It's been a week since Spike's 'miraculous resurrection', as Jet calls it, and we've fallen into a comfortable routine. Jet and I trade off on kitchen duty, Spike's continuing with Ed's dancing lessons, and Spike and I bicker and toss insults at each other at every opportunity. It's different now, however. We still snarl at each other, but the bite is gone. It's turned from a one-up contest into playful banter, and even though we still throw the same harsh words at each other, there's a lightness to the tone that has never been there before.
Somehow, by an unspoken agreement, Spike and I have started forging a friendship, and hell has not frozen over.
He's changed. I notice it a hundred times a day in little ways. His kindness to Ed. The way his eyes crinkle at the corner when he laughs. The lack of malice in his smile when he does something to annoy me. Hell, he even voluntarily took Ein for a walk yesterday. If that's not change, I don't know what is.
He's still quiet. Sometimes I see him walking the grounds and I can tell from his body language that he's deep in thought, but it's not the brooding funk he used to wear like a shroud. It's almost as if he's contemplating the universe instead of carrying its weight the way he used to.
I know what that's like. I know what it's like to stop running from and instead start running to.
When I thought he was dead, it forced me to own up to a lot of things. After all, when it's only yourself lying in the darkness, it's hard to shut yourself out. Somewhere in the space of the months he was away, I discovered that it's possible to own who you were without letting that dictate who you still are, or will become.
Pretty deep thoughts for a gambling Shrew Woman, eh? I didn't even have to resort to those tacky self-help books to find my answers. I had them inside myself the entire time.
I get the feeling that Spike's still looking for his answers.
I dry my hands on a dish towel and gaze out the window. He's outside again, wandering around the koi pond with his hands buried in his pockets and his head down. He needs a haircut.
Jet and Ed are working together in the living room, looking for the next bounty. Their heads are close together as they lean over Tomato, studying the screen. I sneak out the back door before they can see my smile.
My sneaker clad feet crunch over the gravel as I make my way toward him. I know he can hear my approach, but he keeps his eyes on the fat goldfish cutting through the water. He seems mesmerized by the sunlight reflecting off their scales. I watch them for a minute before saying, "I'm surprised Ein hasn't eaten them yet."
He lets out a sound that is a half snort, half laugh, and I take that as my cue to stay. I crouch down and let my fingertips skim the top of the water. "Penny for your thoughts?"
"What?" he asks, his brow wrinkling in confusion.
Oh, right. He doesn't know what that means. I try a different tactic.
"You know, after my memory came back... it wasn't anything like I imagined it would be. It didn't solve shit. It was so anti-climatic that I was positive there was something I wasn't seeing. I mean, it was supposed to be a big deal, right? My redemption, or maybe my damnation, but it was none of those things. It took a few months for me to realize what it really was." I keep my gaze firmly trained on my fingers sweeping over the water, wondering if he'd understand.
He kneels down as well, folding his long legs and balancing his weight to keep upright. "Which was...?" he asks, his voice low.
I glance at him, but he is staring into the pond.
"A wake up call. An admonition to listen to what my head was telling me late at night when I was too tired to block it out." I pause for a minute, considering, before continuing. "Life is nothing more or less than what we make of it. We control our own destiny, our own actions, our own choices. What we don't control are the actions and choices of others. Each of us have our own paths to walk, and we can't take responsibility for what others do. We control only ourselves. When you realize that, life becomes a hell of a lot less complicated."
I reach out and touch his arm. His gaze shifts from the fish to my fingers, but still he says nothing. "You did what you had to do, just like I did. It didn't give us the answers we were looking for, but that's not the issue. The important thing is that the past doesn't have to dictate our future-- unless we choose to let it. Once I got my head out of the past, I realized the present is a pretty decent place. And who knows, the future might be even better."
He finally looks at me, his expression completely neutral. I try to ignore the disappointment. I'd almost convinced myself that he might want to hear what I had to say. I bite my lower lip to hide the hurt and become engrossed in the fish, and after a moment I begin to withdraw my hand from his arm.
