Session 40

The vibrant red polish spread across her nail in smooth passes. Not that Faye had anywhere in particular to go, however one never knew. And besides appearances were important. She fanned her nails, blowing on them to dry it faster. Jet would be back later after a grocery run. That left her on lunkhead duty.

She shifted her eyes up to watch Spike in the midst of a rather low key workout mostly involving balance. Over the last week he'd gotten a bit more stable on his feet by sessions, sinking into the routines several times a day. She had to admit he was showing reserve in not pushing too hard. Though the occasional wince revealed that something was clearly informing him of his limitations.

Still, it was better when he was working out. Between the routines he was an ornery bastard, more surly than usual. Restless and frayed, but not enough stamina to accomplish much of anything. If he was careful he'd managed to navigate stairs, when no one was looking … which was how he'd gotten stuck on the bridge. Of course he'd fibbed about that, the getting stuck part.

Lunkhead. Faye rolled her eyes. As if we've ever had an issue with helping his ass out when he gets in a fix. There's no shame in needing a hand once in a while. Unless you're Spike.

He stretched his arms out, the right one still markedly thinner than the left. Slowly he bent downward, folding in half. Suddenly he yelped and vanished behind the couch.

"Oh shit!" She raced around it to find him with an arm across his stomach, rocking and hissing. "You ok?"

Through clenched teeth he snarled. "Just moved wrong."

"Yeah, you still have to be careful. The stitches might be all out but—"

Yanking his shirt up he glared at the gnarled inverted V of a scar. He shook as he stared at it, not from discomfort, but anger burned in his eyes. "I can't take this crap anymore. I need this gone—now!"

She slowly shook her head. "No Spike, not right now." For one they didn't have the cash for a scar removal. For another, she doubted he would even tolerate another procedure right now, shredded as he was.

He clawed at his side, away from the scar. "Yes now! I can't keep being reminded about this shit. I can't bear it!"

That was odd, he wasn't usually so tetchy about healing. Reaching out slowly, she laid a hand on his belly, careful to be between the two lines of tender flesh. His eyes stared heatedly at the contact. "We talked about this. Not until after you learn better coping mechanisms. That will be your reward."

"Fuckin' therapy." His fist trembled. "You and your damn dangling carrots! This is bullshit!"

"This scar isn't a punishment, it's a reminder about why you can't just sink back into the bottle."

Glaring at her he gripped her hand and tossed it away from him. "And I told you and Jet, I'm an adult! I can make my own damn decisions."

Hands on her hips she returned the glare down at him. "See? That's the reason you need that damn scar to remind you, lunkhead! Look what you did to yourself last time! It only cost you a liver. Next time you might not make it back in anything close to one functioning piece."

"I need to be able to move again without this feeling like I'm getting punched in the gut! Without it dredging thing up … reminding me—"

"Maybe you should have thought about that every year you drank yourself into oblivion!"

Spike pushed himself to his feet with a good deal of effort. Usually he would have leapt up, but she watched his muscles engage and release timed with his wincing before the shirt flopped down to conceal it, the discomfort was obvious. Apparently it really still hurt. Yes, the scar removal would sort out the aches and pains, but right now as she watched him wobbling and yet trying to argue she knew—he needed this limitation. This was not a step that could be skipped.

Faye tapped her foot on the floor as he still fought to catch his breath. "Drop it. There's not a chance you're getting us to change our minds. The price for us to agree to that procedure is you dealing with your emotionally constipated shit. So, do you wanna talk?"

His hand supported him against the couch as he curled a lip up before pushing off and turning from her with a curse. Flopping down on the couch he stewed in his temper, twitching every now and again.

Sitting in the chair, Faye leaned back and eyed him. "It's your timeline, but the longer you wait, the longer that little scar troubles you. Your choice is inflicting your own pain."

In response, Spike rolled onto his other side facing the back of the couch in a firm cold shoulder.

"Men are such babies," she remarked to herself.

Recovery, a long series of grinding routines. Ground he had covered before, time and time again when plans went periodically south. Step by step, motion by motion. No one seemed to quite grasp that, nor the importance. At least at the moment Faye wasn't on his ass like she had been a few days ago. Since their bitter argument he hadn't spoken with her more than three words at a time. He largely ignored her remarks, not interested in spending critical energy.

Besides, it was hard enough just to function, between the perpetual ache of this godawful scar and a nagging headache that just didn't want to go away no matter how much he slept. That was his only relief—sleep. But he'd never regain his strength if he remained horizontal all the time.

Nothing kept him from going through the motions. Fitness was important. The unprepared didn't have the ability to fight back when it counted. One never knew when it would count. Weakness could not be permitted to exist. Spike's heartbeat pounded in his chest, it shouldn't have been—but it was. He wasn't even working that hard. The current routine comprised solely of gentle stretches.

What was that?

His eyes darted to the corner of the room. A cold sweat dripped down his brow.

Easy Spike, you're in the living room of the ship, where you've been all along—well, since crawling out of your room. Everything is fine. Take it easy, back to the routine.

