Disclaimer- I do not own Cowboy Bebop.

Title- Dangerous Ways

Rating- pg-13

CHAPTER 4

My house was filled with cops and from the kitchen I could see a very dazed looking Bobbie being led away in cuffs rather than a body bag. When Drake had shot my would-be mutilator, it had been with a tranquilizer.

I was questioned about the prior events, and simply said a psycho was sitting in my apartment, waiting for my return and had wanted, for some unknown reason, to tear off a finger and a few toes. "No idea why the guy wanted any of my digits," I heard myself say. "Must be some new sick psycho fad."

Then the cops noticed the blood seeping through my yellow spandex shorts, and had called the paramedics over to take a look. I was bandaged quickly with strict instructions about taking it easy for the next few days. Unlikely that I would oblige by sitting on my ass for more than an hour, but for the good nurses' humor, I agreed.

Drake came by and sat at the kitchen table as the rest of the cops exited my apartment. I was sitting silently, head down, nursing a cup of coffee. Caffeine had this magical way of making my life seem not so bad, and after today's events, 'not so bad' was close to hysteria.

"You need to go down to the station to make another statement," he said after a few minutes.

"Again?" I whined sighing and putting my hand to my forehead with a choked back sob. I had cried for at least ten minutes on Detective Shane's shoulder after he had saved me. I had been tired and weary of the day's events. Tired of my bad luck and weary of trying to hold it all together. The whole Spike thing, the dead body thing, and the whole almost losing some very important body parts thing had me tipped over the edge. I had kept it all cool when I was being questioned, being bandaged, but as my door closed and Drake and I were left alone, I felt vulnerable, about ready to cry my eyes out again.

No more breakdowns, I swore to myself and finding my resolve.

"How'd you know which apartment was mine?" I asked, clarity suddenly dawning. "How… Why did you come to my apartment?"

Drake smiled sheepishly. "I checked for your mailbox downstairs and it had your room number on it."

I glared at him suspiciously. "Why'd you come here?"

"I had a bad feeling," he jested. After I glared at him for a few minutes he spoke seriously. "I wanted to ask you if you had any revelations about my case."

I gave a smirk. "Thought that's what you might have wanted to know." I sipped my coffee.

"Well?"

"Well, what?" I asked innocently.

"Any revelations?"

I smiled over my mug. "No, sorry."

"I don't believe you," Drake said with eyes narrowed.

I simply shrugged.

For a moment he looked at me with a serious expression, probably wondering if he should pursue the subject or let it drop. Did I really know something I wasn't sharing, or was I telling the truth? I was always good at lying, but it seemed that Drake could smell a lie a mile away. After a minute, wisely deciding to let the subject drop, he stood, looking in my fridge and taking out a beer. "Twice down to the station for a statement, and the day's not even over yet," he remarked popping the tab on the can.

"A little early to start drinking, isn't it, Detective?" I straightened my back and took a huge gulp of my cooling coffee.

"It's never too early to drink when you're called to look at a dead body just before dawn."

I sighed. "I think probably you're an alcoholic and you're just using your job as an excuse to drink."

Drake quirked an eyebrow, not at all offended by what I had said. "If you were in my shoes you'd probably be a drug addict and an alcoholic. Too many horrors on duty make narcotics and alcohol very appealing. Law enforcement isn't all that it's cracked up to be, Valentine."

I thought of all the blood and gore that found its way into my job as a bounty hunter. "Bounty hunting isn't as glamorous as it's cracked up to be either, Detective. Maybe we should switch lives for a day and see who squeals like a little girl first." I gave him a shrug as I stood, cup in hand. A jolt of pain shot up my leg, and surprised, I stumbled, dropping my mug and shattering it into a million pieces on the floor. Drake was there holding me up in a flash.

"Take it easy, Valentine," he said, lips very close to my ear.

The hair on my neck bristled at the feel of his breath on my neck, and I pushed myself away from his warm body, not wanting to be comforted right now. Comfort meant that I wasn't strong enough to deal with my shit alone. Not being able to deal with my shit alone meant that I was going to have a severe breakdown from all the anxiety and fear lurking right beneath the surface of my tattered courage.

"Excuse me," I said brushing past Drake, teeth clenched together as I moved through the pain in my leg. I grabbed paper towels from under my sink and began picking up the pieces of my broken mug. If I focused on one problem at a time I was going to be okay.

Drake smiled. "Let me help you." He knelt beside me, amusement inside the grim set of his eyes.

"No," I said vehemently and childishly. "I can do it by myself." I grabbed a piece of glass from his fingertips and was rewarded by a sharp pain. Immediately I dropped the shard that had cut me and put my finger in my mouth. Glaring at Drake as if my wound was entirely his fault, I stood, and walked, as best as I could, to my bathroom, dumping the other broken pieces in my other hand in the garbage by the toilet. Then I turned on the faucet of my sink so I could stick my now throbbing finger underneath the cold fall of water. I opened the mirror medicine cabinet and searched for a band aid.

