Hello everyone! Thanks for the wonderful reviews! see how happy you made me? I was floating off on cloud nine for a good three days, but my sister pried me back down. Now as to why it took me so long to post…um well…I have NO idea where I'm going with this story (my muse sorta died, I think she hates me). So if you REALLY want me to continue then review and tell me what you want to see. Well thanks …and ENJOY!
Chapter Two
Vicious didn't want to give her up, really he didn't. He grinned at the thought and himself, sometimes he was such a child, but that didn't matter because he was being honest with himself, and most people rarely did or were that. The fact was he never grew out of toys they had just advanced from plastic and metal to flesh and blood. Everyone, whether they would like to admit it or not, was like that. Take Faye for example she had her vanity (which he had delightfully begun to destroy) which to him seemed like a higher form of dress up. Spike had his bounties and his targets which was just like playing the silly childhood games of cops and robbers, or G.I Joe. Honest and truly they were all the same, but of course all of this was irrelevant because despite what he felt or wanted to do he still would have to give his little toy up. It was just the way the process went he'd have something then Spike would have it next. It never ceased to amaze him how history, regardless how many times you try to change it, repeated itself.
You see when a human—no matter how bound they are—cries out for salvation they have to receive it. And we truly feel sorry for the not so dead god that has to take her in. But when that god sees its ultimate enemy, everything including the ownership of the poor human life becomes a game, just a insignificant battle of wits, because even though this god has them for now it doesn't mean that majestic Lucifer isn't waiting around the corner to tempt them. And what delicious temptation it is.
Jet didn't how the damn thing found him, but there it was, the old space shuttle hunkering down towards his ship requesting permission to land, it was an old version so they couldn't get a visual of the person inside but whether he liked it or not it was coming straight at him, and if he would not like to have to fix his ship once again then they might as well accept the stupid thing. He wondered vaguely as the ship docked with his who the hell would ride in such a ridiculous thing, and as soon as it connected with his, he had the returned Radical Edward to do a scan. You never know, and Jet was always the cautious type. Edward informed him that the object inside was a human being and that's all that seemed to be in there. So opening his hatch he peeked inside. Shit. It looked like they were about to become one big happy family again, Edward had since wandered back to this place and after a year Spike brought himself back from the dead. Sometimes Jet wondered if that man could die.
And now the last piece of their little unit was with them, the vivacious Faye Valentine. She looked alright, just sleeping and he tried to shake her awake, but the woman was in a catatonic state. She didn't even move and Jet removed her suit hurriedly, he couldn't tell if she was breathing. Peeling the space suit away he noticed her torso first it was enveloped in white bandages that were stained red. Touching her back he pulled away the sticky red substance coating his hand. What happened to her? He thought he had gotten her a safe job, where she wouldn't be broken, where he was sure she would be safe. "Spike!" he called, he was going to need some help carrying her. Spike strolled in, as lethargic as a stretching cat, and an eyebrow shot up.
"Well, well look what we have here," he commented hands in his pockets, seemingly not fazed by the amount of blood that was seeping through to Jet's hands. But he was worried, and that…that was aggravating. How the hell had she ended up like that? He threw the question aside he have time to ask that later. If she was still alive. 'Damn woman,' he thought vexed, she always needed someone to come around and save her.
As gently as they could they carried her to the 'common room' and placed her on the longest couch available, then Spike sauntered off to get the medical kit. Jet screamed at him to move faster, but for the millionth time in his life Spike just played the role of a disobedient kid. His mind was yelling at him to move faster too, Spike however had every belief that Miss Poker Alice who was stretched out on the couch there, would live. He saw Ed and Ein bound away past him, and he marveled at all the energy those two possessed, truly amazing, they were like they eighth world wonder or something.
He returned just in time to hear them cry happily, "Faye-Faye has returned!" and then the child of whatever age looked closer, "Uh-oh Ein, Faye-Faye is in trouble…" picking up the dog she pawned him, a curious worry passing through her amber orbs. The morose sound of the words had Spike looking closely at the women before him, and he noticed that she was barely breathing. He was struck by a new sense of urgency. Pushing past the small crowd that consisted of the other occupants of the ship he took out a pair of scissors. He then carefully made an inch size cut into the gauze that looked like it was bleeding itself. She was losing so much blood…Placing the scissors down he placed his fingers on either side of his little incision, he realized they were shaking. Scowling he stilled the trembling digits and shredded the binding.
