XXXII. Safecracking
Vicious swept long fingers through his white hair, pushing it back out of his eyes and letting the sweat keep it in place. With Spike, there was no need for the layer of shadow that made the twin scars look like nothing more than age lines; he'd never stared, not even at the first, and he'd never asked. It was how Vicious had known he could trust this reed-thin, mop-headed delinquent when Mao first introduced them in the stuffy, formal sitting room of his palatial home.
Now Spike circled him, out at the edge of the reed mat in the training center, looking for all the world like he was just going from point A to point B. He wore a loose yellow T-shirt over his black drawstring pants. He seemed in good shape, still graceful, no limp.
Vicious tried to match the nonchalant mood, standing in the center of the mat, shaking out his hands. He'd asked for this fight, partly to be sure Spike was really up to wet work, but mostly because he wanted it for himself. Something had gone soft in Spike; he'd seen it when they picked him up at Julia's. Too much time, too many days and hours to wonder if he would live or die. She'd seen that sentimental underbelly Spike worked so hard to protect and she'd drawn it out with her pity. Now he was on his second lap around the mat, too hesitant for Vicious' tastes, stinking of uncertainty.
"I thought you said you had a sparring partner on your little vacation," Vicious growled.
Spike closed the distance a bit, still circling like a horse on a halter line. "I did."
"You act more like you had a dance partner."
There it was. The eyes narrowing, the tendons in his long neck straining, the lightning sidestep that cut the gap between them down to a yard. His bare foot came around in a roundhouse kick and Vicious brought up his hand to grab the ankle. Spike let the momentum of the kick carry him, went airborne twisting sideways, watched Vicious falter a little under his weight, and brought his other foot around in a punishing punt to the side of Vicious' head. Vicious yanked up on the captive ankle before letting go, and Spike dropped from his own height to the mat heavily, rolling but disoriented for a split second. He arched his back and sprung up to his feet, bounced once on the balls of them, and then was still, panting.
"Touchy," Vicious said with a sneer. "Should have waited until you were ready to hit me to hit me."
"What's your problem, Vicious?" Spike cracked his neck and glared.
"You are," he replied, watching those brown eyes go wide and then narrow, never leaving his own. "You look like Spike. But you don't fight like a ravenous beast. You fight like a fat house pet."
The side of Spike's left hand connected with Vicious' kidney, and then he bounced back again, resuming his stroll. "Fuck you, metaljockey. Spit it out."
"Are you going to fight me or talk?" Vicious lunged forward and threw a hard right, but Spike ducked under it – he knew it wouldn't land – and popped up again to deliver a left to Vicious' abdomen. He clenched the muscles in anticipation and took the blow silently, smirking when Spike shook out his hand. "Better." He blew out a breath and squared himself, and then they were into it, quick blows parried, Spike leaping a sweeping kick like it was a jumprope, Vicious feinting sideways and feeling the wind from Spike's fist rush past his face, strangled gasps and grunts. Instinct took over, the dojo forgotten. Five minutes stretched into ten, and then fifteen; Spike actually had to reorient himself and snap out of it when he found he'd twisted Vicious' left arm up behind his back and wrapped his own right arm around that white throat. Vicious was gagging.
He let go and stepped back. There was never any boyishness between them when they fought; no clapping a hand on a shoulder or apologizing for a too- hard hit. Vicious shook himself, resisted the urge to rub at his neck, and turned to face him.
"Good," he said, his voice raspy. "The firing range next. Doubt you've had much target practice in the past few weeks."
Spike panted slightly, open-mouthed, blood trickling down into his right eye. "I never forget how to shoot or throw, Vicious. I've got a built-in scope."
"You've never turned down a session before, either," Vicious replied, looking suspicious. "Is there somewhere else you need to be?"
Spike sighed and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back. "No. But you've been an asshole all afternoon, and you wouldn't waste the effort just to get me pissed off for a sparring match. Tell me what your issue is, or drop it."
Vicious watched him, taking in the set of his jaw, the thrown-back shoulders he wore when he was ready to defend himself. In the corner of his mind, he knew there was a question he should be asking, something more off-kilter than Spike's apathy. But that was a good place to start. "I want to know why you act so put out over getting ready for this hit."
"I'm not put out over getting ready. I'm put out over having to prove to you that I am. Used to be you'd believe me if I said so." Spike dragged a forearm across his eyes, blinking at the stinging sweat.
