AN: I've got three essays and a giant history project due by Thursday. So how do I spend my productive time? Procrastinating, of course! And procrastinating with Cowboy Bebop, no less. I think the ending might be a bit confusing, feedback would be greatly appreciated.
Disclaimers: I own nothing. Don't sue me.
There were some things that Spike craved more than anything else in the whole world. One was the feel of a newly polished beneath his capable fingers. The other was bell peppers and beef. The most important was Julia.
Currently he wasn't in possession of any of those. And it was really, really ticking him off.
He stared down at the chipped plate in front of him, watching the way it overflowed to the brim with nothing but neon green vegetables brighter than one of those bulky signs in the middle of a casino. That sickly sweet harlequin color, even brighter than his hair, seemed to mock him every time he glanced down. He closed his eyes and groaned, practically imagining the way they laughed up at him in his moneyless state and his lack of meat and the fact that he was probably going to die from starvation if he had to eat peppers for one more freaking day.
How many days had it been like this? He struggled to count on lopsided fingers, half-conscious mind only able to grasp at the barest of details the thinnest strands of memory flashing across his brain and snaking back into the realms of his mind.
Two? No, it had been longer than that. Ten? His brows furrowed. Larger number. Think larger number. A thousand? That was closer. It certainly felt like a thousand, anyway, since the day that Julia left.
His whole body tensed, his nerves shot to the breaking point. His fist clenched so tightly around the fork he held that the cold metal left indents in his calloused palms and his knuckles lightened several shades. Sweat formed in beads and dripped down his forehead, curling through his forest hair and nestling themselves into his eyebrows. His throat closed completely, and he gagged and spluttered from temporary lack of oxygen.
Breathe, Spike, he commanded himself as best he could. Just keep on breathin'.
He sucked in as much oxygen as his lungs would take, and then he tried to force even more down. He filled himself with welcoming air, reveling in the way his shoulders relaxed. His heart slammed an aria in his chest and he let the melody fade to a dull, erratic murmur as he exhaled.
His hands were trembling.
He bit into the vegetables, ivory teeth tearing carelessly through the thick, almost non-existent skin and into the deeper tissue below. The taste consumed him, acrid and harsh and pumped full of chemicals and cleaning solutions. A bittersweet tang filled his mouth, pungent and crisp to the point that it made his eyes water.
A tear rolled down his face.
He remembered when he still had money, when he still lived in an apartment in Tharsus instead of the bowels of a rusty, worn-out excuse of a ship. He remembered when Julia used to come over and cook for him, when they used to laugh so hard they'd cry, when they used to be Spike and Julia in one dizzying, beautiful coherent phrase that echoed every day throughout his entire being.
Spike and Julia. Him and Jul.
Another tear trickled out of a garnet eye, and joined the other one, falling in a river down the points of his cheekbones, the facets of his jaw, the outline of his throat, nestling themselves deep into the collar of his shirt.
A single, midnight chime shattered the fragile silence like breaking glass. The noise slammed his eardrums, a painful, screeching wreck. Sound waves echoed down into the depths of his very soul, filled him with resonation and despair, and a deep incessant longing for a halo of golden hair to be sitting on the couch next to him.
Then, at least, the bell peppers wouldn't taste so terrible.
They were going to take on the world, just him and her, together until the clock on the wall that was supposed to last forever stopped pounding out the hours, until the clock ran out of electricity and the hands froze and time no longer mattered.
But she was gone now. Julia, stolen away into the night by a man whose very appearance sparked dark lit images of swirling clouds and dying stars and the edges of a new moon visible in inky blackness.
The gun was a dull silver, glorious shine faded to dull pewter over the years. Rust flanked the edges of the barrel, and a dent in the corner showed its many different abuses. A dark, mottled stain near the trigger looked suspiciously like blood. Still, through all the defects, it remained his favorite weapon.
He held the revolver with a steady purpose, a cocky smile gently adorning the edges of his lips. He peeked into the bullet compartment and slammed it shut again. Only two left. One for Vicious, the next time he laid eyes on that cheating, lying, stealing, he-knew-the-heck-what. And one for…
He shot the clock and smiled.