His stomach sloshed at the sight. Sure he had seen more blood than what was painted onto her back, but the fact that it was springing from there, just floating away carelessly running down her backside was just…well repulsive. He mumbled a fluent string of curses, and it almost sounded like a different language. Still murmuring he glanced up at the head of the ship, "Jet we have to get to a hospital," he stated calmly, Jet didn't move. You see as he was talking Spike had taken a wet cloth which had thankfully appeared magically (probably Jet's doing) and he was presently sopping away the crimson cells that were running away, Jet regrettably had seen what those cuts said, making him incapable of movement. "Now Jet!" he snapped, but Jet was stuck there staring at the one word that had been scratched into the vixens back. It was something that would endure forever, her capturer had made sure of that. "Jet!" he was screaming now, but then he turned his head down to his hands to see what the whole vessel seemed to be staring at. V-I-C-I-O-U-S. Fuck. The letters had been carved into the skin, like a man would carve there lovers name into a tree. Proud and proclaiming boldly everything that was felt outright. The only problem was Vicious didn't feel anything for anybody. He was inhuman, any human emotion that he showed was a mockery of the real thing. That man—if you could even call him that— had serious pathology problems.
Looking down at the skin that had fiercely, yet measuredly been sliced apart he knew he was going to hurl. Faye was just a tool, a message, informing Spike that not only was Vicious alive and well, but he knew Spike was alive too, and he also knew where he was residing. Spike just made his way to the bathroom, and he thought of Vicious' laugh, and all the screams he heard on countless occasions. Spike didn't even stay in the room long enough to find out what was on Faye's stomach. He couldn't have anyways, it would have been impossible—simply impossible—to do so.
Jet must have reacted eventually because suddenly the ship lurched and they were speeding off into the distance. His body slammed into the nearby wall and he nearly became a crumpled mass of human, a fleshy heap, on the floor. Instead he told himself to breathe, letting the easy command take over his body until that was his only function, just breathe. He couldn't think, his mind had turned into a mass of fuzzy nerve endings that refused to comprehend more one demand at a time, for fear that it would explode. Don't think. That was minimal enough to do, his mind wasn't prepared for a coherent thought, it would have become a tangled knot of nonsense. Jumbled, unarranged, and terribly confusing. Even the thought of not thinking was making his head hurt, it was expanding, with each throb growing bigger within its petty confines, until BAM! He would be happy if that happened, undeniably contented. But no he couldn't have that because Jet wouldn't have been too pleased so he gave himself another order, slowly, sluggishly.
Go get some aspirin, have a cigarette, calm down. Yes that would be nice: calm, peace, relaxation, languidity. It would all be so wonderful when he found it, he could imagine it now, it could possibly even measure up to the time he spent with Julia. Julia…Vicious…Faye…Vicious. Jesus Christ would that man ever leave him the fuck alone? Okay sure he had loved his girlfriend, and yes the lady had loved him back, but did that really mean that he had to try to kill him? Without the whole: I'm-leaving-the-syndicate part. Seriously, every sliver of a chance that Vicious got he would try to obliterate him. Then again he was the one who always came a-calling, maybe it was his fault as much as Vicious'. He bloody didn't care whichever it went, and then he pictured Faye, body cut at different angles to make that single word, that goddamned name that Spike knew eventually would be the death of him. He wondered gravely if…
Ignore it. Yet another order that he would blindly follow until he had retrieved some normalcy, when his world became normal again. What was normal for him anyways, hell what was normal? Ignore it. The command came again and he decided to comply this time, it was to early to even consider a question like that, his mind wasn't yet operating properly. He passed the common room, and Faye's body was still there. Barely alive. He wished she would get up, act immature, become herself. Either that or leave, disappear, making this a crazy nightmare, and then Jet would just storm in and wake him up for one thing or another. Yes that's what it was an illusion, some hallucination, created purely from his imagination. See what the lack of protein did to you? He'd have to make a complaint to Jet. He started willing her away, willing her awake, willing her to do something. It didn't work. He pinched himself, nails digging into his skin, tearing through the tissue. He spurted blood and all and nothing happened. Keep moving. He obeyed, and what a rare occurrence that was.
Pull out a cup, where were the cups again? For the life of him he couldn't remember, 'Where are the cups?' In the cupboard. The piece of whatever—he didn't even begin to want to know—that made up the ships cupboards opened displaying a variety of generally round mugs, taking out a cup he seemed at a loss of what to do. Fill it with water, go into the bathroom take out the aspirin from the medicine cabinet, remove two and swallow them with the water. His brain followed this all with a slow pace, as if there was wall, some impassible force which fed it through to him gradually, trickle by trickle, as if it was afraid that too much at one time would have him passing out. The actions were carried out though deliberately, because without a step by step act he might have been lost, confused, he would have been disoriented in the surreal events that became reality.
