XXII. Under the Table and Dreaming
2066. Good lord, he was 22 years old. Three years ago, he'd never thought he would see this birthday. For some reason, the 21st hadn't seemed so strange; it seemed romantic, like the 20th century bad boy film stars, to live to the age of 21, but everything after that smacked of adulthood.
Vicious was coming to pick him up. He'd bought some battle-tank of a Mercedes a week ago, wanted to drive it around. He wore it like a badge of superiority, like he wore his katana and his cravat to go out to the corner grocery. Spike pinched at the bridge of his nose with his fingers, trying to shake himself out of the funk before Vicious – and much more importantly, Julia – arrived. She'd been living at Annie's for almost a month now, running errands for Mao, insinuating herself into their daily routine like a new coffee stand sprung up on a convenient corner. She could out-drink Spike before an evening was half over; she told bawdy, rip- roaringly funny stories about her life on Venus as an orphan. The way a halo of light appeared around her hair when she passed into sunlight from shadow was a visible representation of how Spike felt every time she entered the room.
He'd be with her tonight, at least. Celebrating his birthday with her. Maybe she'd develop some kind of sentimental sympathy for him. So far, she'd fit comfortably into their routine and their banter. Too comfortable with both of them, in his estimation, since he was used to women preferring him to his partner, and she seemed immune to both of them. When he first came back to Tharsis City, there were days when Vicious' success under the mantle of Spike's father ate at him like an ulcer. On those days, he would take small and bitter comfort in arranging a social outing, and then bringing some cute thing home from the bar or casino, letting Vicious hear them through the wall of their shared apartment. He wasn't without a conscience, though, and that game had been over for a couple of years; the respect of the Van and the tutelage of Mao did much to alleviate his appetite for the unfairly matched competition.
And then she came along, and he wished he could put every barfly from the past back on her stool – to have saved himself the desensitization, so he could ask Julia to come up to the apartment without feeling dirty, and without Vicious' sidelong glance that would say "don't start this again" in the corner of his narrow eye.
He shrugged into his leather jacket when he heard the Mercedes' engine and loped through the double sliding doors of the tower just in time to see Julia climbing out of the passenger side.
"The birthday boy," she beamed at him, and opened the back door with a flourish of the hand.
"Yo," he replied, all practiced nonchalance. "Yo," he addressed Vicious as he ducked under the doorframe.
"`Yo'?" Vicious shot him a look over his shoulder.
Spike smirked. "All the cool kids are saying it."
Julia laughed as she pulled her own door shut. "Is this your desperate attempt to hold on to your fading youth? Retro slang?"
"My youth is not fading, I'll have you know. I'm ablaze with youth." He stretched out sideways, sitting behind Vicious so he could see her, his feet propped on the armrest of the opposite seat.
"Shoes," Vicious muttered.
"Vicious, it's a car. Sooner or later somebody's going to get shot in the head back here, and you're worried about my shoes?" Already his bad mood was fading, and the remark carried more jest than malice. He saw Vicious' cheek twitch with a smothered smile.
"Well, mister ablaze-with-youth, this is your night," Julia said. "What establishment will be the beneficiary of our night of buying your drinks?"
"I want to shoot pool."
"We shoot pool every weekend." She dropped an arm over the back of her seat, trying to smack him in the knee, but he dodged it with a twist of his hips and grinned. "No strippers?" she demanded.
"Nope."
"All-male revue?" She gave him a lecherous wink.
"Hey, do whatever you want on your own birthday," he volleyed, and she laughed with her whole body, throwing her head back.
"Pool it is, then." She turned to face the road, but not without aiming the wattage of her smile at Vicious first. "We'll get our drink money back with interest!" she crowed.
There was hardly any point in driving from the tower to the bar; Vicious manhandled the behemoth into a parallel parking space directly in front of it anyway. They piled out, laughing together, and Vicious held the door open for Julia, but let it go as he followed so Spike had to catch it to keep from getting smacked in the face. In the breezeway, Spike jammed the toe of his boot into the back of Vicious' knee so he stumbled. By the time they made it inside, they were trading elbow jabs, half-grinning and half- snarling at one another. Julia turned and put her hands on her hips. "Can you two act like adults, please?"
