Hey guys, sorry for the super long wait. My first quarter in college left me with little time to sleep, let alone think up terrible ways for Sanders to pop back up here and there. But I'm on break now, so I should have time to give you guys a few more chapters. This story is almost over. I can see the end from where I'm sitting, honestly. But don't worry, I feel a sequel coming. It might be a while, but it's on its way. Much love and I hope you all had a lovely holiday. Happy New Year!
Midnight Blues
10. Fever Dreams
Someone was humming. The low notes hung softly, the dreamy tune stirring old memories. Fuzzy voices replaced the haunting melody and then they too faded into nothingness once more. There was a moving, shifting sensation and then nothing.
"Is he improving, Doctor?"
A slender graying man in a white lab coat regarded the man in the bed before him, absently rubbing his lower lip as he listened to the quite beep of the heart monitor. He turned to the pale eyes young woman beside him in her little white uniform and pillbox hat. "Improving?" He shook his head. "If you consider surviving a stabbing and massive blood loss only to be ravaged by some deadly toxin an improvement, then yes, but otherwise…"
The nurse turned her big blue eyes up to him. "Isn't there anything you can do, Doctor?" She looked back to gaze sadly at their seemingly doomed patient.
"We've done everything we can."
"Will he be all right?" He watched as she brushed a few stray hairs from the unconscious mans face, as he had watched her do many times before.
He shook his head. The woman might be young, supple and lovely, but he couldn't imagine how she had gotten through med school, if not by utilizing her good looks to the absolute fullest. "I don't know, Sandy. I just don't know.
She sighed, a sad, longing expression on her face, her full lips parted in a slight pout as if she were about to cry. Or preparing for a kiss, he thought dryly. He sincerely hoped that if this young man ever woke up, that Sandy would not be there to see it.
The heart monitor gave a sharp beep. Dr. Avery Wyatt glanced up at it and frowned. A single sharp spike rose above the others on the small dark screen. That was odd. He leaned over the prone man, closely inspecting his features for any sign of consciousness or pain. The monitor spiked again, this time the corner of the young mans mouth twitched so minutely that Dr. Wyatt would have missed it, had he not been looking for it.
The huge house was dark as he slunk through the shadowed parlor. Moonlight cast eerie shadows through the large bay windows, luminous white curtains flowing on the cool night breeze.
The dining room was as empty and dark as the rest of the house. A case of glittering china stood silently against the far wall, rows of ornate silverware reflecting the light of the moon. He crept through the kitchen, careful to avoid the rows of hanging pots and pans that were hidden in the shadows.
He didn't know where he was going only that he had to get there, soon. Something pulled him onward, silently directing him which way to go, when to stop, when to turn, where to enter. He followed the silent voice without question. There was something important here.
A sweeping staircase led to the second floor where a row of marble statues stood guard in the pale moonlight. He eyed them warily. The statues seemed alive, their eyes watching him as the flowing shadows of the curtains rippled over their faces, an oddly forced serenity giving him pause as he watched them.
He shook himself; they were only statues.
The thick carpet covering the floor of the long hall muffled his footsteps. Hundreds of doors lined the walls, each closed, every single one dark and dead. Something urged him on.
He stopped suddenly in front of one of the doors. The impulse to open it nearly overwhelmed him, but he did not touch the door handle. He looked back down the hall. There was nothing to distinguish this door from any other. It was the same dark color, had the same gilded doorframe, the same ornate brass handle. He frowned. What was so special…?
A light flared on inside sending a warm glow flooding underneath the door. He took a step back. The door opened.
The room was richly furnished. Heavy wine red drapes hung in the window at odds with the pale moonlit landscape outside. Grandiose chairs made of polished dark wood and upholstered in matching rich dark red velvet detailed with gold were arrayed about the room, a large stone hearth was built into one of grenadine colored walls, a large fire crackling merrily within it.
He frowned. There was a large four poster bed in the corner with a wide sweeping frame adorned with rich crimson covers and matching pillows embroidered with fine gold thread. A figure was lying on the bed, but in the dim light of the fire he could not make out who it was.
Something beckoned to him, and he stepped inside. The door shut softly behind him. The figure stirred.
