Turning Blues to Black
by Now With More Fiber

Chapter 2: A Ghost of Comfort

Zzzzzip.
The heavy tape peeled off the roll. Six inches; nine inches; twelve. Spike severed it with a small pocketknife, and wrapped one end around the stem of the pinwheel.
Zzzzzip.
Overhead, the evening stars began to peek out from behind a curtain of high cirrus clouds. Orion, Taurus...all the unfamiliar constellations of Earth. The sky in the west blazed a furious bloody red.
He placed another strip of tape down the length of the pinwheel, attaching it to the point on the prow of the Bebop.
Zzzzzip.
A chilly evening wind stirred his unruly dark green hair. He paused and looked towards the distant horizon. How did that song go, 'fare thee well', something something...?
Zzzzzip.
The pinwheel stood proud and straight, like a child playing a soldier. Another breeze pushed it gently through a single rotation. He took a cigarette from his coat pocket and lit it, taking a long drag. With a whimsical smile, he blew the warm smoke into the pinwheel, sending it spinning again.
I wish I could remember that dumb song...

*****

Jet slid awkwardly down and out of the Hammerhead's monopod hatch. He knew she'd seen his ship turn and land; he knew she heard him getting out and landing roughly on the ground, but she made no movement to acknowledge his presence.
He began to walk forward, the crunch of the dirt and gravel beneath his heavy boots scraping the silent air.
Faye lay on her side about thirty feet away, her back to him. As he stepped closer, his long shadow crept near her form. The shadow touched her hip. His footsteps slowed. He could see her shoulders rise and fall as she breathed.
He took another step forward, and the dark arm of his shadow encircled her waist.

"You landed on top of the plum trees," she said. After a pause: "I think you took out a rosebush, too."
His brow furrowed in confusion. Plum trees...?
Then he noticed the shapes carefully etched in the dirt. Then he noticed the dirty stick lying beside her body. Then he noticed that he was standing with his feet touching the remnants of a wall. His mouth felt dry.

"You... you got your memory back," he stated. "Was... this was your house?"

She lay still. He wanted to see her face. He dreaded seeing her face.
"Faye." He stepped towards her.

"Don't bother," she mumbled, her voice cloudy. "There's nothing left to do."

The pit of his stomach grew cold and heavy. "Then," he began, "you should come back."

*****

Faye blinked and bit her lower lip. Before her on the dusty ground, she saw the vague, ghostlike form of his shadow, fading quickly as the sun slipped below the horizon.
"I didn't take any money this time, you know," she tested.

Jet's breath caught; his jaw tightened. "I know."

The wind swept over the crest of the hill, stirring dust into circles, lifting bits of Faye's deep black hair from her jaw. She swallowed silently, gazing firmly ahead. There... there was a birthday party, and there was a bathtub, and there I skinned my knee, and there was a room filled with the scent of coffee, and now here... here behind me is a man who says "come back".

*****

Jet took a deep breath, waiting for the hanging tension to evaporate.
"Where's Edward?"

"Back on the ship, I suppose." Faye didn't move.

"She's gone."

"Then... then she's gone to find where she belongs, I imagine. She's gone to find her father."

Her father... Those words stung more than he'd like to admit.

The wind blew past again, stronger and colder this time, shifting the hem of Jet's heavy canvas coat. Faye's shoulders shuddered with the chill, and she curled into a loose fetal position.
The sun vanished, and with it the stark shadows that had dotted the ground. Faye no longer stood out from the earth in sharp relief; in fact, she appeared quite dark and small. Dreamlike. The world was tinted lavender-grey.
Jet frowned at the taste of dust in his mouth, and tilted his head back to look at the rapidly multiplying stars overhead. The now-constant breeze was sharp and astringent against his face.
He heard the slight shuffle of Faye's body shifting against the ground. When he looked down again, she was sitting upright, with her knees at her chest and her hands joined in front of her shins. Her eyes focused on some indeterminate point before her feet. She shivered again, and rubbed her arms together.

Jet sighed softly, and slid one arm, then the other, out of his coat. Taking the corduroy collar in both his hands, he bent and draped the coat over Faye's bare shoulders.
She turned her face towards him, her wide emerald eyes at once penetrating and terrifyingly unguarded. He froze. A lifetime of memories, an alien and newfound completeness, confusion... swirling in pools of deep green... her eyes were so lost. Sympathy swelled within his chest, desperate to spill forth.

The last thing she wants is your pity. Haven't you learned anything?

He stood back upright, looking down at Faye's fair, luminous face.
"Well," he breathed, "the choice is yours."

*****

Faye inhaled sharply as Jet turned away and began to walk back to the Hammerhead. Scrambling to her feet, she watched the his silhouette retreat, her mouth working soundlessly, groping frantically for words. At last she shouted: "Jet."

He stopped and turned to face her again.

Faye drew his coat closer around her shoulders. It engulfed her, hanging past her knees, draping heavily across her slender frame. The fabric was still warm from his body, and his scent surrounded her. She took one step, then another, towards him, moving slowly as if testing the depth of unexplored water.
She stopped directly before him, her face flushed. "I..." she began, then met his eyes. The pale, icy blue arrested her voice, and the two regarded each other for a silent moment, without masks; without barriers.

Averting her eyes under the crushing weight of his empathy, she whispered, "...thank you."
A strange sensation overtook her, as if she were choking on gratitude. No, more than gratitude; some new force welled up in her throat, spreading through her body. Without her control, her legs moved, stretching forwards and upwards, the motion of a bird about to take flight. The motion became a gesture.
She leaned against him, leaned into him: placing her right hand lightly on his shoulder for balance, softly, carefully, she placed her lips against his left cheek.
She let them linger there for perhaps a second; then descended to the ground again, her face aflame with the risk she'd taken. Now, hiding: she retreated into the depths of his coat to await the fallout.

When she looked up again, his back was to her; he was halfway back to his ship.
"You'll know... where to find us," he said, in a bass voice like warm amber.

She swallowed once and nodded, watching him go. Why can't I feel sad? I'm being left behind again. Why don't I panic?

Because this is the man who said, "come back".

*****

Reclining on the deck of the Bebop, Spike watched as the last rays of light died in the dark sky. Blue-grey smoke from his cigarette spun and wound around itself as it drifted upward and dissipated into the night. In the distance, he saw the Hammerhead's lights growing nearer. Hopping to his feet, he ground the butt of the spend cigarette under his heel and strode back indoors, whistling a soft, sad tune.

Fare thee well, my bright star, it was a brief brilliant miracle dive
That which I looked up to and I clung to for dear life
Had to burn itself up just to make itself alive
I caught you in your moment of glory, your last dramatic scene against a night sky stage
With a memory so clear it's as if you're still before me
So fare thee well, my bright star
This strange season of pain will come to pass
When the healing hands of autumn cool me down...

To be continued in Chapter 3