The Heart of the Bounty
A fanfiction
Chapter 1: Sowing the Romance
Eeeeaarrrrrrrrggggghh!
One more near-death accident and I'll seem more immortal than a cat. I really never know when to quit, because here I am bandaged from head to toe again, completely (and thankfully, temporarily) paralyzed. A searing cool shoots up and down the nerves of every limb, every joint; all I want is to just lift my head enough for the homely reassurance that I will be motile again soon. Every muscle— even small, ostensibly insignificant ones— aches with the greatest of pressures, enough that attempting to open my eyes is a daunting task. Luckily, I muster enough strength to make at least one of my intact organs function.
As I work to regain sight, to see the familiar ambiance of the ol' Bebop, my brain starts processing whatever stimuli my neurons can manage. I've been awakening myself with only partial consciousness. As my body starts to ease again, my ears, though wrapped, open their doors to the sounds of the ship; the suddenness of noise is a refreshing rush to my head. I cannot hear the cogs working within the ship to stabilize motion in space; I can only assume Jet is waiting on my recovery before we take off. I cannot hear the airy, easy panting of Ein; thank God. I do hear the soft clicking of a keyboard without the wacky, unidentifiable trademark Ed squeals. Amidst this layer of noise, something more striking begins to catch my ear…
A familiar tune… I may have been fighting in vain for Julia, but she possibly cannot be on the Bebop. My brain projects the distant memory of Faye's poor attempt of singing this song; I wasn't afraid to say she was off-key, especially since I was capable of doing so. Yet, even while I understand that this angelic melody isn't coming from Julia's sweet, red lips, I'm failing to perceive it as anything but. Faye rarely sings; she doesn't take any voice lessons either. Can it be … she's actually singing this nostalgic song correctly? I…
I stop myself from mentally squirming at the thought. There's something soft and beautiful about this notion. Usually one could easily say, "Hate the song, not the singer" or even, "Hate the singer, not the song." I do love this song, even with the bittersweet aftertaste of the memory attached to it. I'm not particularly fond of the singer, but her voice is growing on me. Though she's barely singing above the decibel level of a whisper, the tone of her voice is soothing. I get this sudden erratic watery flow in my stomach, but only for a second. What does this mean?
After concentrating so hard on figuring out what's ringing in my ears, I finally conquer the pain and open my eyes. My dilating pupils phase my field of vision, making it terribly difficult to readapt. How long have I been sleeping? Within seconds, I start glancing around feverishly to find the source of the sound that pleases me, that plagues me. I can't bear the thought of moving my head; my mouth seems like the next best bet. Slowly, I twitch the muscles in my cheeks, only finally realizing that my mouth is also unbandaged. A sharp inhale, pushing all my energy from my feet to my pharynx to my mouth, I manage to ask in a raspy voice, "Faye?"
Immediately, I hear a stomp on the ground. Ha. She jumped off the couch to see to me. Even this obnoxious move of hers does not repel me, as it usually would. All I want is a familiar face, regardless of whose it is. She peers over my head, her bold cerulean eyes beaming down on mine. Though she usually looks to me with cynicism, there's a genuine quality in them right now; she's concerned. Rarely have I ever seen her look at me this way. Why does it matter so much to me? I know this expression will be wiped away the moment we commence a dialogue.
"Spike?" she softly whispers. Ein's bark of alertness follows suit, and I hear his pudgy, soft paws strutting over to my seat.
I try to say something in reply, but instead empty air leaves my mouth. A sigh. That's all I could've mustered at the moment. I weakly smile; for what reason, I really do not know. I smile faintly, waiting for her to return to her loud, uncouth self. Instead, I see her eyes begin to glisten. What more does she have to be concerned about?
"Speak to me, Spike. Are you okay? What do you need?" Faye asks earnestly and still softly.
Before I can even process a thought, a flash of heat runs down my face and into my brain. Then four other splotches of heat follow; her fingers. She's touching my face so gently; not a caress, but a tender touch. Her fingers slide down my left cheek for a second; what is she feeling for? My pulse is in my wrist, my neck, not my face. … Warmth. She's feeling for my body temperature. Yet, there's something more lovely in the way she's doing it, something more temperate.
"Good, you're warming up," Faye says to herself. "Welcome back."
I feel a draft penetrating the bandages; she's getting up! I want to compliment her, to thank her for her song … but I'm completely incapable of doing so. As she's getting up, I watch her eyes with all the eagerness I could express; and she doesn't look away. Our eyes remained locked until all I could feel of her presence was the heat of her breath against my face. I glance up and down her face to see a return of my faint smile. And just as I inhale enough air to propel myself to speak, she turns and walks away.
I exhale deeply and slowly, allowing myself to think again. Why did it matter so much for me to tell her something kind, and not jarring? Why did it matter the way she touched me? What's gotten into me? This accident must've been rougher than I thought; I never expected a change of heart.
