A/N: I never promised it would be pretty. I think I promised it wouldn't.
cowgirlnoir, this one is for you and because of you. You were my beacon and my navigator. "Thank you" doesn't suffice.
XXVIII. Anne of the Thousand Days
Spike stared at himself in the mirror of the tower men's room, propped on the heels of his hands against the sink. The opulent surroundings only served to make his rumpled, dusty suit look worse, and he knew it probably smelled like – well, like a man who'd been wearing it for two weeks. He'd gotten used to it at least a week ago.
There was no time to return to Annie's and change, though – by the wall clock, it was five of six. Breakfast had turned into brunch, Astrid fussing over him eating another helping before he began the walk back to the Swordfish. Mayan tried to one-up him with Bruce Lee trivia, and failed. Bull had little to say, but he smiled through the meal and took Spike into his tent afterward to show him the sand painting: a red bird with a black-green crest, wings outstretched, dividing the circle around it into quadrants of night sky, cityscape, water and fire. "You touch all of these things, Swimming Bird," he said, "and they mold you when their resistance is stronger than your will." Spike could hear the rest without it being spoken. Maintain the balance. Three words that had sent him back to Tharsis five years earlier. Words that had meant, to that young man, something altogether different than they did now.
He ran the tap and washed his hands and face, giving up before he started on any attempt to improve his hair or clothing. Won't be close enough for them to smell me, at least, he thought. He cracked his neck and stretched, feeling the last of his vertebrae realign after the flight, and left the bathroom.
Mao stood in the hallway outside with his hands folded behind his back. He looked Spike from head to toe and smirked a little. "You will, at least, evoke some sympathy in that condition."
"Oh, I planned it," Spike replied, but his tone was more wry than joking. He squared his shoulders and waited for Mao to lead.
They walked the long hall and passed through the double doors, the Vanguard outside bowing and casting sidelong glances at Spike and his more-dirt-than- cloth suit. Spike was surprised to see the chamber completely empty, save for the Van themselves. Mao gestured to the seat of attention, and Spike climbed the step gingerly, bowing low before seating himself and looking up at the mezzanine. Sou Long leaned forward and looked back down at him with a faint smile.
"It is apparent you rushed to return to us, Spike Spiegel," he said lightly. "We will not keep you long from a shower and a change of clothes."
It took all of Spike's self-control to keep from fidgeting.
The smile disappeared, and his tone gained gravity when he went on. "Your absence has been a hardship to the Red Dragon. We expect that your gratitude for your reprieve will be demonstrated in extra efforts now that you have returned. We also expect that there will not be another instance, regardless of the catalyst, in which you remain alive and out of contact for any period of time. Your knowledge and position do not permit you the luxury of absence without leave."
The warning could not have been clearer. Spike inclined his head and replied, "I am grateful for your leniency."
Sou Long nodded. "Three matters concern you of which we believe you have heard little. The first is the matter of the ISSP's shift in focus. A war has broken out on Titan, and the Martian Army has recalled almost all of its reserve soldiers from the police ranks. There is talk of citizen conscription in the coming weeks. This war, and the reduction in force of active police officers, provides us an opportunity to strike at the White Tiger while it is weak without fear of ISSP retribution."
"I heard a little news of Titan in Alva City," Spike said with a frown. He'd stopped for cigarettes and smoked half a pack to make up for two weeks' deprivation while he read one of the local papers. "I assume our own contacts in the ISSP are deployed, as well?"
"Very perceptive," Wang Long replied. "Fortunately, we have been able to obtain solid information, and solid contacts with other informants, through our continued interrogation of Marcus Britt."
"Britt is still alive?" Spike said, incredulous.
Sou Long held up a hand before he spoke. "Britt is necessary until after this weekend. Which brings us to the second matter of concern. Britt disclosed, and we were able to confirm, that a summit of White Tiger leadership from around Mars will gather here in Tharsis City on Saturday. They intend to discuss how to break our hold over Red Eye distribution. You, Vicious and Mato, with your teams, will attend the summit. You will relieve the White Tiger of its duplicitous patriarchs. Make room for new blood with proper respect for the rules of business."
Spike blinked. "Where is Vicious now?" He knew, but didn't want to reveal that Mao had spoken of it over the comm. channel.
Ping Long leaned forward. "On Ganymede. The third matter of which you must be apprised."
Spike raised an eyebrow and waited for more.
"Vicious' demeanor in the weeks of your absence has been of some concern to us," Ping Long said. "He shows little regard for our direction and his behavior borders on impudence. The White Tiger was purchasing Red Eye from the same distributor with whom he made contact, and they were ushered into that agreement by his original contact on Ganymede."
"Manfred?" Spike asked. He'd never thought of the old cripple as capable of much more than blowing his earnings on cheap whiskey; the enterprise of it surprised him. "And Vicious is there now," he went on, piecing it together.
"Yes," Ping Long replied. "Hopefully, he will be successful in his assignment. We are also hopeful your return will restore some balance to his mind and his behavior."
"I don't tell him what to do," Spike said with a sneer, forgetting his manners for a moment.
