Disclaimer: (diss-CLAY-murr) 1. A repudiation or denial of responsibility or connection.
...That means I don't own Bebop.
Chapter 3: Too Good, Too Bad
Vicious had never liked to sleep. He'd always seen it as a waste of time, and held it in high distaste—a view that had earned him many an incredulous look from Spike when they were younger. However, at the moment he would make an exception. Even as he drifted into consciousness, for the first time in a long time he made every attempt to avoid it. The 'nothing' in his mind was a welcome change, and he expected to keep a hold on it until the false security sleep carried with it began to fade.
However, he hadn't quite recalled yet that he wasn't alone.
"PERSON-PERSOOOOON!" Vicious' eyes pried open just in time to see Ed vault up to a pipe on the ceiling, then swing down to land hard, catching him right in the stomach. He let out an instinctive gasp of pain, the wind knocked out of him. He could practically hear his bruised ribs and bullet-wound screaming in agony.
Ed giggled as she sat on Vicious' stomach, facing him with a big grin. "It's lunchtime already, Person-person! It's gonna get cold!" Vicious sucked in his breath, glaring daggers at the child. She caught his death-glare and mirrored it, hissing at him like some kind of wild animal.
"GET off!" Vicious barked back, understandably annoyed at such a wake-up call. Ed shrieked and jumped away, scrambling behind Jet as he walked in with two plates of leftover sukiyaki. He appeared slightly confused, then looked back at Ed suspiciously.
"What did you do?"
"Edward did nothing! Edward is innocent!" she replied quickly, before flashing a severe pout in Vicious' direction and racing into the kitchen to get her lunch.
Jet stared after her with raised eyebrows for a second, then set Vicious' plate down on the coffee table. He then took a seat in one of the chairs and turned the TV on to the Channel Guide, his personal favorite, though it had no more substance than anything on the other channels. He only had it on to kill the silence, anyway.
While the names of 700 channels of nothing but soap operas and sports rolled across the screen, Jet glanced at Vicious, who had at some point managed to sit up. "...Any ideas on who would want Spike, or why?" he attempted at length, getting straight to business so he could (hopefully) get it over with.
"Bait," Vicious suggested simply after eying the television with thinly-veiled disgust.
"Bait?" Jet echoed, frowning. "For who, you?"
"It's possible," Vicious replied, "but it could just as easily be one of your last partner's connections." Jet froze, turning to stare at Vicious in shock.
"How in the hell do you know about that?" he demanded, taken completely off guard.
Vicious kept a nonchalant mien. "Sources," he responded simply.
Jet had to quickly force down the rapid demands of just what else these mysterious 'sources' had said, instead keeping to the matter at hand. "...So what's he got to do with it, then?"
"Betrayal isn't taken lightly in the clans."
"Coulda fooled me..." Jet heard himself mutter rather harshly before realizing he was actually saying it out loud.
Vicious met his eyes then, swirling darkness hidden behind the ice-blue stare. "You couldn't have stopped him if you tried," he said darkly, bringing into light the true source of the hostile comment. "He knows I'm the only one who can kill him." He looked at Jet steadily. "And I will kill him."
Jet didn't know where it came from or why, but those words made something deep inside him snap. An image of the heaviness in Spike's eyes the last time he saw him flashed through Jet's mind with an overwhelming clarity, and before he had any idea what he was doing, he'd lunged at Vicious and yanked him to his feet by the collar. For a second their eyes locked in a stare-down, Vicious' daring Jet to make a move, Jet's daring Vicious to say another word.
It was Jet who gave in first, forcing his voice to remain calm. "I don't care what happened between you and Spike," he managed to force out in a composed voice, if shaking slightly with anger. "I don't give a shit about the Red Dragons, or Julia, but hear me now, you will not take Spike Spiegel's life before taking mine. Got that?" Oh, how hard it was to say the words, rather than scream them in Vicious' face. Something in him just seemed to boil with the thought of the look in Spike's eyes just before he'd left, and the idea of this man giving him more pain than he already had to bear.