Drake came and watched me as I cursed, arms crossed as he leaned against the doorjamb of my bathroom. "What's the real deal here, Valentine?"

"I cut my finger," I replied angrily. "What the hell does it look like?"

"That's not what I meant." He ran his fingers through his hair and for the first time since he had come to my apartment I saw weariness settle over him. "Why was that guy trying to cut you up? I know it has something to do with Spiegel and you're not spilling any useful beans."

It was true that I was withholding information about the real reason Bobbie had wanted to cut me up, but I just wasn't sure if telling the cops everything was to Spike's benefit or not. I wasn't exactly sure he killed those cops and that secretary, and I wasn't going to go headlong into giving up information that might help in his capture if I doubted he was guilty.

But why did I care? Spike had left Jet and I in the dust way back when. Why not offer my little knowledge of him up? The worm deserved my betrayal because he had betrayed me.

God damnit!

I turned the faucet off with such force that it squeaked with protest. I turned to glare at Drake, anger quickly replacing my anxiety. "You think I know why some psycho has a fetish for fingers and toes?" I gave him a look as if I thought the question was incredibly dumb.

"Yes," he said calmly. "I do."

I don't know what I would have said to that because my phone ringing in the other room interrupted the silence.

"Excuse me," I said trying to move past Drake. Much to my dismay, Drake wasn't so easily dissuaded. He wanted an answer, and his stance said he wasn't going to move out of my way until he got one.

Well, it was my fucking apartment, my fucking life. He had no place in it, and if he wanted to play tough guy in my home, he was going to lose the equipment that made him male, and he'd be walking home with his tail against his newly neutered groin. Just because I had the hots for him didn't mean I'd let him push me around.

"We're going to have to discuss your involvement with Spike Spi-" He began.

I snapped. "I'm having a really bad day, Detective. I already told you what I know about Spike; nothing of value. And have and never had an 'involvement' with him! Now let me answer my damn phone so I can get on with my life and forget about tripping over a dead fucking body and almost being cut up like Thanksgiving's next turkey."

He moved then and I picked up my phone eagerly.

"Hello."

"Faye." The voice made my heart stop. Maybe picking up the phone hadn't been the wisest idea. But then anger settled in; anger of my life being fucked up yet again by a man that had never been anything but a pain in my ass.

"What the fuck is going on?" I growled at Spike. "No, wait, hold on." I whispered angrily, not wanting Drake to hear. I heard the detective's footsteps behind me and I turned towards him, trying my best to muster up a polite smile. "It's my… my mother," I said lying through my teeth. "If you will excuse me, Detective. You know where the door is, and if you have any questions, you have my number."

Drake stared at me. We both knew that before working with me, Drake had done a background check on me. We both knew my parents were no longer alive, none of my relatives were. But without comment, Drake nodded and let himself out. Before he closed the door behind him, he said, "I'll be in touch. Don't forget to file your statement later on today." He turned to go then turned back around, worry in his beautiful eyes. "I could protect you, Faye. If you agree to cooperate and work with me, I could shelter you from any more incidents like this."

Mm… something to consider, I thought.

I waved him good-bye.

"Alright," I said into the phone when Drake left. "What the fuck is happening?" I tried to stay calm, but I think my voice was pretty close to hysteria.

"'Mother'?" There was amusement in Spike's voice.

"You're supposed to be fucking dead!" I wanted to shout, but instead I said this in a hoarse whisper, afraid Drake was still outside my door. "Dead, as in not living anymore, gone, space dust!'

There was silence. Then, "You're in danger, Faye." His tone was dead, emotionless.

"No fucking kidding!" I yelled this time. "Some guy just tried to fucking carve me up like- like some fucking pumpkin!"

"Shut up, Faye," Spike said with annoyance. "He didn't carve you up, apparently. You're talking on the phone. You're fine."

"That's not the point, you fucking bastard!" I was seeing red.

"Listen," Spike said with annoyance. "I didn't have to call you, but I did. So shut the fuck up and listen to what I have to say."

It wasn't a request, it was an order and I felt my nerves burn with rage. "Don't fucking order me around like I'm some docile little girl. Personally, I don't give a shit about if you're alive or not." I growled. "Get your shit together and leave me the fuck out of it, or I'm going after that bounty on your head and bringing you in!"

"You bring me in?" His voice sounded mildly disbelieving.

"Fuck off, Spike," I spat.

"Faye, shut up a minute and let me tal-"

"As far as I'm concerned you no longer exist. I grieved your death already; I'm not going to pull out the balloons and banners because you've suddenly popped up alive, you fucking asshole." I hung up after that, and went into my bedroom to grab my gun. I then went into my bathroom, put the gun on the edge of the sink, stripped down, turned the shower on and got in.