"No, we do," Sou Long said in a brittle tone. "Part of your task, now that you have returned, will be to give him perspective on his personal ambition. The three teams will function as one at the summit. We remind you that you are now in a position parallel with Vicious. We expect you to check him if he strays from our orders."
Forcing a long exhale through his nose, Spike thought a dozen things and said nothing. A long minute passed without anything further from the Van, and he finally stood, bowing low again. "I have returned in your service," he offered in his most formal tone. "Neither I, nor Vicious, will disappoint you."
"Be careful to promise only what you can guarantee," Sou Long warned. "Yenrai-san will answer your more specific questions. We will see you next on Friday afternoon." The three sat back again, and Mao bowed low himself before turning to leave the chamber. Spike lingered for a moment, looking at the shadows of the Dragon's three heads, and then followed him out, lost in thought.
Spike refused a ride from Mao and smoked the four blocks to Annie's on autopilot, sifting through the unspoken undertones of the Van's directive. They had never granted him a private audience before; even after the promotion, it was always Vicious' place to speak with them, and Spike's to listen, either to Vicious' repetition of their instructions, or in the meeting without participation. He'd hoped to fade from their radar with his absence, but instead they had assigned him a greater importance by virtue of what went on while he was away. It was a bad combination – their increased reliance on him, and his apathy toward the business of the Syndicate in general. Not even the news of Vicious falling into disfavor meant much; he had come home for one reason, and it loomed before him now, only a change of clothing and an unavoidable conversation with Annie in the way.
Through the raised blinds of the front door, he saw Annie sitting and talking with Lin, and hesitated before going through. Another delay, another half-welcome distraction. He shouldered the door and waved to her. She sat bolt upright, wide-eyed.
Lin turned on his stool and grinned. "Spike!" He stood and held out a hand.
Spike crossed the room and ignored the hand, embracing him instead. "Lin. I hope you've had an easy time of it." He stepped back and smiled.
Lin nodded. "As business goes, I have. Shin is recovering well. He hopes to join me, when his health improves. That road may be long."
"Give him my regards, and any luck I can spare," Spike replied. "I'm glad to hear it." He wasn't, but it didn't matter: Lin seemed happy, and he didn't feel like spreading his own discontent.
"You've been to see the Van already, I assume?" Lin sat back down.
"Just now, yeah. I'd stay and chat, but I really need a shower."
Lin raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't going to say anything."
Spike chuckled and shook his head. "Politeness should have limits. Annie, I'll be back to talk to you."
"Welcome home," she called after him as he went through the door to the stairwell, making a quick escape.
He'd chosen civilian clothes – the sherpa-collared bomber, the plain white shirt, the jeans – in homage to Saturday night pool games in better days, and out of a conscious desire to distance himself from the trappings of the Syndicate. Freshly shaven, teeth feeling slick and foreign, the last of his weeks in the wilderness slid away too, and he felt once more like a creature of the pavement and the high rises. He came back through the storeroom to find Lin gone, and Annie waiting for him with two Old Fashioned glasses and an expensive bottle of Scotch.
"You look five years younger," she said with a smile.
The corners of his mouth turned up and he rounded the counter to sit across from her. "That's the secret to age and respectability? Grime?"
She laughed out loud. "I have missed you, Spike. More than words can tell."
"I've missed you too, Annie," he sighed. "Not much of anyone else, though."
She poured the Scotch and watched him without replying.
"Do you remember Laughing Bull?" he asked. Mao's knowledge of Bull had surprised him, but Annie and Ming had accompanied Spike and his father on a summer trip to Alva City when he was perhaps thirteen.
She beamed. "Of course! So that's where you were."
"Getting high under the stars," he replied, smirking. "Astrid was there."
She arched an eyebrow.
"Pregnant and about to burst. With her husband. Nice guy, runs a spice shop in the city." He toyed with his glass.
"I'm... sorry. That must have been a bit of a shock," she said gently.
He bit his lip and shook his head. "At first. It was good to see her again, though. One more time."
Annie frowned and put a hand on his arm. "Spike, there's no reason to walk away from the people who matter just because your future didn't turn out like you hoped."
"Nice guy," he repeated with a raw laugh, "but not a fan of the Syndicate, or of Mao sending some goons to get to me through him. Told me very nicely not to come around anymore once I left."
She sighed and gave him a sympathetic look.
"So. Been a little strange around here?" he asked blithely, after downing his glass in one draught.
"Strange, yes. Lonely." She sipped at her own drink.
"Why lonely?"
"Everybody's laying low. Vicious has been staying at Julia's since he named her his second, so she hasn't been around much. Mao is busy. Business is slow."
Spike gaped. "Julia is Vicious' second?"
"Yeah. That ruffled Mao's feathers, but he let it slide. I think he hoped she would keep him in line." She smirked.
He nodded. "Everybody dances around it, but nobody will say exactly what Vicious' problem is."
"Vicious' problem is no different from the one he's always had. He thinks he knows better than everyone else. He has something in common with his best friend," she said, winking at him.
Spike winced inwardly at the use of the phrase. "Has he really stepped out of line?"
