(A/N: I do not own any Cowboy Bebop characters or ships. Sunrise and Bandai Entertainment do. This disclaimer continues for each chapter following. Enjoy C: )
Preface
It's been two years since his death. Two years since the last time Jet and I saw him. Two years since I stood with my back against the wall, my hand shaking as the tears rolled down my cheeks. I can still remember the headache from all the crying that night.
Two years since he stood so close to me; so close that I could feel his warm breath against my lips, my eyes staring deeply into his as he told me a hint about his past.
Two years since the nightmares started. Two years have gone by, that I couldn't turn on the television without being reminded of him, or take a shower without thinking of him, or even eat bell peppers and beef without his voice echoing in my head that it was his favorite meal, though he never would have admitted it in his lifetime.
And just when I start to think that things will get better, somehow, something always knocks me back three steps. Whether it is a dream, or glancing to my gun, which hasn't been fired in a long while, it's like he's there. I don't think he means to torture me, but sometimes, that's how it feels. But when I look up to the blue sky, I always know he's just watching over me, over Jet, maybe even over Edward and Ein.
Those first few months on the Bebop were silent. Jet and I never spoke to each other. We never sat down and watched the TV for news, mostly because we were afraid of hearing anything about the Red Dragon Syndicate, though they were rumored to have disbanded after Vicious' death. There was never any music, no crying—at least, not in front of each other, not even laughing.
We'd get an occasional transmission or e-mail from Edward, who was still down on Earth with her father, and our old companion, Ein, asking how everybody was doing. We couldn't decipher most of her riddles and phrases, but we tried the best we could. She often asked about bounty heads, and if we were having any luck catching any, but that was our past. We just couldn't function the same way without him.
Of course, there were times that money was sparse, so we would have to chase down an easy target, but when we did, the communication between Jet and I just wasn't there. The money would often go to food, or fuel, but not much else.
But one night, about a year ago, I was walking down the hall, when I heard blues playing. I figured pretty quickly that it was coming from Jet's room, and stood in the doorway to see him playing the harmonica. Listening to him play was like a release for me; a chance to feel like myself again. After playing for a few more moments, Jet finally opened his dark eyes and looked up at me with a grim look on his face, like usual.
Something inside me was compelled to walk over to him, and I didn't resist. I sat beside him on his bed and put my hand on his cold, mechanical arm. With a soft voice, I asked him to play more. My green eyes pierced his, and then looked away briefly as he began to play another song.
Since that night, not much has been the same. Jet and I still didn't talk much, if at all, but every night, I would stand in his doorway and listen to him play out his feelings through music. And every night, I would wait for him to look up at me before sitting next to him and put my hand on his arm.
The nightmares about Spike became rare after that night.