"Don't you remember?" Vicious prompted. "He's ablaze with youth."
She shook her head with mock resignation and bellied up to the bar, ordering a bottle of champagne and three glasses. She whispered conspiratorially to the bartender – Spike saw it as he fended off a hand aimed at the back of his head and dove forward, waving his arms.
"No, no, no." He gave the bartender his best pleading look. "Just give us our drinks and let us be."
But it was too late. "Ladies and gentlemen!" the bartender bellowed, waving his white towel above his head. "Our most famous hustler is celebrating a birthday!"
Whoops and catcalls came from the crowd. Heads popped up in mid-shot in the billiard room, grins appearing on faces when they saw Spike, and he hung his head to shadow the blush that spread across his own. He waved a hand dismissively and tried to call above the din, "As you were!" but it was lost in the beginnings of the birthday song, and Julia pressed a glass into his hand while Vicious popped the cork from the champagne.
He smiled awkwardly and nodded through the off-key serenade, raising his glass as the song came to the final refrain and clinking it with a cascade of others that crowded in around him. None of it mattered, except Julia's comical visage, holding out the "oo" in "you", trying to keep her lips pursed around the vowel without laughing. She came to toast him last, and leaned in to plant a kiss on his cheek. "Thank god I beat you, or I never would have gotten to know you," she said as the noise died down, and he bit back a reply he was sure would have been far too honest when he realized he'd be heard if he spoke.
That was just what she wanted, it seemed. "Speech!" she called.
"Get out your wallets," he replied with a smirk. "I'll win a drink from every one of you before the night is over." He gave a low bow as the onlookers laughed.
They had plenty of takers for Spike's challenge. When the crowd began to argue 8-Ball versus 9-Ball, Vicious tapped his glass with his ring to get their attention.
"Line up!" he said. "Flip a coin for the break, break seven, shoot until you miss, most balls regardless of suit wins a drink from the loser." Murmurs of agreement came from all around.
He pointed to the two tables closest to the bar. "Spike, you're on that one, Julia and I will play doubles 9-ball next door. Any takers for us?"
The players divided off, and Spike stepped up to the table while he assembled his cue, looking wistfully at Julia and Vicious in a quick pre- match consultation at their table. But he'd said he wanted to play pool, and here he was, and maybe tonight he'd get drunk enough for free to finally work up the nerve and invite her to stay the night.
***
By last call, Spike could only shoot if he closed his left eye and relied on the superiority of the fake to counter the fuzz in his brain. Even so, he'd lost more than he'd won for at least an hour. He stretched with relief at the interruption, turning to his current opponent – a red-haired girl he had seen several times there before. "I'll buy you a drink as a consolation prize for not getting beat fair and square," he told her, "since I think I'm done for the night."
She laughed, and he couldn't help but think of the sound as coarse compared to the way Julia sounded at the next table. "You can buy me breakfast," the redhead replied with a wink.
He did a double-take. "You'd have to beat me at 9-ball for that." He hesitated as he realized how it sounded. "And I'm afraid we don't have time," he finished, avoiding her eyes.
She looked a little hurt, but thankfully seemed drunk enough not to dwell on it. "All right, then," she said, "I'll have a Cowboy."
"Cowboy!" Spike called over his shoulder to the bartender. "And a coffee for me."
Julia looked up. "She beat you?" she asked incredulously.
Red-head turned with a laugh. "No, he's just buying me a drink."
Spike blushed, trying to give Julia a look that denied the implication, but she had already turned back to the table, lining up her shot. He walked to the bar to pick up the order and handed it to the red-haired girl. "I didn't catch your name," he said, trying to be polite.
She giggled, leaning in to him. "Bridget," she replied. "I didn't catch your number."
"I..." he fought the urge to look over and see what Julia was doing, trying to think of a good way to dodge the request, but none came to him. "Spike." He held out his hand, but rather than shaking it, she took it and wrapped her other arm around his.
"You don't have a comm., Spike?" She pressed against him, still giggling.
He disengaged himself, feeling less of an urge to be polite, even though the chivalry habit was hard to break. "I do," he replied. "But it's for work."
"Oh." A look of comprehension dawned on her face. "Well, happy birthday." She gave him a strained smile and turned her back, tipping the drink to her lips as she sashayed away.
