Author's Note: This story takes place after Spike leaves the syndicate,
just before meeting Jet. I've always wondered what it would be like if
Spike could ever love anyone after Julia. This is how I imagine Spike to
have felt after leaving the syndicate and being abandonned by Julia; it's
basically about starting over. Hope you enjoy; interpret it for what you
will. Please review.
Disclaimer: I don't own Cowboy Bebop or anything that goes with it.
CHAPTER ONE
Samantha opened her eyes; pale blue light surrounded the bedroom. Rain was beating on every wall and resonating throughout the room. She looked over at Spike. When he was awake, he never allowed her to enjoy too much sentamentality. But now, as he slept, Samantha leaned in close to him and took in a deep breath of him. She lightly brushed her fingers through his hair and whispered, "I love you." His nose wrinkled as he dreamed. There were occasions when looking at Spike's face made Samantha want to cry. It pained her to love him, to look at someone who could look back at her so frigidly. It seemed, though, as if not loving him would be even more painful. He stirred, stretching out his arms. He looked up at Samantha, and for one brief moment, he appeared to be genuinely happy. He stroked his fingers softly down her bare shoulders. "What's for breakfast?" he asked groggily. Samantha sighed; it would be another day, just like any other.
Spike stared out the window at the falling rain while Samantha cooked breakfast. He attempted choosing individual droplets, and then following them with his eyes until they splashed their remains onto the ground. His eyes never strayed from the window, even when Samantha brought him his plate.
"I'm leaving for work now," she said. Spike didn't move. "So I'll see you later today, okay, Spike?" He at last grunted in acknowledgement. Samantha sighed and walked out the door.
* * * *
She returned several hours later, to find Spike sprawled across the couch. A small shot glass sat on the coffee table within his reach, half full. "Spike..."
"So I've got a bounty on my head," he said non-chalantly. He picked up the glass, took a quick drink, set it back down. "They showed a big picture of my mug on Big Shots today. The syndicate must really want to see me dead."
"Are you going to be all right?" Samantha asked.
He laughed. "Have I ever been all right?" he asked. He looked her in the eye; he didn't glare or appear to be angry, but she still felt his glance pierce her with cold. "I'm not worried. I knew they'd try to hunt me down; I'm not as easy to catch as I look."
"I know," she said softly. She sat on the couch; not too close, but within reaching distance. "I know how hard you are to catch." She placed his hand on his face and smiled weakly. He looked away. After living with her for three months, he had grown tired of her sympathy, her sentamentality, her wanting gaze.
He had not intended on staying. In fact, he could not figure out why he had even come in the first place. His lonliness, perhaps, had finally caved. His eyes were enchanted by long legs, soft skin, chocolate hair, and more than anything temptuous blue eyes. He supposed that on that night, a rainy and most unbearable night, he was able to forget his angst for long enough to seduce the beautiful Samantha; to throw aside sorrow and broken love, and simply give in to craving. However, Samantha proved to be more than just an object of desire. He tried to be rid of her, but she kept persuing him. She kept haunting him with her love and affection until finally he gave in. It was just too easy to accept the comfort of having Samantha always there. Always close enough to touch, if he so desired, and always close enough to push away.
Over time, she sickened him. He was tired of her. He was tired of being alive. She was always there, hovering, reminding him that was alive. It was something he didn't want to remember. He didn't want to remember that he could be loved. Julia had run from him; if Julia couldn't love him, why did it matter if anyone else could? He was bored with the predictability of Samantha's affection; he was sick of those walls and the window through which he watched the world every morning.
He looked back at her; she was waiting patiently for him to reply. She was always so patient. Her soft hands were placed neatly on legs crossed in tight blue jeans. Her skin and hair were wet. He was suddenly sucked in by her eyes. They were the same color of the blue-grey rainy skies outside. In her eyes, he saw images of what had happened months ago. He saw Vicious's eyes, which had gone cold; he saw himself, standing in the rain; he saw Julia. He saw all of these things that he couldn't escape, buried in this girl's eyes. Rain, pouring from her eyes. No, not rain. Tears. Samantha had begun to cry.
"What happened?" she asked, choking on tears. "Why are you so cold?"
"I..."
He leaned into her, wrapping his hands around thighs and abdomen, softly kissing her neck.
"Stop, Spike," she said. "Talk to me! Please just talk to me! I can't stand not knowing!"
"It'll be okay," he said. He didn't even know what the hell he was saying, but for some reason it felt true. "We're going to be okay."
"I can't keep this up any longer..." Samantha wanted to fight him; she wanted to stand up to him and finally make him open up to her. But she was too afraid to let him stop. The feeling of fingers and tongue on her flesh was too tender, too loving for her to give up. So rarely was Spike ever so loving. She let Spike love her, or perhaps only pretend to love her, while the rain went on and on outside.
