vetta's posterous

Chapter 11: The Space Between

Faye lay back on the deck of the Bebop, jumping occasionally when a barge passed by blowing the loud foghorn. It was a hot and humid day, and she cursed Jet's decision to come to Mars. They had scheduled an outing on Ganymede, but with money low and food supplies dwindling, instead Jet had arranged some business ventures in Tharsis to bring in some quick cash. She hadn't wanted to come; Mars dredged up too many bad memories that she would rather forget. But it was his ship, Jet reminded her, so unless she wanted to be stranded on Earth, she would have to come along. Faye had pouted but she didn't say anything. She had a feeling that Jet knew why she hadn't wanted to go, but he didn't say anything to her about it, and she was grateful for that. When she'd returned from her stay with spike, Jet asked a lot of questions about the visit, what Spike was up to, who he hung out with. But she could only give him the bare basics, attempting to deliver the information without emotion. Jet wasn't fooled, though. He knew her too well, after the six months they had spent on the ship after Spike left. Afterwards, she was bitchy and moody, and jet tried to stay out of her way. Sometimes, though, she would catch him looking at her with the scrutinizing look of a former cop, and she kept her distance from here, afraid that he would be able to break her down. Even though she believed that all men were idiots, Jet was not like most men; she had seen him in action when wheedling information out of bounty heads. So here she was, suntanning in the bay of Tharsis, trying not to get irritated at her luck in life. Faye jumped again as another barge announced its passage. She sighed and lay her head back against the chair. Maybe I should have stayed on Earth. It has to be less depressing that this planet.

Next chapter

Ask me why I keep on loving you when it's clear that you don't feel the same way for me... the problem is that as much as I can't force you to love me, I can't force myself to stop loving you. ~Author Unknown

She was near the far end of the tunnel, about to pass the saxophone player when the music stopped abruptly. The sudden silence made Faye jerk her head up, suddenly at alert. Then she saw the man watching her.

Chapter 10. Silent Blues

Been far away for far too long So far away, so far away

The bullet slammed into his shoulder, and he struggled to hold onto his Jericho as the pain blindsided him. He fired off rounds with the gun in his left hand, until all three gunmen lay dead on the pavement.

He slumped against the building, sliding down until his bottom hit the ground, breathing heavily as he waited for the pain to subside. He had not planned on coming so close to dying today. But, at least he could say that he had achieved his goal.

As he gazed over at the three bodies, an overwhelming exhaustion washing over him. He was coming to the realization that the chains he had built around his heart was not as strong as he had thought; a certain purple-haired femme fatale held the key.

The first time it occurred to him was when he had walked into the Glowing Sun to see her sitting on that bar stool, legs crossed as the hem of her dress rode up suggestively, showing a smooth pale thigh. It wasn't the first time it occurred to him that she was beautiful.

And he just could not erase the memory of the pain he had so callously caused her. He was seriously fucked up, he knew.

His eyes were starting to glaze over from the loss of blood leaking from his shoulder and the thin stream of liquid that trickled down his face. He blinked rapidly against the burning in his eyes and he looked up, seeing not the electric wires traversing across the city, but the lush green of trees on a windy day, someplace in the time of his past. For a fleeting moment, he thought about how easy it would be to just let it all end here and now.

Is this all that's left? He laughed mirthlessly at what the authorities would think when they found the infamous Spike Spiegel, dead in an alleyway by his own hand. What a fitting end to an otherwise stellar life of crime. Her image had come to his mind many times in the past six months; the sheen of dark hair brushing across a soft, pale cheek, her face displaying a wistful innocence that she kept hidden unless she was alone, smoking or staring out the porthole into space.

That was the image that appeared before he blacked out; it was that image that prompted him to call Ronald at the Glowing Sun before everything went dark.

***

"Spike!" Faye shoots up in bed as she is jolted awake. She looks around blindly for Spike until she realizes that it had been just a dream, more like a nightmare. She tries to recall exactly what had happened before she woke up but all she can remember is a hazy dark scene, with dead bodies strewn across the ground, and one of the bodies was Spike's.

But the most disturbing part, the part that bothers her the most, was that the bullet through his brain had been put there by the gun in his hand.

She doesn't know how she knows, but she does. It's as though she can see inside of him, hear his thoughts, feel his guilt. She swings her feet to the floor, standing in place for several minutes as she tries to shake off the feeling of unease.