Smoke. The cigarette was and lit in twenty seconds and despite the slight tremble in his hands he seemed to be doing better. The acrid taste of smoke glided against his tongue, and leaked into his lungs, as he blew as much as he could out. His mind seemed to be comforted then; the smoke clouded his mind's eye to all the problems that were beginning to swirl around him. It was just Spike and his cigarette. All was quaint and as perfect as it could be. Suddenly he heard a crackle of a voice, it resounded around his head but he chose to ignore it, it just melted into the excellence. The thudding of feet, the knocking of one's door, the yelling, it all became some elusive background noise. Sleep is what he wanted, he just wanted to sleep the day away, maybe things would improve if he went to off to la-la land. "Spike!" Maybe not…
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Faye awoke to gloominess, to white speckled tiles, and to black. The sky wasn't thundering but it looked like it had been threatening the outside occupants with such a thing all day, of course since she couldn't see the sky she was only speculating. What time was it? Where was she? How the hell did she end up here? The last thing she remembered was the immense pain she endured when Vicious had decided it would have been interesting if he was going to commence in the modernized method of branding people, she liked the medieval technique better though, it looked like it hurt a lot less.
That was weird, now wasn't it? She was no longer in Vicious' evil layer (as she liked to think of it, even though it is a bit clichéd) and the throbbing in her side had completely numbed itself, plus there was only a slight twinge in her back. Maybe Vicious had taken her to some hospital secretly owned by the syndicate—or what was left of it, since Spike had pretty much demolished the whole thing—and now she was being fixed up for round three of torture…or maybe it was round two…for whatever round of pain Vicious had in store for her. Then again maybe he didn't separate his torture habits in rounds maybe they were sessions. It didn't really matter for anything all she knew was that she had to find a way out of bed, and out of the hospital. The door opened and light poured through. Cruel light, the light of florescent bulbs, the light of antiseptic places, the type of lights that Vicious had in his prisons. The click of shoes was heard, they sounded like Vicious', the pants looked black, sharp, and clean, they were definitely Vicious'.
She didn't know when it was, but she had somehow memorized all that was Vicious, he was constantly there in the back of her mind: his clothes, the way he walked with a slight swagger, his voice, his laugh, his touch, his breathing, all of which belonged to the man who had just entered this room. The finger gliding down her back belonged to Vicious it was soft and cold, and if it wasn't for the drugs that she suspected she was on that touch would have hurt. She could feel his fingers run over the stitching that held together the folds of skin that he had split apart. By his breathing she could tell that was fantasizing about opening them back up. Sick bastard. At least he didn't grope her, it was extremely peculiar really that that man still held even a bit of chivalry, and although he scared the shit out of her, she had to respect him for that.
His fingers were tracing another part of her now, the back of her neck up around her ear. The ear he was breathing in. He liked to do that she realized, it made her react because of the proximity, it notified her that no matter how far she would run whenever he wanted her for some reason or another, he would be right there, a ghost of her shadow. He liked having her stand on edge, knowing that even though he wasn't around she was constantly aware of how close he could have been. He was haunting her, always with her; he was nearer than she first thought. "I enjoyed your last visit Ms.Valentine; you'll have to come again." He was still circling around that spot and she was sure that he was mapping out his next line of business, as anxious as a child on Christmas morning about to open his gifts.
"I'll scream if you don't leave me alone," she warned him weakly, then she thought about it, what good would that do if he practically owned this place? It was a rhetorical question but she answered it nonetheless. And the answer made her even more frightened. He could kill her right then and there and no one would know, no one would care, because Jet was probably dead.
"Really…I'd love that," whispered and his hushed words filled her mind. His music making tendencies were shining through again. A wayward hand had found its way to branding burn marks on her stomach, the ruffle of starched hospital cloth touching pale skin echoed through the room, the drugs they gave her made it sound louder that it truly was. Sighing in a sort of disgusting (at least to Faye) contentment, he began reminiscing. Then suddenly he was gone, it happened so abruptly, in a simple blink of her eye, that Faye was left to wonder wether he was there or not. But she could still feel it, his prolonging presence that she could never seem to evade; perhaps it was only a nightmarish daydream that her mind had concocted out of its newly fearful state. She only wished she was so lucky…
Time passed, she wastransported sometime during sleep to another room. The door opened again, Faye shut her eyes tight, as if she could will away the person who would be most likely to enter her room other than her doctor, because like a child she had a Boogie Man, except he had a name and a face. The shoes didn't sound the same though, it was too heavy, it carried a bulk it was familiar, and so she opened her eyes to tiny slits, the breathing was different it wasn't quiet or chilling, it was gruff, comforting, and she recognized it. The body plunked itself down in the chair in front of her, the boots were silver. She associated them with something…someone. Blue pants were stuffed into said boots with all the grace and care a man could possibly carry, which wasn't much. She moved higher, 'Please,' she begged someone, 'please let it be him.' The prosthetic arm was all she needed, her grin just kept getting wider and wider, and even though she couldn't see any farther than that arm, she was assured by the voice. "Faye…Hey Faye you okay?" rough and fatherly was the sound, she was never so happy to see Jet Black in her life.
