IV. Ships In The Night
Spike had always pegged himself as the type of guy who would enjoy long stretches of solitude. He'd spent the majority of his adult life living in close quarters with...well, he wasn't sure if he'd call them his friends, but certainly his...comrades, he supposed. Before the Bebop, it had been Vicious and Julia and the syndicate, and before that, Annie and Mao and the various people filtering in and out at all times.
Spike used to fantasize about spending a few months alone. Almost like a vacation, you know? Nobody barking orders at him or complaining about Woolongs, no kids running around underfoot, no animals to feed, and most of all, no women nagging him constantly. Just him, a pack of smokes, and plenty of time to read, exercise, and sleep.
Turns out being alone was really goddamn boring. And desperately, painfully lonely.
After slipping away from the old doctor Mateo, Spike hightailed it into the heart of Tharsis, collar upturned and head down, lungs wheezing and body protesting every step he took. He walked several miles until he noticed a dilapidated coffee shop down a dingy alleyway with a "HELP NEEDED" sign taped inside the cracked window. Glancing around, he rang the buzzer and crossed his fingers.
A stout little man covered in Venusian tribal tattoos came to the door and stared him up and down. His skin had the ruddy flush of a seasoned alcoholic and he reeked of whiskey. Spike quickly scanned his tattoos for anything Red Dragon-related and was relieved to see nothing of the sort.
"Whaddya want, kid?"
Spike cleared his throat, voice raspy from disuse.
"Yo. I'm looking for a job and you're hiring. Wanna talk?"
The man squinted at Spike, bulbous green eyes narrowing distrustfully.
"The fuck you wanna work here for? This place is a dump. How do I know you're not gonna rob me or some shit?" The man wiped greasy hands on his stained chef's apron.
Spike chuckled. "I promise I'm not gonna try anything. Trust me, I wouldn't be asking if I didn't really need the dough."
"Huh. Well, I can't pay you much. You'd just be washing dishes and shit, nothing glamorous."
"That's fine. How much are we talking?"
The man tallied up something on his stubby fingers, eyes cast skyward.
"How's...two hundred Woolongs a week?"
Spike almost laughed out loud before he realized that the man was watching him earnestly, waiting for a reply. Yikes. Well, beggars can't be choosers, he thought.
"Why not. It's a deal," he told the man. "And do you know of any places that might rent me a room around here?"
Spike's stout companion regarded him with those bulging eyes.
"Tell ya what. Let's make it one fifty a week and I'll let you stay upstairs for free. It ain't too pretty but it's four walls and a roof."
Eh, what the hell. It wasn't like he had much of a choice.
"You got it. What's your name?" Spike asked, extending a hand.
The man shook it vigorously, his palm sweaty. "Call me Chuck. Pleased to meetcha. And you?"
Spike deliberated for a moment. "Bruce. I appreciate it, man."
"Well, wanna come see your new digs? You don't got no suitcases or shit?" Chuck started inside and motioned for Spike to follow.
"Nah, I travel light," Spike told him as they walked through the dirty cafe and up a narrow wooden staircase. The three flights of stairs left Spike completely winded, and he clutched the knife in his side, gasping, as they reached the fourth floor. Chuck stared at him, wincing apologetically.
"You all right, my man?"
Spike nodded wordlessly, lungs wheezing like a harmonica. He wasn't used to his body betraying him like this. He would have to take it slow.
"Anyways, like I said, it ain't much," Chuck called over his shoulder as he opened the bedroom door.
The room had a relatively clean looking mattress in the middle of the floor, a card table with two rickety chairs, and a door leading to a tiny bathroom. Boy, he sure was living in luxury these days, he thought, clenching his side as he caught his breath. The room smelled faintly of mildewy laundry and furniture polish.
Chuck crossed the bedroom floor, wood creaking under his considerable heft.
"But here's the good news. You got a pretty nice view from this side of the building.
Chuck opened the canvas blinds, revealing a surprisingly large window that overlooked all of Tharsis City's skyline. The ocean sparkled on the horizon, and Spike could just barely make out the harbor in the distance, the ships glistening in the sunshine like tiny colorful toys from this height. Was the Bebop docked out in the bay right now, with Faye and Jet on it? What if Faye had taken off alone again?
Chuck watched him earnestly, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet.
"Not too shabby, eh? Makes up for the roaches," he said appreciatively. "I live down the street and I got the view too. Only reason I bought this place."
Spike swallowed, turning to face Chuck again. He tried to clear the worry from his face.
"It's great. The view's really something. So when do I start work?"
"Ah, let's say tomorrow around noon. We never get any friggin' customers anyways, so don't sweat it. Come downstairs around eleven and we'll find something for you to do."
