[Disclaimer: Cowboy Bebop was created by, and is copyrighted by Yadate Hajime in association with the legal entities Sunrise and Bandai. The characters are used without permission but no material profit of any kind is being made from the following work. Sunrise and Bandai reserve all rights to Cowboy Bebop material, but all of the situations unique to this work of fan fiction are property of the writer. Bang. Hiss. Vroom…?]

[Note:  Oh, this is bad and it got too Vicious-centric thanks to the strange inspiration I had to finish it.]


X-ing Off the Days

            The twins weren't called in, but the other three weren't so lucky.  They had received express orders be dropped off at a pick up point as soon as they lost the police.  There were two cars waiting for them, manned by slightly embarrassed-looking Dragon thugs.  Spike had made a big show of joking around with the men, explaining that they'd had car trouble, which wasn't purely untrue.  It had helped save face, until they were split up into the cars and Vicious was directed to ride alone.  Trouble had never been so obvious.

            The ride with Julia was quiet.  Spike could have spent the trip contriving plans to help spring his partner from the maximum amount of Van-inspired punishment.  When Julia did not protest an awkward one-armed hug meant to reassure her, he couldn't find anything to think about other than the feel of her hair against his hand or the play of her shoulder blade against his bicep. 

            When she responded to his gesture with a distant smile and a deeper gaze than he'd ever received from her glacier-blue eyes, Spike finally understood that he was going to do something wrong, but not something he would regret.  He wondered if she understood the same thing. 

They arrived at the office building before it was late, by Syndicate standards, and the group found themselves the subject of a plethora of covert glances as they were lead in.  All three walked as if the thugs escorting them were an impromptu honor guard, even if it was obvious they weren't.  Appearances had to be kept up.

Not a word was exchanged between them when they were led to the waiting room outside Mao's expansive office and asked to wait.  The receptionist absently informed them that Mao would see them when he had taken care of another appointment.  They were resigned to wait.

Spike tried not to care about the phone conversation and the resignation he'd heard in Mao's voice.  It wouldn't have been a problem if Mao didn't hint that Spike was worth more than petty brawls.  It was the older man's sentiment that raked the younger man's conscience; if not for Mao, he might have been dead already.  The same could be said doubly of Vicious.

            His reddish gaze took in his distant partner, standing straight-backed beside the receptionist's desk.  Perhaps Spike could have found a life racing, but Vicious would be dead a hundred different ways if not for Mao.  He had begun to feel that Vicious resented that little known fact.

            Julia was more of a mystery.  Spike didn't know the circumstances of her entry to the Red Dragon and while he was slightly curious, it wasn't something he needed to know.  It was like his friendship with Vicious… or how it had been.  They had had a wordless understanding made up of blood and sinew and back-to-back action that carried on even off the battlefield. 

            An epiphany struck Spike and rolled down his spine with deadly clarity.  Where did the battlefield end?  When he'd first met Vicious, there was never a moment the man didn't expect somebody to walk around a corner with guns blazing.  He'd lived every moment expecting death, just as Spike had.  Neither of them had anything to live for, but death was, at least, an entertaining game to play. 

            He'd thought both of them had found times and places they could leave the battlefield.  When Julia had shown up, it seemed the most concrete evidence.  But lately, even if Vicious had been willing to get sloppy along with them that day, the battlefield seemed to be encroaching on new territory.

            Maybe the problem wasn't so much the battlefield as who owned it?  Spike made the intuitive jump to the problematic conclusion; Vicious was losing territory he thought he owned.  His gaze slipped slowly to the quiet gleam of golden tresses and the terribly beauty made his stomach clench.

            "Spike, Julia," Spike had noticed the door opening, but didn't react right away.  It might have been another mistake; the influence of something outside instinct.  He tore his eyes away and gave Mao a cocky grin, noting sadly the lines around the man's face. 

"I don't need you two right now."  Mao's voice was stern, with an underlying irritation that bespoke his disappointment.  And there was something else there, a sudden flicker of understanding.

Spike was happily immune to the irritation, but looked away, averting his face in respect.  "But we acted together."

            He heard the sigh, the vestiges of frustration the older man hadn't been able to cover.  "Both of you go before I change my mind.  I'll call for you later."

            Spike opened his mouth to protest, but a cold voice preempted him.  "I'm looking forward to our conversation."  Vicious was looking at Spike as he made the statement, even though he was speaking to Mao.  No words, spoken or otherwise, passed between the two men: wordless understandings were gone.  He turned his back and headed into Mao's office.  As if on a last inspiration, he looked over his shoulder and stated cryptically, "Take care of Julia for me."

