Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Cowboy Bebop.

...Felt like trying a normal one. Just for kicks. (shrug) Enjoy!

Chapter 4: Elm

Jet found himself distracted as he pushed three pieces of bread into the 2062-model toaster oven equipped in the Bebop's kitchen. His ire toward Vicious had numbed slightly overnight; not to say he was anywhere close to not loathing Vicious, but the boiling rage wasn't quite as potent now as it had been the day before. The two of them hadn't exchanged two words since, and it was just as well; it wasn't as though either had anything to say.

Ed watched in fascination as the bread slowly turned to toast, then looked up at Jet. "Should Ed ask Person-person what he wants on his toast?" Jet shrugged.

"Sure, knock yourself out, unless he's still asleep. Don't bother to wake him up if he is. And...be careful around that guy, will you do that for me, Ed? He does anything funny, yell and get out of there."

"Yes, yes..." She peeked into the living area, where Vicious lay motionless on the couch. She then crept into the room and squatted next to the couch, putting her face up close to Vicious'. He didn't stir. Slightly disappointed, she returned to the kitchen. "Person-person sleeps too much," she informed Jet with a disappointed sigh.

"Just as well," he replied half to himself. "Want anything on yours, Ed?" By that question, of course, he meant something more to the effect of 'butter or no,' for the fact that, being stuck on the ship, he'd had to start rationing. Not that they had anything fantastic in the first place, but when one is trapped on a spaceship, food is food.

"Eggs and cinnamon and pickles and raspberry jam!" she answered eagerly, cracking a big smile. "Scrambled, please!" Jet raised an eyebrow at her. She stared back innocently. After a few silent seconds, Ed finally slumped. She gave a deep sigh, and her voice went deadpan. "Bebop-Bebop got bellpeppers?"

"Yeah..." Jet stared at her for a bit, but she seemed perfectly earnest in her odd request. "...Whatever suits you." He took some leftover bellpeppers from the fridge and slapped some onto one of the toast-slabs. Immediately Ed's mood seemed to brighten considerably.

"Thankies, Jet-person!" she said sincerely, then raced for her newly-repaired computer. Once she'd plopped down in front of it, she took a big bite out of her toast creation. Jet rolled his eyes at her antics with a grin, then slathered some butter over his. That done, he grabbed the third plate and went out to the living room.

He set the plate on the coffee table, glancing at Vicious briefly. It didn't really surprise him that the Dragon's breathing was slightly uneven, or that he was covered in a sheen of cold sweat; as was expected of injuries like he had, he'd been contending with a fever for the past few hours. However, the fact that the tenseness in his body was making his bullet-wound open up, soaking the bandage with new blood, was less than welcome.

Just as Jet was straightening up, Vicious flinched into consciousness. Almost at once, Jet noticed with a bit of incredulity, Vicious' breathing evened out again, as though he'd forced it to do so.

After sliding carefully into a sitting position and blinking a few times, Vicious became aware of Jet's presence in the room. He glanced up at him, and once he'd determined that Jet was just passing through, he looked away.

"That needs to be rewrapped," Jet said coolly. Noticing Vicious' quick look in the direction of the bathroom, he added, "Take those bandages off when you're done. Can't promise the shower won't break, though." He turned back toward the kitchen. "I'll rewrap it when you're out."

Vicious nodded silently in acknowledgment, and Jet left the room.

Vicious closed his eyes, trying not to wince as the hot water attacked every open wound on his body, making each one burn madly in its own respect. The bullet-wound had decided to be particularly hostile, the blood refusing to clot and receiving the water as though it were salt. He'd almost grinned upon the first stab of pain, though; he'd expected no less from one of Spike's bullets. It was somewhat refreshing, in a strange way.

It had actually surprised Vicious a little, just how badly he'd been beaten, or at least how bad it looked. His torso was virtually covered in bruises, and there were still some visible dark spots in which he'd had some minor internal bleeding. Not all of these had come from Spike, though; on the contrary, most of the bruises were tokens of his captivity within the Red Dragon, for just as he'd told Jet before, traitors were not dealt with lightly. The promise of death had most certainly not been his only punishment.

The common 'discipline' given to traitors within the syndicate was not a forgiving process. Typically, the traitor would be chained to the wall, as he had been, and then beaten until they either screamed for mercy or choked on their own blood, all while the Van watched and berated them; then they would be executed. Vicious could still practically hear Wang Long's sneering voice: "It is a shame that Spike is no longer alive to see this. Perhaps he would finally understand that to befriend a serpent is to weather its bite. Yet...to do so out of mere pity," at this point, a disgusting grin had twisted across Wang Long's face, "is to offer one's veins and beg for venom...do you not agree?"