He filed out of the bar with the crowd; slamming the cup of coffee had done little to stop Spike's head from spinning, and he had to concentrate hard on not stepping on anyone through the breezeway. He sucked in a great lungful of cold night air when he made it to the sidewalk and turned, waiting for Julia and Vicious to follow. They came out together, his silver head bent close to her gold, laughing about something. Spike shifted from one foot to the other, digging his last cigarette out of the pack and searching his pockets for his lighter as they joined him.
"Breakfast?" he asked.
"Mmm, not me," Julia said, but she cocked her head at him and squeezed his arm. "Ask me next time, though."
They'd perfected the exchange. He knew she probably passed as a way to guard against his very intentions – she never joined them for breakfast, always asking to be dropped off at Annie's first, so asking her up had been a farfetched hypothetical from the beginning. He felt disappointed anyway, and a little bitter that he'd spent the evening playing with acquaintances instead of his best friends. Next time I'll work out a speech beforehand, he thought to himself, so I won't get myself in trouble with my big mouth.
They drove the three blocks to Annie's in companionable silence, the hum of the engine faint after the five hours of din in the bar. Before she got out of the car, Julia leaned back over her seat and kissed Spike on the top of his head. "Happy birthday, gangster," she quipped, but the pleasant liquid sensation of being the object of her attention faded when she planted one on Vicious' cheek as well and then left the car, waving through the window. Vicious watched her unlock the delivery door and close it again behind her while Spike moved from the back seat to the front.
"I don't really want breakfast," Spike said, leaning back against the headrest. "I think I need a gallon of water and an aspirin. Thank god we don't have to work tomorrow."
Vicious just nodded, seemingly off in his own world. With considerable effort, Spike lifted his head again and turned to face his partner. "Something bothering you?"
"No, not at all," he replied, pulling out into the deserted street and gunning the engine. "Just the opposite."
Spike raised an eyebrow. "Hm?"
A faint smile played on Vicious' thin lips. "She is extraordinary."
"Mm," Spike replied, feeling something cold creep into his stomach. They were quiet again until Vicious parked in the underground garage.
"Who was the redhead?" Vicious asked, his tone still light, as they walked to the elevator.
Spike shrugged. "Bridget."
"Did you get her number?"
"Nope."
They moved to the back of the lift, both leaning against the half-height cage, staring straight ahead. When it stopped, Vicious turned to Spike, a hand on the safety gate. "I think I have a chance with her," he said, suddenly sober and serious.
Spike looked at him, but did not reply.
"I can see by your reaction you think the same about yourself." He opened the gate and held it for his partner.
Spike walked a half-pace ahead down the hall, dizzy from the alcohol and the cold irritation that had now radiated out into his torso. He unlocked the door and went through, leaving it open for Vicious, and flopped onto the couch of the living room/dining room/weight room that was separated from the kitchen only by the switch from hardwood to linoleum.
"I think it would be best if we have this conversation now," Vicious pushed on, sitting across from him in the armchair.
Spike let his head fall back on the armrest. "Which conversation?" He sighed, closing his eyes.
"The one in which we act like men and agree not to fight over a woman."
"I'd win." Even as he said it, doubt crowded his mind, and the doubt brought anger. He turned, looking across the coffee table through the slits of his eyelids.
"Consider it repayment." Vicious leaned forward on his elbows; his expression was surprisingly plaintive, though it didn't come through in his voice. Spike snorted.
"Repayment and a loan, more like."
Vicious dropped his head. "All I ask is that you let me try. Give me a shot before you turn on the headlights."
"She avoids the issue with both of us, you realize?"
"She did not, with me, tonight," Vicious replied. "Or at least, she seemed receptive. You've rubbed it in often enough in the past. Let this one go."
Spike scowled at how his impetuousness came back to haunt him, despite everything he'd done to live it down. "You should have asked me to let one of the ones who didn't matter go."
"But that is precisely why I ask this time. Because she does matter." Vicious looked deadly serious. After a moment, he added, "Please." It obviously pained him to say.
Drawing himself up off the couch with a groan, Spike crossed to the sink. He took down a glass and ran the tap until it was cold, not yet ready to commit to an answer.
