Nostalgia Blues

By Sweet Garbonzo

Miep Adler sat in her modest apartment, like she always did on a Friday night, alone. She had never been very skilled at relationships, and it had left her somewhat lonely. She would be thirty in a few years, and in her mind she could see a black door with her name on it being guarded by the Grim Reaper. Time was slipping from her hands, and it seemed so much more apparent whenever she was alone.

She walked across her bedroom and turned on a desk lamp on her vanity. She picked up a small brush and ran it through her dark brown hair. Catching her reflection in the mirror, she stopped brushing her hair to inspect her image once more. What she saw was a fairly pretty woman in her late twenties, with shoulder length hair and dull, gray eyes. She sighed, placed the brush in front of the mirror, and walked to the living room.

Miep sat in a recliner and grabbed a book to read. It was her nightly routine, after she graded school papers, to sit down with an enjoyable book. Most of the books she owned were antiques and hard to come by. The book she held in her hand was faded and worn. She flipped through the pages and became more and more involved in the story. She did not notice the knock at her door until she heard mumbled shouting coming from the other side.

Odd, she thought. It's nearly 12 o' clock. She placed the book on the coffee table in front of her chair and walked towards the door. Before unhooking the latch, she looked through the eyehole. It was a man she couldn't recognize, wearing a blue suit and clutching his right arm.

"Who is it?" She asked, slightly afraid of opening the door. She knew you could never be too careful on Mars.

"Open up Miep," the man yelled from the other side.

"I don't even know you. You could be a murderer, or some weirdo on a drug high," she replied, inwardly rolling her eyes at her own words. But still, there were a lot of weirdoes in her neighborhood, and she didn't want to take any chances.

"Miep, seriously, let me in," the voice answered. "I need help. I don't know where my ship is and I need some medical attention."

"How do you know my name?" She asked defensively, taking a step back from the door. "Who have you been talking to? Stay away!" She turned around and began walking down the hallway to her bedroom.

"Miep," the voice said, now in a soothing, comfortable voice, "remember when we were kids, you wanted to be trapeze artist until you broke your arm jumping from my roof." She stopped. A chill ran down her spine, and her flesh went cold. Turning around, she stood to face the door.

"But...anyone could know that. You could have asked my mother or something."

"When you were thirteen, you had a crush on my brother. I know you didn't tell anyone else about that."

She gasped, clutching her throat. Hurriedly, she unlocked the door and stared at the man in front of her. On closer inspection, he was soaking wet from the rain outside. His hair was a wild mess of dark tangles, and the arm he was clutching was stained a deep crimson. But all of this went unnoticed by Miep, who was nearly speechless.

"...Peter?" She asked, unsure if she was dreaming or if it was real. He stood there in front of her in the doorway.

"You gonna invite me in?" He asked, amused at her awe. She nodded her head pointed to the livingroom.

"Take a seat," she told him. He sat in her blue recliner, and she shut the door behind her.

"You should probably lock it," he said. She locked the door, and headed to the kitchen down the hall.

"Where are you going?" He asked.

"To get the first aid kit. And some cognac."

"I'll take some of that," he replied, still clutching his wounded arm. He looked around the place. A small TV sat in the corner opposite the door, and a blue couch that matched the chair he was sitting in was facing him. An old wooden bookshelf was next to his chair. He propped his feet on the coffee table next to the old book, and saw framed pictures of her family on the wall. He noticed she was missing pictures of her father.

She returned, first aid kit and cognac in hand. She set the bottle on the table and shoved his feet onto the floor. Opening the first aid kit, she removed gauze and some alcohol.

"Not that. Anything but that."

"Take off your shirt, and just hold still," She told him. He slowly and painfully removed his shirt, along with his gun and cigarettes. She dipped the alcohol in a cotton ball, which made him wince.

"Don't put that on my arm. I will kill you a thousand times over if you put that on my arm."

