"Nicotine" is a joint publication of cowgirlnoir and bebop-aria. Each chapter is a collaboration, beginning with an outline and a specific song. Check either cowgirlnoir or bebop-aria's profile pages for information on how to hear the songs that inspired each entry.

I. Extreme Ways

Out of the inky darkness the gigantic rose window blooms. The distant sound of breaking glass rushes a split second behind on the chill air. Then silence. The cathedral grounds are empty, save for the gangsters' late model luxury sedans.

My wrists ache and I'm getting cold in this stupid dress. I've just managed to comm. Jet and I'm hoping he'll come for us. I can't see what broke the window, though I'm straining my neck trying. Then I see a form. It's dark. It has some sort of cloth flapping around it.

Oh.

God.

Glass shards surround him like a swarm of glistening butterflies. It's Spike. In his trenchcoat. That unruly green hair is unmistakable. He's falling backward without a struggle.

Eternity yawns between his body and the ground. My brain stops working. My lungs suck darkness. He can't be. So high. He can't survive. Fear sluices down my spine and pools in my legs.

Then the grenade explodes, a blinding white flash followed by orange flames. The concussion blows the rest of the massive window into the night. I blink the streaks and stars from my field of vision. I try to bring my hands up to cover my eyes, forgetting they're still cuffed behind my back. And he falls. And he falls.

I don't know how, as I can barely see and my legs are like lead, but I run to the stairs. He's still falling. And I start sobbing before he hits the ground 15 feet in front of me and the stone gives way under the weight of his death. I hear that terrible, final noise and watch the enormous glass shards strike and shatter in a rain of ice around him.

Faye sat up on her bed and breathed deeply. She had to will herself to unclench her hands and then unwrap her arms from her knees. Her fingers were white and red from where she had been squeezing them together. She'd left marks on her legs. She could still feel the terror of that night, the absolute shock of knowing she was witnessing death.

Except Spike hadn't died in that fall. The lucky bastard. He was busy trying to die now, this time at the hands of a little kid with a harmonica. And here she was, waiting for the end again. Waiting for the call to come, from the coroner, or perhaps the police.

She'd been shocked the first time he died. But it had been easier, too. It was unexpected and sudden. This time, she didn't have to see it, but she had to wait. She wished that there were something else to do aboard this soaring shitpile than imagine what was happening. She tried to tell herself he might be okay, but she knew it was a lie.

Maybe it was better for Spike to die: it was clearly what he wanted. Faye could see the black hole in his eyes, the emptiness and lack of fear, the darkness that swallowed everything. Not to mention his arrogance. And laziness. Maybe that freaky little kid was doing everyone a favor by killing him. Maybe that's why Spike went out to meet him.

He'd gone out toting that enormous single-shot gun and her knees went weak when she tried to tell him – what did she try to tell him, anyway? What was the use of even saying goodbye when he didn't care? He had it easy. He just had to find someone or something that would kill him. But she had to wait for it to happen. And Jet had to clean up the mess. So inconsiderate, to leave everyone behind with the hard part.

Faye shifted on the bed. All of this thinking and arguing was pointless: it drove the fear deeper into her head instead of further away. She couldn't sleep – it was too early for that. She wished she'd stolen something alcoholic from the liquor stash to drown out all of the words, all of the pictures, all of the questions. She couldn't go back into the common room. She couldn't face Jet, who was pacing around like an irritable old bear. Even the damned dog was irritable right now. And there was nothing to do but wait.

That scary gangster with the white hair. Vicious. Spike's enemy. When Spike came into the cathedral, Vicious said that angels who fall become devils. And Spike knew what he was talking about.

Vicious and the goons and that dead guy in the opera house were Chinese mafia. And Spike used to be one of them, which explains a lot. His reflexes. The range of weapons he uses. Why he's so cold. A fallen angel. He's a marked man, if they want him dead. So maybe he figures his death inevitable?

But how the hell does a Syndicate assassin end up on a junky old retrofitted fishing ship with a one-armed bounty hunter? And a crazy, genetically modified fur ball. And what the hell am I doing here with them? There must be better places in the universe.

Why didn't Spike run from danger? Why did he run into the confrontation with the Syndicate instead of away? He must have wanted something from them, from Vicious. He didn't care about saving me, like he said. Of course, Jet blamed me anyway, all three days Spike lay there unconscious. Said I got him into trouble and nearly killed him. It wasn't me. It was his own pride.

