smile returns as the little puddle cradled in the spoon starts to bubble and fizzle. "Here we go." The spoon is very carefully set down. The handle's been purposefully bent so it lays flat without spilling. He takes the cotton ball now and tears away a piece, which in turn is rolled up into a shape about the size of a tic tac. It's dropped into the mix and puffs up a little, swelling with the liquid. The needle is taken from you, and he buries the point into the heart of the cotton and draws it up out of that. "All kindsa shit they put in street junk," he explains softly, as the brown creeps up the barrel of the needle. He stops at the four and a half mark. "The cotton cleans it up." He holds the needle up and taps at it sharply, knocking the bubbles out quickly, and then perches on the mattress next to you. He puts the glass barrel in his mouth for a moment and sweeps up your sleeve with one hand, picking up the tourniquet with the other. The length of rubber is carefully snaked around your arm, one end tucked, and then pulled tight with a sharp yank. "S'gotta be tight," he says softly with apology, and runs his fingers gently along your inner arm with consideration. "Y'ready f'this?"

Guess it's too late to point out she didn't really check it all that well. But that thought gets pushed to the back of Caddy's mind quickly, with a half shrug. No time to think about HIV or Hep or the consequences of your actions. "Ow..." she mutters quietly when the band of rubber is tied around her frail arm, turning to look the other way as a throaty laugh escapes her mouth. Don't wanna see the blossom of blood or the syringe poking into her. "Okay...I'm ready...." Her emerald eyes get shut to the world, squinting so that the eyelids fold unnaturally...waiting for the prick of the needle in her arm.

"Jest a prick, an' then it's so worth it," the bluecap murmurs softly. A little part of him is jumping up and down going, wondering why the hell he's sharing a vice that is going to cause him such torture in two days time. But it is such a very little part, and easily quieted as intense hazel eyes scan your inner arm, tracing along the ditch with the point of the needle hovering just over the skin. Following a little blue highway, wondering where best to strike. Finally his hand steadies on your arm, fingers wrapping around to keep it still. "Don't move," he whispers, and then the steel is touching you. Just a moment's hesitation, and in it slides. He pulls in an envious breath. Sunk it in so easy... Skin like untouched milk. Virgin. The needle pulls back, and blood ribbons up into the barrel. "That's how it feels when it sinks proper," he says softly. "Right there..." And then the plunger sinks, the golden-brown heroin slipping out of the barrel, up into your veins. You wouldn't feel it yet. Eight, ten seconds, nothing... The needle slips gently out, retreats, and he quickly tugs at the tourniquet to allow that magic potion full entrance and sweep through you in a warm, incredible rush.

A small, stifled 'eee' sound escapes Caddy's pursed lips as the needle digs under her fresh skin, eyes squinting even more with the sting of it. She opens her mouth, undoubtedly to complain about the stick of the syringe....but she isn't quite quick enough. Ten seconds, max. That intense pleasure, the complete bliss...the feeling of no pain; it seeps through her, skin warming immediatly as her eyelids and limbs become heavy. "Oh...God..." she murmurs, almost inaudibly. "Trace...this is....so...good...." Almost all she can muster right now, body lilting like some unseen weight being pressed upon her. "Woooow....Trace...Wow..."

Trace giggles, a sound so odd and innocent and childlike, considering what he just did to you. Everything in his hands is tossed down quickly so he can steady you should you start to slump, and let you lean into him. "Yeah..." Shining eyes watch you as he reaches out with to smooth away a stray strand of red hair with feather-light fingertips. "Yeah, it's so good. Lost in the beautiful place..." So fondly he drinks in your expression lined in candlelight. This is why he started. He's watching it all over again, in you. That first month or two, it's all such indescribable bliss. A pleasure that shakes you to your core, that will never be topped, not even by the sweetest lover's touch.

Better than anything, really. Caddy droops, the drug making her appendages and eyelids feel like concrete. "Really fucking good..." she murmurs softly, the intenseness of the high being felt in the envelope of heat surrounding her emaciated body. After that...she opts to stop speaking. It's just too hard...words take effort..and it sounds so slurred. Just leans against you, heavy eyes somewhere far away where the physical and mental pains of life can't touch. After a moment or two, she finally utters..."Aren't you going to?"

"Yeah," Trace speaks softly, but emphatically, "Yeah, definitely." How could he not ache for a hit, gazing into the rapture on your expression? He very gently, slowly, eases you back down onto the mattress. A glance back towards the burning candle, hungrily, but he turns back to you, and strokes again at your hair. "Y'okay?" he whispers.

Eyelids droop even more, breathing slows just a little, lips crease into something that resembles a smile. "I'm fucking great..." Caddy breathes in reply, tongue flicking lazily out to lick the bottom of her dried lip. Delightful, she is. "Fucking great...Come on..." Come on and join her.

One last thing. Trace reaches out and carefully sweeps away the dark jewel-red droplet of clinging to the spot where he sunk your first fix. It gets wiped off his fingers onto the mattress carelessly, to join the myriad of other old stains probably best left unidentified. Then he's huddled back down around his candle, and the process repeats. You're probably not paying attention, but this time before he fills the needle again he draws bleach up into it, and gives it ninety shakes. It's squirted off into the dirt near the wall, and then filled with water, shaken again, and emptied. The process is done quickly as possible, perhaps two minutes tops, but it seems a lifetime to the anxious, needy-eyed bluecap. But once done, with a fresh mix cooked, he breathes a relieved sigh as he pulls up the batch out of the cotton. It's a bigger hit, as he said it would be, the liquid gold creeping up to near seven mil. Again, you may not be watching, but shoe gets kicked off quickly and he gets shot into one of the raised blue veins on the top of his foot. No patience to bother with the rubber tie or endless searching for a good vein. So it'll take longer to get the rush, big deal. Once it's done he blows out the candle and abandons the needle and spoon, creeping over to take up some room on the mattress. It still hasn't hit him. Not until thirty, thirty-five seconds or so, the shortest eternity you can imagine, that it starts to wash over him. He curls a little, eyes falling closed as he gently shudders. A *good* shudder, like a climax, his world washes slippery-serene and falls still.

Oh, Caddy was watching...she just isn't saying anything. The whole business of recooking and shooting into the foot is observed with her glassy, half-lidded green eyes positioned on you. Even when you move to sit on the mattress next to her, they follow. Seems like something she should ask about - shooting into the foot - but she feels too good to bother with any of that. Just wants to bask in her ultimate feeling of perfectness right now. Vomit, which will no doubt be rearing its ugly head sometime soon, is the farthest thing from her cooked mind. As is scratchy skin and all the other lovely effects of the smack. "Mmm..." she sighs quietly, contentedly...head lolling to one side. "Thanks...Trace..."

"Mmm..." With infinite slowness Trace looks over and smiles, still half-hidden by his arm and all those blue braids. So he peeks at you, his tiny pupils swimming and lost in the glassy hazel. "Y'welcome, Caddy.." he slurs softly. His indrawn breath is blown out like a sigh, and one hand creeps up, reaching in a languid stretch. "God.. D'know how'll give this up. Fuck, tha' was good." The hand is pulled back in tortoise retreat and he scritches at his ribs happily.

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