"Works for me."
Chuck turned to leave. "Okay, Bruce, see you tomorrow. You better not fuckin' rob me, you hear?"
"Hell no. You've done me a huge favor. Besides, I'm not that kind of guy."
Chuck raised his eyebrows. "I'm sure you've got a story, but I'm cool not knowing it if you're cool not asking me any questions, capeesh?"
Man. He had really lucked out with this dude. "Capeesh," Spike replied.
Chuck grinned and left the room, closing the wooden door with a slam. Spike threw the window open to let some ocean air into the room, then collapsed onto the sagging mattress and pulled the scratchy woolen blanket over his exhausted body.
He estimated that only about three hours had passed since leaving Mateo's place, but every cell in his body felt utterly fatigued. Sleep threatened to overtake him almost immediately, eyes growing heavy as he lay under the blanket, fully dressed but shivering a little.
As he drowsed, several ideas chased themselves around his brain, nipping at the others' heels. First of all: how quickly could he find the Bebop? Was it safe for him to be out and about in the city? What had become of the Red Dragons? Were they hunting for him? More importantly, would they go after Jet and Faye too?
His thoughts turned to Julia, but it was too painful to dwell on the memory of her pale face, the warmth leaving her body on the desolate rooftop, her golden hair soaking up the frigid rain. Spike knew he would have to think about it at some point, but he pushed it away for now. She was dead, and there was nothing he could do for her anymore.
But Jet and Faye were alive. Hopefully, at least. Spike wondered if they even wanted him back. He couldn't help but feel that if he had really been out for a month, like Mateo had said, that they would have found him by now.
What if they were happier with him gone?
Spike gradually drifted into an uneasy slumber, pale afternoon light casting shadows on his thin face.
Every day became the same routine, over and over and over. Spike would wake up late, around eleven, and lie on the mattress smoking and deliberating whether it was time to head towards the Bebop. And every day he chickened out. Nobody from the syndicate had come knocking, but he couldn't be sure that someone wouldn't start following him the minute he struck out for the Bebop. If he led the syndicate thugs straight to Jet and Faye, he could never forgive himself.
Spike would saunter downstairs to the cafe sometime around noon, where Chuck would be watching boxing matches on the television and swabbing out mugs with a worn out rag. They rarely had customers, but when someone wandered in every once in a while Chuck would make espressos for everyone and Spike would do the dishes.
Chuck's cooking was admittedly quite a bit better than Jet's had been, and Spike's skeletal frame began to look healthier on a steady diet of Chuck's grilled cheese sandwiches and greasy curries. The two men usually ate in silence, and Chuck didn't care to socialize much, always leaving the minute the clock hit five. Spike didn't mind, as he wasn't in the mood to reveal any personal information, but he had to admit that he was getting pretty starved for conversation. Chuck was a nice enough guy, but as far as friends went, he was a poor substitute for Jet.
Every so often Chuck would sell a customer a little baggie of something powdered out of his apron pocket. Spike knew better than to ask. Whatever Chuck was dealing, Spike figured it wasn't any of his business. For the most part the customers looked like run-of-the-mill junkies, and who was he to judge Chuck for making an extra buck here and there? Spike didn't recognize any of the buyers as syndicate guys, but every time they came into the cafe Spike would retreat upstairs for a while.
"You're kind of a nervous guy, ain't ya, Bruce?" Chuck asked him one day as Spike stood washing a filthy pan at the sink.
"I don't know about that," Spike replied, squeezing the last dregs of dish soap into the caked-on sludge. "Just trying to mind my own business."
"I always see you looking over your shoulder like something's sneakin' up on your ass," Chuck said. He pulled one of his tiny baggies out of his apron pocket and held it up to the light, frowning. "You get into some trouble in the past? Someone looking for you?"
Spike sighed. "Nah, I'm a pretty boring guy. What about you?"
Chuck smirked. "You know me, Bruce, just trying to make an honest living here." He dipped his finger into the baggie and licked powder off of it, pulling a hideous face. "Hey, that's some good shit! You want some, Mr. Boring Bruce?"
Spike did not. "No thanks. All you, buddy."
"Egh, you're a buzzkill. Well, can you close up tonight? See you tomorrow," Chuck replied, grabbing his coat and leaving even though it was only two in the afternoon.
Months passed. Every night he lay awake, tossing and turning and arguing with himself about whether it was safe to look for Jet and Faye. Julia's frozen eyes flashed across his mind every time he tried to sleep. He assumed she would haunt him like this forever, which seemed a fair price to pay for how much he'd fucked her life up.