"Who…whos there?" Sleepy blue eyes searched the darkness futilely. "Spike? Is that you?"
He stood silently, regarding the woman in bed before him.
"What are you doing here?" she whispered, sitting up and throwing cautious glances at the walls as if they might be watching. "What if he finds you?" Someone was always watching.
Suddenly her eyes snapped to the closed door. "Spike you have to go."
He stood mutely. He wouldn't have spoken even if hed been able. There had been a time when he would have given anything to join her in that big soft bed, to feel her soft skin against his as he had many times, but tonight something was different.
"Please," she glanced from him to the door and back, drawing her black satin nightgown around her tightly.
"Why?" His tongue moved of its own volition, the bitter tone in his voice startling him as much as it did her.
Her elegant brows twitched together. "You know why. He'll kill you." She stood gracefully and peered at him through the darkness, the moonlight on her pale hair made her glow. "He'll kill both of us."
He watched her as she fiddled with a strand of loose hair. "Did you love me?"
Her eyes fell to the floor and she hugged herself. "Spike…"
"Did you?" he asked harshly. She flinched. "Julia..." he said her name softly, the same moonlight that streamed through the open windows and set her hair with silver fire now cast deep shadows across his face.
Julia looked up at him, an unexpected sneer hanging loosely on her red lips, lips he had kissed, lips he had cherished. "Please," she snorted. "Me, love you?" She turned and leaned against the window sill.
His eyes widened. He felt empty, as if something inside him had withered away. "It never meant anything."
She turned and regarded him disdainfully. "Not a thing. You were an interesting diversion, good sex, a nice car, a cheap thrill, but it never meant anything." Her beautiful face twisted hatefully. "You never meant anything.
He stood silently, the past playing before his open eyes in sepia tones as he slipped one hand in his pocket.
"Stop wasting my time!" she shouted suddenly. "I cant stand to look at you!"
Slowly he turned and reached for the door... They were going to run away, they were going to live their dream, to escape their nightmare, together. They were the same soul torn in two. She couldn't have meant... but it must have been true. He never had been good enough for Julia, and now she was simply clarifying.
"Stop!"
He froze mid stride, his hand reaching out for the door.
"Dont you have something heroic to say, something tragic? Don't you want to get down on our knees and proclaim your undying love for me and beg for my forgiveness?"
He turned and stared at her with haunted eyes as she walked slowly toward him like a cat stalking its prey. She grasped his tie in one hand and pulled him slowly downwards. "On your knees," she whispered.
His knees gave out and he dropped to the floor, his mind numb as he looked up at her.
"Now tell me you love me."
His breathing was ragged now.
"Say it!" she screamed, lashing out and slapping him viciously across the face. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
He stared up at her, disbelieving, as his ears rang from the force of her blow. "I..." The blood tasted coppery on his tongue. The curtains billowed behind her as she stood over him and he caught a faint hint of jasmine on the air. His eyes hardened. "No."
His love, his reason for living had abandoned him, tossing him aside like so much loose change, but he found that he did not really care.
Her blue eyes bulged madly. "What!" She raised her fist angrily. "You don't deserve to breathe the air I've passed through!" She lunged at him, her small fist connecting solidly with his chin before he could grab her arm and pin her beneath him, his gun pressed firmly to her temple.
She began to laugh. The sound skittered down his spine, sending chills through his body as she shrieked with laughter. "Do you...you think that...puny...little weapon can...stop me? Her body shook with mirth beneath him.
He pushed away from her and backed towards the door, her maniac laughter reverberated through the small room as she convulsed on the floor. His eyes widened.
"Doctor! His cerebral activity just shot off the chart!"
Avery gave his young assistant an appraising look before returning his attention to the man lying before him. Is that what they taught in med-school these days? Stating the obvious? He frowned. The mans pulse had jumped suddenly and his neurological activity, which had been all but nothing one moment, had exploded without warning.
"Go find Doctor Webber!"
Julias form had hunched over, her long blonde hair obscuring a face that was no longer the angelic one he remembered. Piercing blue eyes gazed at him hungrily from under pale brows and then anything that might have once resembled a human was gone, replaced with shining white scales, golden claws and razor sharp teeth.
For the first time in his life, Spike Spiegel turned and ran.
