Chapter III: Midnight Cowboy's Theme
[John Barry: Midnight Cowboy]
Pale refractions of moonlight streamed over the worn floor panels of the common room, spilling in a faint silver through the kitchen door left slightly ajar, and casting a haunting array of shadows throughout the unnervingly still night. A lonesome haze drifted along the toils of air, beams of soft platinum luminating the particles of dust and cigarette ash that hung adrift among scattered arrays of periodicals and coffee aged exquisitely to an estimated two weeks. The silence was unbroken except for the serene harmony of breathing by only two, hardly audible beneath the quiet rivet the ceiling fan made with each revolution. And if it hadn't been for this, the Bebop could be easily mistaken for the picture perfect poster idol for reckless abandonment.
Irritated by the itch of the dressings wrapped around his waist and murmuring a vain hiss of curses at the sore wound, Spike shifted his position in the comfortably ragged cushion of the yellow couch. He wasn't very fond of the idea of having to wake up to the world around him, and in attempt to fall back asleep as quickly as possible, he tried to lay his left arm somewhere other than underneath him; this accomplished exactly the opposite of what he intended. With a stifled grunt, he bit the inside of his cheek to contend with the rush of pain. Now not only did he have those utterly the hell annoying tingling needles inside of his arm, but they seemed to befriend his close companion, Paisery. Paisery was the name he gave to his dearest of friends--you know, the one that was lodged up his ass at all times whether he wanted to have a say in it or not. But since there was no one word to incorporate pain and misery into one big, super-dee-duper best friend, they were brought together as the body more commonly known as Paisery. Why, one might ask? Because Spike Spiegel deemed it so.
And what Spike Spiegel said was held as the law of the land.
Always.
...Well, almost always.
With a vex sigh and a vulgar grumble, he went to reposition his thankfully now numb forearm over his chest, and only then did he become aware of the hand that rested just below his. By this time, he had been able to actually conjecture that the hand beside his wouldn't be Julia's, and if he was lucky, he'd have one of those frisky little hospital nurses next to him. He forced his eyes open groggily, through the clouded vision being able to make out the blades of the ceiling fan as they danced in pairs. At least the morphine hadn't worn off completely. It didn't take him too long to recognize the distinct smoke and stale coffee burdened fog that could only be described as that of the interior of the Bebop.
Damn.
He was, in fact, very much alive.
Very much back at the Bebop.
Very much without a nurse.
And to top it all off, he felt like he just got hit by a Mack truck.
Lady luck just wasn't on his side tonight...
...or was she?
In any case, his eyes eventually became accustomed to the dim lighting enough to roam around the room as confirmation that he didn't land himself in hell. He had to admit, though the old clunker was nowhere near heaven on earth or a hidden island of paradise, it was a sight for sore eyes. Before they discoursed the feminine hand that held itself soft on his chest, he already had a good idea of who it was, as much as it bewildered him. Almost hesitantly his gaze wandered along the svelte milk-white arm and to its owner.
And there slept Faye. Settled on her calves and leaning over the edge of the sofa, her head was nestled in the crook of her other elbow, and her hair fell over the smooth contour of her cheek in a veil of violet wisps. Christ, she looked like she hadn't slept for days on end, or bathed for that matter, he mused. It wasn't that he personally cared, or that she had some offensive odor; it was just very unlike Faye to sacrifice smelling like the fruit salad stand in a buffet line for any person or reason. But, even so, the aroma of her shampoo was vaguely noticeable when he took in a breath. It was the same inequivocally delicate scent of the mystery woman that mourned him, of this, he was sure. Her warm breath cascaded tenderly across his shoulder through her lips, stained a faded hue of rose, which, he supposed, complimented the suttle smears of mascara that tainted her porcelain complexion, thus proving the Mystery Woman Theory. And so it was decided; The Untouchable Shrew Woman did, in fact, have a heart.
