Author: Disgruntled Peony
Timeline: Takes place after the ending of the series.
Spoilers: Let me put it to you this way. If you haven't seen the end of the series, DO NOT READ ANY FURTHER! There's bound to be spoilers littered all over the place.
Author's notes: This is an experiment, as much as anything; I've been trying to write a novel, but my description has thus far been sorely lacking. So I decided to try my hand at a descriptive story, in a forum where I could get feedback on whether or not I was actually doing a good job at it. That's where you readers come in. ;) Please, if you read my story, drop me a line and let me know what you like or dislike, both about the story in general and about the description (or lack thereof). Also, about the story: I know that Spike died at the end of the series, but fanfiction is all about exploring alternate possibilities... and this is what I think might have happened if he didn't. (I'm sure countless fics have been based off of this idea, but don't write my story off until you actually see what I've got in mind. Chances are, I just might surprise you.)
He was dead. Or as good as dead, anyway. Being in a coma for three weeks basically qualified someone as dead, didn't it? That's what Faye wanted to believe. It was what she had to believe. Because if she thought that Spike would live and he didn't... no, better not to continue that train of thought. Better not to let it enter her mind at all.
But if she thought of him as dead, why did she keep visiting him?
Mostly for Jet's sake, she told herself. He kept dragging her over to the hospital when he went to visit, on the grounds that she needed to get her ass out of the casinos once in a while and do something that was actually worthwhile. Faye thought he had another reason, though. She thought he didn't like being in that hospital any more than she did, and he'd decided that if he was going to torture himself because of some archaic feeling of loyalty, she should suffer as well.
She sighed and leaned back on the faded yellow couch... the couch Spike had fallen asleep on countless times, the couch that Ed and Ein had bounced on when they were playing haphazard games of tag. Funny; when she finally decided that the Be-Bop was her home, it had turned out to be as much of a fantasy as the house back on Earth. She was haunted by memories and the ghosts of people who had moved on, with only Jet and his bonsai trees to keep her company.
"What am I doing?" she growled as she sat up, greatly displeased at the fact that she had caught herself moping. She was getting sentimental when she had no reason to be. This called for a diversion. She'd been getting pretty good at coming up with them, lately. Off to the races, then. Off to bet and lose more money, to add to her ever-increasing debt. It had grown so large that it didn't matter whether she won or lost; she'd take it with her to the grave.
She stood up and walked to the docking bay, forcefully ignoring the memories that each corridor seemed to evoke. Why, when she actually wanted to forget things, was her memory so sharp?
Of course, situated in the docking bay was the most poignant memory of all: the Swordfish II. It was... no, had been Spike's ship. When he died, it would become Jet's. But it wouldn't, not really; Jet would never use it. The ship would just languish in the hanger, gathering dust, just an empty shell without a purpose.
A tear slid unbidden down Faye's cheek. It was closely followed by a growl of fury. She had no reason to be getting choked up like this. So Spike was as good as dead. So what? It was his own damned fault, running off to the Red Dragon headquarters in a homicidal rage. Not that he'd looked particularly angry... with Spike, it was always hard to tell what he was feeling. But Faye had begun to learn how to read between the lines, to peek under his masks just enough to know how sad and angry he'd been when he left.
Jet's voice boomed through the docking bay. "You're leaving again?"
Faye gasped with surprise, glad she had her back turned to the door so Jet couldn't see she'd been crying. She wiped the tear off her cheek, forced a cheerful expression on her face and turned around. "Yup. There's a horse out there with my name on it."
Jet shook his head. "This won't solve anything, Faye."
Faye felt herself bristle at that comment. "Who said I've got anything to solve?"
"You're running."
"No, that would be the horses' job."
Jet glared at her irritably. "That's not what I meant and you know it."
Faye's voice rose, echoing throughout the hanger in a staccato burst of sound. "Look, I'm not the one with issues! If Spike wanted to run off and get himself killed, that's no skin off my nose."