"It's not for your arm, silly," she said. "It's for this." She swabbed the cotton ball across a cut on his face, which made him squirm in his seat. She rolled her eyes. "Baby."

She began treating the wound on his arm, taking care to be gentle and she wrapped it in gauze. They sat there in silence, she focusing on her work, he staring at her. Finally, she closed the first aid kit, and took a sip from the bottle of cognac. He put his yellow shirt on, watching her as she sat on the coffee table in front of him.

"Peter," she said at last. He smirked.

"I had forgotten that name. Nobody calls me that anymore."

"I'll be damned if I call you 'Spike.' What the hell kind of name is that?"

"Just something I acquired," he said nonchalantly, sticking his pinky in his ear. Miep sighed.

"Why did you come back? Why now, why not before?" He shrugged.

"Like I said, I needed help. I lost communication with my partner and well...I really wasn't interested in going to the hospital." His gaze shifted across the room, glancing in every direction but hers.

"Partner?"

"I'm a bounty hunter." She laughed.

"Oh please! I thought that was just a childhood game of yours. You can't possibly make any money doing that."

"I seem to make plenty of enemies," he said with a smirk. She bit her lip, something she always did whenever she felt nervous or upset.

"Annie told me you had died." He finally looked at her.

"In a way, I did. I left the syndicate, left that whole life behind me, and started a new one."

"Things aren't ever that easy, Peter," Miep told him truthfully. He ignored her comment.

"Why don't you have any pictures of Frank?" She took in a sharp breath.

"It's too dangerous," she replied after a long silence. "If certain people knew he was my father, I would be in serious trouble."

"That may be," he said, "but I'm sure Frank doesn't appreciate it."

"You know my father is dead," she said in a dark, brooding voice. He grabbed the bottle of cognac from her.

"So, Miep Adler, what have you been doing lately?" Spike asked her. Her lip was beginning to feel sore.

"You never change. Always playing it cool. I hate you. You always made me feel stupid." He laughed, which brought a smile to her face.

"You don't mean that."

"Yeah, if you say so."

"So," he said, "you must be a dental assistant. Or a nurse."

"Oh funny. I'm a teacher. I teach German kids how to speak English. There are a lot in this part of the city. English is coming back as a standard language." She fiddled with her fingers as he grabbed his pack of cigarettes and took one out. After quitting smoking years ago, it was difficult to watch someone else do it in front of her.

"Little school teacher, huh?" He asked as he lit the cigarette in his mouth. "I bet you break all the boys' hearts." She snorted.

"Hardly. They all think of me as a wench." He took a swig of cognac and noticed for the first time a picture of his older brother next to the other family portraits.

"Thomas." He nodded his head in the direction of the photo, which made her turn to look at it. It always gave her a sick feeling in her stomach to look at that old, dusty photo on the wall.

"You should have married him," he told her, "while you had the chance." She shook her head, a nostalgic smile on her face.

"I'd rather die an old maid than be married to a dead man," she told him matter-of-factly, although she mostly said it to convince herself that it was true.

"Just think of the insurance money you could have had. And he had a really nice car too."

"That's not funny Peter," she said coldly. The smile on his face was replaced with a frown.

"Miep," he replied in a soft, soothing voice.

"It's not funny at all! The Syndicate destroys lives! It killed my father, it killed Thomas, and someday, it's going to kill you."

She was silent, wishing she could take back the words aimed at Spike. She couldn't admit it out loud, but she didn't want to lose him. He was the only piece of Thomas she had left, even if she hadn't seen him in years. She knew those sort of words would hurt him as much as it hurt her to say them.

"You're right." She looked up, tears brimming her eyes. His stayed dry as a bone. "I probably will be killed by them eventually. But whatever happens, happens." He flicked his cigarette in an ashtray next to the chair that Miep had kept out of habit. Her eyes flickered with anger.