Disclaimer: I don't own Cowboy Bebop or anything that goes with it.
CHAPTER ONE
Samantha opened her eyes; pale blue light surrounded the bedroom. Rain was beating on every wall and resonating throughout the room. She looked over at Spike. When he was awake, he never allowed her to enjoy too much sentamentality. But now, as he slept, Samantha leaned in close to him and took in a deep breath of him. She lightly brushed her fingers through his hair and whispered, "I love you." His nose wrinkled as he dreamed. There were occasions when looking at Spike's face made Samantha want to cry. It pained her to love him, to look at someone who could look back at her so frigidly. It seemed, though, as if not loving him would be even more painful. He stirred, stretching out his arms. He looked up at Samantha, and for one brief moment, he appeared to be genuinely happy. He stroked his fingers softly down her bare shoulders. "What's for breakfast?" he asked groggily. Samantha sighed; it would be another day, just like any other.
Spike stared out the window at the falling rain while Samantha cooked breakfast. He attempted choosing individual droplets, and then following them with his eyes until they splashed their remains onto the ground. His eyes never strayed from the window, even when Samantha brought him his plate.
"I'm leaving for work now," she said. Spike didn't move. "So I'll see you later today, okay, Spike?" He at last grunted in acknowledgement. Samantha sighed and walked out the door.
* * * *
She returned several hours later, to find Spike sprawled across the couch. A small shot glass sat on the coffee table within his reach, half full. "Spike..."
"So I've got a bounty on my head," he said non-chalantly. He picked up the glass, took a quick drink, set it back down. "They showed a big picture of my mug on Big Shots today. The syndicate must really want to see me dead."
"Are you going to be all right?" Samantha asked.
He laughed. "Have I ever been all right?" he asked. He looked her in the eye; he didn't glare or appear to be angry, but she still felt his glance pierce her with cold. "I'm not worried. I knew they'd try to hunt me down; I'm not as easy to catch as I look."
"I know," she said softly. She sat on the couch; not too close, but within reaching distance. "I know how hard you are to catch." She placed his hand on his face and smiled weakly. He looked away. After living with her for three months, he had grown tired of her sympathy, her sentamentality, her wanting gaze.
He had not intended on staying. In fact, he could not figure out why he had even come in the first place. His lonliness, perhaps, had finally caved. His eyes were enchanted by long legs, soft skin, chocolate hair, and more than anything temptuous blue eyes. He supposed that on that night, a rainy and most unbearable night, he was able to forget his angst for long enough to seduce the beautiful Samantha; to throw aside sorrow and broken love, and simply give in to craving. However, Samantha proved to be more than just an object of desire. He tried to be rid of her, but she kept persuing him. She kept haunting him with her love and affection until finally he gave in. It was just too easy to accept the comfort of having Samantha always there. Always close enough to touch, if he so desired, and always close enough to push away.
Over time, she sickened him. He was tired of her. He was tired of being alive. She was always there, hovering, reminding him that was alive. It was something he didn't want to remember. He didn't want to remember that he could be loved. Julia had run from him; if Julia couldn't love him, why did it matter if anyone else could? He was bored with the predictability of Samantha's affection; he was sick of those walls and the window through which he watched the world every morning.
He looked back at her; she was waiting patiently for him to reply. She was always so patient. Her soft hands were placed neatly on legs crossed in tight blue jeans. Her skin and hair were wet. He was suddenly sucked in by her eyes. They were the same color of the blue-grey rainy skies outside. In her eyes, he saw images of what had happened months ago. He saw Vicious's eyes, which had gone cold; he saw himself, standing in the rain; he saw Julia. He saw all of these things that he couldn't escape, buried in this girl's eyes. Rain, pouring from her eyes. No, not rain. Tears. Samantha had begun to cry.
"What happened?" she asked, choking on tears. "Why are you so cold?"
"I..."
He leaned into her, wrapping his hands around thighs and abdomen, softly kissing her neck.
"Stop, Spike," she said. "Talk to me! Please just talk to me! I can't stand not knowing!"
"It'll be okay," he said. He didn't even know what the hell he was saying, but for some reason it felt true. "We're going to be okay."
"I can't keep this up any longer..." Samantha wanted to fight him; she wanted to stand up to him and finally make him open up to her. But she was too afraid to let him stop. The feeling of fingers and tongue on her flesh was too tender, too loving for her to give up. So rarely was Spike ever so loving. She let Spike love her, or perhaps only pretend to love her, while the rain went on and on outside.