Wonderful

By: Celtic Fang

Disclaimer: Oh yeah. I own Cowboy Bebop. Uh-huh. *Right*. And I'm also Duo Maxwell's girlfriend and Ranma Saotome's my cousin . . . Well, hopefully you get the gist of it. I don't own Bebop. I don't own anything. I'm broke I tell you! Broke! Oh the pain, the agony! Okay, I'm done. All that melodrama was giving me a headache ^^;

A/N: Well, here's the second chapter. Not much has changed in this one (thank God). I added a paragraph but that's pretty much it. Anyway, please R&R. I'll love you for it, I promise! LoL. J/K. ^.~



Chapter Two: Mad Catharsis



I want to stop thinking about him.

But I can't.

I shouldn't be staring at him.

But I do.

I'm so freaking pathetic I make myself sick.

But in a twisted way,

I like it.



Sleep. What was it about sleep that could comfort a person so? Why did sleep always seem like the best way out of a horrible situation? Someone optimistic could say it was because it was a way to escape to a happier place. A brighter land with sunshine and daisies and singing animals.

Someone cynical would say because it was a replacement for death. The only way to die without dying. A means of shutting off one's mind and fooling their bodies until they actually believed they were dead. And then they could breathe easy because they weren't going to wake up in the morning. Or so they convinced themselves.

But they did wake up. And they had to face another day, and when they looked in the mirror they had to face themselves as well. They had to face other humans when all they really wanted was to stay away from them. And they had to face their actions of the previous night, in whatever form they may have been.

Maybe they'd eaten some bad fish, or had consumed more than their share of straight vodka from a water bottle, or had had mind-blowing sex with someone and regretted it. Or the other person regretted it. Anyway you slice it, they still had to face the consequences, mentally, physically, or emotionally.

Which is probably why sleep is really so comforting. You can disappear to a faraway land, or you can die. But most importantly, you don't have to think about anything on a conscious level. You don't have to feel on a conscious level. And when you don't have to feel on a conscious level, you can't feel guilty. You can't feel emotional distress. And you can't cry.

And even when dreams of a forgotten past haunt you, or memories of the night before plague you, you can force them away. It's the one time that your subconscious and your conscious do an intricate dance and one can control the other. And when you begin to feel anything remotely upsetting, you can push it away and die again. Or visit the singing animals again.

And you don't ever have to feel anything.

Sleep was becoming a foreign word to Faye. She hadn't slept in over, oh, she wasn't quite sure, but at least forty-eight hours. And God was she feeling it. Maybe not so much physically, she knew she didn't need the sleep physically. But mentally? Yeah, she was feeling it all right.

Funny thing was, she didn't care anymore. Because the time when her mind would have told her to care wasn't coming. Those moments when her heart actually gave a fuck weren't happening, and the truth of the matter was, Faye could have been shot right through the heart then, and left to die a slow painful death, and she would have laughed.

'I'm a freaking lunatic.' She thought to herself as she took a long drag from her cigarette and then exhaled, the acrid smoke curling around her face.

Well, of course she was a lunatic. Was there ever any doubt? But then, it had never really been a proven fact. Not until just days ago when she had had 'meaningless sex' with the man of her proverbial dreams. Quotation marks around the word 'dreams' because Faye Valentine didn't dream. It was a waste of subconscious energy, in her opinion.

Yep, she was so lunatic it wasn't even funny anymore.

'Stupid idiot.' she thought to herself, taking another drag. 'You just had to do it didn't you? Fall in love with that puffy-haired, cruel, sadistic, masochist of a man. And you like it don't you? You like being in love with him. God, that whole masochism thing must be contagious.'

'And just what was that whole 'meaningless sex' thing about anyway?' She wondered, her mind drifting. Meaningless her ass. She knew enough to know when something had absolutely no point to it. And what had happened between her and Spike had definitely had a point. But try convincing Mr. Spike I'm-In-Love-With-A-Dead-Broad Spiegel of that.

Faye slouched even further on the stool she was seated on and snubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray next to her.

She couldn't believe it. She'd left the Bebop nearly three days before to get some rest and catch a bounty. And most importantly, to stop thinking about Spike. But she hadn't rested, there were no bounties, and couldn't stop thinking about him. Or remembering what had happened. And it was driving her insane. Hell, even smoking didn't have the same calming effect as usual. It just made her more wired and antsy.

