Myruu! Howdy! Oh, yes, last chapter I forgot the disclaimer, so I say it
now. I, Gatgo, do not own Boycow Bopbe (I'll switch it around for you slow
ones: Cowboy Bebop) and I, Gatgo, am only 'borrowing' the cast for. well, I
dunno, FOREVER!! Muahaha!!
Erm, no, really. I have an imagination but, I couldn't EVER come up with a
bish like Spike! Mmm, he's yummy! Oh, Viscous is yummy too, but Spike is
YummyERest. AAH! They're BOTH secksy, alright?
Now, for the main attraction: *lights swirl around in bright circular.
circles*
Boycoy Bopbe(I luv saying it that way), The Real Folk Blues, chapter two:
Situations
~*~*~ It was him. It was Spike. He was here, now! But she couldn't believe. She couldn't believe that he had come back to life, she tried but she couldn't. She waited those first three months. She had waited for him, not believing that he was really dead. Not believing that he could be dead. She had been in denial for three months and it had hurt like hell. Then she finally came to realize that he wasn't coming back. Now it was like being in denial all over again, and denial had caused so much pain when she snapped from it... Her shock gave way to anger.
"Get out.
"What?"
"Get the hell out."
He stared at her blankly, obviously wondering why. She didn't want to see him? His mind shifted and weighed the possibilities of why she didn't, but his feet had yet to move from their spot. He had yet to budge. He was simply staring at her, looking her straight in the eye. His look was intoxicating. Two different colors.
"Did you not hear me? I said get the hell out of here."
"Wait, Faye I."
"I don't care!" she shouted. "You left, you're dead now. You're dead to everyone and you sure as hell are dead to me!" She took an angry step forward, not flinching at the pain in her side. She steadied her hand and aimed. "Get out or I'll shoot you out."
"What?"
"Three."
"Faye, wait I..."
"Two."
"Damn it Faye, just listen."
"One."
She looked at him, her face stone cold but her eyes showing she was about to break down. She had shot him. Well, at him anyway. She had missed by less than an inch. He felt the bullet whiz past his shoulder and heard the soft thud as it embedded itself in the hard wooden door. He looked at the bullet before his eyes reverted back to her. Her cold facade was slipping. Her hand twitched. Her eyes watered. She began to back away unsteadily.
"Leave... Just leave. Go back to being dead. Go back to being a shadow."
He took a step forward, despite her pleas. What was wrong with her? He shook his head at himself. They've changed, he realized. Faye had once held a gun up to him after an argument had gotten out of hand and she felt backed into a corner. He knew she wouldn't shoot him though, so he had been able scoff at her and leave. But now as he looked at her, he knew that if he backed her into a corner she would shoot him for real.
"Faye," he said uncertainly as he took another step toward her shaking form.
"No. No, no, no, no." She was crying now. Her forearm wiped her tears that threatened to fall. Spike took a step closer. "Stay back. Stay the hell away from me!" Her finger fled to the trigger. She had been backed into a corner.
Spike narrowly avoided being shot in the face as the bullet grazed his cheek as he knocked the firearm away from her and gripped her by the shoulders. She struggled in his grip but he refused to let go. He couldn't let go. Just by leaving he had changed her, just by fading away.
"Faye! Calm down damn it."
He is dead, her mind shrieked. This cannot be him!
This man. he couldn't be Spike. He can't be. All this time, all the pain she had gone through, all the suffering, the heartache, the guilt. She had tried to get there in time, she had tried. And when she got there and not found him, she felt as if she had failed. She felt that if she had been there, if she could have spoken to him, that she could have stopped him. It was guilt, a horrible burden. She had searched for hours, knowing that she was going to find nothing, but not able to just give up. When she had returned to the Bebop she had felt such guilt.
This could not be him! If it was, he deserved to be hurt! He deserved to feel all the pain that she had to feel! All the torture that her mind had bestowed upon her. She had dreams. She had such horrible dreams, all because of him. If this was him, he deserved to feel pain!
