Disclaimer: I don't own Vicious, Julia, Spike, or any of the characters from Cowboy Bebop. (Sigh. So sad) I do own this particular story, but it is not for sale and I am making no money from it.

AN: The idea for this piece came from a couple of places. 1) In the flashes of Spike's memory as he falls in "Ballan of Fallen Angels," there is a scene of Vicious sitting up in bed, possibly next to Julia, and 2) Chapter 7 from Lady Razorsharp's "Beyond Beautiful," so thanks to her for letting me play in her sandbox. :) --LMH

Sleeping In Her Bed

He's been here, Vicious realized with a jolt. The thought jerked him from a sound sleep, and he slumped over, hands braced to prop himself up. Julia slept on, unaware of the torment in his soul. Or maybe she just doesn't care, he thought.

It had taken a long time to convince her, persuading, coaxing, cajoling, before she'd finally agreed to take the Red-Eye with him, and they'd lit into each other with a frenzy, tearing the small apartment to pieces before crashing at last into the bed and, for him, at least, a restless sleep. But it wasn't the drugs that disturbed him.

It was her. She had cried out near the end, pleading for release, begging him, begging Spike to take her over the edge. In the end, he'd fuzzily wrapped his fingers around her throat to silence the name on her lips.

Spike. Had he been with her, been here, in her bed? Or had she only wished it, wanted it, made believe in the drug-induced fog? Or had she wanted Spike all along, and been pretending every time, only declaring her true desire once the Red-Eye whisked away her inhibitions?

He'd go crazy if he kept this up. Maybe he was imagining things. Mao had chastised him more than once for jumping at shadows, for seeing more than was there, though he'd been praised as often for catching something no one else saw. Hard to know, then if this was real or just some nightmare.

So lost had Vicious been in his ponderings that he hadn't heard the footsteps on the stairs, or rather, had not thought to pay attention to them, or the soft noise of the apartment door opening. But he heard it now as it slammed closed, and realized that for a few precious seconds, he had been observed, nude, in Julia's bed. Not a problem, normally. Everyone knew Julia was his. But there had been just enough light from the street to illuminate green hair, a sickened expression, and the empty vial of Red-Eye on the nightstand.

Slowly, or so it felt, Vicious reached across Julia's slumbering form to the nightstand, past the empty vial toward the gun, then past the gun to the pack of cigarettes and lighter lying beyond it. Retrieving them, he slid out the far side of the bed and leaned against the wall next to the open window. He shook a stick up and caught it in his mouth, flicking the lighter to light it, then tossed the pack and lighter onto the other nightstand behind him. Cold air blew in to brush his exposed skin, but he made no move to cover himself. Cold and warmth were external forces, and he allowed them no effect on his true self.

He blew a stream of smoke from his nose and watched as the green-haired form appeared in the street below, huddled in a bomber jacket, walking resolutely away. And in that moment, Vicious knew it didn't matter. Spike would have to die. Slowly, Vicious stretched out one long-fingered hand, index finger pointed squarely at his foster brother's back. "Bang," he whispered softly.

In the bed, Julia stirred. "Vicious?"

Nice that she finally remembered.
"It's nothing, Julia. Go back to sleep."

~FIN~