And yet try as he might, he couldn't stop thinking about Faye. All he wanted was to see her. As he went through his mindless days, he pictured her sitting on the Bebop's couch in her little bathrobe, smoking, painting her nails, and playing cards with Jet. Hell, he even missed fighting with her. To help himself fall asleep, Spike replayed the times he had woken up bandaged on the Bebop with Faye hovering near him, humming tunelessly, gently stroking his face with those cool fingers while she thought he was still sleeping. He longed for her touch.
Every night he decided that tomorrow would be the day he struck out and found his shipmates. But every morning he lost his resolve all over again at the thought of inadvertently placing them in danger. Spike knew Jet could fend for himself, but if anything happened to Faye, he wouldn't have any reason to continue this strange new life he'd stumbled into.
Spike spent so much time worrying about how he would plan his grand return, but, of course, life rarely works that way. It happened one day after he had been working at the cafe for about six months (although he felt that "working" was perhaps too strong of a term to describe his negligible duties).
Chuck had sent him on an errand to buy more coffee filters one evening. Dark thunderheads brooded in the wild Martian skies, and Spike walked swiftly to the corner store, trying to beat the rain. Chuck rarely sent him on errands like this, and Spike always finished them as quickly as he could. His body felt good and strong again as he walked, and only a few ragged white scars remained on his torso.
Spike bought the filters at the corner bodega and exchanged a few pleasantries with the cashier, a sweet older woman named Lulu. With a pang, he thought of Annie as he walked back in the humid evening air, stowing the filters in the pocket of his windbreaker. He turned the corner, and then all of a sudden Faye was right down the street from him. She was walking quickly and glancing around nervously.
Spike froze, heart thumping wildly. She hadn't noticed him yet, and he couldn't let her see him. Not like this. He had to stick to the plan. They weren't safe here, and he didn't know or if he was being followed, or if a syndicate goon was about to leap out from the shadows and shoot them both. Adrenaline coursed through his veins and he ducked behind a building as Faye walked closer. She stopped suddenly and pulled out her Glock, holding it steadily in front of her.
"Whoever's following me, I know you're there, so we might as well get this over with," she said, her voice trembling slightly. His stomach leapt at the sound of her familiar voice. She looked so much more delicate than he remembered.
A teenaged waiter poked his head out of a Chinese restaurant down the street and said something to Faye that Spike didn't catch. As quietly as he could, he retreated down the alley and set off on a random street in the opposite direction.
Spike turned down another alley and walked for another few minutes until he looked up and found himself staring directly at Faye. Stupidly, he ducked behind a car, thinking in vain that perhaps she had not really seen him. She was about five hundred feet down the street, but he felt the electricity as their eyes locked. Faye's mouth fell open with shock and she called something to him, but he didn't hear.
Without thinking, Spike turned and walked briskly in the opposite direction until he reached Chuck's front door. The clouds had finally given way and the rain pelted him angrily as he walked. His mind had gone completely blank. He took the stairs in twos, and once he reached his bedroom he collapsed on his mattress, soaking wet and panting.
Shit. This was not the way it was supposed to happen, him skulking in the shadows and running away like a frightened rabbit. He needed a way to tell her that it wasn't safe for her to be in public with him. What the hell was he going to do?
Julia's cold face swam into view again, clouding his vision and filling his mind with her dying words, his pulse rushing in his ears as he screwed up his eyes and tried to block out the memories.
That could be Faye, whispered a voice in his panicked mind, that could be her next...
Spike grasped a handful of his damp hair and exhaled violently, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with shaking hands.
He would ask Chuck to find a messenger to take a note to her, he decided. That would be the safest way to do it. First thing tomorrow, he'd find someone to send her a note, telling her where to meet him.
In spite of his blinding panic, small bursts of joy were rising in his chest like the bubbles in a glass of champagne. Seeing someone you loved after months of being surrounded by strangers was like a hit of the best drug imaginable.
It was Faye, alive and well, and although she looked much more fragile than he remembered, she was fine. Had she been out looking for him, or was it just a coincidence? Where was Jet? Was she going home to the Bebop tonight?
God, she was beautiful. His memory of her didn't do her justice. Her sharp face in the twilight, eyes burning and soft hair brushing her cheeks, slender long limbs, tense and elegant.
Tomorrow, if he could get a message to her, he might see her again. The thought flooded him with fear and excitement. What would he say to her? Would she be furious or just happy to see him?
"Faye," he said into the empty room, just to hear her name spoken aloud.
He lay in the darkness, listening to the rain tap against the roof. Tomorrow he might see Faye again. He repeated it to himself like a mantra, smoking cigarette after cigarette until the tips of his fingers were stained with nicotine.