Faye jumped off the bed and landed on her feet. She couldn't think any more. She'd go crazy. She shook out of her legs to get the blood flowing after sitting too long. Even Jet in a bad mood was better than this. She stumbled to the door and then out into the hall.

As Faye climbed through the hatch into the common room, she saw Jet sitting on the low yellow chair, rebuilding an oil pump on the table, an ashtray and a bottle of whisky at his elbow. The dog slept on the couch, in Spike's usual spot. She hesitated for a moment, and then came down the stairs.

"Hi there," She said, from about 5 feet away.

Jet was so focused on what he was doing that he didn't hear her. She said it again, louder, and he looked up in surprise. The pump slipped out of his hands and clattered to the floor, emitting a stream of filthy oil on impact and showering him. He let out a few heartfelt expletives in response, probably Ganymedean slang. Faye had never heard anything so nasty.

Jet looked up at her, face long and obstinate with a stripe of black oil from his forehead to his chin and dripping from his hawkbeak nose. Faye had to laugh. Pretty soon, he joined in with her. For several moments, they just laughed, deep belly laughs that loosened all of the tension in the room and swept it away. Gradually the laughter subsided and Faye realized she was crying and she couldn't stop. Jet got up awkwardly. He cleaned off his face and then brought her a relatively clean rag. She blew her nose and willed herself to stop. It was just the nerves. Jet wordlessly got a second glass from the galley and poured a generous two fingers of whisky. Faye nodded her thanks.

She put down the sodden rag and lifted the glass, taking in how the amber liquid absorbed the stark light of the common room and what her own pale fingertips looked like through it. She put the glass to her lips and tossed her head back. Her eyes watered again as the viscous burn slid down her throat. She blinked twice and then set the glass down, empty. Jet watched her with his mouth slightly open. When she caught him looking, he coughed and went back to his repairs.

Faye was teary but she'd managed to stop the real waterfall. She sat down on the couch and enjoyed the afterburn of the whisky. It slowly neutralized any resistance. She watched the dog twitching in his sleep and resisted the strong urge to poke him. Jet ignored her and finished the pump assembly. After a long spell of quiet, the dog woke and sat up, looking at the two humans a bit dazedly.

Jet set down the pump and wiped his fingers on a rag. He picked up a pack of cigarettes, put one in his mouth, and lit it. He set the pack down. Faye wondered how she could casually make her presence more visible, when Ein barked. Jet looked at Ein and then at Faye. He picked up his pack again, tapped it, and offered her a perfect stairstep of three cigarettes. She took one gratefully and lit it with the lighter he handed her. She couldn't be sure the dog hadn't meant for this to happen.

Midway through their cigarettes, Jet's comm. buzzed. Ein's ears pricked up. Faye dropped her cigarette in horror, picked it up wrong, and burned herself. Jet stubbed out his and answered. Spike's voice rang through the stillness: "Ok. I'm back. Would somebody open the damn door?" Jet got up without a word and walked to the flight bay, with Ein trotting behind him.

Faye alternately sucked the burnt fingers of her right hand and smoked the rest of the butt with her left. Her fingertips throbbed and she felt like she was going to cry again. Only after it was finished did she go to the freezer and get ice. Then she went to her room with a little ice pack on her hand, a glass of water, and Jet's fresh pack of cigarettes tucked into her yellow shorts.

Fucking lucky asshole.

Faye didn't come to dinner. Spike and Jet enjoyed a quiet meal together, with not much to say and no distractions. When they were finished, Spike briefly filled Jet in on the facts of the confrontation with Wen. He didn't want to talk about it much and Jet didn't ask any questions. After a little while, Jet went off to look at the Swordfish and Spike brought their bowls to the sink.

Spike rinsed the dregs of soy sauce from his bowl. He leaned against the counter, long legs loose in black training pants and white arms uncovered by his grey undershirt. He rolled his neck to loosen the kinks. The running water made for good white noise. Then Faye's voice cut through it. Shit. He didn't need her high-strung, nosy chatter tonight. He felt his shoulders starting to tense. He also didn't need a reminder that she didn't seem to be going anywhere.

