Author's Note: If you can get hold of the 'vintage' version of Julia's Song, otherwise known as "Goodnight Julia," then give it a listen at least once – probably through Gren's little interlude with the saxophone. On an aside, you'd be surprised to know how many of the instrumentals from Cowboy Bebop have at least a small reference to "Goodnight Julia" lurking somewhere in the melody. They just seem to float back to it and drift away, as if everything centers on that one line of music. Something like the show itself, to be honest.
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Six Months Later...
Spike watched the musician coiled on his stool near the piano with dispassionate interest. He looked familiar...but only vaguely. Almost woman-pretty, and with eyes that could make any red-blooded female swoon. They reminded him of Julia. Which made no sense. The player lidded his eyes, hiding their color again. Spike tossed back the remains of his drink and was out of the bar before the ice had time to clatter to the bottom of his glass. He had a job to do...since Faye abandoned the Bebop to go haring off on some damned goose chase, it was back to the old days...just Jet and Spike...oh, and the kid, of course. And the dog.
Okay, so maybe it wasn't quite back to the old days. So what. Spike had a small-time thug to line up for the half-million wulong reward he promised. Cop-killer almost by accident. Probably wouldn't get in more than a couple of good kicks before he had the guy.
God, was this gig getting boring?
He felt the incredible, jazz-blue gaze on his shoulders as he left.
-
The saxophone's reed slipped out of the musician's mouth as the piano drew the tune to its close. He lowered the curve of brass to his lap, idly stroking the skin-warmed metal. A stranger had come to his bar. Even in a year's time, and a long history of hardship, the memory of those bicolored eyes stood clear. They'd only met once, and beholding the gaze for the second time, he found himself remembering Julia.
And then, remembering Faye.
Spike.
Which could mean any number of things. It didn't concern him. The statute of limitations had long since passed on his bounty and charges, and even the lanky Cowboy took him for dead.
I should be dead.
But he wasn't, and stubbornly, Gren refused to think of Vicious.
It was like trying not to think about a blue cow.
He sighed.
The pianoman looked at him, questioning. Gren straightened and lifted the mouthpiece to his lips again, nodding to his accompanist.
The song picked up, and Gren played a few bars as they had rehearsed. Then, letting his mind wander, he felt the strains of Julia's Song slide from his fingertips into the softly winking instrument. Haunting blues blended flawlessly with the undertones of the piano, and the other man shook his head, a sad smile tugging at his lips as he spied the saxophone player's expression from beneath the angled lid of his instrument.
Must've been some woman, that Julia.
Nestled in the curve of the baby grand's gleaming ebony, Gren tilted his head back, shortened blue-black hair dripping to his shoulders as he threw himself into the rips. The saxophone wailed throatily with all the emotion he dared not surface.
-
In the street outside, a thick black shadow paused before the door of the tavern, darkened, impenetrable hood turned in eery fascination. The music played on, and the shadow listened, edging closer.
-
The song ended, and Gren's head snapped up, shoving the curtain of beetle-sheened bangs from his eyes with an impatient hand. He searched every corner of the room, scanning the sea of upturned faces below the low dais where he and the pianist played. Nothing.
A dark flash at the corner of his vision brought Gren's eyes to the door, in time to catch the almost inaudible smack of canvas against the doorframe.
Nothing.
He bit off a gasp, pulse racing, and tore through the crowd to the doorway.
Nothing. Cold wind blasted his face, mocking.
As though stilled by his frenzy, the patrons came to life again, and their cacophany drowned out his ragged breathing.
His accompanist gave him an odd look as he returned. "Take the night off, Eli," the broad-shouldered man advised him, "I can keep the mob entertained by myself. Or Janey and Conal can get out their brass act. Lord knows they've been jealous since the patrons started asking for you."
'Eli' hazarded a glance toward the bar, where a curvaceous woman with a head of knotty red curls wiped down the counter and cast an interested eye toward their exchange. Her husband and partner ghosted up behind her, tall, wraith-thin, sporting a close-cropped shock of ice blond hair. Janey and Conal. Now two pairs of eyes - one green, one gold - focused on them intently. Gren waved them over, and said his goodbyes before heading out into the night. If his search was fruitless, at least he could always go home.
Spike, however, had other plans.
The Cowboy lounged against the outer wall of the tavern, one hand casually stuffed in his pants pocket, and the other nursing a cigarette captured between the two halves of a smirk.
"Thought you were dead." Spike commented casually, through his teeth.
"You're right," Gren tilted his head up and smiled. "I am dead."
"Then it's a ghost I'm talking to?"
"I was a ghost even before I died. How did you know it was me? I've been dead for half a year, now. Death changes a person."
Broad shoulders hunched in a halfhearted shrug, creasing the seams of Spike's jacket. "Something inspired my memory. The music you were playing."
"You've heard me play it before…?"
"Faye used to hum it all the time. And so did Julia."
They both winced, and silence strung between them as each studied his own shoes. Spike was the first to break the still, voice low. "Who resurrected you?"
"Vicious."
Spike took a long drag on his cigarette and let it fall, mashing it brutally into the pavement with the heel of his boot. Gren watched, fascinated. "Do you know where he is?"
"No."
"When was the last time you saw him?"
Just a few minutes ago, I think… "Last time you saw him, probably. Callisto."
"Really?"
Gren closed his eyes and raised a gentling hand, indicating that he didn't want to say anymore. Spike didn't press. "If you do see him, be careful. He wouldn't have done what he did without a reason. He knows you're alive?"
"Last time I checked." The musician scanned the growing pools of dark in the street. What were the chances of finding the man on Mars?
"All right," Spike shuffled away a few steps, picking up on the other man's flat tone. "I'll warn you. The Syndicate's moving. Vicious is in control now – and he's got a long memory. If he's still after you, he'll be looking for you soon. Just be careful."
Gren smiled again, knowingly. He took a few steps in the other direction, swinging his saxophone case gently. "And if I see anything, call you?" He mimed holding a telephone to his ear. Spike lit another cigarette and grinned.