Stretching his arms wide he exhaled—his breath hitched.

What the fuck was that?

Motion demanded his attention, he stared off to the other side. Blinking hard, he shook his head. Maybe it had been Ein. Ed sat on the other side of the couch stooped over her computer with headphones on, playing a computer game.

Sure … that has to be it. Just the damn dog.

He exhaled slowly and went into the next move.

Everything is—FUCK!

Spike scrambled backward, barely dodging a fist. The snarling man advanced, Keith—the Bloody Eye chemist he'd completed the hit on to fake his death with the Red Dragons all those years ago!

What is he doing here!

Closing in on him, Keith snarled, "It's all your fault!"

Staggering away, Spike collided with something soft. It pushed him toward Keith. He struck the chemist with a jaw-cracking fist and sent him to the ground. Turning he discovered Mao fixing him with a hostile glare. The twisting of his trunk aggravated the scar, flaring a blinding light blocking out his vision in a wave.

"I took you in, I raised you from the wreck you were. And how did you repay me? You deserted your post. Ungrateful cur!"

As Spike stuttered unable to get anything intelligible out as he grasped his head against the intensifying pain, Kade emerged from the shadows. "Murderer! You didn't deserve to take my place."

Spike lashed out, kicking at the teenage boy and sending him flying back into the shadow mists that gradually obscuring the living room. Out of the growing darkness they closed in on him. Countless in number, unlike before where there had only been one or two lingering at a distance—now they came in groups. Their names and grizzly fates welling like a growing tide threatening to pull him under. Dozens upon dozens in an army of the … deceased!

Floundering, he lashed out. The more he struck and drove away, the more came at him, closing in at a frantic pace, calling for his blood in retribution. Why was this happening now? It only happened once a year! Once a year! On the anniversary of his 'death' … a bottle, he needed to drink himself into oblivion. Now—quickly before—

His eyes flashed wide, in the center of the crowd after he knocked Shin away, stood Julia. Blame smoldered in her eyes as she leveled a gun at his heart. "You wanted to stay. You wanted to face him. If we had run that day I wouldn't have taken a shot to my back."

Only a guttural animalistic cry escaped Spike as he caught the shimmer of dark red blood dripping down the front of her shirt, a hole where it had exited her chest. His hands pumped between fists and claws. That long ago moment was lost … and his heart ached as he knew, even knowing what he knew now, that he wouldn't have done differently. The Red Dragons had to go down and it had to be at Spike's hands. The syndicate at the grip of Vicious … the destruction would have been catastrophic.

Shing …

The blade gleamed against the shadows as Vicious emerged. His feverish eyes fixed on Spike as he stalked forward. The dark frown edged up to a sadistic grin. "Catastrophic? Oh, the irony to apply such a word to me after what you did! Traitor."

Spike's blood boiled, his teeth ground until they squealed. The knuckles flared on his fist as he sank down into a crouch. Too long this shadow had haunted him. It was time to put an end to it. In a flat out run, he charged his once partner, fist pulled back as far as it would go. His throat burned from the scream tearing loose.

On the bridge Jet took the screwdriver from the Tŭ, the yellow marked compy who tended to hang around him. At least it was a calmer member of the Six Pack. Docked as they were it made sense to do some maintenance on the old Bebop. The whole reason he'd taken the panel off the navigation console and discovered the loose wire.

"See? One little screw being loose and the whole thing gets a bit fritzy. But don't you worry, Tŭ. This is an easy fix. We just tuck the wire, and give it a little turn. There, all done."

Paws scrambled up the steps. The moment Ein cleared the flight, even airborne, he barked furiously, eyes so wide the whites showed. Jet dropped the screwdriver and vaulted over the corgi, tearing down the steps. Please, let the moron have simply fallen. Shit shit shit!

To the echo of his boots stomping halfway down the staircase Jet's heart slammed into his stomach at the sight. The light shown up from behind the couch, wisps of Ed's hair bobbed along as she sat in front of her computer. Wild-eyed and worked into a frenzy, Spike lashed out as if besieged. Spittle flew from his open mouth as he thrashed against … nothing. Not a damn thing.

This wasn't a routine. Jet knew what those looked like. Controlled moves, set in sequences designed to work different aspects. This—there was no control to his movements. Desperation blazed in his panicked eyes. Jet inhaled, preparing to call his name, try to distract him, pull him out of the strange spell that had been growing alarmingly in intensity and duration … when a screaming Spike drove in a blind run toward the couch, leaping into the air with his fist drawn back.

Dear God—NO! Jet's hand darted into his pocket and pulled out the hefty weight that had ridden there since Spike came home. He stared down the sight of the Jericho and swallowed. Without hesitation, his finger pumped the trigger hard.

BANG!

The shot flew true pegging Spike. In mid takeoff his foot slipped, he pitched forward in an awkward tumble landing on his chest over the back of the couch like a rag doll, fists falling open and limp. Behind the couch Ed remained blissfully unaware of the fist that came inches from striking her.

Jet huffed a few breaths, still staring down the sight of the gun. I'm sorry, I didn't want to have to do that to you. But you gave me no choice, pard.

