There I was, sitting blearily in front of the computer, home sick from school, when all of a sudden, this struck me. :\ I've been wanting to do a Cowboy Bebop fic for a long time now, but I hadn't exactly expected it to be this. O.o It's a little media-res'y, with a situation that came out of nowhere. I'm probably doing a sequel or a follow-up to tie up a few loose ends and address another facet of the 'relationship' that strikes me.
Technical Notes : Internal monologue, first person POV, Vicious, addressing [no prizes] Spike. More introspective than anything else.
Ne'er so Fatal
'Angels that are forced from heaven have to become demons. Isn't that right, Spike?'
by Djinn
- Vicious | Session #5 : Ballad of Fallen Angels
The feel of the gun is strange in my hand, the feel of the clip even stranger. I haven't used one of these since that summer, you know which, the one with the stink of blood like an aphrodisiac, sometimes really an aphrodisiac, when we took on the world alone, you and I.
"Doing some big game hunting, I see." The shopkeeper smirks.
He's joking of course. A gun like this kills only one type of animal. Then again, you've always been a beast.
"None of your business."
I hate smug shopkeepers.
I contemplate neatly separating his head from his body, not with this awkward machine, with the sharp steel blade of my sword. Such a superior weapon, wicked curves and beauty. Not like this gun, with a loud report, and a messy death.
I would much rather kill you with my blade. I think I will. I must. But this gun might make a difference. So it might. So be it.
Either way, it would be a fitting tribute.
I must be feeling nostalgic today - how strange, stranger even than the cold-warm steel of the clip. But the sharp sting of air and the blazing, beating sun gets to my head [not my heart, not the one I haven't had in so many years], and I can't help but think of you.
Not that I ever stop thinking of you, of your red, slick blood upon my blade.
But not like that this time, not now, my own footsteps sounding loud and distant, the click of my heels on the street. It was a street like this, almost exactly the same, in the way most streets on Mars are exactly the same. How many were there, ten a-piece, twenty a-piece? It didn't matter, there were many more, everyday.
It was exhilarating. I can't remember how it feels to be exhilarated.
I hate your smile. You smile much too often. You're always smiling, even when your fingers, slick with blood, grasp the back of my shoulders, and you thrust upwards. I can still remember your smile, when you do that, you wouldn't stop looking into my eyes, even when I look away.
Smile then, laugh it up. You were always a master at that. Fuck me up, and turn around and smile, and pretend it never happened.
I'll always associate that summer with all those things you did, even when I try not to, so very hard, trying to crush the memories like I crush all enemies. But they never die, they always float right back up again, the slick of blood and something else, the pain and the pleasure and lust.
It infuriates me. I'm always infuriated. With you.
I can't really understand, don't really want to understand, how you could just pretend, after that summer, that none of it ever happened. It constantly amazed me, perhaps even, much as I loathe to say it, hurt me. But we were, pardon the sentimentality, friends back then, and for the benefit of the doubt, I simply spoke no more of it than you. But I could never forget.
How can I express it, that a mind as primitive and simple as yours can comprehend? Should I even bother? You wouldn't understand. I don't have to justify my motives. But you were like a ray of sun, you blazed and brought heat and light.
It's always a cold winter night where I am.
You wouldn't understand.
To your credit, perhaps it's the same way I could never understand how you could laugh and talk about that summer, one brown eye dreamy in the memory, describing the kill in all its lurid detail to her enthralled, adoring, sickening face without ever once mentioning, alluding to, or even seeming to acknowledge that the nights [and sometimes days] ever existed.
Perhaps we're just too different, you and I. We've always been. I'd never thought it was a handicap.
Until her.
She's just like you.
Did I really love her? I suppose I must have. Her face plays in my head like a broken song. A lingering melody that won't stay gone. I still remember her hair, gold, like a fall of liquid sunshine. She had lips that could never smile properly, as if some great sorrow pulled them back in place every time she tried, but she smiled all the time, anyway.
Just like you.
I did love her, I could never forget her...but I can never forget you either.
I hate her.
Her and you, sunshine to light. I found her to placate the lonely, angry darkness that you left, but she found you. You loved her, didn't you. You loved her to death. I knew I'd lost you ever since you'd shut out the summer nights with a smile. I knew I was losing her too, to you. I knew she wouldn't do it, when I asked her to kill you. I wasn't sure I would have done it.
But now I'm sure.
She wouldn't do it. And both of you left me. The old hell-devil is left in the dark.
...It must be the sun.
A shout. A ball bounces to a stop before my feet.
"Hey, mister, pass it back!"
I kick the ball away, into the street, where a passing hovercraft decimates it with so much nonchalance.
Random acts of cruelty.
The kid is annoyed. Hands on hips, sideways scowl.
"Sheesh, mister, weren't you ever young once?"
I was born old. I was never born. I'm a demon. I'm the devil. I came into being with the first wave of darkness. I'll burn with cold until the last wave fades away.
Youth is foolish. Youth is begging to die. That boy, Lin, what a wash of sentimentality, a pool of idealism. Such a gentle boy. What a fool, to die to save me. Did you see him when he fell? Did you cry? He cried when you left us, did you know? He cried every night.
Then again...I might have been young once. A summer of blood and lust, and maybe even something else.
I cried every night, and swore to kill you.
"I'll kill you, Spike Spiegel," the click of the clip sliding into the gun is comforting and disconcerting, at once solid and familiar, and yet so far away, like the memory of a music box tune, "I'll kill you."
...and love you after.
END
Bonus points for spotting the Othello references. :] I have to say I did like this on the overall, save for a few awkward parts. This is the most 'sudden' fic I've ever done. ^.^;;