"Spike," she whispers. "Where are you?" She lays down again and presses her cheek against the pillow, and she closes her eyes against the tears, wondering if she can find some way for it not to hurt so much.

***

As consciousness returned, the muffled sound of voices drifted to his ears and he opened his eyes. Then he became aware of two things: the light hurt like hell, and he had a blinding headache that made him want to puke. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to identity of the voices speaking softly in the room.

"… lost a lot of blood … blood type … O negative … two ccs …" "Where - find … ambushed …"

The smell of ether and the beep of machinery told him that he was probably in hospital.

Here we go again. The flicker of a smile flashed across his mind, but his heart sank as he realized that he had cheated death yet again. He was finding it hard to remember what had been his last thought before he blacked out.

I - I can't - goddamn it – why can't I remember?

He struggled to open his eyes again, focused on the blurry figures near the bed instead of the pain that was nearly splitting his skull apart. He lifted an arm to rub his head, but was stopped short by the device pinning his arm to the bed. At the rustling of the sheet, the voices stopped, realizing that he was awake. He could see one of the figures moving towards the bed, accompanied by the smell of flowers.

Faye.

It's okay in the day I'm staying busy Tied up enough so I don't have to wonder where is he Got so sick of crying His face in my dreams seizes my guts He floods me with dread Soaked in soul He swims in my eyes by the bed Faye leaned against the wall of the porthole and pressed her forehead on the glass, staring out into space. The glass was cold on her skin. The scenario was so achingly familiar; idiot goes out, either for a bounty or just for a night alone, away from the Jet's grumbling or her "whining complaints," as he liked to remind her. Jet was in the plant room amusing himself with tending his little trees. It was what he always did when Spike went out, because he didn't want her to see how worried he was. All men are idiots, she thought, so transparent. She held no such illusions or pretenses that she was not afraid for him. She worried because Spike didn't and Jet said he wouldn't. Spike's face appeared before her, reflected in the glass. For a split second, Faye thought that his ship had crashed, leaving his lifeless body to float through space, heading home to the Bebop. She squeezed her eyes shut and counted to ten before she opened them again. His face was gone. Instead of feeling relief, her nerves splintered into shredded pieces of frayed ribbons, and she turned away from the window, looking around for something, anything to occupy herself with until he came home. * * *

No one should fear what they cannot see, And no ones to blame it's just hypocrisy, It's written in your eyes, And how I despise myself. But you can't deny how I feel, And you can't decide for me. Spike and I are sitting on the couch in front of the vidscreen, watching the communiqué that Ed sent us about a potential bounty. I'm trying to look casual but the truth is, his proximity makes me nervous. We need to work out a plan on the best way to bring down this guy. As usual, Spike wants to go in with guns blazing. As he talks about his game plan (the only time he every really says more than a sentence), I watch his eyes, how they seem to light up with every aggressive action that he outlines. "What?" Startled, my eyes refocus and I find him staring at me. I know that I am blushing because his eyes stray down my face, from my chin and back up to my eyes. "Nothing." I shake my head and turn back at the vidscreen. I'm praying that he didn't catch the emotion that must have leaked out onto my face. I glance back at him, and my heart drops like a stone in my chest. I know that he dislikes me, but I never realized just how much until I look at him. He is eyeing me with such intensity that I can almost feel the hatred burning my skin. So, he had noticed something. It's more than obvious that he doesn't feel the same way. I want the floor to open up and swallow me whole so he can't see just how much his look crushes me. Instead, I swallow back the tears. Now I'm furious. I stare him down defiantly until he is the one who is forced to look away.

* * *

Drabble Challenge The Third – Here Come The Girls I am participating in a drabble (loose term) challenge for my fandom. Our entries have a provisional deadline of May 31st. The challenge is to focus on the female characters in Cowboy Bebop, inspired by songs from female artists. This one has been difficult, not only because of real life issues, but because trying to get inspiration using some of the song choices is difficult, especially if the song is by an artist that I don't like. So, instead of listening to the songs, I am treating each song as a poem, and I'll see what I come up with. Nerina Pallot - Lyrics from Sofia And now I walk these streets like a stranger in my home town, Learn the language, form the words when I speak. But he changed me, I’m his ghost since he came around Now I count the hours, and the days and the weeks..... In passion and silence, Every word, every line a measure It’s the science of the soul.