I'm stopped by his large hand covering mine, keeping in on his arm. "When did you become so wise, Faye Valentine?" he asks, and his voice has a rough, emotional edge that makes him sound like a stranger.
I release a deep breath and fumble for my cigarettes with my free hand. "That's a story for another time."
"I'd like to hear it someday," he replies, reaching over and plucking a cigarette out of the pack with nimble fingers.
I raise an eyebrow at him. "Quid pro quo, Cowboy," I answer.
He laughs then, a wry chuckle before lighting his cigarette and mine too. "Gods, you really are a bounty hunter at heart."
I flash a quick grin at him before exhaling a stream of smoke. "I'm insulted that you ever doubted me."
He snorts and shakes his head. We smoke in peace for a few minutes before I rise up, my knees protesting the movement. "One last thing, Spike."
He glances up at me, shading his eyes with his hand.
"If you ever tell anyone what I said, I'll deny every word. I have a reputation to uphold, you know."
He's still laughing when I walk in the house.
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It's not too hard to track down Jet if you need him. I just follow the clanking thumps and the muffled cursing. I locate him, or the lower half of him at least, up under the Bebop, probably repairing yet another faulty whatchamadoozit.
"Don't tell me," I smirk as I lean against the side of the vessel. "You're adding a larger hot water tank?"
"Eh?" Jet's head comes in to view, smeared with grease and currently sporting a rather embarrassed grin. "Naw. I'm finally fitting this baby with a high-powered plasma cannon. Once it's up and running I'm going to take her out for a test spin. Shouldn't take more than a few more hours and she'll be ready for action."
"So I take it the lead turned up dry," I state, studying my fingernails in a bored manner.
He grunts and disappears back under the ship. I have to strain to make out his next words. "Ed's running a trace right now. With any luck, we'll have something by tomorrow."
"In that case, I'm going to make myself scarce for a few hours. If you need me I'll be in the attic."
Of all the rooms in my home, the attic is the one of which I'm the most proud. Half of the long room is covered with exercise mats, with punching bags and a weight bench stashed in the corners. The other half, however, is my pride and joy. I installed an indoor shooting range with three alleys. A professional soundproofed the room and made it safe for high-caliber firing. In addition to the Glock 30 I carry, I also practice with a Winchester .357 Magnum and a Desert Eagle .50 Action Express, and I have some unresolved anger to deal with. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
I retrieve my guns and ammo from the safe in my room and skip up the stairs, humming under my breath. A few rounds with a man-shaped target and everything would be brighter. I was already feeling better just thinking about it.
Once I'm past both security doors, I pop in the earplugs, send my paper target down to the end, load the clip of my Eagle, and take aim.
I spoke the truth to Spike. I'm no longer angry that he went to do what he felt he had to. I'm even angry that for eight...
(fire)
... agonizing...
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... months...
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I thought he was dead. I've gotten past that.
No, I'm still furious at how he left.
(fire)
He left without a thought to our feelings.
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He left without considering that his friends might have given a damn about whether or not he died.
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It hurts that he didn't care about us, about me, and it hurts that for several months afterward I carried the guilt of letting him walk away.
I still haven't told him that. I don't know if I can.
(fire)
The last bullet spent, I flip the switch to bring the target to the front. Hmm. Four head shots, one chest, one shoulder, and one miss. Not bad with a gun this powerful.
I reload the clip, send a new target out, and have another go, this time taking care to keep my aim as straight as possible. The backfire on the Eagle isn't as strong as it should be on a weapon of its caliber, but it's still got a kickback and by the time I've got the third target ready, I can feel the strain in my shoulders.
A movement out of the corner of my eye catches my attention, and I turn to see Spike standing up against the safety glass. I motion for him to come through and I pull out an earplug.
"Jet said you were up here," he says as he closes the door behind him.