"I don't get it," she said tersely, "You shot the pink stone fragment at him and he turned into a mummy. And that's it. Case closed. You don't wonder if it was really what he wanted?"

So she had been listening. Spike didn't turn around, though he wanted to tell her to mind her own business. Or get off the ship. He wondered idly if she would hit him if he said it out loud. He was in the mood for a fight. The cut on his right cheek stung and the events of the day had left other, subtler marks.

"I don't need to know." He surprised himself by answering her. "He's better off now, anyway."

"Oh please." Her mockery was overplayed but it still cut. "Don't confuse him with yourself. Some of us like being alive. Unlike you with your damned suicidal heroics."

Spike finally looked at her. She stood in the doorway with a red shirt wrapped around her shoulders and a thin arm resting on the doorjamb. A strand of purple hair grazed her cheek and her green eyes pierced the space between them. She lounged against the seal of the hatch with practiced boredom, but the seriousness of her heart-shaped face betrayed her.

He turned off the water and set the bowls on the drainer. Then he shrugged. "I can recognize someone who's ready to die," he said, "If you like being alive, maybe you shouldn't put yourself in situations where I have to keep you that way."

Faye's green eyes narrowed and her mouth all but disappeared. She looked like she was going to say something, but she couldn't unpurse her lips. She spun neatly and stomped off, less neatly, to her room, nearly knocking Jet over as he came down the hallway. He shrank against the wall and decided not to ask. Faye spectacularly failed to slam her door, and had to do it twice.

Jet walked into the common room. Spike sloped to the couch, a lit cigarette in one hand and a clean ashtray in the other.

"What'd you say to her?" Jet asked casually.

Spike shrugged, inhaled, and then tapped his ash off. He stretched his bare feet out onto the table and interlaced his hands behind his head.

"Ah, that special Spiegel charm. Drives the women crazy," Jet said flatly.

Spike smiled briefly at the ribbing. "She is crazy, Jet. She just asked about Wen and I didn't have anything to say."

Jet scrutinized his partner's upturned face. Then he said awkwardly, "Don't be too hard on Faye, Spike."

Spike sat up and cocked a disbelieving eyebrow.

Jet continued, "She was just worried about you, that's all."

Spike nodded slowly, looking at Jet as though he had just sprouted tentacles. As if it wasn't enough that he had faced a malevolent freak in the body of a child, shot him, and watched him decay. Now everyone was acting weird. Even Jet, who could usually be trusted to keep a clear head. Well, mostly, and the rest was on his own time.

Jet made some apologetic noises and went off to find something that needed fixing. Spike settled back on the yellow couch and decided there was only one cure for the shock of homecoming.

As he was sliding into his second post-dinner nap, Spike heard soft footsteps on the common room stairs, heading for the galley. He lay on his back on the yellow couch, breathing evenly, with long legs stretched out and one arm flung across his eyes. He'd been too lazy to turn off the light.

The feet belonged to Faye, who was padding quietly past him in search of food. Spike shifted his arm imperceptibly so he could watch her movements through the filter of his eyelashes. He tried not to smile at how she looked, tiptoeing like a nervous cat. Then he noticed her shirt and stopped smiling. It was a thin green scrub shirt, too large on her little frame. It fit her like a dress and it was his.

In two seconds he was off the couch and over the low table, and in another two he grabbed her arm as she stood in front of the fridge looking for the leftover green peppers. She let out an impressive shriek. Spike held on, more to keep her from belting him than anything else. Ein came charging in and ran around in circles, barking. In another minute they were treated to the dubious sight of a shirtless Jet, groggy and sporting a raised fire extinguisher.

Spike, still half-asleep himself, managed something soothing about everything being fine and Faye just being startled. She shot him a lethal glower.

Jet grunted. "Oh well," he rasped. "Try to be good, kids." He shouldered the fire extinguisher and stomped back out, grumbling under his breath. Ein huffed through his nose and trotted off in the direction of the flight deck. He wanted no part of the fight clearly brewing between the tall quiet one and the little mean one who smelled like dead flowers.

Spike realized he was still holding Faye's upper arm. He dropped his hand and looked at the red marks coiling across her skin. Faye ignored him pointedly as she grabbed a set of chopsticks and then tucked into the bell peppers, leaning against the sink.