"That's not true, Peter! You may feel that way, but I don't. You're actions affect the people around you. People that care. You think about yourself too much." She glared at him, but he only stared back. The look on his face was indecipherable. Usually, she was one of the few people who could tell what he was thinking. He seemed to master his art of poker face over the years.

"Do you still have it?" He asked suddenly, waking her up from her wandering mind. She was confused by this question.

"Have what?"

He picked up his jacket and fished around the pockets inside. He finally pulled out a slip of paper, and handed it too her. She chuckled in surprise as she read it aloud.

"'Peter Spiegel, the coolest guy on Mars, will always be best friends with Miep Adler. November 12, 2052.'" A red thumbprint was at the bottom of the note. "My God, Peter, you sure keep a hold of things."

"Where's yours?" he asked. She handed his piece of paper back to him. Getting up, she went to the bookshelf, and picked up a small box. She opened it, and pulled out her piece of paper. She gave it to him, and he read it to himself.

I, Miep Adler, the ultimate in cool, will be friends forever with Peter Spiegel (who is just a goofball). November 12, 2052. There at the bottom, was another red thumbprint.

After Spike read it, she took it and put it back in the box, which she placed on the shelf. She sighed, and looked at him.

"Things are so different now, though. To be honest, I haven't thought about you much in the past five years. When was the last time I saw you? I had to have been in college."

"It was Thomas' funeral." She got a far away look in he eyes, thinking of times when Thomas' name wasn't just a memory.

"Does it make you sad," she asked him, "that your brother has died?" He thought in silence for a long time. She knew he didn't like talking about things like this.

"No."

"But Peter! He was killed! Killed in that stupid gang." She sat on the coffee table again, and swiped the cognac from Spike. "He died in vain, over a stupid street war."

"He died because of you," Spike replied. She looked up, eyes wide with disbelief.

"You're lying. That's not true, this has nothing to do with me." He had that look on his face again.

"Some people on the inside...they wanted you out of the picture. You're right, being Frank's daughter isn't an advantage in life." He glanced at the photo of Thomas on the wall, who was grinning, oblivious to the fact that he was dead. "Thomas tried to stop them. You're the reason he's dead."

She was starting to feel dizzy, and cold sweat trickled down her back. Thomas, dead because of her! It was an idea she hadn't thought possible. She had no words to express her feelings at that exact moment. The world felt dark and lonely.

"Miep," Spike said, taking her by the hand, "It wasn't your fault. He decided to die. No one could have stopped him. It was his choice. Whatever happens, happens, right?"

"Yeah," she said, not completely listening to his words. "Happens."

*****

"So where have you been, lazy bones?" Faye asked shrewdly. She looked quite lazy herself, lounging on the couch, which Spike had clearly claimed on numerous occasions to be his own. The fact that Jet paid for the couch in the first place never fully crossed his mind.

"Is it ever your business, Faye?" he grumbled, walking towards his room. She turned around on the couch, watching him walk away. Something seemed to be bothering him, and as curious as she was, Faye realized it was probably a bad idea to pry. She turned back around and continued watching Big Shot.

Spike, once he got into his room, flopped onto his bed, exhausted. The bounty which had given him the wound in his arm was tough, and it was lucky he had remembered where Miep lived. Meeting people from his past always made him feel misty and nostalgic. It was a feeling he both loved to indulge in and hated with a passion. Like a strong drug, in the aftermath it left him feeling empty and lost.

He pulled out a piece of paper from his jacket. It was crisp and new looking, a clean, fresh white color. He read it to himself, and smiled.

I, Peter Spiegel, will always be best friends with Miep Adler, even in death. March 4, 2071.

He tossed the note on the floor and began drifting to sleep, the one place he knew to be a dream.

Whatever happens. Happens.

SEE YOU SPACE COWBOY.

AN: A story that turned into a lot more than I was expecting. When I began writing this, I just wanted a story with the name "Miep" in it. Somehow, it turned into a Cowboy Bebop story. =P Review, flame, whatever, just have a nice day, and tell your family you love them. ^__^