The heart monitor erupted, the heart beats coming harder and faster than Avery had thought possible. He whirled to face a horrified Sandy who was clutching her manicured hands to her chest and staring transfixed at the man lying before her. "For chrissake, Sandy, snap out of it! Go get Dr. Webber! GO!"
With a squeak, the terrified woman all but sprinted out of the tiny room, cries for Dr. Webber already leaping from her lips.
He was running. Wet leaves and low hanging branches slapped at his face as he swept through the brush, his breath coming in sharp gasps. He could hear nothing but his own harsh breathing and the beating of his heart, could see nothing but the dripping dark foliage obscuring his path. Somewhere behind him, something screamed into the night.
He stumbled on a hidden tree root, crashing to the ground with a grunted curse. Leaping to his feet, he blundered on through the dark underbrush, uncaring of the small injuries he sustained as he fled from the demon that was chasing him.
Twice more he fell and twice more he struggled to his feet and ran on.
A clearing opened up before him suddenly, the stars and the moon cast pale light on everything, stark shadows reaching out from under the gnarled trees as if trying to strangle the tiny break in the dense forest with phantom fingers.
He was hit bodily from behind and tumbled to the ground in the middle of the clearing, muscles relaxing as he prepared to roll to his feet and run. Something heavy slammed onto his chest as he rolled, pinning him to the ground. Hot, rank breath hit his face, the coppery scent of blood making him gag.
"Next time, you'll do as you're told," the sibilant voice hissed above him.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
"Wyatt, what the hell is going on!"
"I was here on a routine check and all the monitors just, well you can see for yourself."
Dr. John Webber pushed past his long time colleague and peered closely at the calm face of their charge. He noted the yellowed bruising, the long scabbed scratches, the bandages wrapped around the mans chest. The heart monitor continued to beep frantically and the mans neurological activity continued to crackle and spark dramatically.
He turned to his colleague. "Get me a dose of adrenaline."
"Adrenaline? John, his heart could--"
"He's on the verge of cardiac arrest. He'll die now, or he'll die later. Just get the damn adrenaline!"
Avery Wyatt nodded dumbly and fled from the small hospital room.
"Next time, you'll behave, pet."
He struggled against the weight on his chest that was crushing the breath from his lungs. "You're...dead..." he grated. "You're not...real..."
Someone was crying.
Spike tried to open his eyes, but his lids were too heavy. His whole body seemed to be made of leaden fog. It was as if he was floating in nearly frozen jelly, limbs refusing to move both because he did not have the strength and because he could not feel.
The presence hiccupped, heart wrenching little sobs escaping into the quiet.
Julia's face swam before him as the sounds of sorrow faded away.
"Spike...I came back...but you belonged to someone else."
Blue eyes because green.
"Where are you going? Why are you going?"
He turned away, too many memories, too much pain, too long...
Why do you have to go?
Are you telling me youre just going to throw your life away…
Dr. Webber straightened from the figure in the bed. Yellow elastic gloves snapped as he pulled them off his hands. The vital signs stabilized and the tension began to melt from the tiny room. John Webber gave his colleague a stern look.
AYou couldn't have handled that yourself?
Avery Wyatt pressed his lips together. He and John had been roommates in med school, and had become fast friends. It wasn't until they had both done their residencies that Johns connections had sent him up through the hospital ranks much faster than Avery. Avery had never complained, it was a fact of life and Webber was a superb doctor, but it still rankled him that John seemed to lord it over him, as if because he didn't know the right people, he was somehow less of a man.
"Yes, I could have handled it, John, but I would have done so in a way that did not put the patients life at such unnecessary risk."
John Webber smirked and clapped him on the shoulder as he walked past him. "Sometimes you gotta take risks, Avery."
Avery watched as his long time friend walked out of the tiny room chuckling.
Faye sat tensely on an uncomfortable plastic chair in the hall outside Spike's room. The doctors had said that there was nothing more that could be done for him and that the best thing was for him to be taken somewhere where he could have quiet and rest.
She could hear Jet inside arguing the one of the doctors. "Come on, Jet, let's just go," she muttered to herself. She hated hospitals and this one wasn't any different. They tried to cover the smell of death and disease with cleaners and antiseptic, but they never could quite do it. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, letting the nicotine relax tense muscles and soothe frayed nerves.