"If you consider telling the Van they're ignorant to be stepping out of line, yes, he has. And even though he didn't have anything to do with it, that freighter pilot dealing with the White Tiger didn't do anything to improve his situation." She went to refill his glass, but he held up a hand.
"Later," he said, rising from his seat. "I have somewhere I need to go."
She looked him up and down. "Not a date with the old men," she observed.
He shook his head. "I need to see Julia."
"She probably needs to see you," she replied, but there was caution in her tone.
"What does that mean?"
"She probably needs to see someone she'll listen to, who can tell her that Vicious' opinion of himself is a little different from the Van's. He seems to think he's invincible now that they're running that team together. And I think she believes it, too."
"Don't know why you think she'd listen to me," he said, but he saw the opening he'd needed to broach the subject on his mind with her. "I just want to thank her properly. Buy her dinner or something, you know."
"Behave," she intoned, giving him that piercing look he'd come to expect and dread. "You can fool me, but don't fool yourself."
He tried to smile in response, but it fell short. "That's what I'm best at."
After the four-hour flight between cities, the thought of the Swordfish made his ribs ache, so he set out on foot again, keeping his head low and his hands in his pockets. He'd made it two blocks when he realized he didn't have the Jericho, and stopped short in the middle of the sidewalk while his stomach twisted. Gone so long I've forgotten how to survive, he thought, and shifted from foot to foot. The conversation came back to him in a flood –
"Go on. But bring me my gun."
The look on her face, afraid to disobey, afraid he'd gone around the bend, afraid he'd use it on himself.
But she'd brought it already. "In the bag. With your comm. and your wallet."
What had he said next?
"Remember me. Julia, go."
And she went.
He shook himself and dug out a cigarette. She'd done what he told her to do. Or she'd done what Vicious told her to do. Nothing to blame her for, either way, and she'd been right in the end about Vicious and Mao. He took a half-dozen steps back toward Annie's, but the twinge in his shoulder dredged up an earlier scene, walking into her apartment with his gun drawn and an order to kill her, and he realized he'd left without it on purpose, even if he hadn't known.
The light through the peephole dimmed before he heard the locks rattle, and she swept the door open. For an interminable half-second, she stared at him, and then her arms were around his neck, her head on his chest. He'd barely summoned the muscle control to return the embrace before she pulled back, flushed and a little sheepish, and smiled an apology. She wore the same floral blouse he'd mended, and a little gray skirt with a flare above the knees. She looked impossibly perfect, and she'd just been sitting around her apartment.
He let his hands drop to his sides. "Yo."
"When you didn't call, I was afraid you wouldn't come to see me," she said, moving aside so he could come in and bolting the door behind him. "You look... really good."
"I took a chance you'd be home. I wanted to surprise you." He didn't trust himself to respond to the compliment.
Her smile grew wider. "You did. I'm so glad you're back. We've missed you."
The flash of jubilation at being missed faded when he registered the 'we'. "I hear Vicious got you a new hot-rod position," he said, smiling tightly. "Congratulations."
She cocked her head at him. "Thanks. It's a great opportunity. We haven't had much to do, though. I'm glad you're back in time for the excitement."
"You think I came back so I wouldn't miss out on a Syndicate hit?"
"That's why Mao called you back, isn't it?" She chucked him on the elbow and went to the kitchen, calling through the archway, "Get right back on the velocycle? Want a beer?"
"No, thanks," he called back, and took a deep breath. Get it out before she comes back and looks you in the eye again, he told himself. "I'm only here because of you."
"I'm flattered, but you're pretty tough, Spike. I just gave you somewhere to sleep it off." She reappeared, beer in hand, smiling at him.
"No, I mean I only came back because you're here."
She froze.
"Mao tells me Vicious is in a bit of trouble with the Van," he plowed on.
"Some," she replied, watching him through narrowed eyes while she sat down on the couch. "Hopefully after this weekend we can put it behind us."
He flinched again at the plural pronoun. "What's going on with him? Nobody seems to want to tell me what's wrong," he lied. He wanted to hear it from her.
"He's off-balance ever since you got shot. Ever since they moved you to Alva City. Figuring out Britt helped, but I think he'll be better with you home." She shrugged.
It wasn't what he wanted to hear. "Why does everybody think I make him better? That I'll make the whole situation here better?"
"Because you do, and you will." Her tone was light, but firm. "You seem a little... I don't know. Off, tonight." She looked at him closely. "What's wrong?"
He didn't mean to start in. He meant to sit and talk and be with her, to try and find his way through being alive when he expected to be dead. The words had run through his head too often while he missed her, though. "Why did you stay with him, Julia?"
She blinked. "What?"
"After your trip to Ganymede. Why did you stay with him?" He was in it now; no use trying to cover.
Long seconds went by while she stared at him, but finally she answered. "Because he apologized."
He knit his brow in confusion. "An apology was sufficient?"
"The apology was sincere," she said, cold creeping into her tone.
He cleared his throat, trying to backpedal from the confrontation. "Is it better now that you're working with him?"
"I've always worked with him." She seemed to relax a little. "But it is nice to have his confidence. He trusts me. He listens to what I have to say."
"He'd be a fool not to."
