You're Gonna Carry That Weight

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Synopsis: Jet carries on. Spoilers for the end of the series.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Would take Spike though. I'd even wear a lame blond wig and let him call me Julia.

Authors's Note: CONTRARY TO WHAT IS APPARENTLY THE MAJORITY OF FAN OPINION, I DO NOT BELIEVE THAT SPIKE DIES AT THE END OF THE SERIES. BECAUSE, IF HE DIES, THIS FIC WOULD HAPPEN. I DO NOT WANT TO LIVE IN A WORLD WHERE THIS FIC HAPPENS. OKAY? OKAY.

Now that we've cleared that up, this is a short piece on what I think would happen to Jet if Spike HAD died. Because … he'd really be the one with the raw end of the deal, wouldn't he?

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Jet sometimes thought of selling the Bebop, because he suspected it was haunted.

It snuck up on him. He would be minding his own business, enjoying the silence, in the cockpit or on the couch or in his bunk or anywhere he damn well pleased. And then he'd hear a bark. Or the laughter of a child. A shadow cast by a pillar could just as easily be the silhouette of a busty woman. Or worse, the outline of someone tall with a ridiculous mop of hair, cigarette hanging from his mouth.

It was that last one Jet hated the most. Because he knew well enough that his mind was playing tricks on him with the other three. Ein and Ed were happy and healthy and oblivious somewhere on Earth's dusty surface, and Faye had taken off some time ago, never to be seen again. He had often wondered what it was that kept her returning, and it became apparent after Spike left for his last heroic hurrah that it certainly wasn't Jet. But he knew Faye was alive; she was scrappy and valued herself, and he monitored those sorts of things, just in case. In case of what, he didn't know. Just in case.

But there were times when Jet had the overwhelming sense that if he looked over his shoulder he'd see his old partner standing there, possibly hunched over, probably bleeding, and without a doubt with a smoke between his lips. It got to the point where he could smell the acrid cigarette smell flaring anew when he himself hadn't touched a pack for hours. He would freeze then, try to analyze the shadows falling in his line of sight, and have a show down with himself; see how long he could ignore it before he inevitably turned around to check. Just in case.

There was never anyone there.

Jet wasn't sure if he believed in ghosts. He wasn't sure what he believed about the whole afterlife business in general. It seemed like a nice idea, the continuation of the spirit, to some other plane more fantastic than the shitty little solar system humanity had themselves holed up in. But if such a thing existed, and Spike was in it somewhere, why he would choose to visit the hunk of metal he had used to whittle away his borrowed time was beyond Jet. He had once thought that whatever Spike's past with the Syndicate on Mars had been, he'd left it behind when he decided to join the Bebop and turn Jet's solo act into a partnership. He knew now he was wrong.

With the way Spike had run off so eagerly and gotten himself killed, all for petty grudges and the shadow of a woman, Jet realized he had overestimated his friend. He had misread everything about Spike. The recklessness, the fearlessness, the abandon – they were not the mark of a man with no inhibitions, but a man with no soul. The Spike Spiegel Jet had known had already been a ghost. Trapped in flesh, armed with a gun and a careless smile, but a ghost all the same. An apparition of an apparition had no business aboard the Bebop. It was idiotic to think otherwise.

There were days Jet thought of how it had all gone down. Sometimes he hated Spike for it; for being so goddamn young and naive as to think losing your first love meant you were as good as dead. Not like Jet didn't know exactly how that felt. But eventually he had learned the clocks never stopped, and you couldn't live as a broken watch. Why hadn't Spike seen that, learned from his example? Julia couldn't have been that much more incredible than Alisa. Not if she'd been fool enough to break Spike's heart.

Then there were the times when Jet blamed himself. For being best friends, the two of them never talked, not really. It was all jokes and machismo and passive aggressive bullshit. He wished he could go back in time, grab the boy by a lapel, and punch his thick skull until some sense got through. Maybe Spike never knew how important the whole crew was to Jet; he had never been happier than when they'd been all together. Yes, even Edward the Strange, and yes, even Our Lady of the Cleavage. (But even worse was the possible implication that Spike had known, and simply hadn't cared. That was the sort of thing that burned Jet's chest white hot, that he immediately sought to vanquish with several well-placed rounds in a favorite dive bar. Spike couldn't have been that selfish. Jet had no desire to call a man like that his best friend.)

In the end, it was no use letting the whole mess get in the way of anything. Maybe the Bebop was haunted, or maybe the ghosts were just in Jet's mind. He knew in his heart he couldn't part with the ship; it was the only member of the family that hadn't flown the nest. Besides, there were bounties to catch and meals to be made. No one complained when the bell peppers and beef had no beef and he supposed he should be grateful. All he had gotten from Spike was grief.

Every so often he did go into the cockpit, pour himself a shot from the whiskey bottle Spike had stashed behind the fridge, and gaze out at the stars. After a few moments of silence, he would hold up the shot glass in a toast. If he squinted, the amber-colored liquid was almost the same color as his friend's eyes. Through it, he could see the multitude of stars, where he imagined Spike to be. Maybe with his dream girl, if that's what he had wanted so badly.

"Hope you've found some peace, Spike," he would say.

Then he'd down the shot in one gulp, put the glass aside, and set a course for his next destination.