A/N: In the vernacular of the Bebop series, I guess this is what we'd call
the eyecatch. That little graphic on either end of the commercial break,
the one before everything starts to come together again. Of course, the
freedom of fiction is to live outside the two-act or three-act structure of
television and film writing, but I thought I'd give a nod to the milestone
anyway, and say once again how much I appreciate the fact that y'all read
this yarn. I've had a lot of blanks to fill in from my outline lately, and
I'm excited to get back into some of the original material that was written
as the emotional and tonal basis of the story.
Also, just a teaser: when I started this project, I did so with the intention of presenting it as an "illustrated history" of life before Bebop. I've begun the work on that illustrated version on a dedicated web site, and I'll link it from my profile when it's ready for prime time, so you can see what I worked from when I created the tale, and read the story with some lovely series art as embellishment. New updates will always appear here at FFN well in advance of the material on the illustrated site, since a lot more work goes into the whole visual creation.
And away we go!
***
XX. Chimera
A thin trail of blue smoke snaked upward from the bowl of the pipe, wavering as it rose higher, finally joining the larger column of sparks and smoke and dissipating into the night air. Burning branches creaked and snapped in the fire while Spike held in the hit. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back as far as he could, feeling the world around him slow down.
Astrid's hand on his shoulder made the skin beneath tingle. "Tea," she said softly, and he looked around again, taking the stoneware cup from her with a nod of thanks. The smell of cloves, cardamom and cinnamon masked something bitter in the brew. He blew out a stream of smoke and took a drink; though not unpleasant, it had a medicinal undertone that cleared his sinuses and burned going down. Bull watched him from under half-closed eyelids.
"Where are you hurt?" Astrid asked, sitting beside him. He turned to look at her, noticing the faint scar above her right eyebrow. They'd gone exploring, when he was perhaps fourteen and she twelve, and she'd slipped on a rock in a stream that fed into the bay.
"Spike?" she urged.
"Do you remember how you got that scar?" he murmured, slow and hazy. "You didn't want to go home because Anji would fuss over it. It bled all day. You were the bravest girl I knew."
She smirked a little, knowing his frame of mind well, though she hadn't smoked with her father since he told her she would bear a child. "We're talking about your injuries, Swimming Bird."
"I met another brave girl. She might be as brave as you." He sighed. "She took care of me until I could get here."
"I'll take care of you now. But you have to focus for just a little longer." She turned his face to her with a finger. "You can stay as long as you need to."
He looked into her eyes, deep chocolate fringed with thick lashes, the pupils almost indistinguishable from the iris. "I should probably just show you." She helped him shrug out of the blue jacket, folding it neatly on the blanket beside the fire. He tried to obey her order to stay focused, pulling the tie's knot free and working on the buttons of the yellow shirt. When he slid it off, she pursed her lips and stood without a word.
"Wait. Where are you going?" he called after her.
She waved a hand. "You came for medicine."
He turned back to the fire, watching a hot spot in the coals undulate between red and white. "Women always want to help me in every way but the one that matters," he mumbled, and Bull looked up, but did not say anything in reply.
Spike took another hit from the pipe, shivering a little without his clothing but too high to care. The tea seemed to add a layer to the euphoria. He shuffled through memories of childhood with Astrid, exploring the strange, alien forests so unlike the city (where plants only grew in pots and greenhouses), making up games of chase and challenge, the fumbling, tentative innocent kisses that grew white-hot with adolescence. He'd never asked her for anything, and she'd promised him nothing in return, as though they both knew, wise beyond their years, that the days of youth were for learning and that someday, others would reap the benefits of the lessons. He was surprised to find he harbored neither jealousy nor desire for her, though he'd loved her first, and more than any other, before he met Julia.
The realization brought him back to earth momentarily. He'd never so much as thought the words, though something more basic than language in his heart had reached out to her when he felt certain he was going to die. He would have to see her again, face her again. She loved his closest friend, yet she'd responded to his advance with more willingness than he'd permitted himself to dream of.
Grant a dying man a wish, he'd said to her in jest. And then Bull's words drove straight through the pleasant fog of smoke and tea, burying themselves in the hole in his ribs, making him wish the bullet had found its mark.
