Disclaimer: Cowboy Bebop belongs to Shinichiro Watanabe.

Summary: Jet contemplates his bonsai trees.

A/N: Jet and his trees have been on my mind recently. And this is what happened. Not entirely certain it came out as I had hoped, and even less certain if it really sounds like Jet, but there you have it.

Garden of Eden
By: gure

Jet hesitated in the doorway as the fluorescent light overhead reluctantly flickered to life. His garden of trees almost looked ominous in the brief strobe of the light. He imagined full-grown, windswept trees waving back and forth on a hill at the height of a tempest. Shaking his bald head at his overactive imagination, Jet entered the tiny room and regarded his bonsai trees.

Small and gracefully misshapen, his little trees were an oasis of greenery in a desert of grey. Grey walls, grey floors, grey ceilings, metal everywhere, except, of course, for his bilious yellow furniture. A wry smile. As much as Jet loved his ship, he'd be the first to admit to its unrelenting monotony.

He would have liked to have said that the monotony stopped with the decor. Instead, it just emphasized, symbolized the slow passing of the weeks, months, years, interspersed with brief, intense moments of violence. He was getting too old for this. He didn't have a death wish. He never did. He just did what he had to do to get by. Bounty hunting may not be the most reputable lifestyle, but he made it an honest one. That's all he wanted. An honest job, an honest life, maybe settle down someday, have a family, live quietly.

His little garden. Small lives to nurture, to raise. They did well, in spite of their dreary surroundings. The will to live is powerful, indeed. His Eden. Did that make him God? Jet snorted. Well, he did provide his trees with water and artificial sunlight. And he tortured them by twisting their trunks to his whim, trimming perfectly good branches to suit his aesthetic sense. His mirth abruptly fell away.

He was thinking too much. His hobby was more than horticulture. It was art. He manipulated media like any other artist. His medium just happened to be alive. He took great pains with his little trees. He wouldn't allow himself to feel guilty. His trees were healthy; he adjusted their shapes slowly, never cut anything vital. Well, mostly.

Jet knew the others regarded his concern over these trees curiously. He just had to care for something, whether it was bonsai trees or strays. Like the four strays living under his roof right now. He smiled a little. Did the others know they fell into the same category as his trees? It was a certainty that a few of those strays would be insulted by that knowledge. Jet chuckled to himself. Imagined wiring Spike's lanky frame to a stake. Trimming his horror of a hairdo. What would Faye think? His smile faded. Faye. Hn. Women.

Faye's low voice, interrupted by Ed's chirping interjections floated into his sanctuary. He could hear Spike bumping around in the kitchen. His kitchen. Jet shuddered to think what he was up to. Hopefully Spike had no plans on sharing.

Jet sighed and turned his attention back to his trees. For now, he was content with raising shrubs and looking after his roommates. The future would bring whatever it planned on bringing. He hoped he was ready.