Jerome Valeska || OS/SS/I

6. The A-Team

A/N
Quick warning: Mentions of drug and alcohol abuse and dependency, depression and grief.

If you're good with this, you may continue.

~.~.~

Curling yourself up amongst the pile of blankets you had collected, you tried to control how your body convulsed and shook with each breath you took.

"White lips, pale face,
Breathing in snowflakes,
Burnt lungs, sour taste.

Light's gone, day's end,
Struggling to pay rent,
Long nights, strange men."

You took in large gulps of air; each of them feeling like thousands of tiny shards of glass embedding themselves in your throat.  Your body shook violently as you coughed and hacked, the cold night hurting your chest further.  You tried to focus on counting the boxes piled up at the other side of the large storage room.  In theory it should work the same as counting sheep, and anyway, any distraction for your mind was a good distraction.

"And they say,
She's in the Class A Team,
Stuck in her daydream,
Been this way since eighteen.

But lately her face seems,
Slowly sinking, wasting,
Crumbling like pastries,
And they scream,
The worst things in life come free to us.

'Cause we're just under the upper hand,
And go mad for a couple grams,
And she don't want to go outside tonight.

And in a pipe she flies to the Motherland,
Or sells love to another man.

It's too cold outside,
For angels to fly,
Angels to fly."

A few others made their way in to the large room, scanning the faces of those who were already here.  You tensed, ready to put up a fight for what little warmth you had as one stumbled over to you.  You needn't have worried when he pulled up his cap.  Slumping beside you, Les pulled out a small bag and motioned you up.  You met Les little over a year ago, around that time when you realised there was such a thing as lower than rock bottom.  He was a veteran, now down on his luck, snubbed, and forced to share the same hell as yourself.  You'd been splitting what you had with him whenever you'd meet, which was only every few weeks since you had to move around.

You sat up and wrapped a blanket round his old, hunched shoulders as he rifled through his pockets.  Eventually he found what he was looking for and the night descended into chasing highs; smoking just enough to take the edge off.

"Ripped gloves, raincoat,
Tried to swim and stay afloat,
Dry house, wet clothes.

Loose change, bank notes,
Weary-eyed, dry throat,
Call girl, no phone."

Upon waking, you began bundling up your blankets and wrapping them around your shoulders.  Les was still out so you left one with him.

You made your way outside, into the harsh morning light.  You wandered along until you found one of the corners you regularly frequented.  Lowering yourself carefully, trying not to hurt your frail body anymore than necessary, you huddled under your cap and blankets and held out your worn old takeaway coffee cup.

You hated that this is what you'd become.  You had to rely on the kindness of strangers and endure your fair share of both verbal and physical abuse from those less understanding.