"The yellow-haired mongoose set a trap for me," he said aloud, eyes wide. "The White Wolf found the mongoose in his den."
Bull raised his eyebrows.
Like film on a reel, Spike saw Julia in the pool hall, turning to him, golden hair and a golden glow all around her. Her bright blue eyes, the fine features, a faint flush to her cheeks. "She saved me. You can't be right."
"I am neither right nor wrong, Swimming Bird. I am only the listener, the repeater of stories."
Spike's mind raced while his stomach churned. Julia had brought him in, stitched him back together, even held his hand when a nightmare woke him. He kissed her, and she did not turn him away.
He shook his head again. "Whatever it is, it can't be right."
Bull stood slowly. "Only we can be wrong. The eyes deceive. Our fears rise up like a veil between us and what is real, making a towering elm into a menacing chimera."
"There you go, speaking in riddles again," Astrid quipped as she returned to the campfire, but her smile faded when she saw Spike's expression. "Father, what did you say to him?"
Bull gave her a long look that clearly conveyed she knew better than to ask. "Swimming Bird needs food and medicine, and most of all, he needs to dream, to find his way through his own fears to see truth." He placed a hand on Spike's head before he shuffled back to his tent, leaving the two he still thought of as children to themselves.
***
Julia lay staring up into the pitch black of the Syndicate suite. With the curtains closed, she couldn't even make out where the door and windows were in the unfamiliar space. Vicious slept soundly, one arm draped in a possessive and protective gesture over her body, and every so often she would try to dislodge herself, but he only pulled her closer each time.
Though the emotion was almost completely foreign, she knew guilt kept her awake. The weight in her stomach threatened to turn into physical pain. They'd made love, in what felt to her like a prescribed remedy for their few days apart, but every time she closed her eyes, she saw Spike's face, resigned and desperately sad. Afterward, Vicious had tried to reach him by comm., believing it was safe to pass along the news of the day, and got no answer. It did not seem to trouble him; he'd simply lay down with her and drifted off, probably for the first sound night of sleep in several days.
The realization came to her by slow degrees: she did not feel guilty for the way Spike's kiss had thrilled her. The gesture had been his farewell confession. Instead, she ached at the thought of him somewhere alone, while she laid with his partner, his friend, very nearly his brother, sharing what he had confessed he desired.
***
Spike worked his way through another cup of the strange tea while he watched Astrid mixing some kind of poultice, the stone bowl resting in the warm ash at the side of the firepit. He had no idea what to say, since he wasn't sure what he even thought. Thankfully, she seemed to understand. She filled the pipe again and passed it to him, looking up at the predawn light spreading across the sky. "You will want this," she warned, "so you can sleep, and so this does not hurt too much."
He took it, fingers covering hers briefly in the exchange. "Have you ever known your father to be wrong?" he asked, his voice low and tight.
She cocked her head. "Something he said came as a surprise to you."
"Too much of a surprise to be true," he replied, trying to keep her face in focus as he held Mao's lighter over the pipe.
She unwrapped a piece of jerky from the basket she'd brought, waiting until he set the pipe down to hand the food to him. "Be careful that you do not take your first impression of what he says as irrefutable fact. His gift is to present only the reality of what he sees. When what he sees touches what he knows, he can interpret it. But when what he sees touches only you, you must be sure you are interpreting it correctly. He cannot do it for you." She moved closer, finding the edge of the bandage he'd tied around his chest and pulling it loose. Faint rushing in his ears made him strain to hear her, and when she began unwrapping the bandage, passing it between her hands with her arms around him, he let himself go, slumping against her shoulder. He felt her smile, and then she lowered him to the blanket, putting a warm hand on his forehead.
"Close your eyes, Swimming Bird," she whispered. "Eat a little more, and let me take care of these." Her fingertips circled the edge of the bullet wound and then the gash in his shoulder. "Someone already took good care of you, I see."
The corners of his mouth lifted a little. "She embroiders." He gasped when the warm poultice made contact with the wound; it seemed to crawl in under his skin, burning, but then it faded to a kind of tingling numbness.
"Dream of women with fine fingers," Astrid said, "and tell me about them later today."
The lingering smile remained on his face, though he did not stir again, and she bound the wound with a long strip of chamois cloth before covering him with another blanket.
