Disclaimer: This time it was strip poker. I lost again.
A/N: Yes, swunshine, I do speak Tagalog. But I don't really know enough of it to write something in Tagalog. That's another matter entirely. :) I know how to converse, since I talk with my family in Tagalog all the time. I rarely use English with them. But writing something in it... well, that's something I haven't tried. And even if I did, expect grammar mistakes at an average of two per line. Hope that answered your question! And, well, 'Instead' was a one-shot. I had no plans of continuing it anyway. Thanks to everyone who's reviewed, so far.

Sixty Frames Per Second
1: Black

A beep rang out in the silence of his minuscule, grimy apartment, startling Spike Spiegel from a fitful doze. When he opened his eyes, the sunlight streaming through the thin curtains met him face-on. And it was painful. He rolled, instinctively, to avoid the blinding rays of sun, and hit the floor with a thud that would have shamed a skydiver with a malfunctioning parachute. That was also painful.

"Fuck."

The wee hours of the morning obviously weren't his best. Spike groaned and rolled onto his stomach, his head lolling lethargically onto a folded arm, his left arm stretched out on the cold, hardwood floor. He'd almost managed to fall asleep when his pager beeped again.

Cursing, he reached a hand up and over the sofa edge, searching, and, dipping a hand into the crack between the ratty afghan covers, brought out the still-beeping machine. An eye opened to read the number.

It took a few moments to register, and when it did, both eyes snapped open, blinking in watery irritation as the sunlight assaulted his nerves once more. He pushed himself up, burying his face in his hands as he hunched over, still trying to clear his thoughts.

When he looked up, his eyes lighted on the mud-caked shoes by the door, and the discarded casino uniform that lay crumpled next to them.

"Shit," he whispered, muffled through his cupped hands.

And it all came flooding back.

Faye had not fared much better in the way of a welcome-back-to-the-living-world greeting. She'd woken up irate, moody, and unable to open her eyes, thanks to the dried mascara gluing her eyelashes together. Add to that the way Ed was bouncing on her knees, yelling for pancakes, and she would've been tempted to commit suicide on the spot.

If she hadn't felt so damned exhausted, she thought later, staring at her reflection in the bathroom mirror and gingerly pinching the bags under her eyes (dried mascara cleaned and gone); she might've just done it. Put the pillow over her head and strangled herself.

"Faye-Faye?" A head of wild, red hair poked around the bathroom doorframe. "The pancakes are burning."

Faye sighed. "Thanks, Ed."

She followed the bobbing, gangly frame of Edward as the barely-turned-teenager loped down the hall, both immersed in their separate thoughts, with the redhead humming something tuneless and happy.

Ed didn't change much. Hadn't changed much. Even when she'd turned up on Faye's doorstep a year earlier, soaking wet and chilled to the bone, with Ein hidden under the tatty coat, protected from the rain, she didn't seem all that different from the Ed Faye had known. A bit taller, a bit gawkier, and a bit wiser for all her childishness, maybe, but not so different that it wasn't Ed anymore. A genius hacker with a knack for trouble and the social skills of a kindergartener. A part of the Bebop crew.

Faye snagged the phone on the way past.

The first time she tried his number, the answering machine came on. She didn't bother leaving a message, switching the phone off and turning the pancakes in the skillet before they turned any darker. Then she tried again. But before she'd dialed the last number, she paused, and then slammed the phone down hard on the counter.

Hard enough to crack the casing. She rested a cool palm against the burning skin of her forehead. She needed to relax. For just one second, if she could just…

"What's Faye-Faye doing?"

The brunette tilted her head upward to meet Ed's inquiring gaze, and as the kid dangled from the ceiling rafters, opted for vague and turned her attention back to the slightly burned pancakes.

"I'm calling a friend."

If you could call that stupid old man a friend, Faye thought bitterly. If Spike had been in the mortuary, cold, dead, and rotting, he wouldn't have been there last night. A little thin, a little underfed, perhaps, but alive, contrary to what Jet had told her. Which could only mean one thing.

The idiot had lied.

It was either that, or Spike had just skipped out on an appointment with the devil. Although she wasn't willing to put it past him…

"Is something wrong, Faye-Faye?"

Faye sighed, broken out of her momentary reverie. At moments like this, she wished she was a better liar. It had always been Spike with the quick tongue, and she'd always been the one with the quick guns. The thought made her already simmering temper boil dangerously close to exploding, so she pushed it away quickly.

"No. Nothing's wrong." She was getting annoyed. The pancakes had turned a shade darker than they ought to, and she hurriedly swept them off the pan and onto a plate before they got worse. "I was just calling Jet-person, Ed."