"Okay? You're alive! I'm damn near ecstatic!" she told him brightly, bubbly. He laughed, what a wonderful sound. It was so friggin' wonderful to hear a friends voice, it was like he was resurrected, brought back from the dead. It was just so friggin' wonderful, she was glowing she knew it, she could feel herself radiate.
"You thought I was dead?" he asked still chuckling slightly. It was nice to know she worried every once in a while, but him dead? Maybe she needed a psychiatrist as well as a doctor. The thought made the dying laughter bubble back up.
"Yes I did, and why are you laughing you should feel grateful that I actually care once in a while. With you being such a worrier about every little thing, I thought you would have contacted me on that stupid communicator a while ago!" She yelled, but it was good naturedly, he was right to laugh Jet could take care of himself, if he was in trouble he would always call. She cracked a smile again and giggled. She was happy now, maybe it was the drugs, or maybe it was the first time since the ordeal with Vicious that she felt safe. Safe and protected and at home. Yes even though she hated to admit it but Jet felt like home, like the good old days, like way-back-when, like the first hints of spring after a long harsh winter. He was strangely refreshing. He stayed for ten minutes more, and they chit-chatted about nothing really, just enjoying each others company. It was one of the most enjoyable times Faye had since Spike had ridden off into the wind, in true old-fashioned western style, attempting to play the conquering hero. Then before the conversation could take a nose-dive into depression, the doctor came along and shooed Jet out. Saying that visiting hours were over and she had to rest.
For the first night in a long time Faye felt, not happy, but oddly content. Things may turn out okay…as soon as they got rid of Vicious.
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He was avoiding her. Avoiding the hospital, avoiding most human contact with the yellow couch, avoiding human contact period. Okay maybe not fully, it was just that his mind had decided to push away any discussion about her, any thoughts about her, or anything related to her. Even though Jet came in from the hospital every day and talked freely how good she was starting to do with Ed (he was amazed when he realized that the girl could turn any of her crazy thoughts into at least one coherent sentence, much less two) he refused to listen. He'd either zone out, watch T.V, practice some martial arts, or sleep. And brood. He'd been doing that a lot lately, that damn habit that always came when he was in a foul mood over anything. Oh it didn't look like he was doing anything of the sort to the other crew members (they thought he was sleeping), but that's exactly what was taking place.
He would sit on that yellow couch, taking in her scent—which had soaked into the fabric—and brood…about her and about Julia; because there are some things in life you can't escape.
He didn't know why, maybe it's because he felt bad for her. Dealing with Vicious is something no woman, no matter how annoying she was, should never have to go through. Sure the guy had been his closest companion for a long time but that didn't mean he didn't know what an ass he was to his prisoners. He thought about her back, and about the branding she received on her stomach, those things were going to leave scars and she was going to be more than pissed. So maybe more than an ass. Well wasn't that the understatement of the year? Because he knew, that Vicious flirted with insanity. Along the way something had disjointed, he had discarded all feeling, and humanity had been cast away. He let the wind blow it into non-existence, something Spike hadn't been able to do.
He didn't know if he was proud or disappointed because of that, and even though he attempted to hide his somewhat annoying emotions under the pretense of utter and complete cool, he knew that they were there. Broiling, stirring, threatening to burst. Lucky for him he had more restraint than most men (hey you don't walk away from the syndicate with nothing), and when he didn't it came out and was poured into the ship, his martial arts, or the bounties he chased. He hadn't gone after on in a while come to think of it; the last one he caught was last week sometime…
"Spike, come on out," Jet called through the door. Ignoring the voice Spike reached over a grabbed a pack of paper rolled sticks, each individually packed with nicotine, nail polish remover, tar, and other shit that he really couldn't remember. They didn't put the ingredients of a smoke on the back of the package. Grabbing his silver lighter he flicked the cap open. A tiny flame appeared in front of him, burning the tip of the cigarette, and he sucked in. Deep, thick smoke poured into him, and his mind instantly became at ease. "Spike, get your ass out here, dinner's ready," Jet proclaimed a little more angrily, at least he wasn't yelling. Spike, sighing and swinging his sweat covered pants over the edge of the bed, opened the door. He was greeted by the utterly effervescent Faye Valentine, and boy-oh-boy she didn't look too happy to see him.
