Tell the Girl

by myTme

Otz resurfaces, forcing our reticent cowboy to return to Gunsmoke. Surprises, fisticuffs, and armed women with a score to settle are all here, in the second part of Cosmic Castaway. Rated for language and implications.

1. Chapter 1

Tell the Girl

You've got to tell the girl you're sorry for leaving her alone and cold
Tell the girl you're sorry for being such an asshole.

-Cowboy Mouth

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Cowboy Bebop. They are the property of Sunrise, Bones, and Bandai Visual (2001); created by Hajime Yatate and Toshihiro Kawamoto. They make the money, not me.

Vash, Meryl and the rest of the Trigun gang belong to Pioneer/ Geneon (2005); created by Yasuhiro Nightow.

Each chapter title and heading were performed and published by their respective bands (credited below each quote.)

Just a quick note, this is a rewrite AND the sequel to Cosmic Castaway.

And as always, thanks for reading. Now on with the show!

Chapter 1: Each Little Mystery

...Still not enough to ease your pain
you get tired and say, "Fuck it."

- Seven Mary Three

Jet glanced at the wall clock. Grit his teeth and tried again. Whatever genius said counting down from one hundred backwards was a great way to take a full rage to a bubbling simmer was a certifiable moron. His jaw popped harshly as he repeatedly failed the anger reducing ritual. Eyes twitched as his gaze shifted back to the disheveled room somewhere near forty-five with a snarled, "Fuck it." Based on the foot propped on the coffee table, Spike had opted to sleep there instead of his bed. Jet flexed and released his fists, blood pressure rising as he recalled their time on the new ship. Not once, never, had Spike slept in the room Jet had carefully furnished for him. It had all the necessities: bed, dresser, a lamp, and most importantly a door to seal cowboy's shit away.

But did it matter?

Nope.

Spike could care less about the privacy and contained space four walls provided. He preferred the lounge. The main room they both shared. The one spot on the entire ship where company expected sit and chat idly about the weather or space traffic. The room where all communal living happened! Jet glared at the big toe peeping through the tip of a graying sock, a splash of pristine white catty corner the appendage catching his eye. He fingered the swatch of cloth and grinned. Amused at the way fate, true love, Ed, the angels; whatever the hell was at work; seemed to enjoy slowly forcing someone to follow its plan. A snort rattled from his sinuses, blue shifting to the sprawled, half dressed lump. Strange how the lab coat had been given a place of honor under the premise of 'landing there.'

He sighed and studied the rest of his beat up ship. It was more than they deserved, and a far sight better than they once had. It lacked the sporadic taint of fish when the vents circulated from the hull. The small vessel had fewer creaks and moans. Half the Bebop's original size it gave them more maneuverability and speed. It also put them in closer proximity to each other and, being newer, stole much of Jet's tinkering time which he transferred into bother Spike, visit family and futz with his new herb garden and one bonsai.

He dug at his beard and chuckled. Their luck had certainly changed since Otz's ignominious crash back onto Gunsmoke. Bounties were easier to come by. With three less mouths, meat had a tendency to be in the fridge and Woolongs were no longer collected in a sieve. Finding their new home and replacement ship had also fallen into their ever blossoming good fortune. Waiting at the bar for Spike's arrival back through the gate, Jet had begun estimating the amount of money their trip to the sandy planet had cost them. He presumed Spike would be bloody, limping the RedTail on fumes which meant hospital and repair bills. The pair was guaranteed a colossal charge centered upon the Swordfish's return to glory and finally there was the matter of purchasing a new ship to live in- neither liked the idea of bouncing from hotel to motel together.

Desperate to avoid sharing a bed, the pair headed immediately to Earth.

Jet cringed when he wandered into the forgotten shop off the dusty stretch of no man's land expecting a massive bill. The soft shush of a hand held radio burbled from a distant room, cussing and the clank of an irritable tool wielder splashing from inside a gutted helicopter.

"Son of a bitch!" A loud clang. Then the tinkling of mechanical innards skipping across metal came from the confines of the small, red chopper's cabin. More expletives blasted out, the muted thud of feet punctuating each hard consonant. The tan, grizzled face turned to Jet. Head bobbing in recognition.

Doohan smirked, "Just ain't my thing." He produced a flemmy sniff, gaze drifting to the rumpled ship behind the Hammerhead. Eyebrows lowered. Jaw muscles twitching the mechanic grit out through tightly clenched teeth, "That what I think it is?"

Jet nodded as the mechanic began to roughly swipe grease from his fingers.

"Where the hell's that relic's, punk owner?" He flipped his goggles onto his forehead, eyes flitting around the room in search of his target.

"Yo." A slowly coiling bit of smoke marked Spike's location.

He walked closer to the battered remnants. "Good God! What the hell'd you do to her?"

Spike grinned.