"It's different. He says I'm his second in name but not in stature, and he acts that way." While she spoke, her back straightened. Her pride was obvious, and it made him furious.
"Don't take this the wrong way, but he isn't in a position to make that decision."
"Not to promote me, no. Not further than he has already. But it's not how the Van sees me that matters." She smiled to herself.
He couldn't find his voice at first. Annie was right – Vicious had her hook, line and sinker. He bit his lip, looking for a way to make her come to the conclusion herself. "You know he only shares his power to a point, don't you? His ambition is stronger than anything else in his heart."
"We've been together for two years, Spike," she said, icy again. The reminder stung like she'd peeled the healed skin from the bullet hole in his chest. "Of course I know he's ambitious. And he'll run the Red Dragon someday because he accomplishes what he sets out to do. He shares his power with me of his own free will, because he needs me. He needs you too. I don't see you complaining."
He tried to hold back the anger, but the flush crawled over his skin. "I may not be complaining, but my eyes are open. He needs whatever helps him accomplish his own ends. He doesn't hesitate to cut his ties when he's gotten there. What do you think he's doing right now?"
"Carrying out an assignment to eliminate a traitor," she replied with a shrug.
"Killing a man he used to work for when he was a boy!" Spike burst out. She jumped at his raised voice and he wanted to apologize, but the cruel words poured out instead. "Did you ever see that really old movie called 'Anne of the Thousand Days'? It was about a crazy king on Earth, who married women and then had them executed when they couldn't bear him a male heir. Anne was his eighth wife. She was afraid of him at first, but then she grew to love his power. She thought she was different from the others – chosen. And in the end, when she failed him, he beheaded her anyway. Is that what you want, Julia? Knowing he'll do it to anyone in his way? Knowing he would have done it once before? Leave him before he has the authority and the balls to carry through. Next time he won't send me."
She recoiled like he'd slapped her and turned away. "Are you trying to say something else, Spike, or did you just come back to show me how much you hate me?"
He blinked, the fury fading into exhaustion. "God, Julia, I don't hate you. I'm sorry. I've had a lot of time to think these past few weeks. And all I've thought about was you."
Her eyes shone when she looked at him again. She sighed and said, "I can't run away. I'd be killed, with or without Vicious' intervention. And I don't know how I could stay here and face him every day if I tried to separate myself from him."
"I never saw you as a coward, Julia. What did you see in him before he frightened you into submission?"
She stood, drawing herself up to full height. The sight was at once beautiful and terrifying. When she spoke, her mouth moved like a tight spring held it shut. "Fuck you, Spike. I survived without a childhood. I made my own way. After all of that, I deserve him. I deserve the man who will be king."
He braced himself. "Even if you're afraid of him?"
"He gives me security more than equal to the fear," she hissed.
He scoffed, curling his lip. "It's like I'm finally seeing you with my right eye."
"Then what does your right eye see?" she asked, almost patronizing.
"Reality. The reality that if you settle for what you think you deserve, you become the person who deserves it."
He turned on his heel, deaf to anything but his own heartbeat and the rush of blood in his ears, and let himself out.
She stood dumbstruck while the door slammed behind him, the picture frames rattling on the wall. A wave of nausea made her wince, and before she could register anything else, the room swam behind tears. The last of the daylight faded as the sun set on the horizon, bathing the room in red and then leaving only the faint glow of the table lamp. She balled her fists at her sides and forced herself to move.
She checked the hall, but he was utterly gone by the time she got up the nerve to turn the knob. She closed the door, leaning against it, her palm flat on the smooth new wood. From her vantage point, she spotted the comm. on the kitchen table and went to get it, numb fingers finding his code. She tried to control her shaking hand and pressed her forehead to the cool glass of the window while it rang.
Out of the corner of her eye, she registered movement on the street below and realized she could see him, half a block away, searching his pockets for his comm. He found it, holding it up to look at it, and she took a deep, rattling breath, but he just stood there.
"Answer, damn it," she hissed under her breath. The tone buzzed again.
She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. One more ring till messaging. She was about to hang up when the screen flickered on, his face pale and hard. He did not speak.
"What do you think I deserve?" she whispered.
"What?" His voice was taut, half an octave higher than usual.
"Please don't walk away from me, Spike," she managed, a little louder, trying to keep her own voice from breaking. "I want to know what you think I deserve."
His shoulders slumped; he tapped the toe of his right boot against his left heel in a nervous gesture she realized she knew but had never noticed. His eyes seemed to bore through the LCD display, the streetlight reflected in two bright spots. One brighter than the other. He still said nothing.
"I want you to show me," she said, and held her breath.
He raised an eyebrow. The muscles of his jaw clenched and released. On the street, she could see the motion of his arm before his hand came into view in close-up, running fingers roughly through his hair.
"Come back," she whispered. "Even if it's just until morning."
The hand dropped from his head. The screen went black. She watched him pocket the comm. and move a few more feet down the sidewalk. Then he stopped and turned, slowly. He raised his head and she knew he'd see her, silhouetted against the dim lamplight. Finally, he took a tentative step toward her building, and another; when he was halfway across the street, she went to sit on the couch and wait.
cowgirlnoir, this one is for you and because of you. You were my beacon and my navigator. "Thank you" doesn't suffice.