When Jet told her that Spike was still alive, she wasn't the tiniest bit surprised, because she had already been informed by Vicious, but when she hear that he was back on the ship with Jet she wasn't happy. Actually she was pretty upset, that's if you call upset having her throw a tantrum (as well as some random items), and threatening Jet that when she saw that "Fucking Bastard" she was going to make sure that, no one knew his insides from his outward parts. Basically she was going to kill him, then feed him to Vicious. He deserved every ounce of pain he was going to receive, and even though Jet warned her that even though her stitches were out her back was still tender and he didn't want to carry her back to the hospital because she and Spike were "rough-housing". Yeah "rough-housing", whatever that meant. If it wasn't a synonym for manslaughter it couldn't even be applied to what Mr. Spike Spiegel was going to go through.
Finding out that Ed and Ein were back calmed her down however. Despite how odd she and that dog were, and no matter how pestering and strange how high their energy levels were, Faye had to admit that she did miss them. Maybe not so much the dog, but Edward, the weird little being that had always found herself entertained or fascinated or something. Besides women always had to stick together.
Then Jet asked her if she remembered what happened to her. She nodded but notified immediately that she didn't want to talk about it. She had nightmares about that man, about how many times he would finish her off then bring her back for more. There were times when she was sure he had visited her, tell her things, describe to her things, and regardless of the time she could always hear his ringing voice, all the sounds he made, in her ears. Sometimes she was sure she had daydreamed his presence like the first time, then something would be out of place, something she remembered him moving, and it just verified that he was there, with her. He told her he thought she had a beautiful voice and he wanted to hear it again. He promised her that she would visit him again. In the shadows at night she could see him; his perverted essence consumed her mind. She didn't know if she was obsessed or terrified, but she believed it was a combination of both.
Moving from topic to topic, Jet finally asked her if she wanted to come back to Bebop, as if he didn't already know the answer. Nodding yes she grinned happily in excitement, then they arranged the day that they were going to get her things. She would resign from her job, ditch her dreary apartment, and head back to the only place she belonged since defrosting. She was going home. Of course, some household occupants would have to be removed, nothing she couldn't take care of…
The last time she saw this man he was walking away from her, and she was loving him. Looking at him she realized she still loved the stupid prick and that just made her seethe. Jet—the poor man—had long since disappeared in order to set the table and he would only come around when there was enough yelling to alert the next planet. She wouldn't give Spike the chance of even let out a word, before he would be laying on the floor.
He was in shock, yes that's it shock. There she was one of the few survivors of Vicious and instead of crumbling or crying, or proceeding in doing anything that was even vaguely close to blubbering she was glowering. At him, like he did something. What the hell was she mad about anyways? She should be glad that they were all a happy family again, and other sentimental stuff that he knew she cared about, even though she would have never openly professed stuff like that to him. He could see it in her, despite her barely there clothes, and her cold, okay bitchy, ways she was sentimental. It was guarded, hidden extremely well, but every once in while it showed through, because she was forced to grow up too fast. One minute you're enjoying college, and family, and friends, then you wake up in a world that's not your own and someone you trust betrays you, leaving behind a mass amount of debts to pay. It probably shouldn't have happened to her, she seemed like a nice kid, but it did and she dealt with it.
The problem was the last time he saw her, her little I'm-so-sexy-and-untouchable façade had deteriorated (in the slightest mind you), so he was expecting a little bit of warmth. You never get what you expect.
He was just staring down at her, down, as if she was some small ant that he could overlook or step on. Well sorry buddy, not today. Today Faye Valentine was going to beat the crap out Spike Spiegel and then she was going to kick back with a smooth cranberry and vodka twist while she relaxed in her bedroom or painted her toenails.
Plucking the precariously hanging cigarette from his perfectly sculpted mouth she placed it in her own. Why should he look so sexy with a cigarette practically falling out of his mouth, when she obviously could do a much better job? Plus the infamous "cancer stick" calmed her raging nerves which at the moment were that of red. She was going to execute the damned man, but first she had to get him out of his stupor. Sure she was pretty but she wanted him, and those beautiful atypical, chocolate orbs, to pay attention to her while she talked. Therefore the first line of business was a light but stinging smack to his cheek, which was backed up by nails.