Doohan twitched, hands reverently brushing against the side of the battered racer. "What the fuck's this?"

Spike tipped closer, "Glass." His eyes squinched in a pleased smile, "Made it myself."

Doohan pinked, "You landed this hot enough to turn sand to…" He shook, "What the Sam Hell were you doing?"

Shrug. "Landing hot." His tone screaming: Can't you tell?

"No shit!" Eyes narrowed, "Why aren't you a crispy pain in my ass then?"

Smirk, "Good insulation?"

The tremors increased. Hand flexing and releasing rhythmically. Jet stepped back. Doohan frowned, fingers coiling around something to his left. Lips pulled into a snarl he chucked a wrench with dangerous accuracy.

Spike dodged the projectile- barely. He followed the tool's skittering progress across the room and under a distant engine. Unable to resist fanning the flames he mumbled, "Have fun diggin' that out, old man."

"That's what Miles is for!" he snapped.

An eyebrow rose, "What too fragile to get it yourself?"

Doohan refused to participate in friendly banter, opting to rant instead. "She's a delicate racer not a freakin' steamroller, punk."

Shrug, "Didn't try to flatten anything."

Snort, "Could've fooled me." His eyes slit as he snarled under his breath, "Wish you'd tried rollin' over that big head of yours."

The wispy whispers of a man and shuffle of feet floated from behind the group. The boyish assitant tipped his hat back, eyes wide, "Whoa!" Grin, "Looks like you took a tumble!"

Spike nodded.

Miles wagged his head. Earphones locked in place. Doohan scoffed at his apprentice's lame appraisal of the crumpled mass. His eyebrows met as he snarled Spike's direction, "This'll take me a while. You have any idea how much work is needed just to dig up parts?"

Hands burrowed into his jacket pockets, "Nope." Shrug, "That's why I come to you."

The mechanic's eye spasmed. Hand itching for another bludgeon. "It isn't like this is one of those new ships you shithead!" An angry fist wrapped around a ratchet. He tested the weight absently as he continued to lecture, "She's a piece of history! A God damned work of art! And you trash her like a cheap motel room every fuckin' chance you get!"

Spike remained rooted with a silly grin.

The tool was launched. "I thought you were a half decent pilot!"

The object whistled over his head and into a pile of scrap.

"Hey, boss," Miles peeked over a workbench, "your aim's off."

Spike snickered lowly, brown eyes analyzing the array of recyclable sheet metal. "Good luck findin' that."

"Damn kids." Doohan snagged a new rag and began knotting it in his hands, "No respect."

Jet inched closer, attention shifting between crumpled ship and seething mechanic. Gaining courage he swallowed and blurted, "How long you think it'll take?"

Doohan began sorting bolts, dropping them in various jars. "Months." He frowned, calculating, "Come back in three for an update."

"Got it." Jet shook his hand.

"Hey!" Frown, "Where the hell's your ship?" Metal clinked loudly, "The Do-whop or whatever?"

"It was the Bebop," Jet's expression grew pained, "A bounty blew her to smithereens."

Miles gaped, "No kiddin'?"

Spike sniffed rudely, "Jet would never joke about that hunk of junk."

The elder cowboy growled softly at the insult to his precious ship.

"Hey Boss," Miles smirked, "what about…"

Doohan snapped his fingers, thumb jerking at the back door. "Kid go show 'im the Revival."

His face cracked in a pleased smile, "Aye-Aye." With a friendly wave he led Jet outside. Grinning manically he tugged a battered tarp off the windscreen of a dark gray ship. "Perhaps you can do something with this?"

"Maybe." The cowboy surveyed the vehicle. It held promise and came with one of the best warranties in the universe: Doohan's honor. The more Jet looked at the ship the more it fit exactly what they needed. Spike couldn't care either way, he meandered through the large bay doors, settled in the sand and watched the writhing heat vapors slowly ribbon skyward as he smoked.

Doohan, curious Jet's reaction to his most recent refurbishment moseyed his way towards the cowboy buried deep in wiring. "What do ya think?" He spit at the dirt, eyes sparkling at the other man's expression.

Jet crawled down the thin ladder, "Miles says you two went through this thing with a fine toothed comb."

Nod. "You want it or not?" Jet nodded. As they sat to haggle, he couldnt' even bitch about the price, Doohan quoted low and promised to supply future parts as long as the cowboy gave his word he'd take better care of the vessel than Spike did of the Swordfish. Jet nodded numbly, he'd have been insane not to take advantage. As they discussed the deal, he learned his response to Spike's snide comment had struck a chord with the mechanic inspiring him to pretty much give the old schooner away.

Cash swapped, the two men clasped hands. Doohan held tight, expression stern as he grouched out a reminder. "You damn well better take better care of the Dixieland Revival than Spike does of..." sniff, "the Swordfish II."