A scream tore Jet out of the trance. Faye covered her mouth, standing in the far hall. "You shot Spike!" Her eyes trembled as they fixed on the gun.

He lowered it, shaking his head. "It's just a tranq."

Her hand shuddered as she pointed. "What the hell … where did you get it?"

"Damian gave it to me, just in case." He sighed. "Good thing he did." He flicked his gaze to the still oblivious Ed humming along. She's safe. Crisis averted.

"Wait a minute, how did a traq get into Spike's gun?"

Tucking it back into his pocket he walked over to Spike and plucked the dart out of the back of his neck. "I loaded it in there so it would be ready. His gun made more sense, that way it wasn't in my own gun. Been carrying it around this whole time."

Her eyes widened. "This whole damn time? You mean you knew this was going to happen?"

"Damian hoped he'd been wrong. So had I. But the twitches betrayed the downward spiral. It was a battle we'd never win. Not without … intervention." Bending down Jet hoisted the unconscious Spike over his shoulder, he hung there completely limp. "Which means it's time for the unfortunate necessity of plan B."

She swallowed and took a step closer as Jet turned for the door to the hanger. "I'm afraid to ask … what is plan B?"

Tromping up the stairs, not even looking back he heaved a sigh. "Follow me if you want to find out."

Spike's weight rested uncomfortably over Jet's shoulder as he stood in the shadow of a large building. The clack of Faye's shoes echoed outside the entrance as she came up beside him, catching up after landing the Red Tail. One eyebrow raised. "Jet … this isn't the hospital."

He pressed the com beside the locked entrance door. "Didn't say we were going back there. Did I."

Leaning back she read the sign on building aloud. "Crystal Bay Asylum for the Criminally Insane. Why in the hell are we here?"

He held up a hand.

A moment later the com crackled with Damian's voice. "That was quick, seems like you'd just called me. Hold on, I have to buzz you in."

Slowly Faye threw Jet some serious shade. "The guy I've been working through some major shit with works in a loony bin?"

"That's not a term he appreciates. And he doesn't just work here, he runs the joint. He's also the best damn psychologist in the system." The door buzzed and Jet opened it. On the other side Damian stood swinging a badge on a lanyard, we waved a hand for them to follow. The door closed behind them with the sound of an electronic lock engaging. Wordlessly they walked through the winding white halls passing through several doors that only yielded to Damian's badge until at last he led them into an exam room with a heavy door. He pointed at the exam bed.

Jet rolled Spike off his shoulder and flopped him onto the bed. Spike's eyes remained closed, his breathing steady.

A thumb to his chin, Damian chewed on his lip as he studied Spike for a few minutes. "I am truly sorry it came to this. I know you wanted to avoid it. But, from what you've described this just catapulted beyond what you're capable of handling."

He heaved a long sigh running a hand over his head.

"Wait," Faye stepped further into the room, "Jet—you don't mean to leave Spike here!"

His head hung a bit further. "For the moment we don't have a choice."

"You can't do this! Spike belongs on the ship—not locked up in an asylum!"

Slashing the air with his hand he snapped, "Spike nearly struck Ed! Can you imagine what would have happened if he had?"

"He wouldn't have!" She shook her head, taking step closer. "Spike would never have … "

"Face it, you've seen what I have. The strange twitches, the muttering to himself while staring off into the distance, the fits aren't just when he's sleeping anymore. He's out of his damn mind right now!"

Damian held up a hand. "Hold up. Nothing is determined at the moment, except that he's losing control and becoming a dangerous handful. I need to run some scans to see what we're actually dealing with. That will take some time. Once I get a better idea of how far off the rails he's running I can see about some approaches for treatment. If I can help it, Spike won't become a permanent resident here. Just a short term one."

Coming closer to Faye, Jet put a hand on her shoulder forcing a softer tone. "Our fight isn't over. This isn't surrender. We need help. And we can't risk him hurting anyone."

"At my facility we have the necessary means to keep that from happening, as well as keeping him from hurting himself." Damian's eyes darted down. "Tsh."

Spike began to stir, his eyelids flickering.

Pulling out a needled syringe, Damian stabbed it into a vial and drew out a small amount before injecting it into Spike's arm. "Sorry, can't have you waking up just yet." In seconds Spike's stirring ceased.

Faye shuddered. "I … I don't like this. I don't like leaving him locked up."

He squeezed her shoulder. "Neither do I. But we can't sleep with one eye open. And then there's the other thing."

She met his weary gaze.

"I don't want to risk having to shoot him for real for the sake of another crew member. Can you imagine that? Can you imagine him being aware he had injured or even killed one of us? This is for his own good."

Lowering her gaze she hugged her elbows tight to her body.

Damian locked eyes with Jet. "I'll keep in touch. Give me a couple of days to look into what demon we're dealing with."

"Thanks buddy. I appreciate this," he took one last sorrowful glance at the prone Spike, "even though I hate what we're doing."

"I'll keep him safe from himself. We'll talk in a few days."

See You Space Cowboy