fair/unfair

08.

        There are only so many pleasant ways one can wake up in the morning after having drowned themselves in alcohol, and waking up to the smell of vinegar bright and early while your stomach is still sensitive to smells was not one of them.

       Vomit shoved its way up Reid's throat before his eyes even snapped open, and without stopping to process where he was or what kind of sick, masochistic bastard decided to wake him up so cruelly, he was off the couch and making a beeline for the bathroom. The door sprang open and he fell to his knees, throwing up any kind of stomach lining he'd hoped to have salvaged in his past few years of teenage delinquency. After a couple of minutes, the vile liquid stopped coming out and he was left with dry heaves violently wracking his body.

       God, he hadn't been this sick after getting drunk since he was fifteen. Usually, he knew he limits, but he usually also knew when he was being manipulated. Somehow, Ramona's malicious and ill intent had swept right over his goddamn head, and now he was paying the price for it.

       Reid leaned forward to flush the toilet and waited until his sick washed away down the drain before he rested his forehead, soaked with sweat, against the lid of the toilet seat. Jay walked in a moment later, and leaned against the door frame, a jar of pickles cradled under his armpit. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did I wake you?"

       "Piss off," Reid said, but his throat was on fire and his voice sounded like it had gone head to head with lung cancer. He grimaced and then spit in the toilet seat, desperate to get the taste out of his mouth with the least amount of movement possible.

       "Not until you tell me what the hell is wrong with you." He didn't even sound angry anymore, just tired.  "I come home after a long shift and find you passed out on the kitchen floor, stripped down to the bare minimum, and smelling like you swallowed a liquor store."

       Reid smeared a hand across his mouth, wiping away any evidence of his sickness, and then after swiping that on his boxers, he did the same thing with his tongue.

       "Reid."

       He mulled over Jay's words. He couldn't remember anything past Mal kicking him out of the car. Only flashes. A spinning ceiling, heat engulfing his body, cool tiles against his bare frame — he must've gotten so hot that he'd ended up shucking off all of his clothes save his boxers and curled up on the kitchen floor — and his head, Jesus. He touched his forehead gingerly like that would make the thundering hurt any less.

       "You're on probation, Reid. Do you understand what I'm telling you? Do you understand what that means? One more fuck-up, no matter how minuscule — say underage drinking, or public intoxication, or being admitted the hospital for alcohol poisoning—"

       "How long?" Reid interrupted.

       Not wanting to move from the bathroom floor just this second, in case his stomach reacted negatively to the sudden movement, he settled on situating himself so his back was propped up against the toilet. He winced, his whole body aching from spending most of the night on the hard floor.

       Jay stared. "How long what?"

       "How long," he said, hooking his arms around his knees, "are you going to keep trying to fix me?"

       His brother scowled. "Until you stop acting like you're broken."

       Reid knew the words he didn't say. The words Jay used to wield as a weapon.

       Dad's dead, Reid. He's been dead for four years now. Quit using him as an excuse for your childish rebellion.

       Jay stopped saying them after he learned just what happens when Reid's temper spiked. Back then, black eyes, busted lips, and bloody noses were considered accessories for the Patton brothers.