Spike glared at the ugly, though functional, ship and sighed at the prospect of becoming the Dixieland Cowboys. He could see the potential grief and headache looming on the horizon and with a halfhearted wave crawled into the Bebop Two.

Spike turned roughly on the battered cushions, snapping Jet from his foggy reverie and back to the current predicament: The cowboy was still sleeping on the bloody couch!

Jet's nose curled at the dirty sock draped over the view screen; he hissed when he tripped over a mostly empty bottle of whiskey and cussed as it skittered across the floor knocking several piled beer cans into disarray.

The sofa growth stirred. "Strike."

Sigh, "Not quite."

The mass bounced and muttered, "Go for a spare then."

"Up. Now!" Jet growled and took a swipe at Spike's head, "Clean this pigsty."

"Oink." His eyes were closed but a silly grin twitched the corner of Spike's mouth.

Jet could feel his eyes try to escape their sockets. He blinked a few times, chasing the stubborn balls back in place by digging at them roughly. "You have your own eight-by-twelve room to taint!"

Long legs stretched over the couch arm, the exposed toe wriggling happily. "More comfortable out here." He waved his hand lazily above his chest, "Air circulation's better."

Jet's frown matured into an enraged snarl, "Off your ass!" He snagged a crumpled magazine and thwacked the mocking, naked tarsal. "Out. O-U-T. OUT!" Still not satisfied he flipped the periodical at Spike's head.

A hand smoothly batted the projectile across the room. Eyebrow lifted as he cracked one eyelid. "Whatcha tryin' to say, Jet?"

"Sssspiiiike." Fists clenched his teeth grating to nubs, he rasped. "Get out before I shoot you."

Snort. "Temper, temper."

Grabbing a corner of the couch Jet lifted up, sending Spike tumbling backwards onto the cluttered floor. The younger man cussed, a bottle cap embedding into his ass. Jet set the couch down with a thump, snagged a bounty dossier off the coffee table and flicked it onto his grumbling partner's legs. "Go get us some money while I play maid."

Bemused brown ran an appraising circuit up and down Jet's hunched and puffing form. Chuckle. "You don't have the figure." He pointed to Jet's calves, "Most shave their legs too." Shoulders wiggled, "And you'd look stupid in heels." A strange expression flickered across his face, gaze shifting from beyond Jet to the pristine jacket behind him.

Jet closed his eyes and began counting down from two hundred. Growling had only encouraged the lanky cowboy to offer an even more irritating, quirky grin.

Taking the hint he was pressing his luck Spike drew his legs closer with a grunt, "Are you trying to tell me you need your space, Jet?" The smirk returned, "A little me time while I'm off earning my keep?"

"Yeah, I'm sick of you." Jet grumped as he scooped up the various containers. "Go collect that guy."

Spike smoothed out the abused paper and glared at the jowly man plastered in the center of the wanted poster. His eyebrow rose, shoulders drooping. "You want me to collect Dom Wreed?" He scanned the man's write-up, eyes narrowing as the connections were slowly made. "Jet this guy's…"

Nod. "Yup. He should be at that cheesy, gentlemen's club on the edge of the strip. He's a distant relative of the owner, works the doors and dressing room entrances." Jet's eyes glittered, "I'm sure you've seen him." Sigh, "It's where you and Soro…"

A menacing sound rumbled from the stiff, glowering, partially upright, recently removed sofa tumor. "What, Jet?"

Shrug. "What you do with over done women in disgusting shitholes is none of my business, Spike-o." Sigh, "But don't pretend dumb when I bring them up."

"Ha. Ha." Lip curl, "Ergh. You run the risk of syphilis just touching the door handles." He pretended to shiver, "What if I need to use the toilet, Jet?"

Snort, "This from the guy who sleeps in squalor."

Shrug, "It's mine. I put it there and," grin, "I know where everything's been and what it's contacted."

"Hmm…" Jet slanted a glare as he fingered the lab coat, "Like this?" Chuckle, "You know, Faye bitches better." He repressed his grin at the severe stiffening of his partner's spine.

Spike dug for a smoke as he failed to compose his irritation. Rising to a slumping stand, he snatched the white jacket from its perch on Jet's finger with a grunt and sauntered towards the exit. He grumbled at the threshold, "I'll be back later." Suddenly Wreed's 7'2'' stature and 320 pounds didn't appear too daunting. He moseyed down the hall cracking his neck and rolling his shoulder.

Jet peeped out the doorway and cooed innocently, "What's wrong, Spike?"

"Shut up!" Barked back.