Vicious' face portrayed no emotion, but his eyes still glimmered dangerously. "That can be arranged," he said in his ever-quiet voice. Then, with a quick glance towards the kitchen in which Ed still lingered: "Perhaps you'd like to take the child along for the ride."
The words had barely left his mouth before a metal fist in his gut knocked the wind out of him. His bruised stomach and ribs screamed in protest, but he did no more than double over slightly, subtly snatching something from under his belt in the process. "I swear to God," Jet told him through clenched teeth, "if you weren't the last living connection to Spike, I'd kill you right now." He looked Vicious dead in the eye. "I don't care if you threaten me, but I swear, if you even look at her in a way I don't like, that's just what I'm gonna do."
Vicious kept a steady gaze on him, absolutely unfazed. In the split-second it took for complete silence to settle over the both of them, it was broken by a resounding click as Vicious flipped open his switchblade—the very one he'd taken from under his belt not ten seconds prior—and pressed its tip into Jet's stomach, just enough so he could feel it. Jet froze, and Vicious' mouth twisted into an unsettling smirk. The next three words he spoke seemed to roll off his tongue. "I dare you." For a split-second he saw an uncontrollable rage flare in Jet's eyes, but somehow he managed to smother it, instead shoving Vicious back onto the couch and storming out of the room.
A while later, Jet still avoided the living room as much as possible. He didn't want to hear another word leave that snake's mouth, not about him, about Spike, about Ed, about anything or anyone. Yes, by this point he knew that he'd allowed himself to be completely suckered into Vicious' game; the last bit about Ed was no more than his way of testing Jet's limits, and in truth he'd pulled it off beautifully. That in itself made Jet want to scream in frustration at his own density.
Even as he put the finishing touches on some of the Bebop's damaged wiring that he'd been tending to, Vicious' words still echoed in Jet's head, making his blood boil all over again. He wasn't afraid of Vicious; though, he didn't deny that the Dragon was dangerous, and they both damn well knew it. That, of course, was the reason for the empty grin, that mirthlessly arrogant smirk. He was like a serpent, deadly, completely aware of its own venom and unafraid to bare its fangs.
And a cocky little bastard at that... Jet mentally muttered to himself, feeling his fists clench with indignation. Something about the mere thought of being outwitted by someone like that, someone who'd wounded him time and time again through Spike, seemed to send fire through Jet's blood.
With similar angry thoughts still playing through his mind on repeat, Jet decided to take a break from wiring—thanks to the wonderful left arm and some rather enthusiastic wires, he'd received more than a few jolts from the apparently hostile ship—and get some fresh air. Well...at least as fresh as it could get in this part of Tharsis, anyway.
That decided, Jet stood up, shooting a death-glare at a particularly hot wire that had sent him one last jolt as a parting gift; then he turned away, heading outside.
It was rather nice out, surprisingly; the chain of rainstorms had finally subsided, and the autumn air was crisp and refreshing. The sky had metamorphosed into a rather fascinating shade of burnt orange, typical to autumns on Mars, and the landscape, though far from that of paradise, had a sort of tainted charm to it. Just looking over the dark, glittering water seemed to diminish much of Jet's sour mood, leaving him in a rather weary, placid state of mind.
Suddenly feeling very tired of the situation he was in, Jet took a leisurely step forward towards the edge of the metal landing.
However, before his foot had even touched the ground, a deafening crack echoed through the air and a bullethole appeared mere centimeters in front of where he would have stood.
Jet stared at the bullethole for a moment, left foot still hovering a few inches above the ground, then looked up calmly and set it down. Right on cue, another shot rang out, this time from the opposite direction as the first, and made another nice little hole in the landing, just a bit closer than its comrade. Instantly, the voice of Spike's captor drifted back to Jet's mind. "We've had to take some precautions, so to speak..."
