Across Mars

Disclaimers: Cowboy Bebop belongs to Sunrise and Bandai Entertainment.

Warnings and rants: SLASH, Spike/Vicious.

Summary: You think it's a promise, but it isn't.

Radishface


What was there to pretend? Spike thought to himself, lying on the bed. The bedspread was white, and his eyes curiously dry. I don't know about anything now. I don't think I know, I pretend to know.

"Spike." Vicious said, all that he said. His back was turned, muscles rippling under pale skin, following the movements of his breath. When they were fucking, and Vicious was on top of him and he was watching every movement with eyes at half-mast, it was like water, it was like standing under a waterfal and letting the full force of nature wash through him.

He couldn't, and didn't, tell himself that it would always be like this. Eventually, always sometime eventually, they'd end up falling apart. They would end up on the opposite sides of the same spectrum, they'd drift apart, Spike could see it so clearly, like it was yesterday. Spike could see this happening, because it was obvious, and because nothing this good was ever meant to last.

"Spike," Vicious said again, his voice soft, barely audible, a whisper over his shoulder. Spike turned around and looked into the other man's eyes so that they were both silent and staring, inhaling and smelling sweat and smoke and gunpowder combined with the faint scent of aftershave and cologne. Spike quirked an eyebrow up, as if to say what?

"Breakfast." Vicious murmured, the word a directive rather than a noun or a suggestion. Spike turned his head just enough to look at the digital clock by the bed, blinking as the alarm suddenly went off. The morning radio broadcast was intrusive to his ears, but he couldn't reach the snooze button from this angle.

"I'm not hungry." Spike said, even though he was. He was hungry and his stomach felt like it was crawling for food. He hadn't eaten dinner last night-- neither of them had-- they had been busy, lips tangled, breaths mingling, fisting and grabbing at each other.

"Mao wants us in by eight." Vicious said, gently, even though he was never gentle-- always glowering, always possessive, keeping Spike close to him, keeping an eye on him and never letting him out of his sullen gaze for too long.

"We have two hours." Spike said distantly, chiding. He didn't want to leave.

"Two hours," Vicious nodded absently, and Spike felt a shudder go through him-- because Vicious was never absent, he was always alert and he was always on his guard. It was only times like this that he would ever completely surrender himself. Both of them would surrender, with nobody to save but themselves.

I can't pretend this is going to last. Spike thought, and wished for the opposite. It won't. Maybe I'll remember, and I'll hate it, when I remember.

Vicious had buried his nose in Spike's hair, had begun kissing a line down his face, his eyelids, his nose, his mouth, then had followed a trail down his neck, and Spike, sighing, decided it wouldn't matter in the end.

"You have to promise me." Words lightly said.

"What?" Caught off guard.

"That if I leave, you won't come after me."

Silence, a mute, gradual understanding.

"Why the hell would you leave? What do you even mean by that?"

Gentle laughter. Reassuring. "It's a hypothetical situation."

Stiffly, a bit forced, but resolute. "I wouldn't let it happen."

"Why not?" Amused.

Arrogantly, "I just wouldn't. You'd have to have a fucking good explanation before you could."

A wry smile. "Some things don't have a reason, Spike."

"Well, what if I left?" Searching, apprehensive.

A pause, then, "I'd chase you across Mars."

Surprised, but pleased. No irony. "...Bastard."

Laughter.

The question should have been, why wouldn't I come after you?

Funny, the way things work out.

It had been a sunny afternoon outside. The Bebop was docked in a harbor off the coast of Hokkaido, and yachts were sailing around the bay area. The proprietor of a fancy country club had demanded that they leave immediately, but with one look at Jet, he had suddenly remembered his manners and quickly excused himself.

When Jet finally remembered who the proprietor was-- some small fry loan shark whose Wanted notice had been put out a few days ago by the ISSP-- he was already halfway across the country. Luckily, the police were notified and the crew of the Bebop was rewarded with some share of the original bounty for the tip. It wasn't enough to pay for the damage Faye had done to the Bebop during an aerial battle with an escaped convict a few weeks back, but it was enough to treat all of them to a fancy dinner at the country club and buy Ein a bag of doggie treats.

Spike had known for a while that Faye was attracted to him, wanted to be with him. And Spike had also known for a while that Jet had started to see something in Faye that he had missed when he was with Arisa.

Their plans for that night had been simple. Ed was playing around with the information in the local government's web database, Ein was sleeping, Jet was repainting the right wing of the Hammerhead, and Faye had gone casino-hopping.