He chuckled, but refrained from further heckling. The poor man hadn't had a moment's peace since he'd left Gunsmoke. Constantly hassled by Ed; tormented by his own uncomfortable dreams and issues; the problem herself would try to call; or Jet gladly dropped her name in various comments when he was sick of the moping. Jet's eyes twinkled, not to mention the 'family photos' he enjoyed chasing the poor cowboy around the ship with. He grinned, and now with Soro's tenacity to pop up and harass Spike at will, the younger cowboy never wandered too far or stayed out too long. The further he trekked from the Revival the easier it was for the stripper to hunt him down.

Annoying and disturbingly attached, she did have her use.

Wanting noise while he cleaned he tapped the view screen on. Blue eyes widened at the faces softly flickering to focus. The two men looked familiar. Their names tugged on a murky memory. He just couldn't place them. Curious, he whipped out his comm.

"Papa Jet, why are you calling Ed so soon?" Blink, "We visited last night." Gasp, "Is everything…"

"Relax kid." Grin. "What can you tell me about Whitney Hagas Motsumoto and uh… this guy?" He flicked a rotund man in a lab coat with stethoscope onto the screen.

"Did Papa Jet hurt his head?" She frowned, "These are the two guys he asked Ed to find information on over a week ago."

Blink, "Did I?"

Nod. "You sent Ed a computer note." Sniff, "That Bacchus doctor-man is the one who put the biggest bounty on Faye-Faye's head for not paying her sleeping bill. That Whitney-guy was his helper."

Pieces began falling into place, "Oh. I remember now, thanks kid." He disconnected, not trusting the suspicious gleam in the girl's eyes.

Spike hunkered lower in his chair. Gaze locked on the burly meat head manning the filthy, red faux velvet curtain that separated the V.I.P. section from the rest of the club. A short, stout man in a fedora slithered easily through the curtain. The material barely registering he'd stepped from behind. Brown eyes narrowed at the sight of him. If Selva's here then…

"SPIKY!" People turned to follow the buxom, scantily clad entertainer across the room.

Spike cringed at the earsplitting squeal. Well aware he had the mark's complete focus burrowing into the top of his bowed head. Long fingernails scratched over his shoulders. His senses instantly bombarded with the smell of sweat and cheap perfume. Soro cooed in his ear, a clump of platinum locks trickling down his jacket front. Her arms tightened, pressing his back flush to her overly exposed, very expensive breasts. "Hello Spike." Her breath skirted across his cheek, "Did you come to see me dance?"

"No." He gripped his glass and took a sip. "Just here for the ambiance."

Giggle, "Ah! Such a tease!" Her fingers splayed across his chest. "I'm on in five." She purred. "I'll send Mei Mei over to keep you company."

Spike snorted, You mean to keep me in sight.

A white sleeve became visible in his periphery as she stretched over him to wave at her stocky, silent shadow. "He's such a sweetie."

"Hn." Spike watched as the stripper's strange and dapper friend slowly floated towards his table. Gently he gripped her wrists. "No need. I won't be here long." He stood only to have her step before him and press him back into his chair. Hooded eyes scanned her outfit, a grimace adorning his features, now that he was able to see her costume.

Soro preened at the attention, mistaking disgust for lust. Her hands ghosted down her trim waist as she cooed, "You like cow-boy?"

Scowl, "What are you dressed as?"

She twirled the toy stethoscope, "Why a doctor of course."

An eyebrow rose. Of course. He shifted, "Why?"

A nail ran down his chest towards his belt, "I saw the lab coat." Frown, "You were so rude when I tried to put it on and play." Sniff, "I know I could've made you feel good." She swayed her hips, lashes fluttering.

Spike's expression remained unimpressed, his eyebrow lifting in frustration.

"Oh Spiky," giggle, "I put the pieces together and figured it out." She stepped back and twirled, "You like?"

Spike's attention shifted to the large man guarding the velvet curtain, chair scraping as he nudged it back while standing.

"Spike…" her fingers curled around his shoulders, breath disrupted his hair and sent a burst of repulsion through his veins. He straightened his spine to gain more distance.

She pouted, painted lips puckered in displeasure, "Why do you always have to be such a meanie?" She tipped back hazel eyes blinking expectantly at him.

Shrug. Gaze locked on the bounty. "Just part of my charm." Side step, "Excuse me." He physically moved her out of his way and sauntered towards the glowering bouncer. Slinking beside the man, he smirked, "Wreed?"

Grunt.

He moved for the slit in the drapery, "I'll just be…"

Wreed's arm snapped out to block Spike's progress. "No pass. No special show." Growl, "Fuck off."

"Darn." His chin bounced to the stripper in deep conversation with her bodyguard, "And I just wanted a few minutes from that." With a tug on his mussed jacket, Spike reached for the curtain.

Wreed snarled, "Then hide in the toilet, dumbass." His beefy hand encircled Spike's wrist.

"Tried that last time." Spike sniffed, "Doesn't work." He dug for a smoke and sighed, "Guess I'll just have to piss you off instead."