Oh, how Vicious had lusted for Wang Long's blood at that moment, but he'd quickly banished any emotion from his features; he would not allow them the satisfaction. Rather, he'd shifted his attention to a fellow Dragon who had been 'assigned' to him, so to speak. He hadn't recognized the Dragon's face, which hadn't surprised him; it was a typical 'enforcer,' whose sole purpose within the syndicate was to threaten, maim or kill those who didn't cooperate. His build was fairly large, with glittering eyes, powerful arms, and a deadly control of his own strength, the latter of which was more than could be said for many enforcers. If his body or mind held any other secrets, Vicious hadn't really cared to search them out.

The 'treatment' had been blunt and deliberate. Vicious had to commend this particular enforcer, for he managed never to strike an area in the same way twice; his punches ever remained quick and controlled; and, wisely, not once had he looked Vicious in the eye. Hell, one of the blows to the face had actually made Vicious' eyes water a little. His interest slightly piqued at this minor challenge, Vicious had then taken it upon himself to fasten his gaze on the man's face with unblinking eyes, and quietly determine just how long it would be before this enforcer would realize the game.

It hadn't taken long. Vicious' vision was starting to blur before the man finally made the fatal mistake of glancing up, however briefly. Even as he'd continued doing his job, Vicious could see the brief flash of doubt in the man's eyes. He continued to calmly watch the man's eyes, glittering against contrasting dark skin, through every move he made. And gradually, just as Vicious had predicted, the attacks became fiercer, and harder, and stronger. It had brought a morbid smirk to Vicious' face; this was just another man rendered powerless under his stare, just another man now under his control.

It wasn't until the man had suddenly grabbed him by the throat with one hand and started repeatedly slamming his free fist into his gut, splintering his lower ribs and boldly meeting his eyes with unmasked anger and frustration, that Vicious found himself so sure of his own abilities, that the taunting grin had become a quiet, mirthless laugh, strained by the fingers cutting off his air. Then the man's grip had tightened, and the smirk had remained on Vicious' face until his world had finally gone black.

Even now, in this merciful moment of isolation, Vicious could still taste the coppery tang of his own blood. The fingerprint-shaped bruises at his neck were aggravated with every pulse of his heart, so that it still felt as though ghost-hands were preparing to crush his throat with every second that passed. His ribs ached dully yet, and the baiting words of Wang Long continued to echo in the back of his mind now and then, but it didn't matter. Those, like all things, would fade with time. What vexed him was the hole put in him by Spike's bullet.

For no particular reason, he brought up his fingers to gingerly prod the wound. It bit back with a ferocity that surprised him into taking in a sharp breath as his body spasmed in protest. Just as quickly, he righted himself and frowned slightly. This was wrong. Something had happened in that moment, the moment that continued to flash before him whenever he opened his eyes. He'd known right away that the bullet hadn't touched his heart, even as it had torn through him. As a result, the slash of his blade had come up short, enough to mortally wound Spike, but not enough to kill him on the spot. It was wrong.

Trust Spike to do something like this, Vicious decided as he slowly turned off the water, sending an agonizing screech through the air.

Alright, Spike. I'm awake now. So tell me, Spike, why you didn't kill me.

There was a tense, heavy silence as Jet applied the second set of bandages to Vicious' wounds. Jet's jaw was clenched shut, his face pulled into a frown of concentration; Vicious' eyes were closed as he waited patiently for Jet to finish. At the other end of the room, Ed quietly typed on her computer, goggles firmly bound around her eyes. Ein slept next to Ed, his paws twitching slightly.

"Arms, up," Jet muttered. Vicious obeyed without a word. Ein uttered a couple of soft growling sounds from the other end of the room. The ceiling fan gave a low creak. Ed made a sound not unlike Ein's growl, then attacked the 'delete' key with her index finger. The fan creaked. Jet clenched his fist more tightly around the bandage he was currently working with.

The fan creaked.

Finally, Jet couldn't take it anymore. He slammed one fist down on the coffee table he was sitting on, and burst out: "Was it all because of the woman?"

Vicious' eyes opened quickly, but he didn't look at Jet. He merely looked straight ahead, at nothing. "What did he tell you?" It was much more of a statement, a quiet utterance, than a question.

"...Only that her name was Julia," Jet replied as he returned to bandaging, much more relaxed now that the silence was broken. Vicious closed his eyes again.