---

Faye stood in front of the mirror, examining her eyes. Did they look different, she wondered? She looked closer for any hint of the hurt that she felt inside. The day he left, these same eyes had cried for him, real tears, plump and wet, rolling down her face like some little girl crying for her mother. But Faye didn't have a mother, and her home was gone, long gone. They were all she had. And now, looking at those same eyes, she remembered the way his had looked, when he'd stuck his face closer to her than it had ever been before, in all the months that they had shared ship space. Her heart was breaking, and all he could say was that he couldn't see, couldn't see her, couldn't see anything but the past he had before them. Faye never cried for anyone, but she cried for him. You went away just when I needed you.

* * *

MCM has pledged to write 1,000 short stories this summer. Send him a line, an idea, a concept, and he will write a story. My story seed: "The truth is, I don't want to die alone."

4:30 AM on a Tuesday

He saw her by the fading light of the old refrigerator, standing against the door frame, light t-shirt clinging her to moist skin. She was watching him, the quietest thing in the room, bare feet soaking up the cold from the tile floor. “You’re up,” he said, voice croaking, but left the door open. He needed the cool air. “I heard you leave,” she said. “Are you hungry?” He smiled, swung the fridge open more to get a better look at his options. Nothing seemed right. Milk, beer, yoghurt. “I was,” he said. “Until I got here. Now, not so much. How about you? Are you hungry at all? Help me choose?” “I’m okay,” she said, and slid up beside him, wrapping an arm around his waist, resting her head on his shoulder. “Come back to bed?” “I’m not tired yet,” he sighed. “You don’t need to be tired,” she smiled, and pulled herself closer. It caught him by surprise, and he almost missed her mouth, probing at his chin, his neck. He returned the kiss, and she wrapped herself around him, arms locked over his shoulders, legs pulling herself up. “I’ve never done this before,” he said between breaths, hands running down her hips, under the shirt, up again. “Done what?” she purred. “A one-night stand,” he said, turning her around and setting her on the edge of the counter. “It doesn’t have to be just the one night,” she said. “Good things have… oh… good things have strange beginnings…” He laughed, pulled her shirt over her head, kissed her neck, down to the scar in the middle of her chest. He’d seen it earlier, but the booze and the passion and the excitement had made him forget it. Long and clean, lit up by the fridge. He traced it with his finger and she moaned. “What happened?” he asked softly, and she took his hand and put it over her left breast, whispered in his ear. “A hole in my heart,” she said. He felt the beating beneath his fingers, racing with every breath. Her blue eyes, half-open and delirious with want, kept locked with his. “Unfixable, like the rest of me.” He kissed her, and she wrapped her arms around him, helped him forget for a moment, but then she shuddered, and he drew back, thumb brushing the hair from her face. “Is it dangerous?” he asked. She smiled, half-shrugged, and tugged at his shorts, an effort that trailed off when she realized his hesitation. “It’ll kill me,” she admitted. “Some day.” “How?” he asked, stepping back. “I’ll tell you when I get there,” she smiled, and tried to carry on. He didn’t move. “What is this?” he asked, picking her shirt off the ground. Her heels wrapped around his waist and pulled him back, but he didn’t accept her embrace. He pushed the shirt to her chest. “What are we doing?” “Forgetting fate for a bit,” she said, dropping the shirt back on the ground. “One night at a time. There’s a hole in my heart, and one day, a beat will go wrong and I’ll die. But I’m not going to live in fear of that day. I’m not afraid of dying. Dying is easy.” He shook his head, unlocked her legs, stepped back, closed the fridge door. It was cold, suddenly. He needed his shirt. He felt exposed. “I won’t help you kill yourself.” She caught his arm as he tried to leave. He tried not to look at her, but the moonlight on her back drew him in. Her eyes were shimmering with tears. “You can’t kill me,” she said. “My heart’s on its own schedule. I’m not afraid of dying. I’m really not. The truth is, I don’t want to die alone. I’m deathly afraid of dying alone.” She let go of his arm, her hand brushing his cheek, pulling away. She slumped, staring at the floor, suddenly frail. “What do you want from me?” he said, a gulf between them, filled with hated desires and unspoken thoughts. “Keep me company until you can’t anymore,” she whispered. “One night or a thousand. And when I go, just carry on, because I was happy.” He looked at her, said nothing for a moment. He took her hand in his, and their fingers entwined, and he stepped into her embrace, her face resting on his chest. “How can I know that?” he asked. “How can I know you were happy?” “Because,” she said softly, “I have nothing else to feel.”