The man's eyes widened in shock then narrowed, "Pff… what's a little shit like you gonna do?" Chortle, "'Sides get hurt?" He waved the still captured appendage to make his point.

Spike shrugged, "Who knows." His free hand placing the cigarette to his lips then disappeared in search of his lighter.

The behemoth rotated his jaw, a malicious gleam lighting his stupid face. "Look buddy," he gripped Spike tighter and shook, the cowboy barely moving from the force. "You don't stand a fuckin' snowball's chance on the sun."

Spike bounced a shoulder, "I'll take those odds." He flicked the lighter open, lit up and blew a puff of smoke in the frowning bouncer's face. Wreed yelped, startled that his prisoner had altered his grip. Fingers coiled around the back of his sizable paw had quickly thrust back. Pain ripped up the man's arm as the snap-crackle-pop of bone met his ear. "You son of a bitch!" Wreed glanced at the swelling joint.

Spike chuckled then introduced his heel to the bounty's nose.

"Hey!" Wreed groggily pinched his nostrils closed and jerked roughly. The crickling grate of cartilage and bone moving back into place sounded just under the din of the bar behind, the jagged line along his nose's bridge now straight.

Spike smirked at the excessive swelling. "You've done that before."

Wreed spit at the cowboy's toes, "That was just rude fella."

Shrug, "Had to get you to quit holdin' my hand somehow." He wagged his finger in the bounty's face, "No means no." Frown, "I'm not that kind of boy."

The dim eyes widened. "What?" He shook his head, "I told you no." Blink. "Huh? That…"

Spike grinned manically as he spun away from the stunned man, his foot connecting to the side of Wreed's head. "Thought you'd be familiar with that phrase."

The bounty staggered slightly. Blinking rapidly he slurred, "I'm a… I'm a… I'm a perfect gentl'man 'round the ladies."

Snort. Spike bounced his smoke off the man's forehead. "Sure you are." He cracked Wreed's ribs with a roundhouse. Elbow swept in from the opposite side to meet jaw.

Wreed saw the hit coming and brought his hand up to block. Thick fingers curled around the cowboy's arm. A rough jerk sent Spike wheeling into a nearby table. He staggered closer to the dazed bounty hunter, undamaged hand wrapping around an ankle. He tugged the captured appendage and launched the lanky nuisance off into the wall.

Spike grunted on impact, gravity jerking him to the floor. He rotated his jaw and crinkled his nose before shaking away the few stars. Satisfied nothing was broken, he rolled to his feet. The back of his hand swiped away the gore that had dribbled down his forehead.

The bounty grinned, "You're pretty tough for a skinny boy."

Spike shrugged and weaved closer.

Wreed's fist clenched, "I'm done playin' short…"

He never saw the butt of the gun until it was too late. The cringe inducing, hollow bonk before the man face planted into the floor all that was needed to let Spike know he had achieved knockout. To be safe, he cuffed the behemoth before calling in his capture. The bar floor tipped and swayed, shaking his head Spike wandered to a nearby chair and ordered a drink.

Soro pounced immediately, Selva hovering just over Spike's shoulder.

"Poor Spiky!" Her hands ran through hair, down chest.

Selva sighed loudly, dark eyes rolling in disgust.

Spike could hear the woman fussing but was unable to figure out why. He attempted to bat her away with a mumbled, "Jus' a scratch."

Jet sighed into his whiskey. He had done some extra research on Dr. Bacchus, Whitney Hagas Motsumoto and Faye's suddenly nonexistent debt. His brow furrowed, it didn't make sense. Why would Spike go to such lengths? Debt collectors no longer tip-tapped on their door, but was that due to him telling them she was gone or Spike's interfering? He froze realizing he'd become lost in his thoughts. Spike had been M.I.A. too long for comfort. The plan was pick up Wreed then meet to celebrate. He glanced at the wall clock, the second hand slowly chipping away time. Blue scanned the sparse crowd, instant relief when he caught sight of Spike hobbling through the door battered and sporting an impressive grimace.

"Where'd you go?"

"That bounty you gave me took a while. Damn psycho wouldn't go down." He glared at the wall, "Then Soro felt she needed to patch me up." Shiver, "Where the hell'd she get the idea I liked doctors?"

Jet blinked, startled as Spike continued to rant.

His lip curled, "Her ensemble for the evening was a short labcoat, fishnets and…" shudder.

"Hm." Jet studied the array of bruises and stiff posture of his friend. "Wreed kicked the shit out of ya didn't he?"

"Fucker launched me across the bar and into a wall," frown, "I think I was airborne twice, for some reason." He shrugged and ordered a drink. Smirk, "You should see him."

Jet continued to take in the man's appearance. An eyebrow rose in discomfort. Shifting away from Spike, he cleared his throat, "Hey, uhh..."

Grunt. "Yeah?"