XXVIII. Anne of the Thousand Days
Spike stared at himself in the mirror of the tower men's room, propped on the heels of his hands against the sink. The opulent surroundings only served to make his rumpled, dusty suit look worse, and he knew it probably smelled like – well, like a man who'd been wearing it for two weeks. He'd gotten used to it at least a week ago.
There was no time to return to Annie's and change, though – by the wall clock, it was five of six. Breakfast had turned into brunch, Astrid fussing over him eating another helping before he began the walk back to the Swordfish. Mayan tried to one-up him with Bruce Lee trivia, and failed. Bull had little to say, but he smiled through the meal and took Spike into his tent afterward to show him the sand painting: a red bird with a black-green crest, wings outstretched, dividing the circle around it into quadrants of night sky, cityscape, water and fire. "You touch all of these things, Swimming Bird," he said, "and they mold you when their resistance is stronger than your will." Spike could hear the rest without it being spoken. Maintain the balance. Three words that had sent him back to Tharsis five years earlier. Words that had meant, to that young man, something altogether different than they did now.
He ran the tap and washed his hands and face, giving up before he started on any attempt to improve his hair or clothing. Won't be close enough for them to smell me, at least, he thought. He cracked his neck and stretched, feeling the last of his vertebrae realign after the flight, and left the bathroom.
Mao stood in the hallway outside with his hands folded behind his back. He looked Spike from head to toe and smirked a little. "You will, at least, evoke some sympathy in that condition."
"Oh, I planned it," Spike replied, but his tone was more wry than joking. He squared his shoulders and waited for Mao to lead.
They walked the long hall and passed through the double doors, the Vanguard outside bowing and casting sidelong glances at Spike and his more-dirt-than- cloth suit. Spike was surprised to see the chamber completely empty, save for the Van themselves. Mao gestured to the seat of attention, and Spike climbed the step gingerly, bowing low before seating himself and looking up at the mezzanine. Sou Long leaned forward and looked back down at him with a faint smile.
"It is apparent you rushed to return to us, Spike Spiegel," he said lightly. "We will not keep you long from a shower and a change of clothes."
It took all of Spike's self-control to keep from fidgeting.
The smile disappeared, and his tone gained gravity when he went on. "Your absence has been a hardship to the Red Dragon. We expect that your gratitude for your reprieve will be demonstrated in extra efforts now that you have returned. We also expect that there will not be another instance, regardless of the catalyst, in which you remain alive and out of contact for any period of time. Your knowledge and position do not permit you the luxury of absence without leave."
The warning could not have been clearer. Spike inclined his head and replied, "I am grateful for your leniency."
Sou Long nodded. "Three matters concern you of which we believe you have heard little. The first is the matter of the ISSP's shift in focus. A war has broken out on Titan, and the Martian Army has recalled almost all of its reserve soldiers from the police ranks. There is talk of citizen conscription in the coming weeks. This war, and the reduction in force of active police officers, provides us an opportunity to strike at the White Tiger while it is weak without fear of ISSP retribution."
"I heard a little news of Titan in Alva City," Spike said with a frown. He'd stopped for cigarettes and smoked half a pack to make up for two weeks' deprivation while he read one of the local papers. "I assume our own contacts in the ISSP are deployed, as well?"
"Very perceptive," Wang Long replied. "Fortunately, we have been able to obtain solid information, and solid contacts with other informants, through our continued interrogation of Marcus Britt."
"Britt is still alive?" Spike said, incredulous.
Sou Long held up a hand before he spoke. "Britt is necessary until after this weekend. Which brings us to the second matter of concern. Britt disclosed, and we were able to confirm, that a summit of White Tiger leadership from around Mars will gather here in Tharsis City on Saturday. They intend to discuss how to break our hold over Red Eye distribution. You, Vicious and Mato, with your teams, will attend the summit. You will relieve the White Tiger of its duplicitous patriarchs. Make room for new blood with proper respect for the rules of business."
Spike blinked. "Where is Vicious now?" He knew, but didn't want to reveal that Mao had spoken of it over the comm. channel.
Ping Long leaned forward. "On Ganymede. The third matter of which you must be apprised."
Spike raised an eyebrow and waited for more.
"Vicious' demeanor in the weeks of your absence has been of some concern to us," Ping Long said. "He shows little regard for our direction and his behavior borders on impudence. The White Tiger was purchasing Red Eye from the same distributor with whom he made contact, and they were ushered into that agreement by his original contact on Ganymede."
"Manfred?" Spike asked. He'd never thought of the old cripple as capable of much more than blowing his earnings on cheap whiskey; the enterprise of it surprised him. "And Vicious is there now," he went on, piecing it together.
"Yes," Ping Long replied. "Hopefully, he will be successful in his assignment. We are also hopeful your return will restore some balance to his mind and his behavior."
"I don't tell him what to do," Spike said with a sneer, forgetting his manners for a moment.