I needed to go gambling, to chase away all the stress with my addiction. I needed to spend money, win a little, but not with blood on my clothes, and on my skin. Shower first, gambling later. Everything else could wait. Not because it didn't matter, but because I didn't want it to.

XxXxXxXx

The past doesn't matter, I thought driving my sports car the street. It was beat up, but Jet had fixed it up to look brand new awhile back. I had sunglasses over my swollen eyes, had a tight leather skirt on with "fuck me" pumps on my feet. My white shirt was a button down blouse with buttons open all the way to the top of my black lace bra. I was dressed to kill, the pimple on my chin covered with make up, my eyes done modestly in eye liner and a purple powder. My lips were fire engine red, and I knew I looked drop dead sexy.

It was a good feeling.

After I realized that none of my gambling hook ups would be open this early, the good feeling kind of died.

The bandage on my thigh was covered by my thigh holster for my gun, and though I didn't have a permit to carry it concealed, my Glock was secure under the length of my leather jacket that hung to my knees.

I glanced at my clock, watching as nine fifty-nine turned to ten. I reached into my purse on the passenger seat suddenly remembering my arrangement with Jet. I dug out my cell phone and dialed Jet's number as I fumbled with the steering wheel. It rang five times before his voice mail picked up, and I left a hasty message telling Jet that I wasn't at my apartment and to meet me at Danver's Bar. We met there regurarly to discuss business, so I didn't have to give him directions. Unfortunately, it was too early for it to be open, so I decided I'd drive around and pass the parking lot in laps until I saw Jet's car.

In the silence of the car (my radio didn't work) I began to think as I drove.

Spike…

It was amazing how a single name could harbor so many emotions. Most of them were old and worn, but still sharp, still acute. Anger, hate, love, friendship, kinship, hope, rage…

Spike had wanted to talk about something but I had hung up on him. At the time I had thought I had done the right thing. At the time I had thought cutting him out of my life, and the danger he brought with him, was the right thing to do. Thinking now, I knew I had acted too impulsively. Great, just great, I had wanted to help him, and instead I had told him to fuck off.

I blamed it on my bad morning.

My leg ached, sharp and warm from my wound and a shiver of fear ran up my spine as I remembered how close I had been to being seriously wounded.

Then my phone rang.

Subconsciously I hoped it was Spike, hoped this phone call would tell me what the fuck was going on. I wanted to know why Spike never came back to us; never dropped a line to tell us what had happened to him. After all, despite the bickering, the casual relationships, Jet and I had lost something when we thought he had died.

And why, my mind asked, had we thought he was dead when he hadn't come back? We had never gone and looked, never had a body for evidence.

Because, I answered, when he left, his death was in his eyes. We didn't want a corpse, because we wanted to remember him as the alive Spike, not the dead one.

The constant ringing of my phone brought me out of my thoughts and I picked up. "Hello?"

"F..Fa-y..Faye…." The voice was hoarse, gasping, and bolt of terror ran through me. I was afraid I recognized the voice.

"Jett?" My voice was higher than usual as I heard him grunt in pain. "What's going on, are you all right?"

There was a silence and then a scream, Jet's scream, that had me veering sharply to the left, and then the right before the phone was disconnected.

"Jet!" I screamed into the phone, swerving off the road and almost hitting two on coming cars. Tires screeched and horns blared, but I hardly noticed.

I was having a panic attack for the seventh zillionth time today.

I frantically redialed Jet's number.

"Miss Valentine," a voice I didn't recognize answered.

"Who the fuck is this!" I'm hyperventilating, I my mind screamed irrationally as my breaths came erratically. Thoughts of what had almost happened to me filtered through my mind and hyperventilating then seemed like a good thing; I'd faint and the images would go away.

Drake had saved me, but if Jet had been cornered, who had saved him?

"Tell Mr. Spiegel we got to his friend. Tell him we're sorry we didn't get to you too." The phone was disconnected.

I redialed Jet's number, hands shaking, anxiety peeking. I got his voicemail, no answer.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit… SHIT!" I said throwing my phone down and revving my engine. I drove like a blind woman and ten times faster than the speed limit.

Before I knew it I was in front of Jet's apartment, and after that I was racing clumsily up the stairs in my heels. Someone broke down his door, and since I was the only one who had been in front of it when it had been closed, I guessed it had been me. Jet's apartment was a mess, and I drew my gun, looking around wildly. "Jet!" I called frantically.

His apartment looked as if there had been a struggle. His couch was overturned, lamps knocked over and smashed… and the blood… Blood on the carpet, the walls…

"Oh, God…" I whispered.

I looked around the apartment, finding nothing but blood and broken furniture. No Jet, no horrors, just the terror of the images my mind conjured. Jet suffering, Jet dying….