"Hey babe, want a drink?"

Faye grimaced and then glanced up at the man behind her.

"No thanks." She said. "I don't drink."

And she didn't. Anymore. She'd learned that strange things happened when a person drank too much. Like opening yourself up to a man who was really a woman but not really because it was only a side-affect from some seriously screwed up medication. Or blacking out in the bathroom and then waking up with your head in the toilet. Okay, so that had been the mushrooms but the thing with Gren . . . well, that had been bad enough. She didn't want to find herself dead the next time she got drunk and started running off her huge mouth. So, she didn't drink.

Still, the guy didn't seem to want to take no for an answer.

"Come on baby." He said in an oily voice that matched the oily appearance of his black hair.

"No, really. I don't drink. Now leave me alone. Please." She added as an afterthought.

"Don't be such a stiff." He said. "I know that under those clothes you're hot and itchin' for some action. I can give you everything you need and more." He waggled his slicked eyebrows at her.

Faye's lip curled and she stood up, looking down her nose at the short guy. "I told you I don't want a drink. And I don't want your services either, you pervert. Now do me a favor, and go offer your pathetic self to a blind drag queen who'll actually have you."

She made her way out of the bar and into the night-light of Venus. She had just taken in a deep breath of the hot, desert air, when she heard several footsteps behind her.

She turned around and sighed. "Oh look." She muttered under her breath. "It's the grease-bag scumball who couldn't take a hint."

He glared at her. "Listen you bitch. You don't come waltzing into a bar dressed like that and then refuse a guy of what he wants."

"You think this is scantily clad?" She asked, fingering her spaghetti strapped tank top and tight black shorts. "You should have seen what I wore before I figured out I hate the color yellow."

He growled at her. "Shut up!" He yelled. "Now, you're going to be a good little slut and put out for me and then my friends." He said, indicating the leering ignoramuses behind him. "And you're going to do whatever we want you to."

Okay, so Faye could handle being leered at and harassed. She could even handle having her intense and deep thoughts interrupted by this peon minded fool. But what she could not, and would never, forgive, was being stereotyped as a slut. As easy. Because, as she'd heard in a song from the twentieth century somewhere, she wasn't anybody's ho.

She glared at the man before her and then crossed her arms over her chest.

"Listen, bitch." She said. "I'm giving you and your dogs to the count of three before I get beyond pissed off. If you haven't turned tail and run by then, I will not, I repeat, will not be held responsible for my actions. Now, did you understand that? Or do I need to find a way to say I'm gonna kick your ass in less syllables so you can understand."

Obviously they hadn't understood it because in the next second, one of the man's annoying friends had charged at her with a knife. He slashed. She dodged. He swiped. She ducked. And then in one smooth motion, she jumped up and brought her foot around to connect with the man's head. He went down. And he went down hard.

She smiled and brushed her hair out of her face. "Who's next?" She asked.

Within the next five minutes, Faye got the action she'd been craving. The catalyst needed to get rid of her pent up, Spike Spiegel anger. She kicked and punched like a fighting genius. It was something she could only do when she was so angry (or in other cases much different than this one scared) the mercenary part of her mind took over the human part, and she became a one-woman killing machine.

It was almost funny really. Spike had definitely held back during their fight, but then, so had she. He'd seen her survival instinct kick in, but he had yet to see the Faye Valentine who had done horrible things before she'd met him. He didn't know the alter ego she'd tried so hard to kill and bury. The one who threatened to consume her right then and there in her fit of anger and pain.

She distanced herself carefully, gaining control over herself and finished the fight quickly, efficiently, and with no casualties.

When they were all lying at her feet, groaning, and in pain, she wiped her hands on her black jeans and made her way to the Redtail. She had to find somewhere to relax. A place to sleep for the night before she went back to the Bebop. A few moments of walking and her mind was cleared and a small smile made its way across her face.

"Hmm . . . that felt good. No, better than good. That felt wonderful." She said out loud, smiling wider, and relishing in the way her sore knuckles stung as she hooked her hands behind her head.

That oily guy's abs had been harder than she'd thought.



A/N: so what did you think? Definitely not as chopped up as the other chapter. (A good thing, I think). And hopefully a little better and easier to read. Anyway, please review. Bye! ^.~