~You're going to owe me for every God damned cigarette I've smoked, Spike Spiegel.~ He could hear her threaten in that demanding juvenile tone she acquired when she tried to conceal her blatant emotions with hostility. Just when you think you had a woman mapped out like the city you grew up in, they tossed a few subliminal messages in the mix and made things so damned complicated that you'd be tickled pink to get your hands on a few calculus problems. He was positive that this was a talent of malice that the entire female species exclusively possessed. With a suppressed a chuckle, and instead of over thinking the already rather uncomfortable situation, out of curiosity he exhaled the last of his breath and held his chest still to see if it would persuade a reaction out of her. There had to be some reason she had found this new sense of kindness-- probably Jet threatening to bill her and actually make her pay her expenses if ol' Spikey Boy kicked the bucket-- but still, no harm in prodding further, right?
To his surprise, Faye tensed suddenly. Subconsciously her fingers curled at the absent rise of his chest with a light quiver, and her eyelids pressed together more firmly as the line of her brow quirked lower in worrisome slumber. Truth be told, she hadn't fallen asleep once since Spike was discharged from the hospital three day's time prior. Three days and three night's despair, she sat in the seat opposite the sofa, watching over him as he slept. Some time earlier in the afternoon, being doped up on straight espresso as her newest drug of choice had taunted her to the last, and she drifted into anything but a peaceful oblivion, her hand left to monitor the undulation of his heart.
A myriad of untold and faceless, distant calls tried to establish further thought process in her weary head, her fingertips twitching as they desperately anticipated his next breath.
{Spike!} Upon seeing this, he quickly resumed the intake of air the moment before she startled awake, her entire body giving a sudden, subtle jerk forward, her head jolted upright and her eyes bolted open in attempt to focus on his chest against the oblique night. Faye imperatively watched the rhythm of his breathing; her own heightened in fear to accompany the unruly beating of her heart. For fuck's sake, she needed to find a healthier addiction than caffeine.
Gradually, her panic subsided when she became reassured that he was still alive by the way her palm rose tranquilly before descending again. Her blood ran cold in wake of her fears in a disdain chorus to coincide with the furious pulse within the depths of her temples and against her breast that had begun to calm itself. She let her eyelids flutter closed over their trepid emerald orbs, muscles growing weak and unstable. Why she gave a damn in the slightest was a mystery to even herself. All Spike's death would mean is a bigger room, more food for her, and a nice hot shower from time to time. She tilted her head back, forcing herself to regain composure, her fingers returning to their natural relaxed state though still possessing a fine tremor.
Spike decided to do what he did best in these types of complicated situations. Play dumb. He, as well, closed his eyes, knowing he'd feel some form of remorse if he hadn't been baffled as to why she even gave a shit.
{{Faye Valentine? Worried about the health of Spike Spiegel...? --I swear to all I hold holy that if that woman's been downing my medicati--}} His train of thought was interrupted by her soft, half relieved, half self-pitying sigh. It was one of those 'Pull yourself together, you're being anal retentive over absolutely nothing' soughs. He opened one eye just enough to make out her silhouette as she shakily rose to her feet, hand wistful as it slid off of his chest and laid itself at her side. It wasn't hard to tell that she was overly neurotic about something or other; a translucent sheen of sweat shimmered over her arms and legs as she padded quietly through the silvery rays of light on her way to the kitchen.
Faye left the light off for courtesy's sake, not meaning to say that she commonly practiced such a thing, and groped blindly for the vintage porcelain cookie jar Jet prided himself in stealing at the bargain-low-low-price of fifty woolongs. She hadn't had the heart to tell him he'd been ripped off, what with him recently still being privileged enough to hold onto the short end of the stick and all. Her hand sank to the bottom of the ceramic teddy bear in search of whatever was left of Jet's secret stash. She groaned, being able to find only one cigarette that she hadn't taken the liberty of smoking yet, and peered over to one side suspiciously to make sure there were no witnesses before diverting her cunning leer to the other, a maniacally sly smile curling her lips concurrent to distinguishing no one other than herself. She had come to half-heartedly expect that Spike would foil her attempts at swiping her precious entity since he's done it far too many times before.