"The truth," Vicious went on, though Spike cringed at his voice, "is that I have never met a woman before who seemed to be my equal. I feel differently about her than I have ever felt about anyone."
"Do you love her?" Spike popped an aspirin, welcoming the acrid taste in the back of his throat – something to divert his attention, however briefly.
Vicious sat stock-still. Spike knew it was a touchy subject, but he was feeling belligerent.
"I may, in time," he finally replied.
"Well, I don't have to wait to know my answer to that question," Spike shot back.
"How often do I ask something like this of you?"
"It's the first time you've asked. Usually you just take what you want."
"Leave Anthony out of this." Vicious stood abruptly, pacing to the window. "That subject is dead."
"Poor choice of words," Spike snarled.
"As though saying it makes it true, when it otherwise would not be?" Vicious scoffed.
"It's crude, in context."
Both young men stood, focused on their nonexistent tasks, while the silence bubbled.
"All right, I picked that fight," Spike relented. "You're just asking more than I think you realize."
"It probably will not matter," Vicious said with surprising resignation. "But I want a shot, all the same."
Spike set the glass down on the counter, thought better of it, and retrieved it to put it in the dishwasher. "Take your best one, then," he replied, and without a backward glance, went to his room and shut the door.
***
Singing. For the second time in the same week, his body felt drained, dismembered and hastily reassembled, and he heard singing, an ethereal female voice. The tempo was a waltz; as consciousness returned, along with the pounding in his head, he made out some of the words.
"You haven't lost all sight.
You're just guiding your own satellite.
Not much is set in stone –
You'll take the long way home."
He opened his eyes, moving as little as possible while seeking out Astrid. She sat a ways away, in the Lotus position, cradling her belly as though she already held an infant. Beside her, a tall man with a cascade of black hair knelt, gathering the ashes from the spent fire in a large bowl while she sang.
"You'll find me
In a new apple tree,
And when I fall for you,
You'd better catch me."
She caught him looking and stopped with a gentle smile. "Welcome back," she murmured.
"You can keep going," he replied.
"It's a duet. But Mayan," she directed her smile at the man beside her, "refuses to sing it with me."
Mayan inclined his head to Spike. "It's a song about leaving. Bad luck."
"Everybody's so superstitious around here," Spike groaned. "I think I have a hangover, but it's hard to tell."
Astrid nodded. "Two cures for that. A day, or more tea."
He pushed himself up with his right arm, surprised to find that despite the hammering in his skull, his other injuries hurt far less. "Water, I think. And I feel like I could eat a whole cow."
"We weren't expecting visitors," Mayan said, not unkindly. "I'm going to the city this afternoon for supplies. Until then, we have jerky and polenta."
Spike stretched to reach the duffel, noting the range of movement in his left arm had improved. He pulled out his cigarettes, lighting one and closing his eyes for the first few drags. Then he dug into the bag again and came up with his wallet. He extracted a handful of hundred-Woolong notes. "Load up. Next trip you make, I'll come along and help you carry it back." He handed the money to Mayan.
Astrid's eyes went wide, but she said nothing. Spike shot her a look and chuckled.
"I didn't end up in this condition by robbing a bank, if that's what you're wondering."
She blushed a little. "I wasn't, exactly. Though now I wonder how long you plan to stay."
"Not sure. Where I came from, I had people blowing holes in me." He looked between Astrid and Mayan, suddenly uncomfortable. "I can find somewhere else –"
She lifted a hand to stop him. "Not what I meant at all. You know you are welcome here forever."
He cracked his neck and grinned, but the smile faded even before he spoke. "Last night, if you had made me that offer, you might have been stuck with me. But as usual, Bull was right. And when I'm well enough, I have unfinished business that calls me back to the pavement."
Astrid rewarded him with a wide grin. "Then we will be happy to have you for as long as your recovery takes."
***
A/N – I don't typically incorporate songs in my writing, but this piece was too apropos, and obscure enough to make it exempt from the rules. And the mood of the Dave Matthews Band album "Under the Table and Dreaming" made it a perfect title to this chapter.
"The Long Way Home" is © 2003 Catrec Films, from the short film THE LONG WAY HOME, by Baron Arnold, Ficus Kirkpatrick, David Bort and Ashley Windham. Hear it by following the link in my FFN profile.