Finally the door opened and a very harassed looking man in a white coat stormed out of the room muttering to himself. "Just get out!" he shouted as a very smug looking Jet followed him out into the hall. "Non smoking!" he spluttered at Faye, pointing to a sign above her head with a shaking finger, his face red. Faye blinked, watching as he marched angrily down the hall, nearly knocking down a nurse in his haste.
She quirked a brow. "What the hell did you say to him?"
"Oh this and that," Jet replied airily. Faye giggled. She had never thought Jet could do anything airily. "Come on, let's go home."
Faye disposed of her half smoked cigarette as she followed Jet back into the tiny room. Spike was lying on the bed as he had been every other time she had come to see him, but this time there was a little more color in his face and he didn't look quite so gaunt.
"Am I ever getting out of this god forsaken shit hole?"
Jet scowled. "This god forsaken shit hole saved your life, Spike."
Spike grunted, levering himself slowly into a sitting position. "I fucking hate hospitals." As he pulled the flimsy hospital shirt over his head, Faye saw the bandages wrapped around his middle, a large patch of gauze obscuring the smooth skin of his shoulder.
Jet pushed a wheelchair to the edge of the bed. "You ready?"
Spike eyed the chair with distaste. "You've got to be kidding me."
Jet pinched the bridge of his nose. "Spike, it's policy."
"Fuck policy," Spike grunted bluntly. "I have two fully functional legs," he went on as he swung his legs down onto the floor. "And I intend to use them." He stood, flashing Jet a self satisfied look.
Faye lunged forward as he swayed dangerously, steadying him as he leaned heavily on her shoulder, his breathing labored. "Spike, you're still—"
He pushed her away and managed to lower himself into the plastic chair by the bed, flimsy shorts clinging to his legs. A thin sheen of sweat had broken out over his naked chest and shoulders, his face pale and drawn as he caught his breath. Jet handed him a pair of dark pants and Faye looked away, not wanting to watch as he struggled into them in his weakened state. Spike wasn't supposed to be capable of weakness; he was the one that always bounced back.
"Spike," Jet began slowly, but Spike cut him off with a cold glare.
"I do not need that," he spat.
"But—"
"No."
Jet rolled his eyes skyward as Spike managed to get himself on his feet again. Neither she nor Jet said a word as they positioned themselves on either side of their injured comrade and helped him out of the room. A scandalized hospital aid accosted them in the hall, demanding to know where the patient was going and why he was not in a wheel chair and where are his shoes, but when Jet shouted a few choice remarks in his face, the ferrety little man slunk back where he had come from with a hateful glance over his shoulder.
The journey through the hospital was a silent one, Faye only too conscious of Spike's arm wrapped firmly around her shoulders as he used her as a makeshift crutch.
They took a cab to the docks where the Bebop was moored so as to spare each other the unpleasantries of a cramped flight in either one of their monopods. Spike looked as near to tears as Faye had ever seen him when he slumped down on the yellow couch in the common room.
He ran a hand lovingly over its hard plastic surface. "I've missed you, old friend," he said softly as he flopped back, stretching his full length out with a slight wince as his wounds pulled.
Faye chuckled at the sight. "I hope you haven't gotten all sentimental on me."
"Only over things I give a shit about," he retorted, not missing a beat. "Don't worry, you're in no danger of being one of those."
Jet muttered darkly to himself as he left the two in favor of kitchen. "Some things never change."
"So, what happened to Sanders?" Spike asked as Faye flopped down onto the chair across the table from him. "I suppose it's too much to hope you guys got the 300 mil?"
Faye chuckled having missed their little banter and idly wondered how long this truce would last. Her brow furrowed. "No one told you?"
"Actually they did. I was wondering if they'd told you," he replied sarcastically.
Faye rolled her eyes. "No, we didn't catch him." Spike grunted. "He just up and vanished."
"Vanished?"
"Yep," Faye nodded as Spike began to prod at his bandages. "Don't mess with those, lunkhead. They're there for a reason."
Spike made a face at her. "We already have a ship mom, Faye. I don't think Jet will appreciate your challenging his claim to the title. And anyway, they itch."
