Wow it took me a lot this time. Oh well, I hope you like it.
Chapter
For a moment, she found herself transfixed. It was impossible, it couldn't possibly have been! She had been at his funeral, she had stood by Jet's side and cried. It couldn't possibly have been him, it just couldn't. She sprang up from her chair and ran outside. He followed her, quickly, swiftly. Faye wanted to get away but she couldn't bring herself to it. There he was, looking directly at her. She could feel his touch, experience the sensation of him next to her. And yet his hands were so cold, almost unreal.
They stood in silence for a moment, staring at one another, experiencing one another. Faye figured it was her imagination at white heat. How else could he appear before her if he was already dead. She closed her eyes and reopened them, expecting that he would disappear. But there he was still, standing in front of her, existing.
She began to pant loudly, her body shaking from the inside out. She was dreaming, she must have been dreaming. Was this a ghost standing in front of her? She could think of no other explanation.
"Are you a ghost?" She said slowly.
"A ghost?" He chuckled, "Aren't you a little too old to believe in superstition?"
She suddenly felt her hand reaching for the cigarette pack she kept in her pocket. She quit months ago, but held on to one. She was saving it for a rainy day. It had rained.
"Spot me one of those," he said.
"No," she shook her head impulsively, "you're a ghost you can't smoke."
"Faye," he sighed, almost irritated, "are you going insane or is it just that scotch giving you a headache?
She placed her hands in her pockets and began to circle around the street, afraid to look up at him.
"You're not real," she reasoned, "You're not real, you're not alive, you're just a figment of my imagination."
"Alright," he sighed, "this is starting to get ridiculous."
She shook her head, "You're not fooling me, Spike! I'm just drunk and upset and---"
"It must have been a hell of a lot of alcohol to drink in order to see things so clearly, things that aren't there, that is."
"Maybe that bartender put something in my drink!" she exclaimed, "That must be it! The damn bartender, I knew he looked suspicious."
"Oh Faye," Spike sighed, scratching the back of his head, "Now you're just being paranoid."
"I must have taken some sort of a hallucinogen!" She declared, "and you are nothing more but a figment of my imagination!"
He sighed, "Listen, I don't have time for this."
She tried to pull away when he grabbed her by the arm and began to quickly walk forward. She felt safe when he touched her, almost as if she no longer had anything to fear. They re-entered the bar and he positioned her at a small table in the corner, far from everyone's view, although the entire restaurant was fixated on them.
She lay back in the chair in submission, she no longer wanted to fight against it. He was there, all that mattered was that he was there. She was not alone anymore and the realization penetrated her deep inside, tearing apart the pit of her stomach. She wasn't alone anymore, she wasn't alone anymore, she wasn't alone.
"Look," Spike said, "I know you must be surprised, I promise you I'll explain everything to you."
She laughed in madness, "Oh no, don't even bother. Dead men I once knew come back to life all the time!"
"All right, maybe the bartender did put something in your drink," Spike smiled.
For a moment, they shared a nostalgic memory. Just like the old times. They both missed the old times. It vanished as quickly as it came.
"So what have you been up to in the last two years?" Spike smiled as he looked her over. She had aged, her face had matured. But in those eyes he could still see the same cunning outlook, the same Faye Valentine.
"Oh nothing much," she hurried with words, "Just trying to make a living."
"Yes," he said, "and winding up in a dump like Callisto."
"A Bounty Hunter's heaven," she smiled, "What can I say, I am a woman with my own reasons for things."
"Yes," he paused, "it has, I suppose, nothing to do with the past."
She suddenly remembered Gren and she knew he was remembering him too. Only about a handful of people had touched Faye in some way over her many years of life. Gren was among them. She could never forget the sad emotion of his eyes, his hard grip, his embrace. She remembered the night he rescued her, she remembered when he listened and understood what she had to say. And of course she remembered that name that he had mentioned during the course of their lengthy conversations. But she wasn't going to remember that name, she wasn't going to confine it within the realms of her mind again. From the day Spike left the Bebop, she vowed to herself never to remember the past. It didn't work out the way she planned, but somehow she still felt obliged at certain points. If she remembered that name now, she would certainly break into tears. In truth, she didn't want to remember it for a different reason.
She didn't want to remind him.
"It has nothing to do with the past," she paused, "Nothing exists any longer to tie me to the past. Everything is over now, and I'm looking to start fresh."
"I'd drink to that," he said, his eyes suddenly fixating onto empty space as if a painful memory overtook him, but he refused to fall victim to it, "but you don't need any more to drink."
"Oh Spike," she sighed with an insatiable grief, "The glass became my confident, and the scotch my truest friend. What is there is to say about women like me?"
He smiled for a moment, looking into her eyes, "Whatever there is to say, I'm not the one to say it."
