Session 9

Jet stared at the screen on the bridge. All clear. Nothing but clear hyperspace in front or behind them. With a sigh, he leaned back. The plan had gone off without a hitch, but still—if someone discovered the forged record, things could get hot in the Bebop's wake with the majority of a month to go before they would land on Ganymede. The voices carrying in from the other room rankled him. Spike hadn't even been reliably conscious for twenty-four hours yet and already they were bickering.

Claws scrapping against the floor caught his attention. Ein darted up and grabbed a mouthful of his pant leg, pulling.

"Ein! Let go! What the hell is it?"

The corgi wouldn't release the fabric, he kept frantically tugging away. Jet took a step. Silence … the room was quiet. Too quiet. He darted into the living room startled by the empty couch. Faye knelt down beside the table, her hand covering her mouth.

"Spike? You idiot! You didn't get up … " Jet stomped down the stairs to the sound of a sharp inhale. Between the table and the couch he discovered Spike wedged on his left side raised up on an elbow. Each breath a tight wheeze. "Faye—what happened?"

"I was just … I didn't think he would … it was a joke … "

Jet scowled at her. "It wasn't funny. Spike, can you get up?"

" … no … " he shuddered. "I can't … move. Landed on something … I was trying … to protect … "

Panic seized Jet, he pushed Faye out of the way. "Spike! You're bleeding!"

"Don't worry … " He panted, his white shirt wicked a pinkish fluid. "It's not fresh … " His hand pumped into a loose fist.

Despite the strangled cry from Spike, Jet eased him off his side and pulled the shirt up. His hand jerked back. Framed in countless blackened bruises, a deep electrical burn traced and distorted the outline of a broad nerve cluster wrapping around Spike's side. Underneath the series of now weeping blisters, the pucker of the katana strike Jet had seen in the photo stretched with the swelling. "That's a third degree burn!"

"Multiple." Spike corrected with a grimace. "A few of the guards … one in particular … were perceptive enough to pick up on … that my left side was vulnerable, tender from the scar. Sadists, the whole lot of them! Gah!" His words cut off in a hiss. "I'd managed to keep the latest batch of blisters from breaking open," he glared at tongue-tied Faye who couldn't meet his eyes, " … until this!"

"Spike, that needs attention."

"Does now," he grumbled.

"They only aimed for there? That's brutal."

Spike shook his head. "Oh no … that's not all of them." He edged a hand along his leg, bringing the knee up so he could reach his ankle. Catching the cuff he eased it up and revealed a long blistered welt up his calf, just as deep.

Jet gasped. "I'd thought you were just weak … I didn't realize … you were actually limping."

Tugging the bandage loose with his teeth, he unwound it from his right hand and let the rag fall. Along with the layered ring of frost-bitten flesh around his wrist, a mass of blisters obliterated his palm. Spike stared somberly at it. "I had a choice … let that bastard's shock stick through for a strike across my chest … or grab it with both hands. Figured I stood a better chance of living through this."

Faye buried her eyes.

Jet bowed his head. How can the ISSP sanction this? "Faye. Get the burn salve and some bandages." Carefully he reached between the various wounds to help Spike back onto the couch. When he looked up, Faye still shuddered on the floor. "Faye! Are you deaf? Get going!"

With her head tucked, she dashed out the room.

"Let's take this off, I'll get a clean one once I finish." Gently easing Spike's shirt off so he could tend the injuries, Jet discovered many more burns and deep bruises in different colors all over, evidence that Spike had failed to escape more than one brutal thrashing. The outlines of fingers on his upper arms proved he'd been held, probably for the recent beating. "Partner, you should have told me."

Spike hissed as the angry flesh shifted. "You were already … worried." Lying on his right side now he coughed himself hoarse.

Hastily Faye returned with the salve and a lot of bandages. Without looking at her, Jet took the jar and uncapped it to her hasty retreat from the living room. Nothing to be said. Jet took a swipe of the pasty salve and touched it the edge of the weeping sores.