Jet's jaw dropped in disbelief. "He's not dead yet!"
A bitter laugh escaped Faye's lips. "Really? I hadn't noticed."
Jet stalked out of the docking bay, no doubt mumbling a string of profanities under his breath. Faye clamored into the Red-Tail and began to prep it for take-off, muttering a few choice expletives of her own.
Spike sat at the bottom of a staircase. It stretched up into the clouds, white and glistening. It reminded him of the stairway he had seen once in a mushroom-induced hallucination, which was disconcerting. But he'd been there long enough to get used to it. He didn't know exactly how long he'd been there... it could have been days, months, years even.
He was waiting for something. He didn't know what, exactly; he just knew that it hadn't come yet, he was tired of sitting there, and if whatever he was waiting for didn't come soon he was going to do something stupid. Something like walk halfway up that staircase and then jump off. That at least might get somebody's attention.
He wouldn't really, of course. That would mean getting up. And, as tired as he was of waiting, he didn't feel like getting up without a reason to. There would be no point to it.
"How much longer are you going to sit there?"
Spike's heart leapt, although he managed to keep his expression stoic. He'd know that voice anywhere. It was Julia. "Oh, I'd say 'till about... now." He stood up and turned around, a sad smile playing across his face as he looked at the blonde-haired beauty standing before him. "I missed you."
Julia returned the expression. "I missed you too."
Spike wanted to rush over, to wrap her in his arms and bury his face in her hair... but something held him back. He settled for tucking his hands in his pockets and tilting his head to the side in quiet admiration. The silence became drawn out, and a feeling of awkwardness set in. When Spike could stand it no longer, he spoke.
"I killed Vicious."
He said it without guilt or remorse, his tone as casual as if he had been merely discussing the weather. But he could feel his body tense after he spoke, his entire being awaiting Julia's reply.
Julia nodded slowly. "I know."
Well, of course she would know. She was dead too, after all. And if Spike was talking to her, that meant.... "It's over."
"What's over?" Julia asked, her expression darkening.
"The dream." Julia didn't respond, so Spike decided to be blunt. "I'm dead, right?"
Julia sighed and turned away. "Spike, the dream is only just beginning."
Spike's eyes narrowed. What was that supposed to mean? "Julia...." Julia began to walk away. "Julia!" Spike rushed after her and grabbed at her arm with the intention of turning her around to face him.
His hand passed right through her.
Spike came to a halt and stared at his hand, eyes wide with shock. He looked up at Julia again and understanding began to dawn on him. She wasn't really there. None of this was real.
But even if she was an illusion or a figment of his imagination, he couldn't let her leave. Not until he'd found out what was really happening. "Julia, wait!" he yelled, and rushed to catch up with her. He didn't bother trying to grab her, this time; he ran right through her, then turned around, fixing her with a steady gaze. "Tell me what's going on."
Julia looked back up at Spike, eyes filled with sorrow. "I'm sorry, Spike. I can't tell you that."
"You can tell me everything, you know that."
Julia shook her head. "No, I can't. I don't know what's going on any more than you do."
"So you don't even know whether I'm dead or not?"
Julia lowered her eyes. "You're not dead... but from what I can tell, you're not really alive any more either."
Spike could feel the belligerent teenager in him rising up to the surface. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
Julia began to walk again. She stepped right through Spike with all the tangibility of a ghost. "You'll have to find out for yourself."
Spike whirled around, ready to barrage Julia with a fresh set of questions, but she had disappeared. All that was left was a single red rose lying on the ground at his feet. He bent down and picked it up, fist tightening around the thorny stem. There was no pain; yet another confirmation that this was some sort of illusion. Spike returned to his former position beside the staircase, shoulders slumped, and stared at the rose. For one fleeting moment, he had thought that he and Julia could finally be together. But, as always, he had ended up alone.
To be continued....