            The street was wet from a light rain.  He didn't know when it started, but it had ended shortly after he'd arrived at his syndicate-owned apartment.  Vicious appreciated rain; it provided him more than enough reflections to keep track of movements that might not be his own.  For a short space of time, he'd found it vaguely attractive rather than merely useful.  It had since lost the romance. 

            He had cleaned up and changed into clean clothes swiftly before heading out again.  The dull pain suffusing his shoulder joints hardly bothered him when he slipped his arms through sleeves.  He'd suffered much worse for less than insulting the Van.  The relative lightness of his punishment coupled with a solo assignment had tipped him off.

His mind was entirely too fast and inclined to expect the worst.  It was the only thing that kept his offensive behavior from quickly ending his life.  The benefit of returning paranoia allowed Vicious to pierce multiple levels of deceptions, facades, and motives.  Life playing house with Spike and Julia had been a dream.  A warm, comfortable, and utterly false dream.  He'd been a fool, a snake blinded by warmth. 

With a silent growl, he cleared the thoughts from his mind.  He didn't have much to do, but in the latest hours of the night he didn't expect it to be easy.  When he finally did find what he was looking for, he dialed Spike.  He made arrangements to meet his partner at Julia's apartment as he stepped off the street and onto the curb.  He still appreciated Spike's lack of inquisitiveness, but he didn't think more a bout it.  A jerk of a thumb indicated what he was looking to buy from the roadside seller and a flick of his wrist snapped the phone into his jacket.  Vicious had no appreciation for the beauty of crimson roses, except for the passing recognition of their color; like the dark blood that comes straight from the heart.  He appreciated them for their utility. 

Compliments on his choice fell on deaf ears.  With movements comprised of purpose and deathly grace, Vicious strode down the street to hire a cab.  He wasn't entirely certain where he'd left his car, thanks to the foolishness of the afternoon.  It was hardly important.  A cab could get him where he was going and he could, at least, rely on Julia to know where it was, considering that she'd need it to pick up hers when the sun made an appearance.  Utility was a good thing.  Knowing what people needed was even better.  Knowing the relative utility of a person, including oneself, was a matter of survival. 

He had the cab drop him off short of Julia's apartment, preferring not to draw attention to his arrival.  He took the stairs with silent efficiency.  He didn't bother to knock, only slipped his copy of the key through the lock and cued her combination.  When the deadbolt slipped, he let himself in.

They were sitting on the floor by the television, a stack of playing cards divided between them.  Julia stood up when he walked in, murmuring something about taking his jacket as if he was a formal guest.  Spike dropped his hand of cards and stood up to greet him as well.  Vicious looked between them and wondered if he had been so close for so long that he had never noticed anything growing between them.

"Still in good shape?"  Spike asked bluntly, smirk almost convincing.

"Thanks for watching over her," Vicious commented emotionlessly, ignoring the question and the aches it reminded him of.  The hand holding the huge bouquet of roses lifted, and with hands only hesitant enough for either Spike or Vicious to notice, Julia began to reach for them instead of his jacket.  At the last instant, though, she realized their course wasn't meant for her.  "They aren't for you," Vicious rasped for Spike's benefit, ice creeping into his tone.

            Spike was shocked when the dozen red roses found their crimson heads beneath his nose.  Hands used to breaking bones and pulling triggers weren't as adept at handling roses, but he took hold of them anyway.  "Late tomorrow night, there's some work at the cathedral in the old part of our territory and I can't be trusted to do it the way they'd like."

            "Ah," Spike's smirk became instantly genuine.  "So they weren't nearly as upset as you thought.  That's a relief."

            Vicious replied with a small pain-laced shrug.  "I think they are, but I wouldn't worry about them if I was you.  You're still in their good graces.  If nothing else, you're more useful than I am."

            "For what that's worth," Spike snorted, looking over the decadent bouquet with an appraising eye.  "What do they want me to take?  A missile launcher?"

            From Vicious' side, Julia observed the roses coolly.  "You'll look like you're going to a wedding or a funeral.  Dress the part, if you have the clothes, Spiegel."

            The barest thinning of his lips was hardly a smile, but it was the closest thing Vicious had.  "I'll tell you what they told me about the hit tomorrow, Spike.  I left my cab with instructions to wait for you, so you should go."

            Another hesitation gripped the room for a split second.  Neither Spike nor Julia looked at each other, but their lack of movement spoke volumes to Vicious' growing suspicions.  Recovering quickly, Spike gave them a vaguely jaunty salute with his free hand.  "I'll see you tomorrow."  He gave Vicious a wink and waggled the roses, "And I'll be satisfied knowing that one cabbie on this god awful planet thinks Vicious and I are an item.  If he's syndicate, I can't wait to hear the rumors."