2066. Good lord, he was 22 years old. Three years ago, he'd never thought he would see this birthday. For some reason, the 21st hadn't seemed so strange; it seemed romantic, like the 20th century bad boy film stars, to live to the age of 21, but everything after that smacked of adulthood.
Vicious was coming to pick him up. He'd bought some battle-tank of a Mercedes a week ago, wanted to drive it around. He wore it like a badge of superiority, like he wore his katana and his cravat to go out to the corner grocery. Spike pinched at the bridge of his nose with his fingers, trying to shake himself out of the funk before Vicious – and much more importantly, Julia – arrived. She'd been living at Annie's for almost a month now, running errands for Mao, insinuating herself into their daily routine like a new coffee stand sprung up on a convenient corner. She could out-drink Spike before an evening was half over; she told bawdy, rip- roaringly funny stories about her life on Venus as an orphan. The way a halo of light appeared around her hair when she passed into sunlight from shadow was a visible representation of how Spike felt every time she entered the room.
He'd be with her tonight, at least. Celebrating his birthday with her. Maybe she'd develop some kind of sentimental sympathy for him. So far, she'd fit comfortably into their routine and their banter. Too comfortable with both of them, in his estimation, since he was used to women preferring him to his partner, and she seemed immune to both of them. When he first came back to Tharsis City, there were days when Vicious' success under the mantle of Spike's father ate at him like an ulcer. On those days, he would take small and bitter comfort in arranging a social outing, and then bringing some cute thing home from the bar or casino, letting Vicious hear them through the wall of their shared apartment. He wasn't without a conscience, though, and that game had been over for a couple of years; the respect of the Van and the tutelage of Mao did much to alleviate his appetite for the unfairly matched competition.
And then she came along, and he wished he could put every barfly from the past back on her stool – to have saved himself the desensitization, so he could ask Julia to come up to the apartment without feeling dirty, and without Vicious' sidelong glance that would say "don't start this again" in the corner of his narrow eye.
He shrugged into his leather jacket when he heard the Mercedes' engine and loped through the double sliding doors of the tower just in time to see Julia climbing out of the passenger side.
"The birthday boy," she beamed at him, and opened the back door with a flourish of the hand.
"Yo," he replied, all practiced nonchalance. "Yo," he addressed Vicious as he ducked under the doorframe.
"`Yo'?" Vicious shot him a look over his shoulder.
Spike smirked. "All the cool kids are saying it."
Julia laughed as she pulled her own door shut. "Is this your desperate attempt to hold on to your fading youth? Retro slang?"
"My youth is not fading, I'll have you know. I'm ablaze with youth." He stretched out sideways, sitting behind Vicious so he could see her, his feet propped on the armrest of the opposite seat.
"Shoes," Vicious muttered.
"Vicious, it's a car. Sooner or later somebody's going to get shot in the head back here, and you're worried about my shoes?" Already his bad mood was fading, and the remark carried more jest than malice. He saw Vicious' cheek twitch with a smothered smile.
"Well, mister ablaze-with-youth, this is your night," Julia said. "What establishment will be the beneficiary of our night of buying your drinks?"
"I want to shoot pool."
"We shoot pool every weekend." She dropped an arm over the back of her seat, trying to smack him in the knee, but he dodged it with a twist of his hips and grinned. "No strippers?" she demanded.
"Nope."
"All-male revue?" She gave him a lecherous wink.
"Hey, do whatever you want on your own birthday," he volleyed, and she laughed with her whole body, throwing her head back.
"Pool it is, then." She turned to face the road, but not without aiming the wattage of her smile at Vicious first. "We'll get our drink money back with interest!" she crowed.
There was hardly any point in driving from the tower to the bar; Vicious manhandled the behemoth into a parallel parking space directly in front of it anyway. They piled out, laughing together, and Vicious held the door open for Julia, but let it go as he followed so Spike had to catch it to keep from getting smacked in the face. In the breezeway, Spike jammed the toe of his boot into the back of Vicious' knee so he stumbled. By the time they made it inside, they were trading elbow jabs, half-grinning and half- snarling at one another. Julia turned and put her hands on her hips. "Can you two act like adults, please?"
"Don't you remember?" Vicious prompted. "He's ablaze with youth."