As he punched and kicked his way through his nightly tai chi routine, Spike wondered what would have happened if they decided to have a threesome. The thought was interesting, to say the least. He loved Faye in her own way, he loved Jet in his own way, they were individuals to him, and there was the promise of an interesting bedroom experience. He wondered absently who would be on top.

And why not two at once? Why not a threesome? Send Edward off somewhere, she wouldn't mind the errand and wouldn't think twice-- and the dog wouldn't care. If he slept with Faye, Faye would get what she wanted. If Jet slept with Faye, he would get what he wanted, even if Faye wouldn't get her way. Spike was under the impression that the simplest solution was to abandon this idea of monogamy and fuck each other senseless until the sun rose. And why couldn't they?

Because, Spike thought, as he unleashed a barrage of kicks in the air, because they loved each other too much. It was an interesting thought, mildly disgusting, and it would stay that way.

Julia couldn't fit into that equation because he didn't love her enough.

Julia couldn't fit into that equation because Vicious didn't love her at all.

And there was that concept of fidelity, of the One and Only, and it was complicated, and it was everything, and it wasn't worth all the pain that they both had to endure, but it would be worth it, in the end.

The bastard had said he'd come after him, chase him across Mars.

He forgot to remember to comb through the whole fucking solar system.

They had known each other for a long time before it happened.

"Where's Vicious?" Spike had asked Lin, trying to sound casual.

"He's on Ganymede." Lin had replied, his nose buried in documents, and with the glasses perched on the end of his nose, he looked more like a clerk than a hit man.

Well, Vicious wasn't on vacation, Spike was certain. "What for?"

Lin looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. "A small errand for the Van." He turned back to his papers, as if that explained everything.

Spike leaned against the desk and searched his pockets for a cigarette-- nothing.

"What errand?"

Lin smiled briefly, as if amused. "Contractual obligations."

"And?" Vicious wasn't on the contract team. Lin could have been talking about anything.

"And... that's it."

"Right." Spike snapped, and left quickly before any more questions could fly out of his mouth.

Damn Vicious, anyway.

Spike had just gotten back from New York. The Elders had sent him away for bodyguard work-- he had stood outside the door while Mao negotiated a sell price with a real estate firm. In this case, real estate in Tijuana. It wasn't worth much, but with the new chemical labs being built, they'd soon have another Red Eye manufacturing base stationed on Earth. And while he had been gone standing uselessly outside a door, the Elders had sent Vicious off to Ganymede. To fulfill his "contractual obligations." Or maybe he was enforcing the obligations in someone else's contract. Whatever. They had worked on separate teams before, but that was before Mao had arranged for the two of them to be full-time partners.

Shin was talking to Lin when he barged into the latter's office the next day, and while Shin looked a little surprised by the intrusion, Lin just cocked his head and motioned for Shin to leave.

"I'll talk to you later." Lin said, taking off his glasses and polishing them with the sleeve of his shirt.

Shin gave Spike a curious look, and then shrugged. "See you."

When Shin had closed the door behind him, Lin sat down. "What can I do for you, Spike?"

He hadn't really thought of anything to say, and he really should have planned it out. But he was tired of wondering, he was tired of worrying, and why the hell should he be doing either one?

"I just--"

"--want to know when his flight arrives?" Lin said.

"You're his fucking secretary, you should know." If Lin decided not to comment on his frustration, all the better.

Lin flipped through a few papers on his desk. "Flight 858. He arrives in about--" Lin glanced at the clock. "--two hours."

"Oh." Spike stared at the edge of the piece of paper Lin had in his hand.

"Should I call him and tell him you're picking him up?"

Spike stood by the entrance of the gates, and wondered why Vicious didn't just take his own ship to Ganymede. But maybe the negotiations were more covert than usual-- and it would be more inconspicuous if he arrived like a normal passenger, on a plane. Something.

He distracted himself for the moment by thinking of Annie's financial situation. No, it wasn't bad. Mao had taken a liking to her and had helped her with some funds for her shop, and it had been cleaned up and remodeled, just a little. Annie had kept some of the funds in her own pocket, but he suspected that Mao didn't really care at all.

He felt like an idiot, watching as people poured off the flight, Vicious was missing from the crowd. But he waited, and then he saw a glimpse of silver-white hair.

Spike lifted his hand in a half-hearted wave, and the man's eyes seemed to light up a little bit before they reverted back to the customary glower.

Vicious approached him, stopping a few feet in front of Spike, regarding him quietly. The crowd swirled around them. Spike fidgeted, tried to think of something to say. "How was Ganymede?"