"That's all you need to know."

Jet frowned a little, but didn't pry further. His question had gone unanswered, but at least the unsaid, uncomfortable something was no longer hanging in the air.

He continued bandaging up Vicious' torso, then quickly finished wrapping the lacerations on his arms. Once finished, he stood up and started for the bathroom to put back the first-aid kit.

"...No." Jet paused a moment upon hearing the single word, the belated answer to his question. He glanced back to see Vicious still in the exact same position, except his eyes were open. They were as cold as they'd always been, but clouded, as though he were somewhere else.

Jet was silent a moment longer, then turned back around and returned the first-aid kit to its place. Not of his own accord, Jet found himself thinking of the call he'd received not two days ago; the talk of Spike had brought it quickly to the front of his mind. "If we do get him back..." he trailed off, the obvious but unsaid question lingering in the air. Will you try to kill him again?

Vicious' eyes cleared up a little, and after a short hesitation, he gave a single shake of his head to the negative. "Not then," he said slowly, as though pondering the worth of his own words even as he said them. "Besides," he glanced up and calmly met Jet's eyes again, "I'd have to kill you first, if I'm not mistaken," he added pointedly, referring to what Jet had all but shouted in his face the day before. Jet nodded in all seriousness.

"Yeah," he replied easily, "you would." With that, he exited to go about his own business.

Vicious sat back, stretching to break in the stiff new bandages that virtually covered his torso. He could tell by Jet's eyes that he wasn't lying in the least when he agreed with the last implication. He would die for who and what he believed in in a heartbeat, and that was not something that Vicious looked down upon.

At the other end of the room, Ed was still completely engrossed in whatever she was doing on her computer. Next to her, Ein finally awakened and sat up, shaking away the weariness ironically brought on by sleep, then trotted away from the computer desk. He went right up to Vicious and touched his nose to his hand. Vicious glanced down, then stayed still and looked away distractedly, letting the dog be a dog. Though Spike had never liked dogs, Vicious really didn't have anything against them, so long as they didn't bark or follow him everywhere. They were loyal, which he could respect; but if they were kicked one too many times, they would attack, which he commended.

When Ein was finally content, he loped away, leaving Vicious to his thoughts. He didn't really notice when Jet reentered the room and started to flip through the channels; though he had only been on the Bebop for two days now, he could swear he was starting to memorize each channel's individual IQ-draining programs. He kept his eyes half-open for a few moments out of pure boredom; however, when Jet hit a certain news channel, both of them looked at the screen with slight interest.

They were doing a story on what they now called the 'Red Dragon Massacre.' Vicious couldn't hold back a disgusted snort at the name, but remained quiet as a crime-scene investigator gave his rather distorted version of what he assumed had happened. It was sickening.

Seeming to agree, Jet shook his head and sighed subtly from the chair next to the couch and pulled out his pack of cigarettes. As he lit up, he noticed Vicious subtly eying the cigarette pack with the same hungry glint in his eyes that Spike always got when he had a nicotine craving; after thinking a moment, Jet finally clenched his jaw, swallowed his pride, and nonchalantly held out the pack, allowing one cigarette to slide outwards. Vicious stared at it a moment, then accepted without a word. He lit up with his own lighter, then they both just sat back and smoked for a while, the spell of nicotine blocking out the grave, lying voice of the newscaster.

Before long, the smoke inevitably drifted to Ed's part of the room and she coughed twice, then glanced over and started pretending to gag overdramatically. Jet and Vicious glanced over when she tipped over to the ground from her sitting position, her hands clutching her throat as she hammed up her act, complete with twitching and flailing, then bugged out her eyes and went limp.

After a moment, she opened one eye. Both men were still staring at her oddly. She didn't bother to stand up, instead swinging around into a lotus position. "Edward can't re-spiff Tomato up when—" she stopped to let out a real cough, "...when the room's all smoky-bombed," she finished. Jet exhaled once more, then stood up.

"Sorry about that," he said, understanding the truth behind her claim, then looked at Vicious and jerked his head in the direction of the ship's balcony. Not really caring either way, Vicious silently got up and followed him.

When they got there, Jet leaned against the bar and looked out upon the horizon, while Vicious remained at a slight distance from him and did the same. Jet's eyes clouded over a little; he had often done this with Spike, just stood on the balcony without a word. Now it was far different, but still it made him slightly nostalgic.

"...He thought he was going to his death, you know," Jet heard himself murmur after a moment, unable to get past the subject of Spike just yet. "Was like he planned it from the beginning."