She shook her head with mock resignation and bellied up to the bar, ordering a bottle of champagne and three glasses. She whispered conspiratorially to the bartender – Spike saw it as he fended off a hand aimed at the back of his head and dove forward, waving his arms.
"No, no, no." He gave the bartender his best pleading look. "Just give us our drinks and let us be."
But it was too late. "Ladies and gentlemen!" the bartender bellowed, waving his white towel above his head. "Our most famous hustler is celebrating a birthday!"
Whoops and catcalls came from the crowd. Heads popped up in mid-shot in the billiard room, grins appearing on faces when they saw Spike, and he hung his head to shadow the blush that spread across his own. He waved a hand dismissively and tried to call above the din, "As you were!" but it was lost in the beginnings of the birthday song, and Julia pressed a glass into his hand while Vicious popped the cork from the champagne.
He smiled awkwardly and nodded through the off-key serenade, raising his glass as the song came to the final refrain and clinking it with a cascade of others that crowded in around him. None of it mattered, except Julia's comical visage, holding out the "oo" in "you", trying to keep her lips pursed around the vowel without laughing. She came to toast him last, and leaned in to plant a kiss on his cheek. "Thank god I beat you, or I never would have gotten to know you," she said as the noise died down, and he bit back a reply he was sure would have been far too honest when he realized he'd be heard if he spoke.
That was just what she wanted, it seemed. "Speech!" she called.
"Get out your wallets," he replied with a smirk. "I'll win a drink from every one of you before the night is over." He gave a low bow as the onlookers laughed.
They had plenty of takers for Spike's challenge. When the crowd began to argue 8-Ball versus 9-Ball, Vicious tapped his glass with his ring to get their attention.
"Line up!" he said. "Flip a coin for the break, break seven, shoot until you miss, most balls regardless of suit wins a drink from the loser." Murmurs of agreement came from all around.
He pointed to the two tables closest to the bar. "Spike, you're on that one, Julia and I will play doubles 9-ball next door. Any takers for us?"
The players divided off, and Spike stepped up to the table while he assembled his cue, looking wistfully at Julia and Vicious in a quick pre- match consultation at their table. But he'd said he wanted to play pool, and here he was, and maybe tonight he'd get drunk enough for free to finally work up the nerve and invite her to stay the night.
***
By last call, Spike could only shoot if he closed his left eye and relied on the superiority of the fake to counter the fuzz in his brain. Even so, he'd lost more than he'd won for at least an hour. He stretched with relief at the interruption, turning to his current opponent – a red-haired girl he had seen several times there before. "I'll buy you a drink as a consolation prize for not getting beat fair and square," he told her, "since I think I'm done for the night."
She laughed, and he couldn't help but think of the sound as coarse compared to the way Julia sounded at the next table. "You can buy me breakfast," the redhead replied with a wink.
He did a double-take. "You'd have to beat me at 9-ball for that." He hesitated as he realized how it sounded. "And I'm afraid we don't have time," he finished, avoiding her eyes.
She looked a little hurt, but thankfully seemed drunk enough not to dwell on it. "All right, then," she said, "I'll have a Cowboy."
"Cowboy!" Spike called over his shoulder to the bartender. "And a coffee for me."
Julia looked up. "She beat you?" she asked incredulously.
Red-head turned with a laugh. "No, he's just buying me a drink."
Spike blushed, trying to give Julia a look that denied the implication, but she had already turned back to the table, lining up her shot. He walked to the bar to pick up the order and handed it to the red-haired girl. "I didn't catch your name," he said, trying to be polite.
She giggled, leaning in to him. "Bridget," she replied. "I didn't catch your number."
"I..." he fought the urge to look over and see what Julia was doing, trying to think of a good way to dodge the request, but none came to him. "Spike." He held out his hand, but rather than shaking it, she took it and wrapped her other arm around his.
"You don't have a comm., Spike?" She pressed against him, still giggling.
He disengaged himself, feeling less of an urge to be polite, even though the chivalry habit was hard to break. "I do," he replied. "But it's for work."
"Oh." A look of comprehension dawned on her face. "Well, happy birthday." She gave him a strained smile and turned her back, tipping the drink to her lips as she sashayed away.