"No, we do," Sou Long said in a brittle tone. "Part of your task, now that you have returned, will be to give him perspective on his personal ambition. The three teams will function as one at the summit. We remind you that you are now in a position parallel with Vicious. We expect you to check him if he strays from our orders."
Forcing a long exhale through his nose, Spike thought a dozen things and said nothing. A long minute passed without anything further from the Van, and he finally stood, bowing low again. "I have returned in your service," he offered in his most formal tone. "Neither I, nor Vicious, will disappoint you."
"Be careful to promise only what you can guarantee," Sou Long warned. "Yenrai-san will answer your more specific questions. We will see you next on Friday afternoon." The three sat back again, and Mao bowed low himself before turning to leave the chamber. Spike lingered for a moment, looking at the shadows of the Dragon's three heads, and then followed him out, lost in thought.
Spike refused a ride from Mao and smoked the four blocks to Annie's on autopilot, sifting through the unspoken undertones of the Van's directive. They had never granted him a private audience before; even after the promotion, it was always Vicious' place to speak with them, and Spike's to listen, either to Vicious' repetition of their instructions, or in the meeting without participation. He'd hoped to fade from their radar with his absence, but instead they had assigned him a greater importance by virtue of what went on while he was away. It was a bad combination – their increased reliance on him, and his apathy toward the business of the Syndicate in general. Not even the news of Vicious falling into disfavor meant much; he had come home for one reason, and it loomed before him now, only a change of clothing and an unavoidable conversation with Annie in the way.
Through the raised blinds of the front door, he saw Annie sitting and talking with Lin, and hesitated before going through. Another delay, another half-welcome distraction. He shouldered the door and waved to her. She sat bolt upright, wide-eyed.
Lin turned on his stool and grinned. "Spike!" He stood and held out a hand.
Spike crossed the room and ignored the hand, embracing him instead. "Lin. I hope you've had an easy time of it." He stepped back and smiled.
Lin nodded. "As business goes, I have. Shin is recovering well. He hopes to join me, when his health improves. That road may be long."
"Give him my regards, and any luck I can spare," Spike replied. "I'm glad to hear it." He wasn't, but it didn't matter: Lin seemed happy, and he didn't feel like spreading his own discontent.
"You've been to see the Van already, I assume?" Lin sat back down.
"Just now, yeah. I'd stay and chat, but I really need a shower."
Lin raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't going to say anything."
Spike chuckled and shook his head. "Politeness should have limits. Annie, I'll be back to talk to you."
"Welcome home," she called after him as he went through the door to the stairwell, making a quick escape.
He'd chosen civilian clothes – the sherpa-collared bomber, the plain white shirt, the jeans – in homage to Saturday night pool games in better days, and out of a conscious desire to distance himself from the trappings of the Syndicate. Freshly shaven, teeth feeling slick and foreign, the last of his weeks in the wilderness slid away too, and he felt once more like a creature of the pavement and the high rises. He came back through the storeroom to find Lin gone, and Annie waiting for him with two Old Fashioned glasses and an expensive bottle of Scotch.
"You look five years younger," she said with a smile.
The corners of his mouth turned up and he rounded the counter to sit across from her. "That's the secret to age and respectability? Grime?"
She laughed out loud. "I have missed you, Spike. More than words can tell."
"I've missed you too, Annie," he sighed. "Not much of anyone else, though."
She poured the Scotch and watched him without replying.
"Do you remember Laughing Bull?" he asked. Mao's knowledge of Bull had surprised him, but Annie and Ming had accompanied Spike and his father on a summer trip to Alva City when he was perhaps thirteen.
She beamed. "Of course! So that's where you were."
"Getting high under the stars," he replied, smirking. "Astrid was there."
She arched an eyebrow.
"Pregnant and about to burst. With her husband. Nice guy, runs a spice shop in the city." He toyed with his glass.
"I'm... sorry. That must have been a bit of a shock," she said gently.
He bit his lip and shook his head. "At first. It was good to see her again, though. One more time."
Annie frowned and put a hand on his arm. "Spike, there's no reason to walk away from the people who matter just because your future didn't turn out like you hoped."
"Nice guy," he repeated with a raw laugh, "but not a fan of the Syndicate, or of Mao sending some goons to get to me through him. Told me very nicely not to come around anymore once I left."
She sighed and gave him a sympathetic look.
"So. Been a little strange around here?" he asked blithely, after downing his glass in one draught.
"Strange, yes. Lonely." She sipped at her own drink.
"Why lonely?"
"Everybody's laying low. Vicious has been staying at Julia's since he named her his second, so she hasn't been around much. Mao is busy. Business is slow."
Spike gaped. "Julia is Vicious' second?"
"Yeah. That ruffled Mao's feathers, but he let it slide. I think he hoped she would keep him in line." She smirked.
He nodded. "Everybody dances around it, but nobody will say exactly what Vicious' problem is."
"Vicious' problem is no different from the one he's always had. He thinks he knows better than everyone else. He has something in common with his best friend," she said, winking at him.
Spike winced inwardly at the use of the phrase. "Has he really stepped out of line?"