"Sleep well, Spike," she whispered, trailing her fingers through his hair. When the sun crept over the horizon, she returned to her tent, murmuring an apology to the man sleeping inside and laying down beside him to pursue her own dreams.
Also, just a teaser: when I started this project, I did so with the intention of presenting it as an "illustrated history" of life before Bebop. I've begun the work on that illustrated version on a dedicated web site, and I'll link it from my profile when it's ready for prime time, so you can see what I worked from when I created the tale, and read the story with some lovely series art as embellishment. New updates will always appear here at FFN well in advance of the material on the illustrated site, since a lot more work goes into the whole visual creation.
And away we go!
***
XX. Chimera
A thin trail of blue smoke snaked upward from the bowl of the pipe, wavering as it rose higher, finally joining the larger column of sparks and smoke and dissipating into the night air. Burning branches creaked and snapped in the fire while Spike held in the hit. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back as far as he could, feeling the world around him slow down.
Astrid's hand on his shoulder made the skin beneath tingle. "Tea," she said softly, and he looked around again, taking the stoneware cup from her with a nod of thanks. The smell of cloves, cardamom and cinnamon masked something bitter in the brew. He blew out a stream of smoke and took a drink; though not unpleasant, it had a medicinal undertone that cleared his sinuses and burned going down. Bull watched him from under half-closed eyelids.
"Where are you hurt?" Astrid asked, sitting beside him. He turned to look at her, noticing the faint scar above her right eyebrow. They'd gone exploring, when he was perhaps fourteen and she twelve, and she'd slipped on a rock in a stream that fed into the bay.
"Spike?" she urged.
"Do you remember how you got that scar?" he murmured, slow and hazy. "You didn't want to go home because Anji would fuss over it. It bled all day. You were the bravest girl I knew."
She smirked a little, knowing his frame of mind well, though she hadn't smoked with her father since he told her she would bear a child. "We're talking about your injuries, Swimming Bird."
"I met another brave girl. She might be as brave as you." He sighed. "She took care of me until I could get here."
"I'll take care of you now. But you have to focus for just a little longer." She turned his face to her with a finger. "You can stay as long as you need to."
He looked into her eyes, deep chocolate fringed with thick lashes, the pupils almost indistinguishable from the iris. "I should probably just show you." She helped him shrug out of the blue jacket, folding it neatly on the blanket beside the fire. He tried to obey her order to stay focused, pulling the tie's knot free and working on the buttons of the yellow shirt. When he slid it off, she pursed her lips and stood without a word.
"Wait. Where are you going?" he called after her.
She waved a hand. "You came for medicine."
He turned back to the fire, watching a hot spot in the coals undulate between red and white. "Women always want to help me in every way but the one that matters," he mumbled, and Bull looked up, but did not say anything in reply.
Spike took another hit from the pipe, shivering a little without his clothing but too high to care. The tea seemed to add a layer to the euphoria. He shuffled through memories of childhood with Astrid, exploring the strange, alien forests so unlike the city (where plants only grew in pots and greenhouses), making up games of chase and challenge, the fumbling, tentative innocent kisses that grew white-hot with adolescence. He'd never asked her for anything, and she'd promised him nothing in return, as though they both knew, wise beyond their years, that the days of youth were for learning and that someday, others would reap the benefits of the lessons. He was surprised to find he harbored neither jealousy nor desire for her, though he'd loved her first, and more than any other, before he met Julia.
The realization brought him back to earth momentarily. He'd never so much as thought the words, though something more basic than language in his heart had reached out to her when he felt certain he was going to die. He would have to see her again, face her again. She loved his closest friend, yet she'd responded to his advance with more willingness than he'd permitted himself to dream of.
Grant a dying man a wish, he'd said to her in jest. And then Bull's words drove straight through the pleasant fog of smoke and tea, burying themselves in the hole in his ribs, making him wish the bullet had found its mark.
"The yellow-haired mongoose set a trap for me," he said aloud, eyes wide. "The White Wolf found the mongoose in his den."
Bull raised his eyebrows.
Like film on a reel, Spike saw Julia in the pool hall, turning to him, golden hair and a golden glow all around her. Her bright blue eyes, the fine features, a faint flush to her cheeks. "She saved me. You can't be right."
