"Where have you been?"
Spike was drenched. The bouquet of roses hung limply from his hand, forgotten and irrelevant in his private reverie. He exhaled long and leaned against the wall of the Bebop.
"Someone bought out the bar."
"What? Where've you *been*?" Jet rose from his seat in the middle of the room, but did not advance closer to Spike. Tension was in his face and writ through the line of his shoulders and back. He had been waiting for hours.
"They changed the name. The sign."
"You're dripping on the floor. Why did you buy flowers?"
Spike fingered one of the roses idly. "Inside...it was different. They tore out the booths and put in a dance floor...the place was full of kids."
"We can't even afford FOOD and you buy FLOWERS? What are you, Faye?" Jet turned angrily and sat, his back to Spike. He drew a long, shaky breath. "You could have called."
Spike slid down the wall into a sitting position. "I used to spend all my time there," he remarked.
"You just don't get it, do you," remarked Jet, gesturing angrily.
"We used to play pool in the basement."
"None of you seem to realize that I can't leave here."
"That was where I met," Spike stumbled, tripping over words unfamiliar to his tongue these three years, "--where she and I--where we met."
"You can go off running around wherever you want, but I have to stay with the ship." Jet fingered the joint of his metal elbow. "Like I'm just another interchangeable part."
Spike hit the wall, hard, with his closed fist, garnering a resounding clang. "And they turned it into a fucking rave for bored rich kids!"
"And I do this, not for the money, not for the appreciation I get, but because it's my responsibility. Do you understand responsibility, Spike? I got this ship, and now I have to take care of it. No matter what." He folded his arms around his shoulders, a bird putting away its wings.
Spike was silent for a long time. Finally he spoke, in hushed, painful tones. "Why can't things just stay the same? Just for a little while longer?"
Jet turned and gave him a long, searching look. "You want something to drink?"
"No. Thanks." Spike pulled a cigarette from his pocket and patted himself for his lighter. Jet's mouth twisted.
"I don't want you smoking in here anymore. The whole ship stinks."
Spike gave him an are-you-serious look, unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. "Fine. I'll go outside." He dropped the bunch of roses on the floor and left.
Jet sighed and crossed the room to pick up after Spike. Another mess. The roses were as soaked as he was, puddling water on the floor. They were red. Waste of money, if you ask him. What use is a cut flower, anyway? What a symbol of affection: a dying, decaying plant that manages to counterfeit life for a few days before being consigned to the compost heap. Just another reminder that nothing lasts. Jet picked them up and held them over the garbage disposal. He paused a moment, then turned with a sigh, carrying the roses with him to his bonsai garden. He'd keep them just a little while longer.
Spike was drenched. The bouquet of roses hung limply from his hand, forgotten and irrelevant in his private reverie. He exhaled long and leaned against the wall of the Bebop.
"Someone bought out the bar."
"What? Where've you *been*?" Jet rose from his seat in the middle of the room, but did not advance closer to Spike. Tension was in his face and writ through the line of his shoulders and back. He had been waiting for hours.
"They changed the name. The sign."
"You're dripping on the floor. Why did you buy flowers?"
Spike fingered one of the roses idly. "Inside...it was different. They tore out the booths and put in a dance floor...the place was full of kids."
"We can't even afford FOOD and you buy FLOWERS? What are you, Faye?" Jet turned angrily and sat, his back to Spike. He drew a long, shaky breath. "You could have called."
Spike slid down the wall into a sitting position. "I used to spend all my time there," he remarked.
"You just don't get it, do you," remarked Jet, gesturing angrily.
"We used to play pool in the basement."
"None of you seem to realize that I can't leave here."
"That was where I met," Spike stumbled, tripping over words unfamiliar to his tongue these three years, "--where she and I--where we met."
"You can go off running around wherever you want, but I have to stay with the ship." Jet fingered the joint of his metal elbow. "Like I'm just another interchangeable part."
Spike hit the wall, hard, with his closed fist, garnering a resounding clang. "And they turned it into a fucking rave for bored rich kids!"
"And I do this, not for the money, not for the appreciation I get, but because it's my responsibility. Do you understand responsibility, Spike? I got this ship, and now I have to take care of it. No matter what." He folded his arms around his shoulders, a bird putting away its wings.
Spike was silent for a long time. Finally he spoke, in hushed, painful tones. "Why can't things just stay the same? Just for a little while longer?"
Jet turned and gave him a long, searching look. "You want something to drink?"
"No. Thanks." Spike pulled a cigarette from his pocket and patted himself for his lighter. Jet's mouth twisted.
"I don't want you smoking in here anymore. The whole ship stinks."
Spike gave him an are-you-serious look, unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. "Fine. I'll go outside." He dropped the bunch of roses on the floor and left.
Jet sighed and crossed the room to pick up after Spike. Another mess. The roses were as soaked as he was, puddling water on the floor. They were red. Waste of money, if you ask him. What use is a cut flower, anyway? What a symbol of affection: a dying, decaying plant that manages to counterfeit life for a few days before being consigned to the compost heap. Just another reminder that nothing lasts. Jet picked them up and held them over the garbage disposal. He paused a moment, then turned with a sigh, carrying the roses with him to his bonsai garden. He'd keep them just a little while longer.