"If you consider telling the Van they're ignorant to be stepping out of line, yes, he has. And even though he didn't have anything to do with it, that freighter pilot dealing with the White Tiger didn't do anything to improve his situation." She went to refill his glass, but he held up a hand.
"Later," he said, rising from his seat. "I have somewhere I need to go."
She looked him up and down. "Not a date with the old men," she observed.
He shook his head. "I need to see Julia."
"She probably needs to see you," she replied, but there was caution in her tone.
"What does that mean?"
"She probably needs to see someone she'll listen to, who can tell her that Vicious' opinion of himself is a little different from the Van's. He seems to think he's invincible now that they're running that team together. And I think she believes it, too."
"Don't know why you think she'd listen to me," he said, but he saw the opening he'd needed to broach the subject on his mind with her. "I just want to thank her properly. Buy her dinner or something, you know."
"Behave," she intoned, giving him that piercing look he'd come to expect and dread. "You can fool me, but don't fool yourself."
He tried to smile in response, but it fell short. "That's what I'm best at."
After the four-hour flight between cities, the thought of the Swordfish made his ribs ache, so he set out on foot again, keeping his head low and his hands in his pockets. He'd made it two blocks when he realized he didn't have the Jericho, and stopped short in the middle of the sidewalk while his stomach twisted. Gone so long I've forgotten how to survive, he thought, and shifted from foot to foot. The conversation came back to him in a flood –
"Go on. But bring me my gun."
The look on her face, afraid to disobey, afraid he'd gone around the bend, afraid he'd use it on himself.
But she'd brought it already. "In the bag. With your comm. and your wallet."
What had he said next?
"Remember me. Julia, go."
And she went.
He shook himself and dug out a cigarette. She'd done what he told her to do. Or she'd done what Vicious told her to do. Nothing to blame her for, either way, and she'd been right in the end about Vicious and Mao. He took a half-dozen steps back toward Annie's, but the twinge in his shoulder dredged up an earlier scene, walking into her apartment with his gun drawn and an order to kill her, and he realized he'd left without it on purpose, even if he hadn't known.
The light through the peephole dimmed before he heard the locks rattle, and she swept the door open. For an interminable half-second, she stared at him, and then her arms were around his neck, her head on his chest. He'd barely summoned the muscle control to return the embrace before she pulled back, flushed and a little sheepish, and smiled an apology. She wore the same floral blouse he'd mended, and a little gray skirt with a flare above the knees. She looked impossibly perfect, and she'd just been sitting around her apartment.
He let his hands drop to his sides. "Yo."
"When you didn't call, I was afraid you wouldn't come to see me," she said, moving aside so he could come in and bolting the door behind him. "You look... really good."
"I took a chance you'd be home. I wanted to surprise you." He didn't trust himself to respond to the compliment.
Her smile grew wider. "You did. I'm so glad you're back. We've missed you."
The flash of jubilation at being missed faded when he registered the 'we'. "I hear Vicious got you a new hot-rod position," he said, smiling tightly. "Congratulations."
She cocked her head at him. "Thanks. It's a great opportunity. We haven't had much to do, though. I'm glad you're back in time for the excitement."
"You think I came back so I wouldn't miss out on a Syndicate hit?"
"That's why Mao called you back, isn't it?" She chucked him on the elbow and went to the kitchen, calling through the archway, "Get right back on the velocycle? Want a beer?"
"No, thanks," he called back, and took a deep breath. Get it out before she comes back and looks you in the eye again, he told himself. "I'm only here because of you."
"I'm flattered, but you're pretty tough, Spike. I just gave you somewhere to sleep it off." She reappeared, beer in hand, smiling at him.
"No, I mean I only came back because you're here."
She froze.
"Mao tells me Vicious is in a bit of trouble with the Van," he plowed on.
"Some," she replied, watching him through narrowed eyes while she sat down on the couch. "Hopefully after this weekend we can put it behind us."
He flinched again at the plural pronoun. "What's going on with him? Nobody seems to want to tell me what's wrong," he lied. He wanted to hear it from her.
"He's off-balance ever since you got shot. Ever since they moved you to Alva City. Figuring out Britt helped, but I think he'll be better with you home." She shrugged.
It wasn't what he wanted to hear. "Why does everybody think I make him better? That I'll make the whole situation here better?"
"Because you do, and you will." Her tone was light, but firm. "You seem a little... I don't know. Off, tonight." She looked at him closely. "What's wrong?"
He didn't mean to start in. He meant to sit and talk and be with her, to try and find his way through being alive when he expected to be dead. The words had run through his head too often while he missed her, though. "Why did you stay with him, Julia?"
She blinked. "What?"
"After your trip to Ganymede. Why did you stay with him?" He was in it now; no use trying to cover.
Long seconds went by while she stared at him, but finally she answered. "Because he apologized."
He knit his brow in confusion. "An apology was sufficient?"
"The apology was sincere," she said, cold creeping into her tone.
He cleared his throat, trying to backpedal from the confrontation. "Is it better now that you're working with him?"
"I've always worked with him." She seemed to relax a little. "But it is nice to have his confidence. He trusts me. He listens to what I have to say."
"He'd be a fool not to."