"That's a good sign, stupid," Faye grumbled as she moved to sit on the table opposite him. "C'mon, let me see." She pushed his protesting hands away and peeled away the bandages covering the wound in his shoulder.
Spike hissed in pain. "Hey, watch it!"
"Baby," Faye retorted, still inspecting the wound in his shoulder. "These need changing," she muttered as she gently prodded the flesh around the angry looking wound, ignoring Spike's complaints. "I'm going to get the med kit. Don't move."
"Since when did you become the medical expert?" he muttered when she returned with the large black box.
"Since you left," she replied simply, digging through the box until she found clean gauze, bandages and antiseptic. "This is going to sting," she warned him as she poured the disinfectant on a clean rag.
"Ow fuck!"
Jet's head jerked up from the paper he was reading in the kitchen.
"What the hell are you doing to me!"
"I'm helping you, idiot!"
Jet shook his head. This was likely to get ugly.
Spike prodded his newly bandaged shoulder suspiciously when Faye had finished. He eyed her warily as she appraised the binding round his middle. "I don't think so, Faye. That one was poisoned, remember? You don't know what kind of chemical reaction it might have with that disinfectant."
Faye shot him a flat unimpressed look. "I never knew you were such a whiner, Spike."
"What can I say, I learned from the best."
"Fine," Faye said airily and stood, picking up the used medical supplies and disposing of them in the trash. "I'll just go and catch up on some sleep, then."
Spike sat up weakly. "You can't leave me here!"
"Watch me."
"But—"
""G'night!" Faye called sweetly over her shoulder as she disappeared down the hall, leaving Spike shirtless on the couch. Let him change his own damn bandages, for once, she thought sourly.
She dropped the medical kit on the floor by her bed and collapsed onto her bed in the dark. The day had been exhausting. She and Jet had arrived at the hospital in the early morning hoping to take Spike back to the Bebop with them, only to be told that one of the higher ups had an interest in his case and that he would have to stay in the hospital until that person was satisfied. Faye had thought Jet was going to break his chair over the doctor's head. She chuckled quietly to herself.
Plumping up her pillow, she burrowed down into her soft covers emitting a sound that could very well have been mistaken for one made by a very large, very contented cat.
But how could she sleep? Spike was out there on the couch, all alone. Spike was back. He was alive. The thought made her sit up, the covers still wrapped around her. He had been gone for so long and now that he was back she was just going to go to bed? She winced as a twinge of guilt slithered through her belly.
With a sigh, she slid out of bed and padded out into the long hall and made her way back to the common room. Jet must have turned down the lights for she could barely make out the long form draped across the yellow couch. He hadn't moved since she'd left him. She sat on the table beside him, listening to the sound of his deep even breathing.
She hugged herself and shivered as she remembered that horror filled night almost one year before. The screams, breaking glass, the smell of gunpowder, more screaming, endless screaming, the glitter of blue eyes and hard cold steel, blood splattered all over the white marble floor... Her hand floated to the tiny scar on her neck. It had never faded away. Sanders truly had marked her.
"What's it look like?" a soft masculine voice murmured from the shadows.
Faye started slightly, jerking her hand hurriedly from her neck. "I thought you were asleep." She could hear him sitting up.
Cool fingers suddenly brushed her neck and she flinched away. "Does it still hurt?" he asked, his dark eyes glittering in the darkness.
"Sometimes," she lied. It hurt every time she saw Sanders' face, every time she remembered that night, every time she thought of Spike. He edged closer to her in the dark.
"What's it look like?" he asked again, peering at her through the gloom.
Her own fingers traced the tiny and yet intricate sunburst on her neck, wincing as the scar, which had never really completely healed, even after all this time, began to sting. "It's the sun," she murmured. "He's marked me. I belong to him."
She didn't seem to notice as Spike reached out and wrapped his hand around her wrist. "You do not belong to him, Faye," he said, his voice low and dangerous.
Faye looked up at him with tired eyes. "Then who do I belong to, Spike? You?" She was tired of pretending.
Spike watched her through slitted eyes as he mulled over her words. Faye didn't belong to him. Part of him found the thought of Faye belonging to anyone laughable, but he was surprised to find that he liked the idea of her belonging to him. "No, Faye," he said finally. "You don't belong to me."