"Dammit Faye what the hell was that for?" he complained. First she took away his cigarette and now she was slapping him. What was wrong with her? Hadn't she heard of domestic violence?
Blowing smoke in his agitated looking face—she loved it when he made that face, it made her melt into a big blob of Faye-goo—she began her rant, "Shut up and listen―"
"Don't tell me what to do Faye," he warned, she wouldn't like the results.
"I said shut the fuck up!" he didn't reply, and his expression had switched from mildly annoyed to bored. "Thank you. Now you are going to be slaughtered by me after we finish this conversation, and wipe the bored expression off your face, I don't want to see it!" He gave her his trade mark smirk instead, and the urge to cuff his face roared through her. Swallowing it she decided that she'd save it for later. "I hate you," she stated, coolly now, even though the grin was still there she would endure it for now.
"Oh really, then why were you about to cry when―" a sharp slapped was placed on the back of his "fuzzy" green covered skull. His head bent with the slight push, verdure coloured orbs filled his vision. It was the first time he really noticed their colour.
"I said don't interrupt me," she sneered and was about to continue when Spike pointed out that she made no such statement, and was about to continue annoying her when she deftly kicked him in the shin, the pointed tip of her boot digging for his shin bone.
"Jesus Christ Faye what's gotten you so pissy I'm here aren't I?" he growled, he wanted to slap some sense into her purple head, but she was a girl, a woman, it went against his moral values. Cursed chivalry.
"That is exactly the problem. You see while you out enjoying being waited on hand and foot at whatever hospital, me and Jet were worried about you. We even went into a period of grief because we thought you were dead."
"Well, isn't that what's supposed to happen?" he drawled, enjoying the scowl on her face.
"Not over you. Anyways, I got depressed, he got depressed, hell this whole ship was goddamn depressing, so I left. Jet helped me get a job, and all was fine. Except for the fact that when you went on that suicidal "ride off into the sunset" trip like some action hero, you failed on your mission which was to kill Vicious. Men," she groaned, "they can't do anything right. And instead of killing me the bastard of a man left me alive so I could deliver his stupid message to you. And now since you know he's alive, you're going to blow up a few things, and shoot things while you try to find him. Since I know that you'll find him and you'll both kill each other, I've decided to kill you first, then hunt down Vicious and feed him to alligators, to keep all of this happening over again!" she huffed, very dramatically I might add, with clenched fist and the quick movement of hands. Spike was tempted to laugh at her and her feminine logic but he controlled himself, and reverted to smirking and nodding knowingly.
"Don't smile at me you shit head!" she yelled at him hand reaching out for his throat, and he just scooted out of the way. Fine, she couldn't strangle him to death she'd beat him to death. Wildly and without any concern of her physical state she started throwing things at him, abandoning any sense of decency or lady-like manners (who has time for those anyways?). An angry string of curses were fluently leaked into the air as Faye tried to hit him, to kick him, to hurt him just like he hurt her. But she couldn't touch him, and even though she was pelting things ferociously at him, none of them seemed capable of impact.
"Would you stop it you crazy bitch?" he yelled at her while ducking a pack of cigarettes that were flung at his head. Maybe he should tell Jet, that he thought she should go back into that hospital to sedate her. Things, specifically his things were a lot safer while she was locked up. He hoped for her sake something valuable wasn't broken, because he would screw manly honor and kill the insane little slut. His toe touched something sharp, broken glass, and his foot somewhat off balance continued to exert pressure on the jagged splinter. He could feel it embed it's way into his skin. He condemned the woman, because now he had to sweep up the fragments as well as take it out of himself. Sometimes he really did hate her.
She realized then how familiar this situation was, this was the exactly what happened with Vicious. She had thought then that if she had gotten in at least one hit, just one she would have been satisfied, she would have been delighted. But that one hit, could never be enough could it? Not enough to erase the markings on her back, or the way her heart had been shattered into a million pieces. One hit could never be enough to ease away the desperate need to see his face again, or the need to wash away the touch of his fingers, the smell of his breath, the utter frostiness that constantly lapped at the now tainted edges of her mind. One hit would never let her escape either of them; she suddenly felt a deep amount of sympathy for the now deceased Julia.