Vicious shook his head. "Too warm."

Spike was about to comment that Vicious always felt that he had to wear a suit when he didn't, and then remembered who he was dealing with.

He told himself he wouldn't ask, that he would act casual, indifferent, just like it had been for the last year. He told himself his resolve would get him through, that his discipline would stop him from asking.

Spike, unfortunately, had no discipline.

"Are you all right?" He asked, before they got in his car, and Vicious seemed to pause, as he opened the door.

"I'm fine." He said, his voice barely audible. Spike had to strain to hear it.

He drove to the man's apartment and parked outside. Vicious looked at him, his eyes partially obscured by the fall of hair.

"You want to come in?"

No I don't, I really don't. Spike told himself. Why the hell would I?

"Sure."

It had been a quiet ride up the elevator, and Spike had stood with his hands in his pockets when Vicious opened the door with the key, the sound of the click as the door opened strangely reminiscent of a few weeks ago when he had finally realized it wasn't just business that kept them together.

Vicious kissed him when they entered the kitchen, he felt himself shudder when Vicious took his jacket for him and toss it on the sofa.

"Do you have anything to drink?" Spike found himself asking when Vicious pulled away. He licked his lips, because they felt dry.

"No." Vicious said, his gaze almost predatory. "I want you sober."

"I wasn't--" Spike said, standing up, and heading towards the refrigerator, and when he opened it, there was only a carton of orange juice and a loaf of bread. He felt Vicious behind him, hands on his hips, lips on his neck.

"Spike."

"Vicious--" He felt warm, too warm, all over.

"Should I give you a chance to back out? Do you want that?"

They ended up on the bed, just touching, and Spike grew used to the muscle, the angular body above his, where curves and flesh should have been, the hardness that mirrored his own. It was strange. It was right.

It had been strangely simple, uncomplicated. Spike woke up that morning, the sun streaming in through the blinds. He let his fingers wander absently through strands of silver-grey hair, and he had stared at Vicious for a long, long time.

When he met Julia again, it was like returning to the alter. This time, a sacrifice stood in place for the bride.

She had known what he wanted to say. But there was no malice on her part, just a quiet resignation and determined complacency, a willingness to accept.

When he embraced her, it was like holding a statue in his hands.

He had fought to keep her alive. She wasn't worth anything, she wasn't worth anything except his love, and that already belonged to someone else.

So he had tried to keep her alive, because it made no sense that she be in this thing that had never wanted to involve her in the first place.

When she died, he looked up into the distance in a way he hadn't in a long time. The sky was opaque and glassy, white tile marbled with cracks of grey. He could pretend that it was just the two of them again, just himself and Vicious in this world, without Julia, without the Red Dragons. He could pretend that this corpse in his hands didn't mean anything, wasn't anybody, and that the reason he was kneeling in the rain was because he wanted Vicious to come after him.

Across Mars, Vicious had said. Across Mars.

He was on Mars now.

Spike was still the one who chased. He chased an apparition of Vicious up the escalators and down the hallways of the syndicate's headquarters, running through and past the smoke and the din and fire, the cries of those who stood in the way. Vicious evaded him until the very end, when they came at each other, the keen of the katana punctuated by the sharp percussion of a discharged bullet and they knew each other again-- the gasps for air, the breaths of surrender, and the distant whine of police sirens across Mars the last things they shared in this world.

He staggered out after that.

The sun was going to come up, and he wanted to see it, so he had walked outside. There were those who stared at him, with incredulity, with rapture, with anger and pain. He didn't notice.

He didn't want to see the sunlight on Vicious' body, the one that didn't breathe, not when there was a memory in the depths of his mind that showed him in a morning almost like this one, sunlight bright over the horizon, blinding with its intensity.

He didn't want to face reality, not when Vicious was standing right behind him,

like the first time, when he had first joined the syndicate, when Vicious had already been there for many years,

and Vicious was showing him how to kill someone.

His hands had been gentle, sliding over Spike's,

breath ghosting past his ear,

this is how you do it

and Spike had fired, the sound echoing in his ears.

Bang.

Notes (4/10/09)

I was looking forward to editing this for a long time, since I couldn't bear to see the old me from six years ago (my goodness, did I really publish this in 2003?) butcher the characters that I still love to this day. I fixed some typos, grammatical mistakes, and structural inconsistencies and hopefully the result is a more readable and enjoyable fanfic that is truer to Spike and Vicious. As always, concrit and reviews are appreciated, and help to keep all of my writing an organic endeavor-- constantly evolving and hopefully, improving. ^_^