"You're right, Spike, I don't belong to you, I don't belong here, I don't belong anywhere." She sighed, pulling her hand from his grasp and shrugged. "You wouldn't know what to do with me anyway."
Spike sat thoughtfully on the couch for a long time after she'd left. He'd had a lot of time to think while he was in the hospital. It was either think or dream and his dreams had become increasingly disturbing. He leaned back on the couch and fished a lightly bent cigarette from a box on the floor and lit it with practiced ease. The bright glow of the match illuminated his face as he watched it burn down to nothing. It died with a puff of smoke.
He couldn't remember many of his dreams. They all seemed to blend into one feverish mix of pain and fear, but they all had two things in common. Julia was always there and so was Faye. Whether Julia was trying to make him follow her or kill him, Faye was always there, somewhere, watching with sad eyes. He'd found her kneeling by his own dead body, weeping as she begged in vain for him to live again. She'd been there when he'd been drowning in the pools of Julia's eyes, a tiny sad smile on her red lips. A secret, knowing smile. It had pulled him back from the icy embrace.
There had been one dream that had been different from all the others. He had been wandering the halls of the Bebop. The cold darkness had been suffocating, threatening to take him if he wasn't careful. There had been a flare of light in the shadows and as the glow receded he saw Faye standing by the ship's windows staring out at the stars, the cigarette in her hand casting a faint ruddy glow on her pale features. He had stood there and watched her for an eternity, the darkness hungry at his back, the faint glow of the stars before him, and…and Faye.
"Where are you?" she whispered.
"I'm right here."
She didn't hear him. "You're dead."
"No…"
"Why can't I let you go?"
A small smile had curved her lips, then. It was a sad, secret, knowing smile. She held up a small photograph he hadn't noticed her holding and gazed at it sadly. It was a shot of him and Jet laughing. They both looked so happy. When had that been taken? She traced his image with one finger silently.
"Faye…"
"I…" she began, still looking at the photo. "I miss you, Spike," she whispered to his image. And with that she took one final drag on her cigarette, dropped it to the floor and put it out.
The ever patient darkness swept over him like a tide, pulling him back into dreamless sleep.
Spike breathed the smoke from his lungs as he leaned back against the couch. It had been a long time since he'd been allowed to smoke. The people in the hospital had nearly had fits when he'd asked if anyone could spare one. Stingy bastards.
With a resigned sigh he stood carefully, still wary of his weakened state. Taking a long pull on his smoke, he began to shuffle down the cold hall towards his room. The ship was cold and Faye had found it in her heart to leave him with his pants, if not his shirt. He shivered.
He passed by her door and paused. No sound came from within. He stood watching the door silently for a few moments before reaching out to knock on its hard metal surface. The door slid open with a hiss before his fist had even touched the dark metal and he came face to face with a very tired, very bewildered looking Faye.
"Yo."
She peered up at him blearily. "Spike, are you all right?"
He shrugged. "Depends on your definition o f all right."
She looked at him again. "Jesus, Spike, it's freezing. What happened to your shirt?"
"You happened to my shirt," he said softly, poking her shoulder gently.
A guilty expression spread slowly across her soft features. "Oh… have you been out there the whole time?"
He nodded, leaning tiredly against the wall, a jaw cracking yawn turning his vocal affirmation into a sort of drawn out grunt. A small hiss escaped his lips as the cold from the wall bit at the exposed skin of this shoulder and he rubbed his arms gently.
"Do you…want to come in?"
Spike stared at her. Well wasn't that why he'd come in the first place? He rubbed the back of his neck.
"It's warm?" Faye lifted her shoulders to show him the blanket she had wrapped around herself as she prepared for the cold trek to the kitchen for a glass of water. Had she really just invited him into her room? What was she thinking! If he hadn't already figured it out, he was sure to get a clue now. He would use her own feelings against her for as long as he pleased. She fidgeted under his stare.
"Sure," he said after a long pause.
She stared at him, vaguely horrified at the notion of having him in her room, something that had never happened before. "Right…"
Spike followed Faye into her room and the door hissed shut behind them, leaving the room cloaked in darkness, with nothing but the silvery light of the stars to see by. Faye sat awkwardly on her bed, hugging her blanket around her shoulders.