Ed gazed at her curiously. "Then why is Faye-Faye blushing? Does she have a fever?"

"… Something like that."

Spike found Jet in Café 80's, a small coffee shop tucked away on a little side street, just off Boulevard 23. Cafes. The city was quite literally full of them.

When he walked in, the older man was there already, scanning the side menus with a frown that signaled he was mildly pissed and working toward spitting mad. It was hard to tell in the dim lighting, but with something like this, it was almost certain that Jet would be angry. Spike stubbed out his cigarette in the nearest ashtray, slid his hands into his jacket pockets, and sidled into the booth across from him.

Jet barely looked up. "Spike."

"Jet." Spike grinned casually, reaching over to snag a menu from under the bald man's arm. "Quit smoking, I see."

The ex-bounty hunter patted his breast pocket. "Not really. Old habits die hard."

"So do old men."

"I'm not old. Just not as young as I used to be." The older man settled back in his seat, his eyes calculating. "Last time I saw you, you were bandaged up pretty bad. Couple of broken teeth, and I'd seen better noses on snowmen. But… here you are." Jet barked out a laugh and patted his pockets for a lighter, never taking his gaze from Spike's. "And you're the one to talk about dying hard."

Spike shrugged, settling in his seat and before taking a look around. Jet had never been the tasteful one, and this coffee shop was no exception. Even though the scent of homemade bread and coffee twined pleasantly in the air, the chairs and tables were creaky and mismatched, the place bare and nearly empty, and the waitresses looked more like they belonged in a cocktail bar.

As if to emphasize his point, a woman in a pink uniform strode to their table, leaned against it, and cracked her gum, as if it were some international sign language for 'What do you want?'

Both men barely spared her glance.

Customers, she thought tiredly, and coughed. "Order?"

"We'll have pancakes, and bacon. Coffee. Make that black coffee," the bald man answered. The other guy had a lazy smile on his face, tracing circles on the plastic tablecloth with his thumb, and his eyes were fixed on her. Mismatched eyes.

It made her feel more than a little uncomfortable.

"I'd pass on the bacon, if I were you. Tough stuff."

"Yeah, but you aren't me," Jet commented.

She took the point, clucked her tongue once, twice, and disappeared into the swinging doors of the kitchen. Spike lifted an eyebrow, chuckling, and took out another cigarette.

"Gotten a bit cheeky."

"And you're still the same." Jet exhaled a plume of smoke. "Always stirring up a shit storm where everyone doesn't want it. I told you taking up with the syndicate again wasn't a good idea."

"It paid well, now and then. Both monetarily and emotionally. And by that, I mean dollars and satisfaction." He grinned lazily, knowing that he was infuriating the older man, and watched the flickering fire in those dark brown eyes. "Always a good combination."

"Huh. You're only doing this for Julia. It was never about the money."

The grin widened. "I told you, it's just for the satisfaction."

"Then you just took a blow right where it hurts, didn't it?" Jet nodded grimly. "Last night. Right in the damned gonads. You won't be getting any of your 'satisfaction' when Faye's right in the line of fire, and you realized that last night."

"She isn't in the line of fire, Jet."

"She is. You go through with this and the best-case scenario? She dies. And you won't get any of your brainless satisfaction. Why? Because. You. Love. Her."

"Really now?" Spike grinned.

"Don't be an idiot!"

"It was a long time ago, Jet. We were… 'attracted'. Hardly what you'd call 'love'."

"It's easy to mistake love for passion."

"Most would say the opposite." Spike took a long deep drag from his cigarette and smiled up at the waitress, who had returned with their coffee. "But I rarely make mistakes, Jet."

"You made one when you took the job. When you enlisted in the Red Dragon. When you left Faye and me stranded on that godforsaken ship." Hardly, Jet added silently, a bunch of toss-'em-aside mistakes. "But you're about make another one. I'm begging you. Quit the syndicate."

Spike studied him. Closely. "You have five minutes, Jet," he finally said, his eyes gleaming in the dim lights. "Sell me. And sell me something good."

Jet stared at him for a moment, disbelief and disappointment etched into his face. But then his shoulders dropped, resigned, as he stood up, glared, and said, "Follow me." With that, he marched from the café in a huff, leaving several people gaping after him.

Spike sat there for a moment, smoking in silence and staring out the window. He could catch glimpses of watery sunlight in the distance, between the towering structures of the far-off cathedral.

Cathedrals. Hmph.

And, with a smile, he laid a twenty on the table, put out his cigarette, and followed Jet out the door. Five minutes, he promised himself. Or better yet, make it eight; Jet had slowed down since the Bebop. Then he was out of there.

And he was going after Faye.

tbc