            Julia greeted Spike's playful remark with an exasperated look.  "Get out, Spike."

            The door was hardly closed before she felt Vicious' cool fingers slipping around her bare arm.  She closed her eyes for a moment as he turned her around, trying to push thoughts of Spike away even though she could hear his feet on the stairs.  When she opened them again, his eyes were locked on her face.

            "Did…" she searched for the proper words and emotions.  "Did they hurt you?"

            He searched her face for meaning, but as unused to emotion as he was, he read nothing there.  Slowly, his hand departed her arm to find her face.  Her face was soft even if the expression her features had drawn into wasn't one he understood.  "There are better ways of learning than by asking questions."

            Her long exhalation informed them both that she'd been holding her breath as his fingers stole over her lovely features.  Blue eyes met a pair the color of iron, but there was no communication between them.  Her hands moved like his, independent of gaze.  They moved together, thumbs hooking into his lapels, as they pushed back on the jacket, taking it off his shoulders.

            She saw a sudden hardness in his eyes as he took his hands from her and angled his arms back to allow the jacket to slide down into her grip.  The look was one of the few things familiar to his behavior.  She took the jacket away, draped it over a chair and let her hands return to his collar.  Her hands knew the efficient knot he always kept his tie in and if they knew comfort in the untying it was only due to the familiarity in the motion.  The tension saturating the apartment was intensely unsettling.

            The proximity of her hands to his throat was more interesting when he considered the increased odds currently against him.  She did not know that she stood to gain more if she had the strength to strangle him then and there.  It was an intoxicating feeling, knowing a secret like that. 

            His tie soon joined his jacket and when her nimble fingers were busy on the buttons of his vest, he resumed staring at her face.  Julia was beautiful.  There had been a time he had appreciated her beauty for more than just the proof it offered his prowess.  A period of time whose borders were unknown to him and didn't seem important anymore.

            As her hands came up again to work the buttons on his shirt, he undid his belt and slid it into his.  It was the most opportune time for her to kill him, but it was not in his best interests to kill her.  Besides, she was his and he did not ruin the useful things he owned.

            Her hands were warmer than he remembered, but his skin was colder than she recalled.  She slid them under his shirt, gliding along cool muscle to remove the cloth.  The hard looked returned when she arrived at his shoulder joints.  They were warm, flushed with blood.  "Dislocated?"

            He watched her lips form the words, but was uninterested in what they had to say.  "It won't take long before I have my edge back."

            He didn't wait for her reply, instead slid arms around her, proving the injury didn't affect him more than causing him discomfort.  Even if she didn't welcome his advance, she did not resist.  Familiar as she in the apartment, he guided her back to her small bedroom, lowering his head to hers as they went.

            But when their lips met, she had little passion to give him and though he hadn't known it, it was her emotion he had craved.

His kisses became an angry swirl of tongue and biting teeth, which she answered with little reaction.  He pushed her onto the bed, fell with her, one hand on her shoulder the other playing angel's advocate, trailing gently across her cheek and jaw.  Her lips gave little resistance and her tongue merely followed his.  Her kisses weren't the same... they had lost their kick.  Were her lips always that soft?  Where was the gunpowder of weeks ago?

            Frustrated, he pulled his head back, leaving them both gasping slightly for air.  The hand that caressed her cheek took the path of her jaw down to her throat.  He felt the hard pulse under her skin and sneered.  It wasn't the heart rate of the woman who had flew at him in a passionate frenzy only a month ago.  Instinct fed him her fear.

            "You wouldn't have anything to fear," his lips whispered against her forehead, "if you hadn't done anything wrong."

            You wouldn't have anything to be angry about, she mouthed silently against his larynx, if you thought of us as people. 

            He pulled away from her in annoyance, sliding his legs over the bed to undress.  She was happy to let him go.  Undressed but uninterested in continuing any physical conversation, they slipped beneath the comforter and sheets.  It didn't take long for Julia to fall asleep, she wanted nothing so much as to dream of somebody else.  Vicious, though, had no peace of mind and he didn't understand it.

            It hurt his shoulders, but he leaned back on his hands in the bed, thinking.  Instincts were far more important to him than emotions, and he was certain there was an external reason for his lack of comfort that had nothing to do with the warm body sleeping next to his. 

            If Spike had known what Vicious was thinking, he might have said something from the fire escape, but he didn't.  And even if he did, he wouldn't have been able to articulate for Vicious what it meant to feel complicated emotions.  Spike was just as new to betraying his friends as his partner: he'd soon learn that Vicious was better at it.