Giddy as a schoolgirl on Shounen Sundays, she strut herself over to the stove top and turned the knob of a frontal burner to singe the end of the packed tobacco the poe' folk way. Drawing in a deep breath, the embers wound along the edge of the cigarette in a siphonic glow, and the sweet toxin laden smoke filled her mouth. Almost immediately the nicotine began to work its immaculate sorcery in her blood stream and carry the euphoric tingle of a blithe persuasion from the tips of her toes to the ends of each sleek strand of hair on her momentarily light head.
Roaming into the fairly extensive cockpit of the old ship, she wrapped her slender waist in her arms for warmth, the soles of her feet quietly meeting the frigid steel floor. It was, without any doubt, one of the most eerily forlorn of the explored areas of the vessel. The entire north panel was composed of panes of glass that left the beholder to stare helplessly into the infinite abyss of the ether realm. The only element to warm the lonesome countenance worn by the room being the soft crimson radiance of Mars' surface, ensnaring any indulgent voyeur--which, in this case--happened to be she.
~ * ~
It didn't take long for the potent aroma of freshly lit tobacco to insinuate itself into the common room, smoke coiling in a mystifying dance as it trifled with emissions of effulgence from the celestial body. Tainted air dallied pertinaciously with Spike's nostrils. Though he tried his best to overcome it, he found himself succumbing to the yearning for utter enlightenment rolled neatly in paper and fitted with a filter, which, may he add, enmeshed all nonsensically revealed mysteries of the universe and granted its abuser the privilege of temporarily sound mind alone.
{{You know you're a highly established race when you can buy practical knowledge by the pack and cheese in a can.}} He muttered to himself in a bemused sort of way, mostly to take his mind off of the dull (but none the less annoying) pain which compelled every last fiber of his frail muscular structure. And so, the determined, stubborn bastard that he prided himself in being, he steadied himself on the interior of the hull and surrendered to the allure of poison that wafted so provocatively in the air.
~*~
She lost track of how long her gaze was fixated on the eternal abyss of all promises held so vainly. Frankly, if you had asked her why she was captivated so, she wouldn't be able to answer without the innocent naiveté of a child of lore. The twilight held so much blind hope, but it was indecipherably barren in the most virulent of ways. Briefly, her thoughts lingered on the readings she was sure were from her childhood. For it was said that if the destiny of the universe was to be known, that it would collapse in a violent demise, and in the ruins, a more complicated structure would be strewn in its place. It was also said that this had theoretically already happened. Leaving her to ponder as she did many restless nights; is there a place where dreams reside? Where fantasy reigns in a lawless bliss? Or, perhaps, this was her lawless bliss. Surely her lack of sleep had made her folly in the worst of ways . . .
"Oi, Faye..." His voice was soothing, and what could be mistaken as hesitant when he slapped on his best poker face and managed to approach her with his usual lithe stride, regardless of the pains which promised to mend at an antagonizingly slow pace.
Faye's daze was interrupted by his softly spoken words, her tranquil jade orbs focusing on the vitreous reflection of his legs in the pane of glass. Her head turned to his, meeting his stare with the stereotypical nonchalant expression. "He lives." Came the sadistic reply, both her finely arched brows raising to emphasize her uncanny sense of sarcasm. She sat with her knees drawn towards her chest and arms draped around them loosely, the cigarette smoldering between her lofty fingers without a single care in this world.
Success.
She pinned up her facade in accordance to his without missing a damned beat.
Oh, she was good.
"If it makes you feel any better, I'll still let you have my room..." He began, with his broad, highly amused smile curving the line of his lips. "You'll just have to share the bed with me."
"Baka."