Vicious felt a bearing fall into place. Not the combination, but the first digit. "A little sensitive, Tony-boy," he said, low. "We do this before every hit. Are you afraid I'm going to hurt you?"
Spike's eyebrows drew together in a glower. "You seemed to be trying."
"Used to be you would not mind," Vicious replied.
"There's no reason for you to beat the shit out of me right before something this major, Vicious. Unless you missed having me around to whale on. Seems like you and Julia are getting on famously, so I guess you can't take it out on her. And the Van's got you in a choke chain. Don't spend your frustration on me."
Julia's name made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. "My frustration? I am not frustrated, Spike. Perhaps you are, though. Must have been hollow, buying her breakfast after spending the night alone."
Spike was silent for a few seconds, holding the stare, his face immobile. "You were supposed to protect her, Vicious," he finally said in a choked baritone. "I spent every night alone these past few weeks thinking about how you fucked that up."
"Did you tell her that over a muffin and a cappuccino?" Vicious hissed.
"No. She told me how she got kicked out of the Venusian science museum. I bet you've never heard that story. And she told me how you've made her your partner on your team. How much you've promised her that you have no means to deliver. I thought the word of a swordsman was as strong as his blade. But you use both just to get what you want for yourself."
Vicious chuckled, watching the way the sound made Spike's skin draw tight over his jaw. "You wanted to know what my problem was. You fight like a woman, Spike. You are the one with the problem. But you cannot admit it, even to yourself."
"She deserves better than what you give the rest of us," Spike said, deflated but still sparking with unspent energy. "We clean up your messes. You left me behind and she found me. You wanted her yours, or dead, and I made sure it was the former."
"Be careful when you're with that woman." Vicious' tone was brittle. "She can make you believe, for the briefest of seconds, that you are a normal man. You are not. And she is not a normal woman."
Spike's eyebrows twitched, just a little, and he was quiet a split second too long before he replied. "She is a normal woman, Vicious. She deserves someone who loves her. She needs it."
Vicious stood stock-still, letting his breathing slow, letting Spike balance on the precipice of what had just crossed his lips. "From where I stand, Spiegel, it appears she has everything she needs. If you failed to convince her that you could offer something better, there is no point in trying to convince me." He balled his fists at his sides, resisting the urge to lay Spike out with a hard right while his mouth slacked open and the flicker of panic rippled over his face, and stalked out of the gym.
Vicious came home in his rank gym clothes to the empty apartment. Julia had gone out for groceries, he knew, and he stood just inside the doorway, looking around, breathing in. Even after three weeks, it still smelled like paint, but there was something more. Smoke. She hadn't smoked in two years.
He dropped his bag and propped the katana against the doorjamb, pacing through the living room. Everything seemed in order. One beer bottle next to the sink in the kitchen. No dishes from a cooked meal; just a solitary fork. The take-out container from the Chinese food they'd eaten the night before he left for Ganymede in the garbage under the sink.
The smoke smell was strongest in the bedroom, the window open by three inches. He whirled around, taking it in, the bed neatly made. Even while fury and something else – almost like fear – crawled in his gut, he screwed up his resolve and ripped back the bedspread, but the sheets were smoothed down and neat, the way she always made it. He cursed himself for suspecting her, for suspecting Spike, for letting jealousy raise his pulse and rattle his steady hands, and re-made it as best he could, standing back to examine his handiwork. He'd have to get her in it as soon as she came home, or she'd notice, and either she'd ask him about it, or she wouldn't, and he wasn't sure which would be worse. They hadn't made it past the couch when he met her at the door before he left to work out with Spike.
He sighed and peeled off his t-shirt and sweats, dropping them in the empty laundry basket on his way to the bathroom. A hot shower, and Julia there when he got out, might improve his mood.
With the hot water beating down on him, he actually felt a little foolish. He'd have to buy Spike a round of drinks, he thought, later tonight when the sting and the testosterone had worn off. Spike had been right that he'd missed having him around, but not just for sparring. He'd looked forward to feeling on-balance again all the way home from Ganymede. Seeing Julia with him was nothing new. Everything was going to sort itself out now, and most of all, he had the wholesale slaughter of White Tiger bosses to look forward to, with Spike and Julia by his side. He rinsed off the last of the soap and turned off the water, breathing in the steam, as he pulled back the shower curtain.
The first towel, hung neatly, was still damp from Julia's shower that morning. He stepped out onto the bath mat and reached for the other. And the chill of the air became a bracing arctic current when he put a hand on that second towel and found it was damp as well.