"So…" she began awkwardly as Spike stood against the wall by the door. Why is he just standing there?
Spike shrugged.
Faye blinked up at him. "Do you…wanna sit down?" She gestured vaguely. "There's room…and…ah…" she trailed off.
Spike watched her for a moment before pushing off the wall and plopping himself down on the end of her bed. They sat in silence.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
A look of confusion marred Faye's features. "Talk about what?"
"What happened." Spike lifted his hand to poke Faye gently on the neck. "With Sanders."
Her eyes dropped to her lap. "Oh." She fidgeted. "What's there to talk about?"
One of Spike's shoulders raised and he stared past her out the window. "Dunno."
"Do you think," Faye began. "You think he'll come after us again?"
"You," Spike corrected. "And I dunno. Doesn't seem like the type to give up something he wants, though."
Faye shivered at the thought. She reached back behind her bed and felt around in the dark, finally coming up with a glass bottle. Twisting off the top, she took a wary sniff. Deciding it was safe, she offered it to Spike.
"Wanna drink?"
Spike looked at her for a moment before accepting the bottle and taking a long swallow.
"This stuff isn't going to solve your problems."
Faye snorted. "I know. Doesn't mean it won't help me forget about them for a while."
"You got your memories back, what is it that you want to forget so badly?"
She stared down into the bottle, surprised by how quickly the alcohol had gone to her head. And then she remembered the dinner she hadn't had. She looked back up at him blearily. "You."
Spike regarded her silently, the starlight painting his bandages a pale blue and playing over his smooth skin. There had been a subtle shift in the chemistry between him and Faye, even before that disastrous night. It had been tickling the back of his mind for a long time now, making him wonder where she stood, making him question where he stood. It was so easy to simply slip back behind his cynical defenses, to throw out a stinging insult to hide his own unsure footing. He wished she'd stop being so damned cryptic. He never had had much patience for puzzles.
He stood slowly. "It's late," he said softly, stifling a yawn. "We could both use the rest."
Faye gazed up at him clearly hurt that he'd simply brushed her statement aside like so much sand. "Fine," she muttered like one just on the verge of being drunk. "You don't care anyway."
Spike grabbed the bottle away from her just as she was about to take another drink and stumbled slightly, the alcohol, coupled with the length and intensity of his recent hospitalization, making him suddenly light headed. He set the bottle down on the table and dropped down on the edge of Faye's bed.
Faye's cool hands went to his shoulders as he sat heavily on her bed. "Maybe you'd better stay here," she said, shocked at her own words. "Because you're tired, I mean. You might fall, or something, on the way to your room…or something…"
Spike chuckled humorlessly at her words. "That'll be the day," he muttered.
"You stay here." Faye pushed him down against her pillow. "I'll take the couch," she said as she slid her legs over the side of her bed. "But if you go pawing through my things…" she added with some of her usual poison.
He sat up and put a hand on her arm. "Stay?"
Faye looked at him quizzically. "You want me to stay?"
"It's cold out there," he reasoned. "And it is warmer in here and there is room…" he gestured vaguely.
"I…ok…" Faye crawled back onto her bed, the slightly mystified look never quite leaving her features as she lay down beside him and slid under the covers. This was most unexpected.
With one last glance at the dark expanse of stars outside Faye's window, Spike slid down beside her, his mind still a little fuzzy so that his heart could hide the implications of this current arrangement for at least a little bit longer.
Faye stiffened a bit as she felt his strong arm snake around her waist, pulling her easily against the smooth expanse of his broad chest. The warmth of his body immediately began to soak through the thin fabric of her shirt. She had almost forgotten how good it felt to be close to another human being. Relaxing into his grip, Faye closed her eyes, a small smile spread across her lips.
Spike couldn't imagine how he had gotten himself into this situation. He couldn't imagine why it didn't bother him immensely that he was holding Faye in his arms as she slept and in her bed. And for some unfathomable reason, it felt good. And it felt good that it felt good. Spike yawned. Her hair smelled vaguely of jasmine.
Spike closed his eyes and for the first time in months he did not dream of his blue eyed angel from Hell.