"Gold and Black" A/N: Well, darn it. Fic-Spike surprised me. I was going to move on to the third bounty arc—the one that closes out the whole shebang—and he decides he actually wants to DO something. There goes my tidy little outline. Watch this thing swell to mammoth proportions!

Every story I write has what I call "a seed sentence," one sentence that starts the whole thing. I was saving the seed sentence for KARMA for Karma, Part II (the final section), but it wanted to be here, so have fun finding it (it's fairly obvious, methinks).

KARMA: Gold and Black

"Could you help me with mine?"

The second the words are out of his mouth he wants them back. He can tend to his own damn wound. But they drift in the air between them, and Faye, looking up at him with that naked expression in her eyes, nods.

"Yeah. Let me change first, though."

"All right," Spike says.

As he waits for her, he takes off the blazer, the tie, the button-up shirt, throwing them into a little heap on the couch. Beneath the tingle of the medicine on his fingertips is the memory of Faye's skin. He almost kissed her, and he's more surprised by the fact that he didn't than the fact that he wanted to. Out of all the times he's felt the urge to kiss her—and this was far from the first—this was the one that felt right. He wonders if it was a transient moment or an enduring thing. The answer'll have to wait until she comes back.

He traces the sword cut, remembering for the first time without bitterness the means by which he'd come by it. Vicious' sword, biting in; the amazing, dizzying, unreal pain; the slippery, sticky feel of his guts. He'd stuffed his hand in the gaping hole to stumble back down to the first floor of the headquarters, holding his insides in. He remembers all that, but there's a lot he doesn't remember—like how he got back on the Bebop and whether Faye had to handle those entrails herself. He hopes, for her sake, she didn't.

There are things they don't say to each other. "Thank you." "I'm sorry." His fingers on her skin just now had been his first real apology to her, for not being there, for taking his temper out on her. For all the times he's done those things.

He hears her footsteps behind him and turns to face her. This is Faye, the shrew, the thorn in his side ever since she first set foot on the Bebop, the thief, the pain-in-the-ass and sometimes-friend who wavers like candle flame now, her face changing expressions too fast to read. Watching her, he feels a mix of emotions so tangled and intense it's almost pain, and he can't begin to parse them all out. All he knows is, they're there, and they've been there for awhile. Exactly how long is something he'll have to work out later.

"Hey," he says. It's stupid, but he can't think of anything else. He picks up the balm and hands it to her.

Her eyes are enormous, the pupils bottomless and dilated in the middle of all that vivid green. She hasn't washed the makeup off—she can't, he realizes, without washing the medicine off, too. It shines on her cheekbone. The swelling is already less.

She swallows and dips her fingers in the balm. He lifts his arm to stretch the scar so she can reach all of it. It extends from near his navel up to his ribs and around to his side: a deep, savage wound befitting Vicious' last act. When she touches it, it's as though she's trying to erase it.

He twitches. She feels it, pauses, looks up at him quizzically. "Don't worry about hurting me," he says.

"It's not that," she says. And then she puts her other hand on his waist, holding him still as she applies the salve. Her fingers flex on the muscles of his lower back. Her breath quickens; she looks up into his eyes—a brief, flickering contact. Whatever she sees there makes her look away.

Spike exhales slowly through his nose, a breath that's almost a sigh. He gives up. Even if it's a mistake—and he's ninety percent certain it is—there's only so much self-control in the world, and he's already used all his up. He moves closer to her. Now their bodies are separated by the thinnest sliver of space and air. He feels her warmth, the rhythm of her quickened breath. He thinks he feels her pulse vibrating between them, though it may be his own.

There have been other women since Julia—quick things, one-night stands. Nothing serious. Just bodies. This is different; the tension, anticipation, it's familiar and strange at the same time.

Julia and Faye, he realizes, have a strange karma: any man who loved one would love the other, even if it was just a minute or a day.

He tips her chin up with the tips of his fingers, and he knows they can stop this. All it would take is one sharp word, one sarcastic jibe, and the tension would transmute into yet another fight. Has anyone ever been gentle with Faye? He doesn't know. Has anyone ever been gentle with him? That's a good question, too.

"You look so serious," she says. Her voice is a papery whisper.

"I don't really know what I'm doing here," he admits. The corners of his lips quirk.

"Does anyone ever?"

That's a point. He dips his head and skims her lips with his, once, twice, again, waiting until she follows his movements, asking silently for more, before he kisses her.

She wraps her arms around his body, holding him without pressure. Afraid of hurting him. But her lips opens under his, and her tongue entwines with his, and she tastes like night clubs and street lamps. Her mouth is hot as coffee, and goes through him the same way, lighting him up, waking him as though from a long dream. Her nails dig into his back as he deepens the kiss. He feels dizzy, but he doesn't stop.

He moves his hands from the stiff bandage around her waist up her back. She's frail as china, ribs and spine; she arcs under the pressure of his palms, bringing her hard against him. Her breasts are soft against his chest, her belly pressed against his, and she doesn't pull away.

He's almost lost her a hundred times, and he's sick of it. This time he'll keep the woman and protect her for as long as it lasts. He doesn't bother asking himself how long that will be. This is the present, one of a series of moments like pearls on a string, and he won't waste time trying to count ahead of the one he holds in his palms now.

Her hair is soft and warm on his hand as he cradles the back of her head, supporting her against his force. She trembles, but so does he. She bites at his lip, demanding more, and he smiles against her mouth. Enthusiastic. And innocent. No one who's had many men would be as open as she is right now.

It would be a mistake to give in to her. He raises his head.

She makes a disappointed noise and slowly opens her eyes. He takes a deep breath, summoning some ghost of control, and loosens his hold on her.

"Greedy," he says.

"Yes," she agrees. "What's wrong?"

"Mostly the fact that Jet is out in the world and that's the door he'll be using to come back," Spike says, grinning and hooking a thumb at the living room entrance. "I don't know how you feel about it, but I'm not wild about the idea of him returning to a tangle of limbs on the couch."

Her fingers linger on his waist as she releases him and steps back. He gives her a second to collect herself, but he smiles as he watches her. Her mouth is red and swollen, her eyes shining, her hair mussed. She's confused and frustrated but also relieved, and she looks at him with arousal and wariness warring in her eyes.

"Come on," he says, holding out his hand to her. "I'll feed you."