She struggled now, more determined than before, but his grip was like steel and she felt herself getting weak. She tried freeing her arms, she tried kicking, nothing she did worked. She felt like crying, sobbing and bawling and releasing everything that was pent up inside... She could do nothing. Absolutely nothing. She leaned forward, so close their bodies were almost touching, and swiped her leg out, hooking his and yanking. If he fell he was bound to let her go to steady himself. As she planned he lost his balance, but he fell forward and brought her down too.
She thudded to the ground, reopening her wound, and grimacing as she felt the stitches rip. Spike kept his firm hold and fell forward, landing on top of her, still pinning her arms. Her towel was in disarray, no longer covering her fully and revealed more that she wanted to be. It still covered her but it was simply draped across her now, not tied. It didn't seem to faze him though. He kept his face cool and controlled and stared into her eyes, no where else. It didn't matter though. She glared at him.
"Let me go."
"Promise me you'll be rational."
"I said let me go!" She tried twisting out from beneath him but realizing she was making the towel situation worse.
"Promise."
"I'm bleeding."
"So?"
"Damn it! What do you want?" she hissed angrily.
"Are you going to promise?"
She looked at him, staring him in the eye. His eyes seemed to leave such a big impact. One darker than the other, one real, one fake. It was as if you could just keep staring. And stare she did, she stared straight into his eyes a look of defiance painted across her face. He was warm, she noticed. She, clad barely in a towel, was freezing her butt off and the warmth that flowed from him felt so good. She wanted to hug him, and squeeze that warmth from him. She wanted to tell him she was glad he was ok. But she couldn't. She couldn't take such a bold step into cloudy waters, which was exactly what Spike was. Cloudy waters.
The room was deadly silent as he looked down on her. He had to try to maintain his composure. He had to try hard too. Even he, who though couldn't control his feelings but could keep them masked, had trouble retaining himself. He was lying on top of a basically naked Faye. What man wouldn't be tempted, besides a gay one, of course. And her eyes. He could see the pain in them, he could see the anger. But he failed to locate the hatred. So, she didn't hate him. But what did she feel? He was tempted to find out, tempted to kiss her and see how she responded. Actions speak louder than words, you know. But he couldn't do that. He couldn't just go out into such cloudy waters. That's what Faye was too, cloudy water.
Snapping out of the trance Spike's eyes held on her she nodded. As long as he was getting off she was ok. He threatened all of her self-restraint as it was, and him being on top of her helped her none. He looked at her once more before loosening his grip and sliding off, and as he did, she felt herself not wanting him to. There goes her warmth...
He stood and leaned against the wall as he pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took a deep drag, the smoldering end illuminating his face in the dimly lit room. Faye stood a bit slower, afraid of causing more pain by jostling her stitches. She quickly wrapped her towel around herself and left the room, not able to look at him.
"Where are you going?" She heard Spike's voice echo behind her as he stared at her retreating figure.
"To get dressed, wanna come?" she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She sauntered into her room and slammed the door. Spike situated himself on the couch. This could take a while.
Faye sat on her bed and stared at the ceiling. She wondered how to describe the feelings that she had. Sure, she could name a lot of emotions that described her-hate, love, anger, confusion. Yes, those were all emotions she had, but what did you call it when all those emotions were one? Would you simply call it confusion, as her feelings were so vast it did indeed confuse her. Or would it be classified as an emotion with a name of its own? As an emotion that was all of those feelings in one?
She wondered this as she sat on her bed, clad in blue boxers and a white wife-beater shirt. She had re-wrapped her side with some bandages under her bed, and had thrown the first shirt on that was big enough to hide the small bulge. She would sew it back together later, when Spike left, and if she played her cards right it shouldn't take very much to make him leave. All she had to do was act like. well, Faye. The old Faye, not the new emotional yet unemotional Faye with the blurred feelings and the no feelings, not the confusing Faye. But both were confusing, weren't they? Who was she anyway? She smiled. She was just another shadow.
Faye left her room and walked down the hall back to where Spike was sitting. He sat in her armchair, a brownish-red, old chair with cushions soft from use. He sat in the chair with his legs propped up on her table and his head leaned back, supposedly asleep, and the cigarette in his mouth still burning, even though it was hardly there. Faye seated herself on the sofa across from him, and grabbed the blanket on the back of her couch to throw across her shoulders. The house was cold and not only did the blanket provide heat, it also provided a veil, just incase her blood leaked through the bandages. She sat there wondering what she was going to do, when he lifted his head and looked at her. His eyes raked across her face and then lowered as he looked across her uncovered legs.