"I am neither right nor wrong, Swimming Bird. I am only the listener, the repeater of stories."
Spike's mind raced while his stomach churned. Julia had brought him in, stitched him back together, even held his hand when a nightmare woke him. He kissed her, and she did not turn him away.
He shook his head again. "Whatever it is, it can't be right."
Bull stood slowly. "Only we can be wrong. The eyes deceive. Our fears rise up like a veil between us and what is real, making a towering elm into a menacing chimera."
"There you go, speaking in riddles again," Astrid quipped as she returned to the campfire, but her smile faded when she saw Spike's expression. "Father, what did you say to him?"
Bull gave her a long look that clearly conveyed she knew better than to ask. "Swimming Bird needs food and medicine, and most of all, he needs to dream, to find his way through his own fears to see truth." He placed a hand on Spike's head before he shuffled back to his tent, leaving the two he still thought of as children to themselves.
***
Julia lay staring up into the pitch black of the Syndicate suite. With the curtains closed, she couldn't even make out where the door and windows were in the unfamiliar space. Vicious slept soundly, one arm draped in a possessive and protective gesture over her body, and every so often she would try to dislodge herself, but he only pulled her closer each time.
Though the emotion was almost completely foreign, she knew guilt kept her awake. The weight in her stomach threatened to turn into physical pain. They'd made love, in what felt to her like a prescribed remedy for their few days apart, but every time she closed her eyes, she saw Spike's face, resigned and desperately sad. Afterward, Vicious had tried to reach him by comm., believing it was safe to pass along the news of the day, and got no answer. It did not seem to trouble him; he'd simply lay down with her and drifted off, probably for the first sound night of sleep in several days.
The realization came to her by slow degrees: she did not feel guilty for the way Spike's kiss had thrilled her. The gesture had been his farewell confession. Instead, she ached at the thought of him somewhere alone, while she laid with his partner, his friend, very nearly his brother, sharing what he had confessed he desired.
***
Spike worked his way through another cup of the strange tea while he watched Astrid mixing some kind of poultice, the stone bowl resting in the warm ash at the side of the firepit. He had no idea what to say, since he wasn't sure what he even thought. Thankfully, she seemed to understand. She filled the pipe again and passed it to him, looking up at the predawn light spreading across the sky. "You will want this," she warned, "so you can sleep, and so this does not hurt too much."
He took it, fingers covering hers briefly in the exchange. "Have you ever known your father to be wrong?" he asked, his voice low and tight.
She cocked her head. "Something he said came as a surprise to you."
"Too much of a surprise to be true," he replied, trying to keep her face in focus as he held Mao's lighter over the pipe.
She unwrapped a piece of jerky from the basket she'd brought, waiting until he set the pipe down to hand the food to him. "Be careful that you do not take your first impression of what he says as irrefutable fact. His gift is to present only the reality of what he sees. When what he sees touches what he knows, he can interpret it. But when what he sees touches only you, you must be sure you are interpreting it correctly. He cannot do it for you." She moved closer, finding the edge of the bandage he'd tied around his chest and pulling it loose. Faint rushing in his ears made him strain to hear her, and when she began unwrapping the bandage, passing it between her hands with her arms around him, he let himself go, slumping against her shoulder. He felt her smile, and then she lowered him to the blanket, putting a warm hand on his forehead.
"Close your eyes, Swimming Bird," she whispered. "Eat a little more, and let me take care of these." Her fingertips circled the edge of the bullet wound and then the gash in his shoulder. "Someone already took good care of you, I see."
The corners of his mouth lifted a little. "She embroiders." He gasped when the warm poultice made contact with the wound; it seemed to crawl in under his skin, burning, but then it faded to a kind of tingling numbness.
"Dream of women with fine fingers," Astrid said, "and tell me about them later today."
The lingering smile remained on his face, though he did not stir again, and she bound the wound with a long strip of chamois cloth before covering him with another blanket.
"Sleep well, Spike," she whispered, trailing her fingers through his hair. When the sun crept over the horizon, she returned to her tent, murmuring an apology to the man sleeping inside and laying down beside him to pursue her own dreams.