Disclaimer: I do not own Cowboy Bebop nor profit in any way from this story.
Warnings: Dark themes, mature content both sexual and otherwise. Implied rape, sexual situations, violence, swearing...I think that about covers it.
A/N: So I'm in an inspirational rut with the other story. Hopefully this will kick my ass into gear or maybe just get me to put my toe in the water. Either way this is an 'I'm sorry for making you wait so long for an update' plus an internal plea to my inner muse.
Lyrics are from the song Borrowed Time by Slaine. THe song is just as dark as the story and not for everyone, but a good album when your in the mood. I think it fits Spike's character well. As always, R&R.
He has no idea how they ended up like this. Clothes askew, buttons missing, the smell of sex and cigarettes permeating the air. It would have been better if he'd just fucked her; pretended that he didn't notice, that nothing was wrong. He can still taste her in his mouth. The taste mingles together with the nicotine of his freshly lit cigarette. He wants something to do with hands or else he's gonna hit something and he doesn't want it to be her. There is a song playing somewhere. He probably left the radio on when he was working on the RedTail.
'Cause my will is weak but my whiskey is strong….
A wry grin pulls at his mouth. The words couldn't have rang truer if he had choreographed this whole thing. He could use a shot of whiskey right now.
The words keep crooning out of the radio clear and low, settling over this horridly awkward situation like a blanket. He imagines there are bruises forming on her thighs were he gripped them. He can feel the scratches on his chest from her nails along with the goose bumps on his flesh from when she bit him as he moved his hand to between her legs.
Broken dreams I'll follow mine
'Til the end of my borrowed time
I've been walking down this road too long…
He had wanted to fuck her well and good, not like those dipshits always going after her with their tongues hanging out. He had wanted to wipe that self-righteous smirk off her face, to give her what she had been asking for without actually voicing it. He had wanted to be that beast, that unremitting demon that everyone was so sure he could be with all his ire directed at Faye.
And in the end we broke something that we couldn't fix…
He can tell she's going to say something. She's fidgeting all over the place and looking everywhere but at him. Not that he can see much anyway beyond the cherried end of his cigarette. But he can just make out her silhouette and it makes it that much easier to imagine the expression on her face.
Spike doesn't want to hear the words that are working to unclog themselves from her throat. He doesn't want to hear 'I'm sorry.'
What the hell is she sorry for anyway? He's pretty sure he started it, he always starts it. Angry Faye makes his blood boil in veins. An angry Faye was a Come Fuck Me Faye. Or so he thought…which brings him back to the situation at hand. And just like everything else, Spike doesn't want to deal with it. He doesn't like where this goes, the memories it brings back.
"You wanna hear a story?" he asks, his voice is low and raspy. He needs a drink. The worst part about this whole thing is that he still wants to fuck her. He's still hard and throbbing for her despite everything.
"No," she replies. She shifts and hugs her knees to her chest. At least he thinks so, isn't that what all women do when they feel vulnerable? He could see Faye doing something like that.
"Back when we first started with syndicate Vicious and I got a job. There was this brothel that the syndicate used to own and the guy who was running it went rogue I guess. Started selling the girls to the wrong clientele, not making the deals he was to do and snubbing people he wasn't supposed to. So they sent us down there to check it out, clean it up, you know? But before we go we ask them, 'What do you want us to do when we get there?' You know what the elders said to us? They said, 'The syndicate doesn't keep lose ends'. I dunno if at this point I'd even killed anyone yet, I wanna say no. I don't think I had, at least, not intentionally anyway. The random person caught in gunfire here and there but nothing up close and personal, no body that had a face. When you fire in that kind of situation there are no faces, only muzzle flashes. You just shoot back; aiming is almost pointless, as long as you point in the general direction what the hell's it matter? …Where was I going with this?"
"Brothels," Faye supplied weakly. She's not sure why she answered him. It's easier to let him talk, she thinks.
"Oh, yeah. So anyway we get there and sure enough the guy who's supposed to be running it is there with three goons from some other syndicate, Dumb, Dumber, and Keith. Three guesses who's the one with the itchy trigger finger? So at the end of all of it, we're there with the dead proprietor, three dead goons, and like twenty or thirty girls in nothing but thongs and heels. They're sobbing and crying all over the place. And me and Vicious look at each other realizing we're probably going have to off all these people. And neither one of us feel up for it. So Vicious gets this idea. He's always going on about fate, so he says 'Let them make their own fate.' He walks up to one of the girls and he says to her, 'You've got two options either I'm going to kill you or I'm going to fuck you. You let me fuck you; I'll take that as a sign that you're loyal to the syndicate once again.'
The girl asks him, 'What's going to happen after all is said and done?' And he tells her the truth. He tells her she'll probably end up as some sex slave for some fuck with a dick too small and too much money to spend. The bottom of the barrel, she'd probably be dead in a couple months anyway.
Now some of these girls have lived that life already, others; they got no idea what's coming. The first one he asks, she's already done that and you can tell by her face that she isn't going back. So she looks Vicious in the eye and tells him to kill her. And he does. Bang. Bullet between the eyes, just like that.
Then he moves on to the next girl. "You want me to fuck you or kill you?"
And he goes like that just down the line, one after another. Bodies thudding against the floor as they fall to the ground lifeless, the ones who choose death. Some girls, they can't decide. So he puts the barrel of the gun to their ear, still smoking and hot. I remember the smell, gunpowder and burnt flesh. Smells like those stay with you; they sit on your tongue and coat your throat, long after the scars are all gone."
He looked at Faye then. It was a piercing, accusing look. She started when she felt the pads of his fingers just under her ear. His cigarette had been long stubbed out and she hadn't heard him move.
"You have the mark, at the point where your jaw meets your neck. You can barely tell; it looks more like a birthmark, not the full barrel imprint but it's there just the same."
It taunts him, a tiny little 'fuck you, I was here first.' Another mark of man who won't die. Everywhere he goes Vicious is there taunting him.
"When it's not that it's the look in your eyes," he says trying to pull his mind from darker thoughts.
"What look?" She's challenging him. She hates that he can read her like an open book. She hates that he's so damn good at it, that it comes so easily to him.
"Like you can't decide, Faye."
In this light she can't tell which eye is the fake and which one is real. So she looks away. It's too eerie. A woman who should be dead looking into the eyes of a man who can't seem to die. His words are too close to the truth, they hit too close to home and it makes her uncomfortable. There is nothing she can say to lighten the mood. It's on the tip of her tongue to ask him. Fuck me or kill me, Spiegel. Which one? But she can't do it. Even she can recognize the joke would be in poor taste. And now she's afraid of either outcome. She's afraid of crossing this line with him.
She starts again as she feels his arm snake around her waist. Spike drags her onto his lap, chest pressed against her back. His other hand fumbles beneath her for a minute until she feels him draw aside her thong and his erection press against her. More fumbling and then she feels something cold and heavy pressed into the palm of her hand. He wraps her hand around his Jericho, holding her fingers over the trigger with his own.
"How many bullets in a full clip?" he asks.
"Nine," he answers after she hesitates.
"Count with me, Faye." He fires off eight rounds, using the hand he has over hers to pull the trigger.
"One."
"Two."
"Three."
"Four."
"Five."
"Six."
"Seven."
"Eight."
Each shot is loud and it hurts her ears. He's still hard. She can feel him throbbing insistently between her legs. She can feel her own wetness seeping over both of them. Spike bends her arm back, bringing the gun pass her own head to his. His torso is flush against her, chin tucked on her shoulder. His shaggy hair brushes over her knuckles. His breath is warm on her cheek.
"Hey, Faye, I got a question for you."