She smiled, a sorrowful smile, a look of exhaustion and fear. She wanted to break away from everything but once again she was comfronted by the past. It had been as fat had prophesized, and none of her resolutions could ever come true.
"But I have something to say about that," she suddenly heard a hoarse voice, looking up first at Spike and then at the tall figure that stood in the middle of the bar. He was dressed in a fur coat and held in his arms a large gun. Just by hearing his voice, without even having to look at his face, Faye knew that this was not the man she'd seen earlier, but she had no doubt that he was sent by that man.
Spike looked over, non-chalantly placing a cigarette into his mouth and giving the man a lopsided grin. "You talkin' to me?" he asked.
"Not to you, to the lady you're with," he smiled, "Rose Shields, was it?"
Spike stared at Faye with a smile, "Nothing's up, huh?" he cooed, "just trying to make a living?"
Faye laughed innocently, drunkedly through her teeth, nothing could upset her now, "Sure."
"Oh, and the guy with the shotgun, is he your jealous boyfriend or should I be worried?"
Suddenly she realized where she was, and the look she gave him proved enough to drive Spike into removing the revolver from his pocket and shooting the man in the knee. He dropped the gun and fell to the floor. Instinctively, Spike grabbed Faye's hand and began to run forward, through the door, and away.
Outside, a group huddled in search of their companion, as Spike impulsively fought each one off. One made a move at Faye and she hit him in the stomach with her leg. Quickly, he fell back and she jumped away into a shadow only to be caught by the shoulders and pulled away from the scene. Spike was involved with three men at the time and barely noticed his protégé's disappearance.
In the grim darkness of the night Faye shivvered within his arms. His strong, deadly grip overcame her as his fingers roughly fondled her skin. His lips ached at her neck, maliciously pursuing the inclination of her chin, engaging himself, engorging himself, against her. She let out a moan and his hand instinctively thrust against her mouth, pressing his fingers again her inner lining of her lips. She dared not move, not even breathe. He had overtaken her and suddenly she felt as if the end was going to come soon. Her body ached in his arms and suddenly her life began to flash in front of her eyes. To think, that when at last she had found an old companion, a man who held such a dear place in her heart, her own sade life would go. To think that such was the irony of fate.
"Hello," he whispered into her ear, his lips brushing up against her, "we meet again, Faye Valentine."
She closed her eyes, sobbing silently.
"That man," the voice continued to trail down her spine, "does he mean a lot to you?"
She shook her head impulsively, he removed his hand from her mouth, "No," she whjspered, "I barely know him at all."
"Faye Valentine," he mused, "such a pretty name."
And he was gone. He had darted into the darkness and he could have taken her with him, but he did not. She figured it was a ritual for him, as she stood and shook from cold and fear, invaded, soiled, distroyed. There was a possibility that she might not have lived through the night. It still existed that danger, that loss. But he had left her intact, he had left her. Why had he left her? She cried hopelessly, knowing that it was only a matter of time. He wanted to torture her first, before he had the chance to kill her. Eventually he would. That was, after all, why he was trailing her. Faye knew something that someone out there didn't want her to know. She had to die, there was not way around it.
She began to remember that day. She remembered her tears, her cries. She remembered everything. The smell in the air, the color scheme of the room. Across the lavish restaurant sat her mark. An older man, a thin, unrounded individual who looked as if he did not belong in the tuxedo but seemed to handle very well a martini. Faye remembered how stunning she looked in the purple nightgown that hugged her hips and flexed her back. She remmebered how she played with her hair and how she crossed her legs as she sat next to him at the bar and asked for a light.
"It's beat here tonight," she remarked, placing her perfectly molded arms on the bar.
"Not with pretty ladies like you walking around, spicing it all up a notch."
And suddenly, she was back in the cold, dark street. She was crying histerically, once again she had begun to remember. Spike shook her by her shoulders out of the inevitable trans.
"Wake up," he screamed, "Come on Faye, don't go crazy on me now."
Before she could stop herself, she plunged into his arms, sobbing unstoppably, wiping her tears on his shirt.
"Come on, what's wrong? What's wrong?" he pleaded, placing his hands on her back.
"It's them," she whispered sorrowfully, "it's them."
"Who?" he demanded, "come on!" he shook her, "Who?"
"Them," she cried, pushing through his hardness to his chest and hiding in his arms, "it's them, the people that killed Jet."
And then, he did not speak a word. He hands only dug into her shoulders in a tight embrace.
The star of Callisto seemed like a distant memory as Faye looked back on it from the window of Spike's spaceship. Since their last exchange, they had not spoken a word. They didn't need to, the air was too think for words anyway. Only one thing she could not deny. Now that she had found Spike, a sense of security overcame her. Almost as if she did not need to worry anymore, almost as if, for the first time in two years, she was utterly, unconditionally safe. Like a sleeping child in its little crib.