He filed out of the bar with the crowd; slamming the cup of coffee had done little to stop Spike's head from spinning, and he had to concentrate hard on not stepping on anyone through the breezeway. He sucked in a great lungful of cold night air when he made it to the sidewalk and turned, waiting for Julia and Vicious to follow. They came out together, his silver head bent close to her gold, laughing about something. Spike shifted from one foot to the other, digging his last cigarette out of the pack and searching his pockets for his lighter as they joined him.
"Breakfast?" he asked.
"Mmm, not me," Julia said, but she cocked her head at him and squeezed his arm. "Ask me next time, though."
They'd perfected the exchange. He knew she probably passed as a way to guard against his very intentions – she never joined them for breakfast, always asking to be dropped off at Annie's first, so asking her up had been a farfetched hypothetical from the beginning. He felt disappointed anyway, and a little bitter that he'd spent the evening playing with acquaintances instead of his best friends. Next time I'll work out a speech beforehand, he thought to himself, so I won't get myself in trouble with my big mouth.
They drove the three blocks to Annie's in companionable silence, the hum of the engine faint after the five hours of din in the bar. Before she got out of the car, Julia leaned back over her seat and kissed Spike on the top of his head. "Happy birthday, gangster," she quipped, but the pleasant liquid sensation of being the object of her attention faded when she planted one on Vicious' cheek as well and then left the car, waving through the window. Vicious watched her unlock the delivery door and close it again behind her while Spike moved from the back seat to the front.
"I don't really want breakfast," Spike said, leaning back against the headrest. "I think I need a gallon of water and an aspirin. Thank god we don't have to work tomorrow."
Vicious just nodded, seemingly off in his own world. With considerable effort, Spike lifted his head again and turned to face his partner. "Something bothering you?"
"No, not at all," he replied, pulling out into the deserted street and gunning the engine. "Just the opposite."
Spike raised an eyebrow. "Hm?"
A faint smile played on Vicious' thin lips. "She is extraordinary."
"Mm," Spike replied, feeling something cold creep into his stomach. They were quiet again until Vicious parked in the underground garage.
"Who was the redhead?" Vicious asked, his tone still light, as they walked to the elevator.
Spike shrugged. "Bridget."
"Did you get her number?"
"Nope."
They moved to the back of the lift, both leaning against the half-height cage, staring straight ahead. When it stopped, Vicious turned to Spike, a hand on the safety gate. "I think I have a chance with her," he said, suddenly sober and serious.
Spike looked at him, but did not reply.
"I can see by your reaction you think the same about yourself." He opened the gate and held it for his partner.
Spike walked a half-pace ahead down the hall, dizzy from the alcohol and the cold irritation that had now radiated out into his torso. He unlocked the door and went through, leaving it open for Vicious, and flopped onto the couch of the living room/dining room/weight room that was separated from the kitchen only by the switch from hardwood to linoleum.
"I think it would be best if we have this conversation now," Vicious pushed on, sitting across from him in the armchair.
Spike let his head fall back on the armrest. "Which conversation?" He sighed, closing his eyes.
"The one in which we act like men and agree not to fight over a woman."
"I'd win." Even as he said it, doubt crowded his mind, and the doubt brought anger. He turned, looking across the coffee table through the slits of his eyelids.
"Consider it repayment." Vicious leaned forward on his elbows; his expression was surprisingly plaintive, though it didn't come through in his voice. Spike snorted.
"Repayment and a loan, more like."
Vicious dropped his head. "All I ask is that you let me try. Give me a shot before you turn on the headlights."
"She avoids the issue with both of us, you realize?"
"She did not, with me, tonight," Vicious replied. "Or at least, she seemed receptive. You've rubbed it in often enough in the past. Let this one go."
Spike scowled at how his impetuousness came back to haunt him, despite everything he'd done to live it down. "You should have asked me to let one of the ones who didn't matter go."
"But that is precisely why I ask this time. Because she does matter." Vicious looked deadly serious. After a moment, he added, "Please." It obviously pained him to say.
Drawing himself up off the couch with a groan, Spike crossed to the sink. He took down a glass and ran the tap until it was cold, not yet ready to commit to an answer.