"What are you looking at?" Faye asked as she drew her legs up to herself. Had Spike become a pervert or something? She was used to guys looking at her, just not him. Just not Spike.
"Scars," he said shifting himself on the sofa into what was, she was sure, a more comfortable position.
"What?"
"You have scars now. How did you get them?"
Faye paused and looked at him. Then she looked down at her legs. She did have scars, not that many, but she did have them. She hadn't had scars before, she had been careful, and if she did have a wound that she knew would scar, she would do everything she could to make sure that it didn't happen. She hadn't cared lately though. She didn't have many, just two noticeable ones, one going across her knee and one across her ankle on her left leg. The others were really all that visible. Not really a big deal.
"Did you come here to waste my time about how I got scars? Or did you come to waste my time about something more important?"
He sighed. Might as well let it all out. There was no use in stalling was there? Not with a woman who would shoot him in a heartbeat.
"I left because I thought you would be better off without me. That was another life that ended when I fought Vicious. That was what that life was for. So I died. Get it?"
Faye stared at him. "You came to waste my time to tell me that? Like hell if I care why you left, why you died. Not only that but your excuse sucks too. You left because your fight was over? So what were we? You're stupid little pawns to help you get to Vicious?"
Spike sighed. She was twisting his words. "It's not like that."
"And what about Jet? He thought of you as a friend, a best friend even. He was like a walking ghost thinking that he had let a good friend die. You not only screwed up your life but you screwed his as well," she said. "You just didn't want any responsibility so you fled. You're a fucking coward."
He looked at her. He wanted to argue, but in a way she was right. He had run from responsibility, he didn't want it. He didn't want to be involved with others. It was just too easy on his own. Besides, now wasn't the time to mess with Faye. Not when she was emotional and had a gun at her feet. He wasn't going to agree, but he wasn't going to disagree. But he couldn't resist the urge to mess with her.
"And what about you? Did I mess up your life as well? Did you think that you let 'a good friend die?"
Faye smiled then, and it was odd in a way. It was almost even haunting. He looked at her for real now. She had changed. Defiantly. "You want to know what I thought? I thought I had let another idiot run off to his death, and you know, I kind of felt bad for it. I felt bad for Jet, who actually cared about you, because I felt that I let his friend die. So I guess you could say I felt guilty."
She smiled at him again, a haunting smile with no life. Her hair covered her eyes and though she looked at him, he couldn't see her eyes. So he just looked at her, for once at a loss of words. And for once he felt guilty too. So, he returned her dead smile with his cool uncaring one, as it helped him regain composure. What could he say to that without sounding heartless, but without sounding like he cared? He felt as if he hadn't been telling the truth this whole time and she had. And he couldn't take much more of this.
"Tell Jet I said hi, then," he said standing and pulling out another cigarette. "I might as well be dead again." And he headed toward the door, without looking back. This was his past. He convinced himself. They were his past. It wasn't his fault if they cared, he never told them to, he had never asked. And Faye obviously wanted him dead again. Jet? He couldn't face Jet. Not now, not ever. He had actually developed feelings for the guy, had actually considered him a friend. If he went back now he would screw everything up and over. Again. He had made the mistake of caring enough to see Faye, why make it again when he could just vanish and be dead? Why mess their lives up again? What was the point when it would be easier, so much easier, to disappear? His hand was on the door handle when he turned around to look at her, sitting on the sofa looking so lost, so cold. "Bye, Faye." And he turned and left, the door closing with a resounding click as it shut.
She stared at the door long after he left. Why did she feel as if she had done something wrong? As if she was the one who had wronged the other? Why did she feel as if he should have stayed? How did he do it? How did he manage to mess her up so bad? How had he made her love him all over again?
"Damn you," she whispered before crying out louder. "Damn you Spike Spiegel!"
And as her voice reached his ears he finally decided. "I'll watch her, but jut for a little longer. Can't have her screwing her life up too bad," he muttered to himself as he left from in front of her door, lighting a cigarette and placing it between his lips before he took a deep puff.