Chapter
For a moment, she found herself transfixed. It was impossible, it couldn't possibly have been! She had been at his funeral, she had stood by Jet's side and cried. It couldn't possibly have been him, it just couldn't. She sprang up from her chair and ran outside. He followed her, quickly, swiftly. Faye wanted to get away but she couldn't bring herself to it. There he was, looking directly at her. She could feel his touch, experience the sensation of him next to her. And yet his hands were so cold, almost unreal.
They stood in silence for a moment, staring at one another, experiencing one another. Faye figured it was her imagination at white heat. How else could he appear before her if he was already dead. She closed her eyes and reopened them, expecting that he would disappear. But there he was still, standing in front of her, existing.
She began to pant loudly, her body shaking from the inside out. She was dreaming, she must have been dreaming. Was this a ghost standing in front of her? She could think of no other explanation.
"Are you a ghost?" She said slowly.
"A ghost?" He chuckled, "Aren't you a little too old to believe in superstition?"
She suddenly felt her hand reaching for the cigarette pack she kept in her pocket. She quit months ago, but held on to one. She was saving it for a rainy day. It had rained.
"Spot me one of those," he said.
"No," she shook her head impulsively, "you're a ghost you can't smoke."
"Faye," he sighed, almost irritated, "are you going insane or is it just that scotch giving you a headache?
She placed her hands in her pockets and began to circle around the street, afraid to look up at him.
"You're not real," she reasoned, "You're not real, you're not alive, you're just a figment of my imagination."
"Alright," he sighed, "this is starting to get ridiculous."
She shook her head, "You're not fooling me, Spike! I'm just drunk and upset and---"
"It must have been a hell of a lot of alcohol to drink in order to see things so clearly, things that aren't there, that is."
"Maybe that bartender put something in my drink!" she exclaimed, "That must be it! The damn bartender, I knew he looked suspicious."
"Oh Faye," Spike sighed, scratching the back of his head, "Now you're just being paranoid."
"I must have taken some sort of a hallucinogen!" She declared, "and you are nothing more but a figment of my imagination!"
He sighed, "Listen, I don't have time for this."
She tried to pull away when he grabbed her by the arm and began to quickly walk forward. She felt safe when he touched her, almost as if she no longer had anything to fear. They re-entered the bar and he positioned her at a small table in the corner, far from everyone's view, although the entire restaurant was fixated on them.
She lay back in the chair in submission, she no longer wanted to fight against it. He was there, all that mattered was that he was there. She was not alone anymore and the realization penetrated her deep inside, tearing apart the pit of her stomach. She wasn't alone anymore, she wasn't alone anymore, she wasn't alone.
"Look," Spike said, "I know you must be surprised, I promise you I'll explain everything to you."
She laughed in madness, "Oh no, don't even bother. Dead men I once knew come back to life all the time!"
"All right, maybe the bartender did put something in your drink," Spike smiled.
For a moment, they shared a nostalgic memory. Just like the old times. They both missed the old times. It vanished as quickly as it came.
"So what have you been up to in the last two years?" Spike smiled as he looked her over. She had aged, her face had matured. But in those eyes he could still see the same cunning outlook, the same Faye Valentine.
"Oh nothing much," she hurried with words, "Just trying to make a living."
"Yes," he said, "and winding up in a dump like Callisto."
"A Bounty Hunter's heaven," she smiled, "What can I say, I am a woman with my own reasons for things."
"Yes," he paused, "it has, I suppose, nothing to do with the past."
She suddenly remembered Gren and she knew he was remembering him too. Only about a handful of people had touched Faye in some way over her many years of life. Gren was among them. She could never forget the sad emotion of his eyes, his hard grip, his embrace. She remembered the night he rescued her, she remembered when he listened and understood what she had to say. And of course she remembered that name that he had mentioned during the course of their lengthy conversations. But she wasn't going to remember that name, she wasn't going to confine it within the realms of her mind again. From the day Spike left the Bebop, she vowed to herself never to remember the past. It didn't work out the way she planned, but somehow she still felt obliged at certain points. If she remembered that name now, she would certainly break into tears. In truth, she didn't want to remember it for a different reason.
She didn't want to remind him.
"It has nothing to do with the past," she paused, "Nothing exists any longer to tie me to the past. Everything is over now, and I'm looking to start fresh."
"I'd drink to that," he said, his eyes suddenly fixating onto empty space as if a painful memory overtook him, but he refused to fall victim to it, "but you don't need any more to drink."
"Oh Spike," she sighed with an insatiable grief, "The glass became my confident, and the scotch my truest friend. What is there is to say about women like me?"
He smiled for a moment, looking into her eyes, "Whatever there is to say, I'm not the one to say it."