"You," unable to stop himself Jet glanced back at his partner, "uh... ever lose consciousness?"

"Thinks so," the cowboy blanched, "why?"

A finger pointed to Spike's disheveled tie and exposed expanse of chest. The digit wobbled as Jet began to snicker, "Soro left you a present, my friend."

"What?" Spike frantically dug at his shirt, revealing most his torso to anyone who cared to look. A sickened growl rumbling from the depths of his toes as his gaze flicked up to the mirror, "AGH!" sleeve swiped desperately at the pink smudges. "ERGH!" He spit on a napkin, his chest turning a vibrant red as he tried to wipe away the array of lip stamps littering his body. Another audible, unintelligible though highly displeased noise burbled free. "Shit." He twitched, wondering if he could check inside his pants while at the bar.

Jet snorted at the crazed cleaning. Reading his partner's mind he shook his head, "I doubt she went there while you were unconscious Spike." The younger cowboy whimpered, hands checking his fly. Jet shook his head, "She seems the type who'd want to see you react if she pulled something like that."

"Ungh!" Spike glared at his reflection, mollified that most the evidence had been removed. Defeated he took a breath and tried to shake away the uncomfortable ticks creeping below his skin. All he wanted to do was go back to the ship and shower. Unable to, he flagged the bartender. He needed a drink.

"Everclear."

The barman nodded.

Spike shook his head, "Not a shot. I want the whole god damned bottle." Eyes slit he snarled, an unspoken threat in the tone, "A new one."

He nodded.

Spike grunted, gaze still raking his features in the mirror for more evidence of Soro's presence.

Jet scowled when the bottle slid before the frazzled cowboy. "What are you doing, Spike?"

Snarl, "Sterilizing." He violently wrenched the lid off.

"Uh…" blink, "um…"

Shudder, "Who knows what else she did." He smirked as he tipped his head back, "Hopefully this'll kill any contamination."

Jet watched as some of the liquid dribbled off Spike's chin. Sniff, "That's a bit infantile isn't it?"

Shrug, the bottle clinked back to the bar. "Infants can't order alcoholic beverages and I can't drink isopropyl without going blind." He took another healthy gulp.

"Uhh…" Jet shifted, "How's the Swordfish comin'?"

He dug for a smoke, ignoring the fact Jet had taken his lighter. "Doohan says it should be ready in a month."

"Hm." Jet twisted his snifter absently. The golden liquid swirling slowly, "This is becoming a case of the same song different verse."

Glug. Sniff. "Still isn't tracking right."

"Bull." Jet took a sip of brandy and grinned, "I think you're avoiding returning the RedTail."

Spike scowled, "Wasn't going to. If Faye wants it back she can come get it."

"How she supposed to do that?" Jet snorted then stilled as he studied Spike's defensive demeanor and sullen expression. He grinned, "You're scared to see her again, aren't you?"

Shrug. "No reason to." The gulps grew to violent, thirsty man chugs.

"Oh there's a reason, Spike." He fingered his drink. "I'm headin' out there for a visit. I leave tonight. You goin' to come?"

Growl, "Nope."

"Why not?" Eyes sparkling he cooed, "I'm sure Ed and the kid would love to see you."

"Ed just wants me around to torment." Shift, "Kid probably has a whole arsenal of nasty tricks to pull." He shot Jet a glare, "She started making pitfalls yet?"

"Hn." Grin, "Could it be, you just want some alone time with that psychotic stripper?" Snicker, "From your description of the last persona, it sounds like she's trying to convey curvy, science geek. Bring up some long forgotten…"

"Not funny and you know it." The bottle tipped further back, a small stream dribbling down his chin. "You know for a fact I've a discerning palate."

"Pff…" Jet shrugged. "Soro's attachment says otherwise, Spike."

"Jet…" there was an unspoken warning hidden there. Brown eyes slanted his way.

Shrug. He was used to the threats. That's all they were. "Why not?"

Swallow. The bottle lowered, but wasn't released. "No reason other than I don't want to."

Sip. "Oh, there's got to be something that'll get your sorry ass back there." Jet studied Spike closely. Curious how much the younger man would reveal.

Grin, "Yeah. If a bounty pops up, I'm your man. But until then I'll stay here," he pointed to the floor and slumped lower, "Alone."

Jet sighed, "You should come with. It'll be like a nice vacation."

Spike tipped his head back, swallowing another healthy mouthful. "Vacations do not happen in places more suited as cosmic litter boxes." Glurg. "Besides, why would I want to see her screwin' up a whole planet?" Grumble, "Watching her fuck up her own life was bad enough."

"She hasn't. The planet's fine." Grin. "She and Ed…"

"No fuckin' point in goin', Jet." Mumble, "Faye'll never leave."

