First off, I'd like to thank everyone who is still following this story. .
. and apologize too, for taking so damned long to finish it. Let's just
say I've had other business to attend to. It's always a pain when real life
rears its ugly head and forces you to abandon your fantasies. This is a
really short chapter, and I can already hear people saying "I've been
waiting for this?" but I also wanted to take my first opportunity to assure
everyone that this fic was getting finished, come hell or high water. . .
anyway, without further ado, the next installment of Gene Cocktail:
She was leaning into her zipcraft again, but this time, her hands knew exactly where to go, exactly where to find what she was seeking. This wasn't the sort of thing one got careless with, and misplaced, after all. This was important.
She grunted slightly at the weight, and Jet, who'd been watching her thoughtfully, now frowned when he saw what she pulled out of the ship. It was a small black box, only about six inches long, and maybe half again as wide, but as she flipped the top open, the sides fell out to the sides, revealing an interesting assortment of weapons, all laid out neatly, strapped into the red velvet that lined the box. It held more than one might think.
Not Jet, of course, Jet had known exactly what to think. He'd become quite familiar with the box, and all of its contents during the tenure of their partnership. Guns, knives, grenades, extra clips, an empty space where her automags would be strapped (if they ever left her side), her old glock (the girl just couldn't throw anything away), a putty looking substance that Jet suspected was c4, and, of course, Spikes old Jericho.
The first time he'd seen it in the case, Jet had been a little shocked. He remembered looking at Faye, her face blushing slightly at her own sentimentality, and cocking his eyebrow in an unspoken question. She'd shrugged and avoided his eyes, but he could see how the weapon had been meticulously, even, he dared say, lovingly cleaned. It practically gleamed, certainly in much better shape than Spike had ever cared to keep it in, and much better than the last time he'd seen it, in an evidence bag in police lock up, the handle caked in dried blood, and rusty brown. He'd pictured her leaned over it, scrubbing, fighting the tears out of her eyes.
It had made since, of course. If he had taken the Swordfish into the hangar, and lovingly put it back together, tuned it up, buffed it out, gave it a nice new coat of shiny red paint, then it seemed natural for Faye to want to give the same sort of care to his gun. The same sort of care they wanted to give to their friend. Clean him up, put him back together, slap on some new paint. . . good as new, eh, Spikey boy? But of course, that was impossible.
He also knew how he felt working on the Swordfish II, and seeing it every day. He'd taken to avoiding the hangar.
The first time he'd seen the Jericho in Faye's gun case, he'd patted her reassuringly, and then they'd walked into a building, wreaked havoc on all inside, and walked back out again with a million Wulong bounty, and three more corpses on their conscience. He'd since come to regard the case as a sign of a tough battle ahead. He didn't like seeing it now.
He watched as she took a few of the clips, a few of the grenades, and a long knife, which she shoved in her boot. She was about to close the case again, but her hand hesitated, hovering over the soft velvet. She chewed her lip, and seemed to be debating something.
Part of him was shocked when she dipped her hand down, and tugged Spike's gun from its restraints, and another part of him had been expecting it all along, had even been eagerly awaiting it. Just as with the Swordfish II, it was obvious there was only one person in the world who had the right to wield that gun, the gun Faye was tucking into the back of her pants. She closed the box up, folding up the sides, and then flipping down the top, securing the latch with a *click*.
"ready to go then?" Jet asked, and she only nodded in return, slipping the box into place just underneath the seat of the Redatil.
"Ready," she echoed.
Neither said a word about the gun, but they both knew what it meant. She had accepted Corbin. Perhaps she still had a lingering resentment toward him for all he wasn't, but when push came to shove, she was willing to face any peril for him. Again. Just as she would have for Jet. Just as she would have for Ed. No, he wasn't Spike, but he was one of them, and that was for damned sure.
She was leaning into her zipcraft again, but this time, her hands knew exactly where to go, exactly where to find what she was seeking. This wasn't the sort of thing one got careless with, and misplaced, after all. This was important.
She grunted slightly at the weight, and Jet, who'd been watching her thoughtfully, now frowned when he saw what she pulled out of the ship. It was a small black box, only about six inches long, and maybe half again as wide, but as she flipped the top open, the sides fell out to the sides, revealing an interesting assortment of weapons, all laid out neatly, strapped into the red velvet that lined the box. It held more than one might think.
Not Jet, of course, Jet had known exactly what to think. He'd become quite familiar with the box, and all of its contents during the tenure of their partnership. Guns, knives, grenades, extra clips, an empty space where her automags would be strapped (if they ever left her side), her old glock (the girl just couldn't throw anything away), a putty looking substance that Jet suspected was c4, and, of course, Spikes old Jericho.
The first time he'd seen it in the case, Jet had been a little shocked. He remembered looking at Faye, her face blushing slightly at her own sentimentality, and cocking his eyebrow in an unspoken question. She'd shrugged and avoided his eyes, but he could see how the weapon had been meticulously, even, he dared say, lovingly cleaned. It practically gleamed, certainly in much better shape than Spike had ever cared to keep it in, and much better than the last time he'd seen it, in an evidence bag in police lock up, the handle caked in dried blood, and rusty brown. He'd pictured her leaned over it, scrubbing, fighting the tears out of her eyes.
It had made since, of course. If he had taken the Swordfish into the hangar, and lovingly put it back together, tuned it up, buffed it out, gave it a nice new coat of shiny red paint, then it seemed natural for Faye to want to give the same sort of care to his gun. The same sort of care they wanted to give to their friend. Clean him up, put him back together, slap on some new paint. . . good as new, eh, Spikey boy? But of course, that was impossible.
He also knew how he felt working on the Swordfish II, and seeing it every day. He'd taken to avoiding the hangar.
The first time he'd seen the Jericho in Faye's gun case, he'd patted her reassuringly, and then they'd walked into a building, wreaked havoc on all inside, and walked back out again with a million Wulong bounty, and three more corpses on their conscience. He'd since come to regard the case as a sign of a tough battle ahead. He didn't like seeing it now.
He watched as she took a few of the clips, a few of the grenades, and a long knife, which she shoved in her boot. She was about to close the case again, but her hand hesitated, hovering over the soft velvet. She chewed her lip, and seemed to be debating something.
Part of him was shocked when she dipped her hand down, and tugged Spike's gun from its restraints, and another part of him had been expecting it all along, had even been eagerly awaiting it. Just as with the Swordfish II, it was obvious there was only one person in the world who had the right to wield that gun, the gun Faye was tucking into the back of her pants. She closed the box up, folding up the sides, and then flipping down the top, securing the latch with a *click*.
"ready to go then?" Jet asked, and she only nodded in return, slipping the box into place just underneath the seat of the Redatil.
"Ready," she echoed.
Neither said a word about the gun, but they both knew what it meant. She had accepted Corbin. Perhaps she still had a lingering resentment toward him for all he wasn't, but when push came to shove, she was willing to face any peril for him. Again. Just as she would have for Jet. Just as she would have for Ed. No, he wasn't Spike, but he was one of them, and that was for damned sure.