She smiled, a sorrowful smile, a look of exhaustion and fear. She wanted to break away from everything but once again she was comfronted by the past. It had been as fat had prophesized, and none of her resolutions could ever come true.
"But I have something to say about that," she suddenly heard a hoarse voice, looking up first at Spike and then at the tall figure that stood in the middle of the bar. He was dressed in a fur coat and held in his arms a large gun. Just by hearing his voice, without even having to look at his face, Faye knew that this was not the man she'd seen earlier, but she had no doubt that he was sent by that man.
Spike looked over, non-chalantly placing a cigarette into his mouth and giving the man a lopsided grin. "You talkin' to me?" he asked.
"Not to you, to the lady you're with," he smiled, "Rose Shields, was it?"
Spike stared at Faye with a smile, "Nothing's up, huh?" he cooed, "just trying to make a living?"
Faye laughed innocently, drunkedly through her teeth, nothing could upset her now, "Sure."
"Oh, and the guy with the shotgun, is he your jealous boyfriend or should I be worried?"
Suddenly she realized where she was, and the look she gave him proved enough to drive Spike into removing the revolver from his pocket and shooting the man in the knee. He dropped the gun and fell to the floor. Instinctively, Spike grabbed Faye's hand and began to run forward, through the door, and away.
Outside, a group huddled in search of their companion, as Spike impulsively fought each one off. One made a move at Faye and she hit him in the stomach with her leg. Quickly, he fell back and she jumped away into a shadow only to be caught by the shoulders and pulled away from the scene. Spike was involved with three men at the time and barely noticed his protégé's disappearance.
In the grim darkness of the night Faye shivvered within his arms. His strong, deadly grip overcame her as his fingers roughly fondled her skin. His lips ached at her neck, maliciously pursuing the inclination of her chin, engaging himself, engorging himself, against her. She let out a moan and his hand instinctively thrust against her mouth, pressing his fingers again her inner lining of her lips. She dared not move, not even breathe. He had overtaken her and suddenly she felt as if the end was going to come soon. Her body ached in his arms and suddenly her life began to flash in front of her eyes. To think, that when at last she had found an old companion, a man who held such a dear place in her heart, her own sade life would go. To think that such was the irony of fate.
"Hello," he whispered into her ear, his lips brushing up against her, "we meet again, Faye Valentine."
She closed her eyes, sobbing silently.
"That man," the voice continued to trail down her spine, "does he mean a lot to you?"
She shook her head impulsively, he removed his hand from her mouth, "No," she whjspered, "I barely know him at all."
"Faye Valentine," he mused, "such a pretty name."
And he was gone. He had darted into the darkness and he could have taken her with him, but he did not. She figured it was a ritual for him, as she stood and shook from cold and fear, invaded, soiled, distroyed. There was a possibility that she might not have lived through the night. It still existed that danger, that loss. But he had left her intact, he had left her. Why had he left her? She cried hopelessly, knowing that it was only a matter of time. He wanted to torture her first, before he had the chance to kill her. Eventually he would. That was, after all, why he was trailing her. Faye knew something that someone out there didn't want her to know. She had to die, there was not way around it.
She began to remember that day. She remembered her tears, her cries. She remembered everything. The smell in the air, the color scheme of the room. Across the lavish restaurant sat her mark. An older man, a thin, unrounded individual who looked as if he did not belong in the tuxedo but seemed to handle very well a martini. Faye remembered how stunning she looked in the purple nightgown that hugged her hips and flexed her back. She remmebered how she played with her hair and how she crossed her legs as she sat next to him at the bar and asked for a light.
"It's beat here tonight," she remarked, placing her perfectly molded arms on the bar.
"Not with pretty ladies like you walking around, spicing it all up a notch."
And suddenly, she was back in the cold, dark street. She was crying histerically, once again she had begun to remember. Spike shook her by her shoulders out of the inevitable trans.
"Wake up," he screamed, "Come on Faye, don't go crazy on me now."
Before she could stop herself, she plunged into his arms, sobbing unstoppably, wiping her tears on his shirt.
"Come on, what's wrong? What's wrong?" he pleaded, placing his hands on her back.
"It's them," she whispered sorrowfully, "it's them."
"Who?" he demanded, "come on!" he shook her, "Who?"
"Them," she cried, pushing through his hardness to his chest and hiding in his arms, "it's them, the people that killed Jet."
And then, he did not speak a word. He hands only dug into her shoulders in a tight embrace.
The star of Callisto seemed like a distant memory as Faye looked back on it from the window of Spike's spaceship. Since their last exchange, they had not spoken a word. They didn't need to, the air was too think for words anyway. Only one thing she could not deny. Now that she had found Spike, a sense of security overcame her. Almost as if she did not need to worry anymore, almost as if, for the first time in two years, she was utterly, unconditionally safe. Like a sleeping child in its little crib.