In mid throw of some other random albeit painful looking object she stopped, and she looked like she was about to pass out, either that or drop dead, it was an odd look for her to wear really, because she had so much energy (sometimes he wondered if Ed was a descendent of her's), but at this moment she seemed genuinely exhausted. Suddenly, for some reason he felt idiotic, sure she was irritating, but he didn't want her to die (it was thought about a couple time's how he could arrange her accidental death). He felt the bizarre urge to ensure her life (at least for the time being), because in one way or another she had become a link to Julia, he didn't know how the ridiculous idea had formulated and planted itself in his mind but she had become a constant reminder that Julia was there like a post it note, watching him, just waiting for him…Waiting until Vicious killed him off and he could go join her, because that's all he truly wanted. He just wanted to see her, just revel her again and again, until he was filled with nothing but her. And Faye was the one who proudly displayed how he was going to get there, he needed her there to remind him about the things that his mind occasionally succeeded in blocking out. He gave her a wary glance, was it just him or was she teetering. "Maybe you should just sit down," he told her moving towards her. And he watched as she flinched.
Her now confused mind had distorted Spike's figure, his face and his individual aura had perverted itself, changing into Vicious, he was backing her against a wall. She was so scared of him—Vicious—that as he reached out to her she recoiled away. She could see him smile, that horribly glorious smile, she knew that that smile was tasting her blood, it was explaining to her how scrumptious it was. That smile made her want to vomit. One of those corrupted digits extended touching her arm, spreading its frosty heat throughout her veins, making her vulnerable, weak, susceptible. Vicious liked to destroy strong things, liked to break barriers, he liked to win. He was winning now, "D-don't touch me…" she whimpered she didn't have the strength today; there was nothing left for her to fight him with, there was no pizzazz, not even a hint of a feisty spirit. He hadn't given her enough time to regenerate, or rekindle. A knife had found its way behind her neck, tracing the same path that his fingers had taken the first day she woke up.
"Ms.Valentine I want you to sing for me," that demonic voice, deep, rumbling, whispering, was always in her head. It was her own personal private recording, and she abhorred it.
There was something wrong, she looked panicky, even worse than that, she looked petrified. And she was mumbling something, he couldn't really understand it because it had all been stirred into a thick mass murmurs that came out slurred and jerky. He looked at her, she was shivering was she cold? "Faye?" he called her name, but it didn't seem to reach her, it was lost in the air, and when it hit her eardrums, it was something new, something that made her quiver. She looked so lost, the emerald orbs were clouding over with disgust, she directed it at him, and he called her name again, "Faye!" louder, more insistent, demanding her attention.
She looked at him, the Vicious standing before her now was blurred, like someone had come along and merged both Spike and Vicious together. She tried to concentrate, but deciphering, and separating their unique forms seemed like an impossible task. It was giving her a headache. There was something pounding in the back of her mind, veining out through every nerve and it spread like an untamed fire throughout her entire body. Vicious…the knife… "Faye!" the voice snapped her mind back renewing her sense of time and place. It happened all too quickly, not letting her ease into the world, everything was brought into such an immense sharp focus. Spike was still moving towards her, she had to escape. Locking her insecure knees she turned and ran to her room. Something was blocking her airway passages, she couldn't breathe, there was an indescribable pain snaking through her, and she listened to herself pant. Trying to force air into her lungs. Weak hands grabbed a doorknob, the trembling appendages somehow managed to twist the fixture, and she with a sense of unusual hurriedness flung herself into the room.
It was dark, and every corner seemed to reverberate a word, a sound, a light wispy noise that reeked of Vicious' existence. It was smothering her, he was everywhere, she carried him wherever she went, she couldn't breathe. She needed to lie down, before she passed out, before she threw up, before…before… Sinking into the lone empty mattress, Faye cuddled up and attempted to sleep. It came, and visions of her torturer bounced along in her head.
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Visions of her ran in his mind. Goddammit she was seeping through him, becoming apart of him. She was hauntingly intoxicating. Then she began to fade, in and out and what was once there just evapourated, but it left something more resilient more enthralling, if that was even possible. His mind tried to describe her, but he didn't know where to start, she was just so different. The boots, yes that's it, that's where he'd start. The boots were pristine white, leather and worn. It was odd really but they held this immaculate look but it was strangely weathered, they knew more than they let on. Up to the legs, covered in thigh high's, or whatever woman wanted to call those things, it really didn't make a difference to him. But those legs they held a strange appeal, he usually like women covered, however with the practically sheer panty hose that left a slight tint, it drove him crazy. They looked smooth, glassy, like there was no friction and he knew that the material that was honoured by touching her skin had to be painted on. If it wasn't there was no way that they could logically stay put, she was so confusing it had him going insane.
