A/N: Credit for the title goes to Bob Dylan and his song by the same name. :) Enjoy and thanks for reading!
Spike rubbed his eyes again. He'd had this feeling more than once before. Always, always he'd been able to just rub it away, go back to sleep. Maybe if he ate something.
He rubbed his eyes with one hand - pulled the blankets down with the other.
The Bebop, ever faithful, seemed to swallow the sounds of his echoing stroll as if just as aware of Spike's subconscious motivations as the man himself. Hunger was just a convenient excuse. He had to get out.
The slow and steady glow of too many digital lights to count was temporarily swallowed by the wavering flare of his lighter as the flame leapt up to suck a kiss from his cigarette. He paused at the kitchen door long enough to blow a thin tendril of smoke.
Hands in pockets, Spike moved on, nursing the unshakable awakeness deep in his core with the same care and caution that regulated each pull and push of breath around the cig. He'd held out for a long time - if he wanted to, he could probably be more specific (if he wanted to, he could probably admit to three carefully counted years); the important part was that it had been long but sparsely populated. In a matter of what felt like a very short time, the crew of the Bebop had rocketed from one to three (already, he had stopped counting himself - or perhaps he'd never started). Wiggle room - gone - instantly.
Even without the need for secrecy, his hand on cigarette duty made a single swipe over the control panel, dancing a series of commands too quick to follow. As the door rose on the dock, it was clear the swordfish felt it too: she was already facing the stars.
A swimming bird needed more room to splash around in if he was going to stay afloat.
Running a hand over his ship in quiet appreciation of her readiness, Spike took a deep breath in and was surprised by the lack of flavor. He took the butt from his mouth and replaced it with a fresh cigarette.
He'd been breathing faster than he thought.
The hatch opened eagerly at his touch, but a sudden wave of uncharacteristic hesitation brought Spike to a standstill beside his waiting space craft.
This was sloppy. He was still wearing his boxers, there were only three cigarettes left in the pack, and he was starting to vaguely remember a promise to wash the breakfast dishes from last week.
The ill-prepared escapee removed his smoke and heaved a deep breath of clear air, turning to join the Swordfish in looking out into space. How could he feel so trapped in a world so vast? Maybe it was the breakfast dishes, or maybe it was the tomboy the brat and the beast, or maybe something in-between. Only one thing was for sure- it was time to go.
"Rrrrrrrrh!"
"Jesus Christ!" Even the best combination of natural agility and violent arm-flapping couldn't save Spike from a fated encounter with the dock floor. He landed gracelessly on his ass, legs splayed, cig lost, and nearly eye to eye with Ein, whose teeth were still securely attached to his boxers.
"Pwho."
The corgi's intensely shining eyes squinted slightly as his captive huffed a breath of air, deducing through classic Spike-illogic that this would somehow drive his belligerent away. It did not.
"Pwhoo! Pwhoopwhoopwhoo!"
"Rrrrr!"
"Pwhooooooooooooo-"
"Rrrrrrrrr-"
"ooooooo..."
The winded bounty hunter collapsed on his dog-free thigh, returning the canine's wholly unfazed stare with a dark glower.
He bapped one of the corgi's ears.
Nothing.
Speed tickled under and around his collar.
Nothing.
Offered him a finger to bite instead.
"Rrr."
Prodded the corner of the toothy frown.
Nothing.
Offered him the packet of cigarettes.
Ein managed to raise a stubby forepaw and bat the box to the ground, securing it with an unyielding force equal to the one in his small, fiercely sparkling eyes. Spike buried his face in his leg, striving to regain composure after being forced to relinquish his smokes, before returning to his sitting position.
Squinting bitterly, he took a fistful of the short, coarse tufts of ruddy hair from both sides of Ein's face and jostled the beast's head gently. Then he saw it - suddenly, like a Martian dust storm, it hit him - dog, black dog. A black dog was just a dog was Jet is Ein: Ein equals Jet equals Ein. It wasn't just Ein trying to stop him from taking off haphazardly in the night without a single goodbye or any intention of coming back. It was three carefully counted years and last weeks breakfast dishes.
"Rrawp!" Ein yelped, at last releasing his hold on Spike's undergarments as he found himself crushed in a surprise embrace.
He paused at the kitchen door just long enough to blow a thin tendril of smoke. Then, whistling cheerily, the cowboy wiped a sudsy hand off on his wifebeater and readjusted his hold on the wriggling beast tucked under the opposite arm. The Bebop, ever-faithful, seemed to swallow the sounds of his echoing stroll and carry the flighty tune up and above, mirroring his walk on the ceiling.
When Spike's bare feet came to a halt, so too did his melodic accompaniment. Jet's door was open. And - tucked around the corner of the row of bonsai trees - was Jet, rumbling with slow waves of quiet snores. It was hard not to smile.
"Hmm?" Spike's smirk lost none of its fondness as he turned it on the whimpering Ein. He freed both arms in order to lift his canine burden over the bed. Release.
"Yyyyyyyyip!"
Ein dropped the short distance to the bed, landing right on target: Jet's face.
"WHAT THE HELL!"
"Yo."
"SPIKE!"
He raised a hand in parting as he turned (rather quickly) on his heel and made for the door, leaving the dogs to sort things out between themselves. "Mind your own damn business next time, partner."