"It's different. He says I'm his second in name but not in stature, and he acts that way." While she spoke, her back straightened. Her pride was obvious, and it made him furious.
"Don't take this the wrong way, but he isn't in a position to make that decision."
"Not to promote me, no. Not further than he has already. But it's not how the Van sees me that matters." She smiled to herself.
He couldn't find his voice at first. Annie was right – Vicious had her hook, line and sinker. He bit his lip, looking for a way to make her come to the conclusion herself. "You know he only shares his power to a point, don't you? His ambition is stronger than anything else in his heart."
"We've been together for two years, Spike," she said, icy again. The reminder stung like she'd peeled the healed skin from the bullet hole in his chest. "Of course I know he's ambitious. And he'll run the Red Dragon someday because he accomplishes what he sets out to do. He shares his power with me of his own free will, because he needs me. He needs you too. I don't see you complaining."
He tried to hold back the anger, but the flush crawled over his skin. "I may not be complaining, but my eyes are open. He needs whatever helps him accomplish his own ends. He doesn't hesitate to cut his ties when he's gotten there. What do you think he's doing right now?"
"Carrying out an assignment to eliminate a traitor," she replied with a shrug.
"Killing a man he used to work for when he was a boy!" Spike burst out. She jumped at his raised voice and he wanted to apologize, but the cruel words poured out instead. "Did you ever see that really old movie called 'Anne of the Thousand Days'? It was about a crazy king on Earth, who married women and then had them executed when they couldn't bear him a male heir. Anne was his eighth wife. She was afraid of him at first, but then she grew to love his power. She thought she was different from the others – chosen. And in the end, when she failed him, he beheaded her anyway. Is that what you want, Julia? Knowing he'll do it to anyone in his way? Knowing he would have done it once before? Leave him before he has the authority and the balls to carry through. Next time he won't send me."
She recoiled like he'd slapped her and turned away. "Are you trying to say something else, Spike, or did you just come back to show me how much you hate me?"
He blinked, the fury fading into exhaustion. "God, Julia, I don't hate you. I'm sorry. I've had a lot of time to think these past few weeks. And all I've thought about was you."
Her eyes shone when she looked at him again. She sighed and said, "I can't run away. I'd be killed, with or without Vicious' intervention. And I don't know how I could stay here and face him every day if I tried to separate myself from him."
"I never saw you as a coward, Julia. What did you see in him before he frightened you into submission?"
She stood, drawing herself up to full height. The sight was at once beautiful and terrifying. When she spoke, her mouth moved like a tight spring held it shut. "Fuck you, Spike. I survived without a childhood. I made my own way. After all of that, I deserve him. I deserve the man who will be king."
He braced himself. "Even if you're afraid of him?"
"He gives me security more than equal to the fear," she hissed.
He scoffed, curling his lip. "It's like I'm finally seeing you with my right eye."
"Then what does your right eye see?" she asked, almost patronizing.
"Reality. The reality that if you settle for what you think you deserve, you become the person who deserves it."
He turned on his heel, deaf to anything but his own heartbeat and the rush of blood in his ears, and let himself out.
She stood dumbstruck while the door slammed behind him, the picture frames rattling on the wall. A wave of nausea made her wince, and before she could register anything else, the room swam behind tears. The last of the daylight faded as the sun set on the horizon, bathing the room in red and then leaving only the faint glow of the table lamp. She balled her fists at her sides and forced herself to move.
She checked the hall, but he was utterly gone by the time she got up the nerve to turn the knob. She closed the door, leaning against it, her palm flat on the smooth new wood. From her vantage point, she spotted the comm. on the kitchen table and went to get it, numb fingers finding his code. She tried to control her shaking hand and pressed her forehead to the cool glass of the window while it rang.
Out of the corner of her eye, she registered movement on the street below and realized she could see him, half a block away, searching his pockets for his comm. He found it, holding it up to look at it, and she took a deep, rattling breath, but he just stood there.
"Answer, damn it," she hissed under her breath. The tone buzzed again.
She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. One more ring till messaging. She was about to hang up when the screen flickered on, his face pale and hard. He did not speak.
"What do you think I deserve?" she whispered.
"What?" His voice was taut, half an octave higher than usual.
"Please don't walk away from me, Spike," she managed, a little louder, trying to keep her own voice from breaking. "I want to know what you think I deserve."
His shoulders slumped; he tapped the toe of his right boot against his left heel in a nervous gesture she realized she knew but had never noticed. His eyes seemed to bore through the LCD display, the streetlight reflected in two bright spots. One brighter than the other. He still said nothing.
"I want you to show me," she said, and held her breath.
He raised an eyebrow. The muscles of his jaw clenched and released. On the street, she could see the motion of his arm before his hand came into view in close-up, running fingers roughly through his hair.
"Come back," she whispered. "Even if it's just until morning."
The hand dropped from his head. The screen went black. She watched him pocket the comm. and move a few more feet down the sidewalk. Then he stopped and turned, slowly. He raised his head and she knew he'd see her, silhouetted against the dim lamplight. Finally, he took a tentative step toward her building, and another; when he was halfway across the street, she went to sit on the couch and wait.