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Summary
He knew Mal wouldn’t want him doing this. He remembered how she’d warned him to stay away from hard drugs like this. How they were a completely different kind of high from the usual shit he used, and how the crash was far worse.
But what she thought didn’t matter anymore. Nothing she thought or said fucking mattered.
All that mattered was the oozing syringe in his hand, the tourniquet cinched tight around his arm and held in place with his teeth, and the vein pulsing just beneath his skin. Soon, he’d be able to forget—forget the empty promises of the Phoenix Program, forget Mal’s hollow calls for a new start.
And most of all, forget that he ever joined that stupid fucking NA program in the first place.
Now, if only he’d stop shaking long enough to get the needle in just right…
OR
What if Sonar's drug issues weren't played for laughs?