I felt like crying, but I knew the tears wouldn't bring Jet back. We had been at peace for so long, just doing our thing, living our lives, moving the fuck on. And then everything changed in a matter of fucking hours. My world had been turned upside down, inside out, and everything I had worked for in two years seemed worthless. "Damn it," I said emotionlessly. I didn't know what to feel, didn't know if I could at the moment. There was so much happening, so fast, too fast.

"Faye," a voice said behind me.

I turned and faced Spike, eyes watering, teeth bared. "Your fault," I said in a numb voice.

The shock of seeing him on my computer screen was nothing close to the shock of seeing him in person. He was taller than I remembered him. His hair was still out of control, his form still lanky and fluid. The only things that had changed were his attire and his eyes. The blue suit had been replaced by a black shirt, pants, and boots, topped off by a black leather jacket. His face looked the same, but his eyes, his mismatched eyes were dead, cold. There was nothing I recognized in those eyes, nothing I wanted to recognize.

"No," he said coldly. His voice was a jolt to my system. "I didn't bring you and Jet into this on purpose."

"And what is 'this'!" I shouted. "What have you mistakenly brought Jet and I into?"

Spike smiled humorlessly. "Calm down, Faye, you'll pop a gasket."

I pointed my gun at his chest. "I'll pop something but it won't be a gasket."

He didn't even blink. "We need to talk."

I laughed without humor. "Sure, yeah, okay, so start talking."

"Not here," he said turning and walking out the door.

I followed him, not because I wanted to but because I had to if I wanted answers. As we walked down the stairs I had so many things I wanted to say to him.

Fuck you!

What's going on?

Why did you leave?

Bastard?

What happened to make your eyes so empty?

What's changed?

And oh, God, what has stayed the same?

Bastard!

Instead we walked in silence until we were outside. Spike pointed to his car, a black POS that looked like every other car on Mars. "We'll take my car."

I glared at him. "Why can't I take my car?"

Spike turned to me with a blank stare. "Because."

"You can't order me around."

"Watch me," he said with anger and then picked me up and threw me over his shoulder

"What the hell are you doing? Put me the fuck down, you fucking bastard."

"I'm not going to fight with you, Faye!" He shouted. It was the first time he had shouted since I had seen him again. "If you stopped acting like a stubborn bitch, I wouldn't have to use physical force."

I struggled in his grasp, grasping my gun and pointing it at his head. "I'll shoot!"

"No you won't." And he opened his car with one hand, threw me in the backseat, slammed the door, opened his door and got in the driver's seat.

I sat with my arms crossed over my chest, anger heating my gaze, rage boiling underneath my skin. "Spike-"

Spike started his car and began moving.

"What about my car!" I screamed.

Just then I heard a loud explosion. Startled I turned back around and saw my car up in flames. "My fucking car!" I screamed and tried to open the car door.

"I have the child safety locks on," Spike said.

"My car!" I screeched. "What the fuck happened! Did you see that!"

Spike watched me from the rearview mirror. "I blew it up."

"What! Why! Bastard, stop this car right this minute, you fucking lunatic!" I screamed. Then I sat back and put my hand against my forehead, suddenly very, very tired. "Nevermind," I groaned. "I don't want to know. Oh, God," I sobbed dryly. "Jet…"

There were tears just underneath my eyelashes.

"As of right now, Faye Valentine is dead," Spike said from the front seat. His voice was toneless. "As far as anyone knows, you died in that car back there."

I glared at him, too tired to be angry, too tired to care. Just numb, just oh, so numb. "Did you put a body in there or something? Did you fake my death?" I asked sarcastically.

"Yes," Spike said in total seriousness.

I don't know if I was tired or if I was in shock, or what. But the next thing I knew, I was swimming in darkness.

I thanked the high Heavens I had fainted. Reality was too chaotic right at the moment.

XxXxXxXxX

Author Response- Hey everyone, sorry this chapter is so long… I hope its not too pointless… I wanted to convey a relationship between Faye and Drake… so that's my excuse for the boring part of him and her talking.

Lexi- You're my biggest fan, girl. Thanks for all your wonderful support.

Kendra- Glad you like the story! Faye Who seemed to be so long ago… I hope this story is a little better written… Faye Who has a lot of typos and grammatical errors. I tried to be a little bit better in this story.

XHatori-SohmaX- Thanks for the comment! Much appreciated!

NeonLights- I don't like Joe Morelli… probably because I like Ranger better. lol, but I am hoping that Drake takes on a different character than either of those two. Thanks for the comment! I always enjoy talking/conversing to fellow Stephanie Plum readers.

DragonLadie- Thank you for the archive, I am honored.

Lily-Sama- Thank you for the encouraging update.

GenkiSakura25- Thank you for the nice comment! It encourages me to write.

I am unfortunately a comment whore…. probably not a good thing…..