These were the real folk blues.
~*~*~
Ach. This chappie wasn't as good as I wanted, but hey, I don't choose what I want. It just, happens. *readers look skeptical* No, seriously. *they look even MORE skeptical* Alright, alright! I got lazy. Anywho, hope it was good enough! R&R?
~*~*~ It was him. It was Spike. He was here, now! But she couldn't believe. She couldn't believe that he had come back to life, she tried but she couldn't. She waited those first three months. She had waited for him, not believing that he was really dead. Not believing that he could be dead. She had been in denial for three months and it had hurt like hell. Then she finally came to realize that he wasn't coming back. Now it was like being in denial all over again, and denial had caused so much pain when she snapped from it... Her shock gave way to anger.
"Get out.
"What?"
"Get the hell out."
He stared at her blankly, obviously wondering why. She didn't want to see him? His mind shifted and weighed the possibilities of why she didn't, but his feet had yet to move from their spot. He had yet to budge. He was simply staring at her, looking her straight in the eye. His look was intoxicating. Two different colors.
"Did you not hear me? I said get the hell out of here."
"Wait, Faye I."
"I don't care!" she shouted. "You left, you're dead now. You're dead to everyone and you sure as hell are dead to me!" She took an angry step forward, not flinching at the pain in her side. She steadied her hand and aimed. "Get out or I'll shoot you out."
"What?"
"Three."
"Faye, wait I..."
"Two."
"Damn it Faye, just listen."
"One."
She looked at him, her face stone cold but her eyes showing she was about to break down. She had shot him. Well, at him anyway. She had missed by less than an inch. He felt the bullet whiz past his shoulder and heard the soft thud as it embedded itself in the hard wooden door. He looked at the bullet before his eyes reverted back to her. Her cold facade was slipping. Her hand twitched. Her eyes watered. She began to back away unsteadily.
"Leave... Just leave. Go back to being dead. Go back to being a shadow."
He took a step forward, despite her pleas. What was wrong with her? He shook his head at himself. They've changed, he realized. Faye had once held a gun up to him after an argument had gotten out of hand and she felt backed into a corner. He knew she wouldn't shoot him though, so he had been able scoff at her and leave. But now as he looked at her, he knew that if he backed her into a corner she would shoot him for real.
"Faye," he said uncertainly as he took another step toward her shaking form.
"No. No, no, no, no." She was crying now. Her forearm wiped her tears that threatened to fall. Spike took a step closer. "Stay back. Stay the hell away from me!" Her finger fled to the trigger. She had been backed into a corner.
Spike narrowly avoided being shot in the face as the bullet grazed his cheek as he knocked the firearm away from her and gripped her by the shoulders. She struggled in his grip but he refused to let go. He couldn't let go. Just by leaving he had changed her, just by fading away.
"Faye! Calm down damn it."
He is dead, her mind shrieked. This cannot be him!
This man. he couldn't be Spike. He can't be. All this time, all the pain she had gone through, all the suffering, the heartache, the guilt. She had tried to get there in time, she had tried. And when she got there and not found him, she felt as if she had failed. She felt that if she had been there, if she could have spoken to him, that she could have stopped him. It was guilt, a horrible burden. She had searched for hours, knowing that she was going to find nothing, but not able to just give up. When she had returned to the Bebop she had felt such guilt.
This could not be him! If it was, he deserved to be hurt! He deserved to feel all the pain that she had to feel! All the torture that her mind had bestowed upon her. She had dreams. She had such horrible dreams, all because of him. If this was him, he deserved to feel pain!
She struggled now, more determined than before, but his grip was like steel and she felt herself getting weak. She tried freeing her arms, she tried kicking, nothing she did worked. She felt like crying, sobbing and bawling and releasing everything that was pent up inside... She could do nothing. Absolutely nothing. She leaned forward, so close their bodies were almost touching, and swiped her leg out, hooking his and yanking. If he fell he was bound to let her go to steady himself. As she planned he lost his balance, but he fell forward and brought her down too.