"Yeah?" I question, loading seven more bullets into the clip.
He's looking around the room with an appreciative eye. "I couldn't understand why anyone, even a shrew like yourself, would want to hang out in the attic. Now I know."
I can't help but chuckle at that, even though I'd a bit annoyed at his intrusion. "Well, you've discovered my secret. Might as well stay and have a few rounds."
His gaze lands on the Eagle when I slide the clip home and his eyes widen perceptibly. "No way are you using that."
"Oh really?" I say, putting my hand on my hip in full bitch mode. "And why not?"
He speaks slowly, as if he's addressing an idiot child. "Faye. That's a .50 Action Express. That's a strong caliber for someone who carries a... well, a Glock."
"As I recall, my Glock is a .45, and your Jericho is a... 9mm, isn't it?" I ask sweetly.
He quirks his brow at me. "My Jericho holds sixteen rounds. Your Glock carries... ten, isn't it?" he mocks in the same syrupy tone.
I gesture impatiently. "That has nothing to do with caliber."
He pulls out his gun and twirls it around his finger before pulling back the slide. "A shoot-out then. It's a little past high noon, but you improvise so well."
I toss my head to hide the blush. I know he's referring to the impromptu dance the other morning, and I pull out my best sneer to mask the discomfort. "My Desert Eagle against your Baby Eagle? You're on-- but you'd better only fire seven bullets. I'll be checking your clip afterward."
He holds out his hand and I pass him earplugs and a target. "Idiotic asshole," I mutter after replacing my own plug.
I should have known that anger management is impossible when Spike Spiegel is anywhere in a fifty mile radius.
(fire)
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When Jet walks in, Spike and I are practically nose to nose. The older man sighs wearily. "What now?"
I shake my paper target at him. "You're an impartial judge. Tell this idiot that I won, fair and square!"
Spike glares at us both. "It was a tie!"
"Tie my ass! You're just ticked that I beat you!"
Jet stares at my target, then grabs Spike's, comparing the two. We continue arguing as his gaze shifts rapidly between the two sheets of paper.
"You didn't beat me, you impossible bitch!"
"The proof's right there, jackass!"
"She's right," Jet speaks up. We both look at him, waiting. "The head shots are close, but she's got a dead on heart shot, while yours is closer to the shoulder." I smirk while Spike fumes even more.
"There's a mistake, Jet. I've always been better with a gun than Faye, and that's one she doesn't use often."
That's it. I don't even realize what I'm saying; it just pops out. "Oh, I've used it plenty since you left, you miserable fuck, all the while wishing the target was your goddamned head!"
Shit. Did I just say that out loud?
He turns to me, his two-toned eyes blazing with fury. "What did you just say?" he hisses. My stomach clenches, but I stand my ground and stare back at him.
"You heard me," I answer, and even I'm surprised at how cold my voice sounds.
He shoves something smooth and hard into my grasp and stalks away. When he reaches the end of the narrow room, he turns back.
"Here's your chance," he says. I look down at his Jericho, cradled in my small hands, and back at Spike. His eyes bore into mine with an expression I've never known him to have.
Hope. But if it's hope to live or to die, I don't know.
I raise the gun as if I'm sleepwalking and take aim. I see Jet move forward, ready to intervene. "Faye..." he says softly, pleading with me.
The Jericho holds sixteen rounds. Seven have been spent. That leaves nine chances, nine opportunities. Gods, I've dreamed about this too many times.
I recall my words to him, just this morning.
Each of us have our own paths to walk, and we can't take responsibility for what others do.
The important thing is that the past doesn't have to dictate our future.
We control only ourselves.
"Stay back, Jet. This is between me and Spike," I say softly, calmly. At least, I think I say it. Maybe I only imagine that I do.
Jet's staring at me. Spike's eyes are locked with mine.
"Do it, Faye!" he screams.
I squeeze the trigger over and over, until the only sound I hear is the quiet click of an empty chamber.