He walks through the door with a bullet hole in his shoulder and a black eye. He's been shot there before, it probably hasn't even fully healed yet – probably why it's bleeding so much. Then again, it's quite hard to tell since he's getting himself hurt all the time. He looks a little paler than usual, I wouldn't be surprised if he dropped dead on the spot, but that would be very un-spike like. At least there's only blood on his clothes and they aren't ripped or anything. We can barely afford food, never mind new outfits. The human race has changed so much over the years, but one thing we haven't accomplished is a crime free world, so naturally guys with huge bounties just keep coming. That's where he's been all day, hunting some scam artist. Okay, the reward wasn't huge but he was an easy target, and we need money for food. He reaches for the first aid kit and sits himself on that old yellow couch. He proceeds to rip half his shirt to access the wound easier.I sigh and walk over to him, offering to take care of it for him and he doesn't refuse, so I take that as a 'yes'. I hold out a pack of cigarettes subconsciously- call it a habit, waiting for him to take one. Instead he just passively knocks them away with his hand and closes his eyes. The lack of moaning about the botched mission is strange in itself, but Spike refusing a cig – now THAT is what tells me that something is wrong. I shrug it off and smoke myself; it's his loss.

"I see. So, what happened?" I say, dabbing the blood away with a damp cloth. Every so often he flinches (as he always does) because plain and simple - it hurts. When the blood is mostly gone, I reach for the tweezers. I know he hates this part, but I can't exactly leave the bullet in there. I notice that he isn't answering my question, which is unusual. Not even a smug comment? I stop and look at him, he's gritting his teeth. We've done this same routine so many times and he knows all too well how it goes. I sigh and plunge in the tweezers, feeling around for bullet. I find it and pull it out. He groans briefly in pain, but is probably relieved that it's out. I place the blood soaked bullet on the table along with the tweezers and begin bandaging up the injury.

"I'm sorry." He says flatly, when I look at him I see that he's looking back.
"What?"I say, it's all I can muster. I wasn't expecting the sudden apology, very out of character for him. Damn, that's a coin down the drain. Shouldn't be angry, I can see he's not in the mood. I want to ask him what's wrong, but he won't appreciate it. In fact, he'd probably just get pissed off. "No problem, the bounty sucked anyway."

I have to lean behind him to fasten the bandages on is back. He's still quite tense and I can tell that he's still hurting. His head rests on my shoulder and it feels... normal. We do this so often, he's so reckless sometimes. He goes out there in battles where most if not all of the odds are against him, it's a miracle that he's even alive. I bet he doesn't even think how it'll affect the rest of bebop crew if he dies. His rhythmic breathing is warm on my neck and I feel somewhat at peace. I lean back a little.

"There we go, all done."

He doesn't move. I don't know if he's asleep, unconscious or neither, but I don't really mind. I don't know why I'm doing this - but I wrap my arm around him gently and hold him for a moment, just a moment. I suppose it's comforting, it reminds me that he's alive, that he survived. I guess dying just isn't his style.

He always says he wants to die in battle, he doesn't want to grow old and quite frankly I can't see that happening to him – to either of us. Oh I can talk, I'm almost fifty - but I wouldn't call that old as such. He once told me that he wanted to stay aboard the bebop till the day he died. He was a little drunk and hasn't spoken of it since; he probably either can't remember or doesn't want to. I don't blame him - he's too full of pride I guess. He never talks about his little emotional breakdowns – Ha, I make it sound it so dramatic. But when you're with the same person you learn how to read them. I suppose that's how I know that something got in the way of him and the bounty, something important. It wouldn't suprise me if Julia or Vicious were involved. Those two are nothing but trouble.

We've been in this position for a while now, I'm not sure exactly how long for but I know he's probably asleep. I gently lay him back on the couch and he places his hand over his eyes and lies back lazily; typical Spike style. I look at him and the blood stain slowly seeping the fabric of the bandages, and for a brief second I feel incredibly sorry for him – god knows why, it's his own fault for being careless.

I stand up and turn to go back to the computer to search for a job – as in a bad guy with a large bounty, when I see Faye, standing in the doorway eating an apple. Where the hell did she get that from? We're bloody starving! I wonder how much she saw, but it doesn't really matter. She's been acting odd lately too. It's like our comfy little bebop lives have been turned upside down... hopefully it won't last long, I don't like it.

"Hey Jet, what's up with him?" She asks. She's obviously just nosey more than caring. Bitch.
"I don't know, better just to not bring it up." I try to tell her subtly, but she won't get the message. When Spike wakes up, he'll act as though nothing has happened and go on another bounty hunt.
"He's cute when he's sad." I glared at her.

Why.