"She would if she had reason to!" Jet's glass clattered to the bar, "Damn woman's done a lot while you've just moped and bitched about her." He glared at his partner, primed for a good lecture. "Pff… talk about the pot calling the kettle black." He tipped his own bottle towards the emptied cup. "At least she had the decency to say, 'Goodbye.'" He grabbed his refill and grumbled, "She would have come if you'd asked. You heard her the day we left and you know it's true." Snarl, "Don't you?"

Spike frowned as he spun his golden bottle cap absently, disinfecting elixir forgotten by his elbow.

"Shit." Head shake, "She's dealin' with a lot and I like to see how she's pullin' through." Shrug, "You know check up on her and help if I can. They're family, Lunkhead." The second cup clattered to the bar. "FAMILY!"

Spike snorted, "We dumped Otz's gang off years ago. We… er… I haven't seen them in just as long." Sniff, "Why go back now? It's not like she means anything to me." He gave Jet an appraising, and slightly jealous, once over. Growl, "Nothin' there for me but a headache and a psychotic kid tryin' to kill me. I'll pass. You go visit family if you must." The curl of his spine grew more pronounced, "I'll stay put."

Jet frowned at the expression and lack of alcoholic glaze in his partner's eyes. Shift. "If she means nothin', why'd you haul that con that wooed her stupid in for his piddlin' bounty and threaten Bacchus to dump the debt?"

Spike stiffened, a telling twitch beginning along his jaw. No one was ever supposed to learn about that little trick. Jet had forgotten to close his email late one night. Drunk and moody over another handful of curious debt collectors he posed as Jet and wrote Ed asking for info on Bacchus and Motsumoto. At the time, he blamed the odd behavior on a desire to remove unwelcome reminders of Faye's existence. In reality, something inside him wanted to help her out. Show her he was capable of doing right.

It took Ed several weeks to gather the needed information without Faye finding out. Spike had asked the teen to send the pair's data to the ship's mainframe instead of as an attachment- allowing him access without tipping off Jet. Every day he scanned through the numerous files, nervously hunting for the one labeled: "Booze and Guts". When the file arrived he wandered off to parts unknown and perused the data. It was for the best too, the doctor's racket had infuriated him. Not only had the sneaky man bought Faye's care from another company, he'd kept her frozen longer then her insurance was willing to pay in order to rake in a larger bill. Whitney had joined the scam later under the guise of playing Faye's hero- his real intention to eek every cent from the scientist's heir.

Armed with the why of Faye's debt, he simply had to wait until they neared the doctor's latest hide-out. Faye was his last cryogenic body. Without a memory he couldn't fill her in on her past, opting to bury the information and threaten the addled woman into paying a bill that should never have been hers in the first place. He and his colleague had assumed an easy target, a frightened waif willing to do what it took to make things right. Instead, they learned they had thawed a quick witted shrew that preferred to let them go without.

He had dropped into the office after a nasty run-in with a handful of thugs wanted for extorting the various, small businesses on the asteroid. It was a tourist hub, known for cheap souvenirs and delicious food. The clientele altered enough the three roustabouts were able to keep the elderly shop keeps afraid of arson and paying exorbitant 'protective taxes' to avoid their savings burning away. The boys had gone down easily and were kind enough to cower behind Bacchus' newest establishment which boasted the doctor could provide quick and easy body mod at half the price.

Spike sauntered into the medical office and went about settling things- his way. With Ed's help the cowboy had gathered enough evidence connecting the doctor to a number of fraudulent crimes, and a high end murder that would send him away for life.

Dr. Bacchus chuckled when the lanky man strolled into his office. "Hello. What can I do for you?"

Spike grinned, "I have a proposition for you." His lighter flicked to life, a small plume of smoke curling around his head.

The nurse nearby stilled her typing, "Doctor?"

"Relax," his eyes sparkled, "I take it you won't be a patient?"

"No." Exhale. "You can't mess with perfection and I'm more interested in a previous customer of yours."

Gasp. "I cannot divulge information on old clients. Doctor-patient confidentiality, you know."

"Hmm…" he dropped the cigarette to the floor, "Even if that patient is Faye Valentine? Or should I say Vinder?"

The nurse froze. Bacchus paling. "Did you say Vinder?"

"Yup." He fanned his folder of evidence, "She earned quite the debt didn't she?" He clicked his tongue, eyes hardening. "Pity she couldn't pay then disappeared, wasn't it?"

"Yes." Swallow. "Who…"

"Let's just say," something in his demeanor turned dangerous, Doctor and nurse shifting from the sudden, instinctual bursts of self preservation. "I'm someone you don't want to piss off." He cracked his knuckles, "And unfortunately you have."

"How?" He frowned, "Miss Vinder has not been a patient of mine for many years."

"I know but her bill has never been paid." Grumble, "Not one cent."

He puffed, "Are you interested in…"

"No." Brown eyes flashed, "I'm interested in making this bullshit debt disappear."