Vicious' only response was to pull the cigarette away from his mouth and rest his elbows on the bar, and he remained silent for a time. The statement didn't surprise him at all. Spike should have been going to his death. It had been planned that way, though it had never been said. It had just been an unspoken, mutual agreement between them.

Receiving no answer, Jet continued. "He wouldn't tell me what it was about. Kept dancing around it instead of answering." He turned his head slightly to look at Vicious then, subtle determination in his eyes. "Care to enlighten me?" he dared ask.

Vicious took a long drag, then let out his breath slowly. "It's a personal matter," he said plainly. "Not your concern."

Something in Jet's expression became considerably cold, and for a long moment he said nothing.

"...You threw him out of a window, once. That's what I was told." He paused a moment, and when Vicious didn't deny it, he continued. "I found him on the steps; miracle he wasn't broken in half. I got him out of there, and waited three days for him to wake up. For three years I've watched him become all but suicidal whenever your name or 'Julia' is brought up, but he kept coming back, so I left it alone. Now, he's half dead and being held by some lunatic crime boss who decided to give me an ultimatum." By now his expression was akin to a glower. "If that doesn't make it my concern—"

"It was the last step."

Any anger that had been building up in Jet's demeanor rapidly dissipated in his surprise at the interruption, like air shooting out of a balloon. Calmly, Vicious continued.

"He'd been trying to live a lucid dream," he went on quietly. "The dream died with the woman. When he was forced to wake up, he went back, because it was the only thing left for him to go back to. The last loose end. Without them, he can't exist." Vicious paused to take a last drag before flicking his burnt-out cigarette into the water below, choosing his words carefully. He didn't intend for Jet Black to know anything more than was necessary, but based on what he'd seen of the bounty hunter and his level of loyalty to Spike, Vicious decided, he was entitled to something.

"I said before that it wasn't all because of the woman; it only began with her. Her restlessness introduced him to regret, and he began to question the order. He was distracted by the ideas she put in his head. That alone nearly got him killed.

"When he began to ask too many questions, the kind he had no business asking, his superiors began to doubt his loyalty. They had every reason to. Before their eyes, his ideals had changed. He was becoming a selfish, lovesick fool, and was ultimately digging his own grave.

"Once he got out, there remained only two steps, the first being the woman; and when he lost her, he'd resolved all things but one." He paused briefly, looking upon the sun's crimson reflection on the water, before turning his gaze to the horizon. "That is why he went back."

The thinly veiled bitterness in Vicious' tone didn't go unnoticed, nor the fact that somehow, he'd managed to get through the entire explanation without once mentioning how he himself worked into the equation. Whether it was deliberate or instinctive, Jet really couldn't tell.

"That explains the woman," he said at length, leaving the statement open-ended, in the hope that Vicious would clarify. "You haven't mentioned yourself once." Sensing slight annoyance in the younger man's demeanor, he turned his gaze outward again. "He's got a score to settle with you. I've got that much," he continued, getting the idea that Vicious was growing cross with the role of the storyteller and deciding to make clear what he already knew. "But there's something past that. Whenever you were brought up, it was like he'd go on autopilot. Like he was obligated to go, or like he owed it to you to show up." He blinked as he heard his own words, then looked at him again, quiet for a moment before speaking. "...Did he?"

Silence.

For the longest moment, Vicious seemed half-frozen, his eyes unfocused and slightly lowered. A slight breeze blew his hair forward, just enough to conceal his expression, if he even wore one.

It was only after Jet had begun to wonder just what he'd touched on with that question, that Vicious slowly pulled back from the bar, sliding his hands into his pockets and falling comfortably into his usual slouch. His eyes regaining their icy edge, he answered with a single word:

"Never."

Seeming to decide firmly that he no longer wanted a part of this conversation, Vicious turned away then, and headed silently back into the Bebop.

...Wow. I think that's the most Vicious has spoken at once in this whole fic so far. Huh.

To my kickarse reviewers:

VanillaRose-I'm so glad you're enjoying it! Thanks in particular for the comment on the confrontation scene—that one was giving me all kinds of grief, so I really appreciated that.

microfiber shoelaces-I won't give anything away, but I will say that you'll find out what's up with Spike eventually, promise. :)

Picon-Lol, yes, that was a rather tough one to call. However, EVERYONE gets their ass kicked by Ed at some time or another (the whole Bebop crew, for one, and the continent of South America, for another...), and on top of that, Vicious isn't quite in the best shape yet. So, double-threat, Ed wins.

Look for an update soon! Thanks to all of you!