Spike recoiled with a cry. Moisture building in the corner of his left eye.

"Sorry … " Pulling his hand back, Jet swallowed the remaining words as a tear rolled down Spike's cheek. Never, in all the time they had spent together had he witnessed that. In their years as partners, despite the damage Spike took as the Bebop's front man, somehow a numbness had prevented it. That barrier … was now gone.

"You didn't do this." Panting, Spike left his eyes closed. Every breath collapsed his chest, bruised muscle sliding over bone. "The ISSP did."

Jet leaned forward, trying to put as little pressure as possible on the wound. It did no good. Raw bits of skin shifted with the motion jolting Spike. "Did they beat you too?"

"The bruises?" He cracked an eye open, still tensing. "Not so much. That was the inmates. Some jerk had to spout out I was the bounty hunter who nabbed him." He shut it again and sighed. "Not that things had been good before that. But they got worse."

"Surprised you didn't just flatten someone. You know, show them not to screw with you, kid. A demonstration."

"Don't use that word!" He snarled with a vehemence that shocked Jet. The salve worked into a deep wound. Spike arced his head failing to bite back the wail. His wrist pressed against Jet's arm, the blistered palm remained open, fingers like claws. When he caught his breath, he shook his head. "Never picked a fight there. Not once. Just defended myself. The worst was that prick of a guard, Sergio. Real twisted bastard." Spike glanced at the scar. The color drained from his face as he grunted and laid his head back on his arm. "Barely needed an excuse to target me. And of course he's the dick who figured out where to hit and treated me like a damn pinata. Like to see his ass without that stick of his. See how brave he would be. Cowards like him soil themselves in the face of a real fight. Ahhh!"

Jet's hand braced Spike's shoulder. "This is the deepest of it. Hold on, this is going to hurt." As his fingers worked the salve in, the paste tinted pink. Every motion trigger a flinch. Spike's teeth gritted hard enough to squeal. Layers of previously healed blisters marred his skin. Jet recalled the temperature in the prison and pondered the thermal jumpsuit Spike had been wearing. Had he dared to open it to care for the blisters? Or just suffered through them blindly, hoping infection didn't set in? Hoping to distract him, Jet rumbled, "Stings like a son of a bitch, I know. I've nailed myself welding. Third degree burns more than once. You could say the Bebop bit me back for wounding her."

Clearly lanced by the pain, Spike's locked jaw couldn't answer. Jet fell silent, powerless to ease his partner's discomfort anymore than spending the next hour smearing dozens of blisters. Many burst, but a few still remained fluid pockets. Carefully dressing the wounds, he finished with the left hand. By then, Spike's flagging stamina had burned out. His dull eyes stared out into the space beyond Jet.

"Spike, you have to be honest with me, is there anything else?"

His gaze shifted and took a long moment to focus. With an exhausted sigh, he murmured, "No … that's the last shameful effect of that place."

Jet frowned. "The salve should take some of the edge off."

"I wish." Spike shut his eyes. "Damn it, Jet … why did I have to fall off the couch?"

"Because, you were being stubborn. Now, go to sleep. In eight hours I'll have to change those bandages."

Grumbling, Spike pulled the blanket up. "Sick of all this shit. Is it too much to ask just feel human again?"


Something brushed against Spike's arm. Wearily, he opened his eyes. It took too long for the blurry image to even begin to focus, annoying him further. Shit he was beyond drained. By now, whoever it was, held his left limp forearm repeatedly blotting something soft against the skin.

Jet? Had it been eight hours again already? It didn't feel like it. And the hands were far too soft to be his. The fingers too fine … with … nails? He brought his right hand up and rubbed hard at his eyes, clearing them. When at last he opened them again, he blinked in surprise.

Faye? He saw, and yet he couldn't believe his own eyes. She knelt by the couch holding his arm out and dabbing a pad with some beigey powdery stuff over the black bars of the tattoo. He drew in a shallow breath and muttered, "In case you didn't notice, I am trying to sleep here."