She thudded to the ground, reopening her wound, and grimacing as she felt the stitches rip. Spike kept his firm hold and fell forward, landing on top of her, still pinning her arms. Her towel was in disarray, no longer covering her fully and revealed more that she wanted to be. It still covered her but it was simply draped across her now, not tied. It didn't seem to faze him though. He kept his face cool and controlled and stared into her eyes, no where else. It didn't matter though. She glared at him.
"Let me go."
"Promise me you'll be rational."
"I said let me go!" She tried twisting out from beneath him but realizing she was making the towel situation worse.
"Promise."
"I'm bleeding."
"So?"
"Damn it! What do you want?" she hissed angrily.
"Are you going to promise?"
She looked at him, staring him in the eye. His eyes seemed to leave such a big impact. One darker than the other, one real, one fake. It was as if you could just keep staring. And stare she did, she stared straight into his eyes a look of defiance painted across her face. He was warm, she noticed. She, clad barely in a towel, was freezing her butt off and the warmth that flowed from him felt so good. She wanted to hug him, and squeeze that warmth from him. She wanted to tell him she was glad he was ok. But she couldn't. She couldn't take such a bold step into cloudy waters, which was exactly what Spike was. Cloudy waters.
The room was deadly silent as he looked down on her. He had to try to maintain his composure. He had to try hard too. Even he, who though couldn't control his feelings but could keep them masked, had trouble retaining himself. He was lying on top of a basically naked Faye. What man wouldn't be tempted, besides a gay one, of course. And her eyes. He could see the pain in them, he could see the anger. But he failed to locate the hatred. So, she didn't hate him. But what did she feel? He was tempted to find out, tempted to kiss her and see how she responded. Actions speak louder than words, you know. But he couldn't do that. He couldn't just go out into such cloudy waters. That's what Faye was too, cloudy water.
Snapping out of the trance Spike's eyes held on her she nodded. As long as he was getting off she was ok. He threatened all of her self-restraint as it was, and him being on top of her helped her none. He looked at her once more before loosening his grip and sliding off, and as he did, she felt herself not wanting him to. There goes her warmth...
He stood and leaned against the wall as he pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and took a deep drag, the smoldering end illuminating his face in the dimly lit room. Faye stood a bit slower, afraid of causing more pain by jostling her stitches. She quickly wrapped her towel around herself and left the room, not able to look at him.
"Where are you going?" She heard Spike's voice echo behind her as he stared at her retreating figure.
"To get dressed, wanna come?" she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She sauntered into her room and slammed the door. Spike situated himself on the couch. This could take a while.
Faye sat on her bed and stared at the ceiling. She wondered how to describe the feelings that she had. Sure, she could name a lot of emotions that described her-hate, love, anger, confusion. Yes, those were all emotions she had, but what did you call it when all those emotions were one? Would you simply call it confusion, as her feelings were so vast it did indeed confuse her. Or would it be classified as an emotion with a name of its own? As an emotion that was all of those feelings in one?
She wondered this as she sat on her bed, clad in blue boxers and a white wife-beater shirt. She had re-wrapped her side with some bandages under her bed, and had thrown the first shirt on that was big enough to hide the small bulge. She would sew it back together later, when Spike left, and if she played her cards right it shouldn't take very much to make him leave. All she had to do was act like. well, Faye. The old Faye, not the new emotional yet unemotional Faye with the blurred feelings and the no feelings, not the confusing Faye. But both were confusing, weren't they? Who was she anyway? She smiled. She was just another shadow.
Faye left her room and walked down the hall back to where Spike was sitting. He sat in her armchair, a brownish-red, old chair with cushions soft from use. He sat in the chair with his legs propped up on her table and his head leaned back, supposedly asleep, and the cigarette in his mouth still burning, even though it was hardly there. Faye seated herself on the sofa across from him, and grabbed the blanket on the back of her couch to throw across her shoulders. The house was cold and not only did the blanket provide heat, it also provided a veil, just incase her blood leaked through the bandages. She sat there wondering what she was going to do, when he lifted his head and looked at her. His eyes raked across her face and then lowered as he looked across her uncovered legs.
"What are you looking at?" Faye asked as she drew her legs up to herself. Had Spike become a pervert or something? She was used to guys looking at her, just not him. Just not Spike.
