Title: Never Let Things Go
Blood Type: Dr. Pepper. If I could live off of it, I would.
Disclaimer: I don't own Cowboy Bebop. There is nothing witty to read here; move on.
Warnings: Hints of Vicious/Julia. Nothing else, really.
Author's Note: Written as a gift for the lovely shibue. She's the one who inspired it, after all.
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The bell sounded, low and clear, a crystal sound that hummed along the glass of the Academy. The lower grades were being sent home, but the bell only signaled the end of the first half for the older students.
Julia pushed open the creaky door that let out onto the upper practice fields. The classes might be first-rate, but the Academy itself was a total dive. She brushed the rust particles that clung to her hands off before shoving a lock of blonde hair out of her eyes. "You'd think they'd at least manage to fix the cooling systems," she sighed, rummaging around in her bag for her sunglasses. Although it wasn't particularly sunny, at least they'd keep the hair out of her eyes; the heat in the science labs made it all but impossible to keep her hair in any kind of style. In fact, the only one who managed it was Spike.
"Too busy playing canasta," Spike said, following her out onto the pocked concrete walkway. He ran a hand through his untamed hair. It was always like that, heat or no. He took a crumpled packet of cigarettes out of a pocket and shook out the last one.
Laughing, Julia flipped up the hem of her skirt and slipped out her cigarette case and lighter. The case had been bought from her pool winnings—she was not ashamed to admit that she hustled down at the pool hall in order to make some extra cash—and the lighter had been a gift from Vicious.
The door banged open, crashing against the brick wall. Spike glanced to the side, lit his bent cigarette and threw the empty packet in the waste bin.
"Spike!"
"Vicious."
His hair, already grey from stress, swung forward into his eyes. Vicious blamed it on the orphanage he had run away from when he was ten. And who knew? Maybe it was.
" She's looking for you—"
"As expected." Spike blew a thin tendril of smoke into the cloudless Mars sky.
"There's a test in quantum—"
"And?"
"It's—"
"Whatever."
"Just because you're—"
"We're," Spike corrected, indicating Julia.
"Well…" Vicious looked at her appraisingly. Julia raised her hand in greeting and took a long drag off her cigarette.
"Some things…can't be taught."
"But precise—"
"It will all come in time," Spike answered.
Julia watched the argument, barely able to contain her laughter. The same argument had persisted for three days. Vicious turned to look at her and she choked on a laugh. Coughing, she waved him away.
"Julia," Vicious pleaded.
"Don't look at me, Vicious," she responded, her voice still husky from smoke held for too long. The only reason she and Spike were passing quantum theory in the first place was because of Vicious. He was the type of guy who liked to know the rules. She ground her cigarette out on the brick wall of the Academy and tucked her cigarette case and lighter back under her skirt.
Vicious frowned and narrowed his eyes, a look that didn't really suit him. Somehow, it made the dark circles under his eyes—achieved, no doubt, from too much studying and too little sleep—more punctuated.
"You can't—"
"Whatever," Spike sighed, grinding his cigarette out on the bottom of his shoe.
"You're going to get caught," Vicious responded.
Julia smirked and quickly hid it behind a hand. That line was always Vicious' last-ditch effort. He said it no matter what the situation. The line itself wasn't as funny as the fact that both he and Spike were in line for major positions within the Mars Syndicate.
"And?"
---
Julia woke with a start, but thankfully, not in the cold sweat that she had become accustomed to. She counted her blessings. All she needed was to be forced to take a shower here; the hot water always seemed to run out, leaving her skin pricked raw by the cold by the time she managed to rinse all the shampoo from her hair.
Why the Academy on Mars? She fumbled in the dark for her cigarette case and lighter, the latter of which she kept as a talisman—a sort of ward against evil.
"There's no such thing as luck," she mumbled, taking out a cigarette. Twice she had held that lighter over a waste bin, ready to watch the past disappear like she did three years ago. Maybe that would be best—for everyone. In the end, she never had the nerve and she would clench it tightly and feel the cold metal pressing into her palm, reminding her she was still alive.
"You never could let go of things," she chided herself as she lit her cigarette.