Up past the legs were things he decided he wouldn't describe, he respected women in that way, and the people around him found it odd that despite the fact that he pleasure in the sounds of the screams that came from that prison, he couldn't bring himself to destroy her "dignity" by describing the parts which she'd rather keep covered. They just didn't understand that if she displayed it openly to the whole world by all means go into detail, but what he didn't see he couldn't "illustrate".
Next was the stomach, what a beautiful thing that was. Taut. Strong. Slim. And he nearly destroyed it. It made little electric thrills skirt down his spine, and his whole mind tingled at the memory. He could remembered as the skin, deep red, bubbled, blistered and hissed at him, at the match in his hand, those almost unnoticeable sounds, flirted dangerously with his control, and he nearly lost all restraint. But he wanted her back, wanted her to visit him again, to come calling for him. And he knew she would, he owned her now there was no way that she could say no, he loved that. He relished in it.
His mind's eye traveled up past her ribs, he would concentrate on those later, he liked them too, almost as much as he liked her stomach. A red sweater and yellow vinyl presented him. He delighted in what they covered, not that he'd ever actually admit anything so ridiculous to someone except himself, it was just that there was something about her that made him feel…filthy. Like he was some sort of pagan, a heathen. Sure there were others like her but she had caught his attention, she stood out, she was like one vibrant colour out in the middle of the mundane gray. It was so attractive.
Above that was her neck, the long expanse of skin that he had the crazy urge to wrap his fingers around. He wanted to sink his fingers into the plush skin, he wanted to feel her windpipe close. He wanted to feel her scream, and hiccup in fright, he'd time himself perfectly so just when she was about to slip into unconsciousness he'd release her. Then do it all over again. He didn't think he could ever grow tired of that. Of her.
All the way to her lips, lush painted crimson with blood, with her own blood. He was enchanted by the taste of it. Metallic and slippery as it ran down his throat. It was an aphrodisiac, no better than that, it was absolute euphoria. They were voluptuous pieces of skin that he had the constant need to place against his own, those things were so utterly delectable that from time to time he found himself getting lost in them, in dreams about them, about how his teeth would gnaw them apart. He told her that in one of his visits to the hospital, she shivered out of what he was sure was fear. He could smell its aroma sift through the oxygen in the air and make its way through his nostrils. Her fear was his own personal high. Past the pliant pouting folds, around the smooth jaw line that he wanted to break, nose he wanted to temporarily disfigure just to hear the satisfying crack, to her eyes. He didn't exactly know what he wanted to do with them, they were just so captivating. He wanted to remove them, to keep them right on his dresser so when he woke up every morning, there they were staring back at him with that look that she carried. But he couldn't stand the thought of her eyeless, envisioning them wasn't as good as the real thing, it was something he had learned through past mistakes. You see because only she could express the pooling devilishly green hatred that she had for him. Only she could show such a what-you-see-is-what-you-get attitude and still hide all that was held inside. Only she could expose herself and no one would see right through her like he did. It was all in her eyes behind the wall of sexual indifference and know-how lied something that elated him beyond belief. It was the unmistakable innocence that she possessed, she had the eyes of a masochist. It made her undeniably perfect.
Behind the eyes and over the shoulders was his favourite part. Her back, clean, pure, unblemished, and it was ripe for the picking. God, it drove him wild. He just had to carve his name into it, to see the creamy skin peel away, he wanted to see what she hid underneath it all. His undoable curiosity drove to it, and he knew he would never regret it. That silky patch of skin was just begging to be vandalized, it was all but itching to be totally violated. He had done all he could to oblige, he was always happy to. The back and the sounds that accompanied it were just so…so…rousing that if he hadn't been so intent on keeping her alive he was unsure what he would have done. On her next visit though he'd make sure to let his tiny blade (and all the other small but much more painful objects that he had lying around) ravage her back. He wanted to watch as the fire from his match lavishly lick its way up the skin that covered her spine, he wanted to run his fingers through her wounds like one would weave fingers through hair.
His whole body groaned, yearned to hear her cry out in pain. It was an inspiring sound, a sound that made him want to strip her apart, he took in shuddering breath from his fantasy and attempted to calm himself down. And that purple hair of her's, he couldn't even begin to think what he wanted to do with that. Faye Valentine…well shit, he had never been so obsessed with a "torturee" in all his life.
Rolling over the very frustrated Vicious decided on one thought. He needed to kill something; it made his body feel a whole lot better.
Do remember my glorious readers, REVIEW and tell me what you want, and thanks for everything! JA !