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PSYCHO!!, the worst drug to get yourself addicted to. Instead of passing out in the middle of a corridor - to be kicked to the side, where your body adds to the trash that litters the place before the cleaners come - you turn into a raging lunatic looking for something to expend your devil's fury on. You're trouble to yourself, and other people, who may just shoot your dumbass after you pop off over nothing.
To be fair though, Moriarty is not so different on psycho as off, at least according to his wife. He's aggressive, psychotic, agitated and paranoid, but he's always exhibited the seeds of those traits. All it took back in the day was a little push and he'd whip his gun out and blow a fool's head off, or beat them to death with his bare hands, shouting at Gob to clean up the mess before dodging into his office to write in his diary. The really annoying thing is that not only does he refuse to admit that he's doing psycho, but he's gloomy now, and goes about wearing a scowl, when before he'd hide his aggression under a falsely amiable lacquer. And, of course, there's the risk of overdose, of sudden heart attack and death, although, who knows if that threat even applies these days.
“I knew this might happen. Soon as he shot up that first time.” mutters Nova, over his body, which lies on their bed in an attitude of suddenly arrested chaos, clothes in disarray, hair and feathers a mess, mysterious blood dried on cheek and hand, one leg and arm hanging off the edge. He's not dead, but passed out from the exhaustion of spending all day roving around high as a kite on military grade Murder Fuel. Sad sight, for one so decorated. Dangerous too, counter productive. Just like the pre war military, the Brotherhood does not care, and even tacitly encourages their men to hype themselves up on chemicals, provided those chemicals lead to results or keep uncomfortable questions on the back burner, where they belong. And it's not as if he doesn't know this, but still he reaches for the horrible Victorian looking contraption that is a hit of psycho.
Nova attempts to shake him, but can't budge him an inch thanks to all the metal he's put into his body. Oh yeah, Brotherhood likes that too, just try not to tell outsiders we soup our people up like they're cars. But Moriarty, of course, likes to 'talk'. “Hey, idiot. Hey, honey, wake up. Stop doing this to me.” poking him in tender parts doesn't work, it's just like poking semi-solid jelly, no reaction at all. A dangerous activity too, since he turned himself almost literally into a killing machine. No more fragility. No more vulnerability. Except inside.
There's nothing for it but to wait for him to wake, to wait and then she'll turn a slightly sad look upon him. Slightly sad, because anything more risks defiance, and him not wanting to return home at all. Even the faintest hint of a sad look, even nothing at all, will cause him to storm out, rush to some out of the way corner, and do more psycho.
But Nova has work, cleaning, cooking, attempting to hide daddy's dismal state from the children. Interior doors close, hiding shameful sights from young eyes. He's unwell, that's what she says whenever they ask why he can't come and play with them, although he never backs her up and agrees with the lie. Funny, she supposed it would be her in his position, and not the other way around. Her biggest fear is that the children realise what's happening when he passes out or storms around overturning furniture, and contract the habit themselves. Drug deaths on the ship ain't uncommon. Neither are drugs. Nova sighs and looks back down at the man she reluctantly agreed to marry after years spent wishing he would ask. She'd pick up a dead pigeon and throw it away if it flopped onto her bed like this, but she can't and wouldn't do that with Moriarty, as similar to a dead bird as he appears now.
“Oh, love.” her hand pushes oily hair off cold, sweaty skin. Risking it all. What he's done to himself, it's near suicidal to touch let alone caress him while he's asleep, surprised, or otherwise not in control of himself. He never got over it, he never got over it, is the thought that runs through her head while the scarlet, cybernetic eyes that form the ‘decoration’ of his feathers, open with a metallic click, and look around briefly, before blinking and closing. One of the dreaded claws (and there are two to each wing, like a dragon) twitches, but she's safe. If she wasn't, the eyes would stay open, and fix on her, growing brighter by the second, full of the burning fury supplied by the person who created them to be his security system. Still burning, although it's not really red anger, but black fear, and he can't control when it erupts. She's seen it happen, and it's not pretty. It leads to yet more drug use every time it breaks free. You have about a split second to stop triggering him, but it's usually too late by then. But he doesn't mind, isn't set off by her touching him, that is still something, something to work with.
“Wake up, sweetheart.”