"The truth," Vicious went on, though Spike cringed at his voice, "is that I have never met a woman before who seemed to be my equal. I feel differently about her than I have ever felt about anyone."
"Do you love her?" Spike popped an aspirin, welcoming the acrid taste in the back of his throat – something to divert his attention, however briefly.
Vicious sat stock-still. Spike knew it was a touchy subject, but he was feeling belligerent.
"I may, in time," he finally replied.
"Well, I don't have to wait to know my answer to that question," Spike shot back.
"How often do I ask something like this of you?"
"It's the first time you've asked. Usually you just take what you want."
"Leave Anthony out of this." Vicious stood abruptly, pacing to the window. "That subject is dead."
"Poor choice of words," Spike snarled.
"As though saying it makes it true, when it otherwise would not be?" Vicious scoffed.
"It's crude, in context."
Both young men stood, focused on their nonexistent tasks, while the silence bubbled.
"All right, I picked that fight," Spike relented. "You're just asking more than I think you realize."
"It probably will not matter," Vicious said with surprising resignation. "But I want a shot, all the same."
Spike set the glass down on the counter, thought better of it, and retrieved it to put it in the dishwasher. "Take your best one, then," he replied, and without a backward glance, went to his room and shut the door.
***
Singing. For the second time in the same week, his body felt drained, dismembered and hastily reassembled, and he heard singing, an ethereal female voice. The tempo was a waltz; as consciousness returned, along with the pounding in his head, he made out some of the words.
"You haven't lost all sight.
You're just guiding your own satellite.
Not much is set in stone –
You'll take the long way home."
He opened his eyes, moving as little as possible while seeking out Astrid. She sat a ways away, in the Lotus position, cradling her belly as though she already held an infant. Beside her, a tall man with a cascade of black hair knelt, gathering the ashes from the spent fire in a large bowl while she sang.
"You'll find me
In a new apple tree,
And when I fall for you,
You'd better catch me."
She caught him looking and stopped with a gentle smile. "Welcome back," she murmured.
"You can keep going," he replied.
"It's a duet. But Mayan," she directed her smile at the man beside her, "refuses to sing it with me."
Mayan inclined his head to Spike. "It's a song about leaving. Bad luck."
"Everybody's so superstitious around here," Spike groaned. "I think I have a hangover, but it's hard to tell."
Astrid nodded. "Two cures for that. A day, or more tea."
He pushed himself up with his right arm, surprised to find that despite the hammering in his skull, his other injuries hurt far less. "Water, I think. And I feel like I could eat a whole cow."
"We weren't expecting visitors," Mayan said, not unkindly. "I'm going to the city this afternoon for supplies. Until then, we have jerky and polenta."
Spike stretched to reach the duffel, noting the range of movement in his left arm had improved. He pulled out his cigarettes, lighting one and closing his eyes for the first few drags. Then he dug into the bag again and came up with his wallet. He extracted a handful of hundred-Woolong notes. "Load up. Next trip you make, I'll come along and help you carry it back." He handed the money to Mayan.
Astrid's eyes went wide, but she said nothing. Spike shot her a look and chuckled.
"I didn't end up in this condition by robbing a bank, if that's what you're wondering."
She blushed a little. "I wasn't, exactly. Though now I wonder how long you plan to stay."
"Not sure. Where I came from, I had people blowing holes in me." He looked between Astrid and Mayan, suddenly uncomfortable. "I can find somewhere else –"
She lifted a hand to stop him. "Not what I meant at all. You know you are welcome here forever."
He cracked his neck and grinned, but the smile faded even before he spoke. "Last night, if you had made me that offer, you might have been stuck with me. But as usual, Bull was right. And when I'm well enough, I have unfinished business that calls me back to the pavement."
Astrid rewarded him with a wide grin. "Then we will be happy to have you for as long as your recovery takes."
***
A/N – I don't typically incorporate songs in my writing, but this piece was too apropos, and obscure enough to make it exempt from the rules. And the mood of the Dave Matthews Band album "Under the Table and Dreaming" made it a perfect title to this chapter.
"The Long Way Home" is © 2003 Catrec Films, from the short film THE LONG WAY HOME, by Baron Arnold, Ficus Kirkpatrick, David Bort and Ashley Windham. Hear it by following the link in my FFN profile.