Spike said, "You're wearing my shirt."

Faye stopped eating and set her bowl down on the counter.

"I'm not dead yet. So why are you stealing my clothes?" he asked coolly.

The speed and vehemence of Faye's reaction was impressive. She stared at him, wide-eyed, and then dropped her chopsticks next to the bowl. She reached down with both small hands and yanked the offending shirt over her head.

Involuntarily greeted by her breasts, Spike tried to look at something, anything else. She certainly was, uh, well-built. She held out his green shirt, wearing only a thin pair of cotton shorts. After a bit, he realized her lips were moving. "...storage room. Near the garbage compactor. Thought it wasn't anyone's." Her voice was high and there were two spots of red on her cheekbones.

Spike found his own voice and told her she should keep the shirt for now. She put it back on. It was suddenly easier to look her in the face again.

Faye went back to eating. Spike stood and breathed for a bit. He regained his composure. As she wolfed down the last of the peppers, he spoke. The quiet of his tone made her listen.

"He wanted to die." Spike looked down while he spoke, his expression indecipherable. "Imagine remembering a whole century and being treated like you needed someone to tie your shoes for you. He was caught as a child in the aftermath of the Gate Accident."

She sucked a lungful of air and literally inhaled the last pepper, which occasioned much coughing.

"I'm okay," she managed, though he hadn't asked. "That reminds me of something I can't remember clearly, something like the Gate Accident." She stopped and considered, "Or before it? But that's impossible, right?"

She looked into his eyes, in an effort to confirm the answer. He nodded slowly and said, "Lots of things are impossible and they happen anyway."

Faye rolled her eyes. "What is that, the Tao of Spike? I'm sick of riddles. I just want to know."

"Know what?" Curiosity got the better of his discomfort at conducting a serious conversation with her. The normal rules seemed to be suspended tonight, anyway.

"I dunno." She turned and put her bowl into the sink. "Why it feels like my past is one giant accident I can't remember."

Spike was startled by recognition. "It's no better to remember," he said.

She thought about this for a few moments, biting her lip. "But how do I know my past won't catch up with me, if I don't know what it is? And what if you need to remember something?"

Spike closed his eyes and dropped his chin. He said softly, "There's nothing I need to remember. I let the present flow by me and I get closer to oblivion every day. It's always better to forget."

He pushed off from the counter and turned to leave. Faye reached out and put her small hand on his shoulder. Surprised, Spike stopped and then turned back. She dropped her hand quickly.

"Does it work? Intentionally forgetting?" she asked him.

He cocked his head and smiled faintly at her. "I can't remember," he replied. He turned back toward the hatch, digging his cigarettes out of his pocket.

"Hey," she ventured, and he looked back again, a little of his previous irritation returning. "Can I bum one of those?"

He handed her the pack after he lit his own. She tapped one out and stood with it between her fingers, looking at him expectantly. He raised a long eyebrow.

"Oh," he mumbled, and held out the flame to her. She took a long drag and leaned back against the counter, the pack still in her other hand now crossed over her midriff. In his shirt. Which he had just let her keep. He took a drag and exhaled.

Spike watched her through the growing haze in the small space. He tried to decide if getting his cigarettes back would end in a fight he didn't have the energy for. Faye stared down at her feet and smoked as if she'd forgotten he was there. She picked at the corner of her mouth with her thumbnail in between drags.

Spike shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He reached past her to tap his ash in the sink. Faye jumped a little, startled by the movement, and knocked Spike's arm as he leaned. It was just enough to send him sliding in to her, in an effort to keep his balance.

It wasn't clear to Spike why the resulting entanglement was embarrassing, but Faye blushed furiously. Her small red mouth was open and she breathed quickly against his chest. He felt the warmth from her skin. He pressed a little harder in to her to pick up his cigarette and then stepped back. They finished smoking in silence.

Finally, Spike said, "Listen, Faye. About Wen. I'm the one who shot him. I'm not losing any sleep over it. You shouldn't either."

She looked back at him for a long moment. She gave him his cigarette pack. "No, I suppose not," she said. "Thanks for the smoke."

He nodded. "Nicotine. Next best thing to forgetting. That's the Tao of Spike."

She gave him the ghost of a smile, and he made his exit before she could think of anything else to keep.