"That's all you've been doing for the last two days." She replied firmly, pressing the pad into a flat container only to smear more of the substance over his tattoo.

"Well … that's cause I'm still quite ill on top of trying to heal, for shit's sake. Seriously, even I'm forced to admit I'm kinda thrashed here."

Undeterred, she kept blotting the lines. Her brow furrowed as she ground it harder into the pores. "Damn, your skin tone is a bitch to match. I'm not sure I have the right foundation."

Spike quirked an eyebrow. "Foundation?" Turning his arm a bit in her grasp, he observed the darker blotchy cover-up. "Are you putting makeup on me?"

Without missing a beat she replied, "Yes."

"Uhh … but I'm a guy."

"Well, guys can wear makeup, too."

Spike half-hooded his eyes, gritting his teeth. "Not this guy."

She flushed, it was brief but he caught it. That single moment stopped him from pulling his arm out of her hold. "You can't go around with these on display, Spike."

Was she honestly concerned? He concealed his surprise with a roll of his eyes. "Faye, I'm not even on my feet yet and everyone on the ship knows what happened. What's the big deal?"

Flustered, she glanced away. "They bother me! Alright?"

"Gee, sorry to be an eyesore."

"Well … even if people don't precisely know what the tattoos mean, these will draw attention. You know, raise questions."

He peered at the spongy blotches on his arm several shades darker then his skin. "They're sure to ask questions about the funny patch of … what color is that?"

"Honey Buff. Oh, but it's too dark on you. Hold on. I'm not done yet. We need better blending, maybe some powder … " She turned and started to dig through a elaborate kit on the table.

Spike sighed. "You grab any of that eye crap and I don't care how much it hurts me, I'm gonna lay your ass out on the floor!

"Waste good mascara on your non-existent lashes?" She held up a container with a curved brush. "Not on your life! Same goes for eyeliner. Although, come to think of it, a bit of midnight blue gradient would bring out your eyes. A touch of green to tie into your hair color … "

"Whuh?" He stiffened. "I like my eyes as they are."

Ein padded up and cocked his head. His tongue hanging out over the badly sponged over tattoo lines. A string of drool dripped down and landed on Spike's arm. As it rolled down the contours the drop pulled the makeup with it. Now the solid black bars peeked out of a clean stripe. The moment Spike pulled back and rubbed his arm against his shirt by accident the makeup smeared on it.

"Great! Now I got this shit all over me." Spike smirked. "Oh sure, this is really going to work. I can just imagine the stunned looks as people ask me why my skin is dyeing my shirt."

Faye turned back, uncapping a container with a big puff in it. "Stop being a baby. I'm not done yet."

Spike was about to reply when a coughing fit stole his words. Once he could breathe again his flesh had paled a few shades, even harder to match. He grumbled, tugging on the blanket. "Just let me go back to sleep."

With her hand on her hip, she scowled. "Do you want to get picked up and hauled back in?"

"That takes being somewhere other than on this ship out in the middle of no-where. There's plenty of time to figure this out. Time when I'm not seriously just trying to breathe without choking." He stared up at the ceiling fan, watching the lazy turns and wishing he didn't hear each one of his wheezy breaths. When the silence stretched on too long he caught her stern gaze and sighed. "No shit I don't want to go back there. Once was enough. But I'm telling you, smearing that crap on me isn't gonna stick long enough if a bit of dog drool takes it off. I'll think of something when the time comes."

She folded her arms across her chest with a fire in her eyes about to lay into him. A dog nose edged over the container on the table. A moment later, Ein grabbed the handle of the puff and padded backwards. He shook his head and the air exploded with white powder.

"Ein!" Faye screeched and darted down to catch him.

The corgi play-growled and danced off, climbing the stairs with a contrail of fine powder showering the deck.

Left on the couch, Spike couldn't suppress the laughter. Of course, that irritated his lungs and soon he succumbed to coughing in-between bouts of laughter. Faye's furious taunts at the little dog echoed through the ship. "Ein! Get back here you little mongrel!"


See you, Space Cowboy