Snort, "It cannot! The woman…"

Spike cracked open his folder, "Was kept in stasis several years after her insurance and family had agreed to terminate." He closed the cardstock protection, "The chemicals used to keep her asleep also altered from what was originally prescribed. The new fluids were a hell of a lot more money unless…" he glanced at the stiff nurse, "they were only shown to be used on paper." Sniff, "You fucked with the files in order to make it appear you were using the more expensive, less reliable stuff in order to up the bill. On top of that, you left her frozen almost a decade longer than necessary in order to collect a larger fee."

"Hm…" chuckle, "you came prepared, sir. So to what do I owe this trip down memory lane?"

"You're going to pull Faye's bounty and remove the debt she owes you or I share a few interesting tidbits I came across with concerned parties."

Bacchus stiffened, "What tidbits?"

He dropped the collection before the doctor, "Murder, fraud, impersonating a physician, money laundering, harboring a criminal who…" smirk, "by the way is now rotting in a holding cell on Venus, and half a dozen other crimes."

"Hm…" the doctor glared at the cowboy. "You've done your homework." His head tipped, "What do I get if I pull the woman's bounty and erase her debt?"

Grin, "The assurance this incriminating evidence doesn't get into ISSP's hands."

"And," he shifted in his seat, "how can I trust you?"

Shrug, "We both have something the other wants to go away."

"Hmm…" he smirked, a gun slipping on top the pile of forms, "You could simply disappear, sir."

Spike shifted his weight, "We can do this two ways doc. Easy or hard." He glanced at his nails, "Considering you can make triple what Faye owes you with one or two surgeries I'd say it's a fair trade." He scanned the plush office, "You've got a good racket here. I'd think you'd rather keep it over the piddling amount Faye's indebted to you."

"Miss Valentine's bill is worth quite a bit."

"As I said…" his eyebrow lifted at the soft ding of an unwary customer strolling in. Spike's voice lowered, "If word gets out your previous customers will want compensation. Faye's medical bills will be nothin' compared to what you will owe. I'd say I'm being more than generous Dr. Bacchus. I'm letting you continue and remain unscathed."

He nodded, pistol slipping back into its drawer. "I'll consider your offer."

Spike bounced his head, "It's a start." He dropped the folder in the trash, "I'll send the electronic copy when I see the bounty has been removed."

Eyes narrowed as the doctor cooed, "Fair enough."

Spike offered a lethargic wave and drifted away. Pleased with his little stint in blackmail.

The cowboy remained glaring at nothing in particular upset Jet had discovered his act of chivalry. The older cowboy snickered, "I noticed Faye's bounty and debt have been removed. I take it you took what Ed found, for me, and visited her doctor?"

Spike shifted. Expression hardening, "Don't know what you're talking about."

Snort. "You should come with, I'm sure Faye'd be extremely appreciative if she knew."

Brown drifted to the bar top, he had to know and simply blurted. "Why do you keep goin' back?" Spike hunched lower, Jet barely heard the grumbled question.

He stilled, "Because I like visiting Faye, Ed and the kid." He glanced out the window. "From what Ed's been tellin' me quite a bit's happened, even since my last visit."

"You go all the time. You just got back a few months ago." Spike screwed the lid to his booze back in place. For some reason the sterilizing buzz he had hoped for wasn't forthcoming.

"Nine actually," he grinned.

Spike fiddled with his bottle.

"It wouldn't hurt you to see what they've done. I know you're curious." Jet scowled, "I doubt she expects anything from you." His gaze landed on the frowning cowboy, "OK, maybe some civility." He stood, dropping a few bills, "When's the last time she tried to contact you?"

Shrug. It had actually been earlier. The recognizable number flashing across his comm's viewer had chased him to his nap in the first place.

Sigh. "You should answer once." He gave Spike a sympathetic once over, "You might learn something."

"Doubt it." Spike glanced at the ex-cop's back, "Why can't she get a hint?"

"Why can't you?" He left before any reply. Wondering absently how long Spike was planning on stewing before doing something about his annoying callers. Jet shook his head, certain the cowboy's niggling sense of guilt must have begun to fester or he wouldn't have hunted down Whitney Hagas Motsumoto: bullshit victim's rights lawyer, and Donald Bacchus: shady doctor of many scalpels. Jet had to give the younger man credit- ignoring so much self-reproach and clinging tightly to misconceived anger was a monumental task. Most folks would have given up years ago, not continued to wallow and stew with such vigor. Jet snickered. It was obvious Spike was curious. The supposed hate and ire a front. He wanted to check in on Faye, he just needed a push that wouldn't make him lose face.

"Ah," Spike cussed, "fuck it," and slumped from the bar, he'd need to get home before he was incapable of self-locomotion. Paranoid he scanned the space. One never knew when or where Soro may pounce.