"Scars," he said shifting himself on the sofa into what was, she was sure, a more comfortable position.
"What?"
"You have scars now. How did you get them?"
Faye paused and looked at him. Then she looked down at her legs. She did have scars, not that many, but she did have them. She hadn't had scars before, she had been careful, and if she did have a wound that she knew would scar, she would do everything she could to make sure that it didn't happen. She hadn't cared lately though. She didn't have many, just two noticeable ones, one going across her knee and one across her ankle on her left leg. The others were really all that visible. Not really a big deal.
"Did you come here to waste my time about how I got scars? Or did you come to waste my time about something more important?"
He sighed. Might as well let it all out. There was no use in stalling was there? Not with a woman who would shoot him in a heartbeat.
"I left because I thought you would be better off without me. That was another life that ended when I fought Vicious. That was what that life was for. So I died. Get it?"
Faye stared at him. "You came to waste my time to tell me that? Like hell if I care why you left, why you died. Not only that but your excuse sucks too. You left because your fight was over? So what were we? You're stupid little pawns to help you get to Vicious?"
Spike sighed. She was twisting his words. "It's not like that."
"And what about Jet? He thought of you as a friend, a best friend even. He was like a walking ghost thinking that he had let a good friend die. You not only screwed up your life but you screwed his as well," she said. "You just didn't want any responsibility so you fled. You're a fucking coward."
He looked at her. He wanted to argue, but in a way she was right. He had run from responsibility, he didn't want it. He didn't want to be involved with others. It was just too easy on his own. Besides, now wasn't the time to mess with Faye. Not when she was emotional and had a gun at her feet. He wasn't going to agree, but he wasn't going to disagree. But he couldn't resist the urge to mess with her.
"And what about you? Did I mess up your life as well? Did you think that you let 'a good friend die?"
Faye smiled then, and it was odd in a way. It was almost even haunting. He looked at her for real now. She had changed. Defiantly. "You want to know what I thought? I thought I had let another idiot run off to his death, and you know, I kind of felt bad for it. I felt bad for Jet, who actually cared about you, because I felt that I let his friend die. So I guess you could say I felt guilty."
She smiled at him again, a haunting smile with no life. Her hair covered her eyes and though she looked at him, he couldn't see her eyes. So he just looked at her, for once at a loss of words. And for once he felt guilty too. So, he returned her dead smile with his cool uncaring one, as it helped him regain composure. What could he say to that without sounding heartless, but without sounding like he cared? He felt as if he hadn't been telling the truth this whole time and she had. And he couldn't take much more of this.
"Tell Jet I said hi, then," he said standing and pulling out another cigarette. "I might as well be dead again." And he headed toward the door, without looking back. This was his past. He convinced himself. They were his past. It wasn't his fault if they cared, he never told them to, he had never asked. And Faye obviously wanted him dead again. Jet? He couldn't face Jet. Not now, not ever. He had actually developed feelings for the guy, had actually considered him a friend. If he went back now he would screw everything up and over. Again. He had made the mistake of caring enough to see Faye, why make it again when he could just vanish and be dead? Why mess their lives up again? What was the point when it would be easier, so much easier, to disappear? His hand was on the door handle when he turned around to look at her, sitting on the sofa looking so lost, so cold. "Bye, Faye." And he turned and left, the door closing with a resounding click as it shut.
She stared at the door long after he left. Why did she feel as if she had done something wrong? As if she was the one who had wronged the other? Why did she feel as if he should have stayed? How did he do it? How did he manage to mess her up so bad? How had he made her love him all over again?
"Damn you," she whispered before crying out louder. "Damn you Spike Spiegel!"
And as her voice reached his ears he finally decided. "I'll watch her, but jut for a little longer. Can't have her screwing her life up too bad," he muttered to himself as he left from in front of her door, lighting a cigarette and placing it between his lips before he took a deep puff.
These were the real folk blues.
~*~*~
Ach. This chappie wasn't as good as I wanted, but hey, I don't choose what I want. It just, happens. *readers look skeptical* No, seriously. *they look even MORE skeptical* Alright, alright! I got lazy. Anywho, hope it was good enough! R&R?