02 Your Friendly Neighborhood Drug Dealer

A/N: Yup, this happened to me, too.

Alex smiles as a single drop of blood runs down his skin, trickling, leaving a trail of rustic-red across his wrist, slashing right across the blue veins he can see directly underneath, before falling right into the toilet basic below.

It was just one drop, but it was enough.

He tilted his head to the side as he watched the blood dissipate through the smooth water of the toilet bowl, turning pink, before eventually disappearing completely.

It was, after all, just one drop.

He looked down at his wrist, the blood already drying to the kind of brown one found on old fences and neglected knives, but just a touch more reddish than that.

Someone flushed a toilet in the stall next to him.

Sighing, he quickly licked his entire wrist to wet the blood, then used a square of toilet tissue to wipe it off.

It made a rather interesting pattern, actually.

He dropped it so the flat paper was floating on top of the water, though soaked, and the blood was bright, bright red.

This would get him through the day.

He shoved the scissors back into his bag, and pissed and flushed the toilet, not even bothering to roll down his sleeve as he washed his hands, dried them. Then rolled down his sleeve. No one blinked twice. Then again, half the bathrooms smelt of weed and fags, and really, how different was he from the druggie he'd been accused of being so long ago?

The bell rang as he stepped out of the bathroom door, and he sighed and headed for class.

Just another day.

It was always just another day.

Alex felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned around to see Danni being the one behind it.

She was a cute but otherwise average girl. Short, brown hair with blonde highlights, hazel eyes, fairly soft features, the usual things Alex noted. The life of a spy, after all.

"I've heard some interesting stuff about you," she said, pointing at his arm. "Is it true?"

Alex shrugged. Around them, students babbled as they focused on their work.

He turned back and nodded. "If you're talking about me slicing up my own arm, yea. Why?"

She glanced around, then leaned in. "Interested in something a little more pleasurable?"

"Like what?"

In his experience, drug dealers weren't the kind to beat around the bush. Despite all of Hollywood's excessive use of codenames and nicknames and slang and whatnot, most people used generic terms if no one of…opposition…was in ear shot.

"I've got some weed," she said. "For sale. Ten quid for a dime bag of it."

"Isn't that the definition of a dime bag?" Alex said.

"Well…actually, it's supposed to be ten American dollars for a dime bag of weed, but that's like five quid or something, so ten quid's it, but in America it would be double the amount, cos it'd be double the price an' all that."

Alex just shrugged. "That's a little…random."

"Well?"

Alex smiled at her, sweetly, the disarming smile that made him MI6's best agent and secret weapon, and left his enemies not knowing what hit them.

And left local drug dealers feeling good without feeling cheated.

"No, thanks."

"Are you sure?" she asked.

Alex turned in his seat, a little, to face her.

It was ironic. The drug dealers, the real ones, were never who you expected them to be. She wore her uniform well, she had an average style, very little make-up – though she did still wear some – and she certainly didn't look like she just stumbled out of a gutter, metal concert, or a drug lab. She looked like any other school girl.

And acted like one, too. Her grades were fairly average – though this history class was a top set class, so something was good on her part – and she never failed to show off her doodles and drawings.

She was going to be a fashioned designer, one day, apparently.

"Yea. This," Alex said, rolling up his sleeve, and smirking at her raised eyebrow when she saw the fresh cut, bright red against his tanned-but-dull skin. "Is mine."

She just shrugged. "Well, you know where to find me if you change your mind.

That night, with four times the normal dose of Vicodin and two shots of tequila running through his veins, as he concentrated on not falling out of his seat while eating dinner with Jack, Alex rather doubted he ever would change his mind.

But, it was nice to know someone was looking out for his chemical happiness, even if it was only for their own financial gain.

He could live with that.

A/N: You'd think 80mg of Vicodin and a mini-bottle of tequila would result in a big-ass headache and stomach ache the next morning. Surprisingly, there's almost none. Ironic, isn't it? It seems a hangover and a faux-withdrawal cancel each other out when they're in small doses.

Anyway, please remember to review!