How he had missed being able to tease the hell out of this woman! Slowly, she stood upright, a coy smile gracing her pout. She admittedly had this thirst to push a few of Spike's buttons for the sheer challenge of seeing how much she could pry from him. It was a simple gesture that they both inflicted upon the other; but, in order to claim victory over this little diversion of theirs, one had to remain calm, cool, and collected --all while annoying the ever-loving piss out of their comrade.
Her emerald orbs held all which was elusive and in the same instance enticing. For this was the only way she'd ever willingly look someone in the eyes, her deceit masquerading the traces of his soul. Reason being because, if you could offer a forsaken stare into the eyes of another, and unravel his torment, interpret his darkest passion, resolve his rage, and fathom his love, then chances are he could do the same. Therefore, this was the only way. "You know very well you couldn't afford to pay rent, or keep up with me in bed, for that matter." She pointed out bluntly and rested the butt of her cigarette between his lips.
Without another word, she smirked triumphantly to relish in her evanescent conquest as her arms folded at the nape of her neck. According to the unwritten laws of `the game` (which were set in stone somewhere), she would stroll out of the room in a leisurely manner right about...now. Doing precisely that, since, heavens forbid she be remissive in any way, Faye took her leave.
"Truth or truth?" His voice was soft and riddled. Something about how he suddenly became quiet, and almost --dare she say-- melancholy, had rendered her gait helpless. The silence befell their surroundings in a sullen cocoon, imperceptibly constricting the will to inquire and be inquired. Why he couldn't just gracefully accept defeat was far beyond her, but his tone was nothing promising. Spike was hardly ever serious unless someone else elbowed him in the gut and forced him to play pretend for a while.
Nevertheless, he had to know.
"Doushite..." Was all that was liberated from behind the gray cinders that unintelligibly consumed the remainder of the cigarette. Faye deviated to profile, eyes glittering an inimical chartreuse behind the eve of her lashes as she peered towards his back. "Why did you cry?" Taupe irises held the orbs of her echoed physique in contempt from the sheet of glass. She was at a loss for speech, her eyes hostile due to his audacity to intrude on her personal business. It was best to keep silent in these types of personal situations, for intrigue's sake, until one could utter the proper witty comment.
"Why do you care?" was her roguish rebuttal.
Much to his surprise, she wasn't bitter or snide. The words she spoke were genuinely curious behind all their apprehensive nature. He damned her for being so sly in her response, for now, if she was to answer him honestly, he'd be expected to do the same. Issuing deliberately out of focus, his descry began to settle on the distant plain of immortality beyond the reflection of the glass. Years, it had been, since Spike realized that he was nothing near invincible; and in the past few months, it had become ostentatiously predominant that he was no more than a man. As a man, though indecent as it sounds, it was much more elementary to look beyond and often ignore anything which could conceivably infiltrate his pith than it was to behold the whole picture and risk his pride. Due, nothing was exchanged further, because neither party was willing to do any more than scratch the surface of the other.
Neither party was willing to be scratched.
Spike had been left to himself, to fall victim to the enrapture of the aidenn which somehow had laced both of their chaotic paths into one and the same. Ironic, it was, that the craft happened to be lingering between the orbital boundary that separated the lacerations of Earth from the depraved nature of Mars. Perhaps it was his love of Shakespeare as a child that doted all these supersticions of his, but maybe, just maybe, it had been more.
Frankly, why he gave a damn about her tears in the slightest was an exotic concept to even himself. Though truthfully. . .
. . .well, there was no such thing as 'truth'. . .
~*~Author's Notations~*~
Rouge Night-I'd like to thank you very much for your reviewing, and yes, I'm very proud of being stuck in the 80's as far as hair bands and heavy metal. =) It's good to know I'm not the only one that is aware of decent music. As for Velvet Revolver, I just hope Scott isn't as high on his horse as everyone says he is, because as fun as it was to watch Axyl Rose create his drama, the last thing we need is a repeat of a Guns N' Roses as far as breakups are concerned.
Glossary:
"Baka" - Come on, anime junkies, the most basic insult, "idiot"
"Doushite?" - One of the ways to say "why?"