...Great. Juuuust peachy, Jet thought to himself dryly, shaking his head and leaning against the doorway. Now I'm being kept hostage on my own ship. Sighing in defeat, Jet tiredly lit another cigarette and crossed his arms. And the damn ship is a bullet-magnet, no less. May as well just rename this hunk of junk and be done with it. A cynical half-grin forming at his lips, Jet pushed away from the doorway. "I now christen this ship: The Swiss Cheese," he murmured wryly, then calmly sent a middle-finger salute to however many shooters just happened to be watching him and returned inside.
Having nothing better to do after tempting the wrath of Jet, Vicious had decided to just turn his eyes to the flickering TV for the hell of it. So, Spike, this is what you do all day. Fend off the kid and hunt down bountyheads with Jet Black. It would be a lie to say it doesn't suit you. He unconsciously massaged his right shoulder, where a rather nasty bruise had already been and where Jet's robotic hand had struck him in the process of knocking him down. Though, it really didn't bother him in the least; either way, he'd still won, and both of them knew it. You must have won him over pretty quickly, judging by how he defends you. I wouldn't put his words past him.
Coming out of his thoughts, Vicious found himself stealing an uncaring glance at whatever was showing on the screen; finding that it was the same mindless drivel that he could only assume was on every channel, as he never had the desire to own a television, he dispassionately switched it off. That done, he sat back, letting out his breath and closing his eyes.
"Person-person?" Vicious frowned in distaste, but his eyes remained closed.
"Go away."
"But Edward needs—"
"No." There was a short silence, and for a moment Vicious thought he'd managed to get rid of the odd child. He opened his eyes again...and came face to upside-down face with the very object of his annoyance. Instinctively he flinched backwards in surprise, his hand flying to his waist to clutch the katana that wasn't there.
"But Jet-person is fixing Bebop-Bebop and can't do it!" Ed protested, interrupting him. The kid's movements had been dead silent. She had climbed onto the back of the couch directly behind Vicious and now had a hand on either side of him on the seat-cushions, facing him upside-down. When she got no reply, she shifted her weight to her hands and flipped over the couch, landing on the coffee table in a crouching position. It was then that she proceeded to grab Vicious' trenchcoat from where it was draped on the arm of the couch and run around the room with it as though it were a cape, giggling madly.
Vicious' hands slowly fisted themselves in the couch cushions as he followed her with cold eyes, knowing well enough that to even attempt standing up would be pointless. Let the brat act up, as long as she didn't give him a good reason to decide otherwise.
Even as the thought passed through his mind, the spastic girl had reached into one of the inside pockets and started to fish around in it, still gamboling around peculiarly. Unsure of what exactly he'd put in that pocket, but starting to feel rather defensive of his privacy, Vicious felt his blood begin to simmer. "Drop it," he commanded calmly, though he was sure there was nothing of real importance there. He'd found already that Jet had taken the liberty of confiscating the one gun he used, as well as his katana. It didn't really bother him; there was plenty of time, and for now he would take advantage of the time he had to heal.
"Get a key and lock-it, somethin's in your pock-et!" Ed caroled, waving a lighter and a pocketknife to and fro. Somehow, it didn't make him much more comfortable to see her flailing around with both fire and sharp objects in her possession, and subtly relaxed when she dropped them both back into said pocket. "You need to empty your pockets so Jet-person can wash that so it won't smell like GUUUUUTS!" she explained, shouting the last word at the top of her lungs in emphasis, then daintily dropped the trenchcoat back into his lap and stepped back, waiting expectantly.
...Alright, she wasn't exactly wrong about that. Most, if not all of the blood on it was either Spike's or his own, and though Vicious was quite used to those two particular scents lately, he didn't exactly need to carry it with him at all times. Without a word, he reached into the aforementioned pocket to once again remove the two objects, then pitched the trenchcoat at Ed. She caught it easily. "Thank you, come again!" she bid him, bowing deeply, then bounded away.
Vicious glanced after her, then relocated the two things into his pants pocket for now. While he was at it, he silently made a note not to let them get in the girl's hands hereafter.
Gallons of thanks to VanillaRose, Picon, Milky Wings, and my best friend and beta-reader-ish, Shini-Hi for your wonderful reviews. I love you guys!
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