a/n: so i guess it's been about a week since 'tragic/beautiful' has been completed, and here i am already, another piece of writing over and done. i'm going back to one-shot song fics for a little while, so here's the first one that demanded to be written. it's set to 'split screen sadness' by john mayer, and it's left me conflicted. whil the lyrics go quite well, the melody of the song isn't very bebop-ish...but then again, we're not listening to the song, so oh well.
i guess this is set way before trfb's. a little after faye and ed come along. spike's caught in a rare moment of sadness...i know, ooc much? anyhow, he's kinda soft on julia at the moment, as much as i hate to admit it. but eh, that's the way this fic felt like structuring itself. anywho...as always, enjoy what you read, and if you'd like, leave a review (and again, no flames, please). well, off to reading, then.
Split Screen Sadness
And I don't know where went when you left me but,
It says here in the water, you must be gone by now,
I can tell somehow.
He was waiting in the cemetery, standing by a grave. Definitely not in one, though. It was where he said he would meet her, and he was sure it's where she would be. Taking an unsteady drag off of his cigarette, he leaned against the tombstone and wondered when she'd arrive.
Perhaps he was thinking was too off base this time, and maybe she'd never show. But no, she'd show. She'd promised she'd show. He wanted out, and so did she and they'd make their grand escape together. Damn the consequences and damn who they'd hurt. This was all for them. It was all they'd ever have.
Looking up at the sky, which was dark and angry and uneasy, the last of which description emulated the man's emotions. A drop of rain splashed down into a mismatched colored eye and he quickly turned his head down and blinked the drop away. He shook his bushy mane as one splash turned into several, and soon he was caught in an almost torrential downpour.
Sighing and spitting out his now soggy cig, the man surveyed the rain-streaked background. Nothing had changed and nothing was moving, save for the branches that were swaying in the wind. He felt it then, the undeniable sting in his chest. She wasn't coming, after all. He couldn't decipher how he knew, but it was a feeling he felt to the very core of him.
One hand on the trigger of a telephone,
Wonderin' when the call comes,
Where you say it's alright,
You got your heart right.
Venturing away from the aforementioned meeting spot, he made his way down the wet, empty roads, the air of foreboding surely not lost on him. A car or two passed him on his way uptown and one got a little too close and he was semi-doused in the aftermath. But it didn't faze him at the moment; he was already wet to begin with.
Passing by the opening of an alleyway, his eyes caught sight of a mangy mutt, cowering under a cardboard box. Stopping for a moment, man and mutt locked eyes, and in the dreary atmosphere, it was hard to tell which was which. Neither had a home anymore and neither had an owner. The man's owner, the woman who didn't show, had released him and the other men who claimed possession where never close to having him.
Scratching the back of his head and shrugging helplessly at the dog, he turned and walked away. How could he help the dog if he couldn't even help himself? So leaving the memory behind, he continued up the sidewalk, counting the cracks along the way.
Soon he was standing across from a building. Her building. He looked up at her window and saw no light streaming from it. His heart jumped at the thought that maybe she had left, and was simply late to arrive. Pieces of paper on the ground caught his eye, though, and lazily picking up a scrap and noticing his handwriting scribbled on it, he knew that it was over. Granted there was never time for anything to really begin, the finality of the situation struck him like a slap.
It was him, so he decided. She had gone back to him. He recalled hearing, once a lifetime ago, that a woman's heart was a fickle as the skies. And as the rain continued to pelt his sulking form, he could never have agreed more.
'She must have gone back to him,' he thought almost passively.
Of course she would go back to him. For as equal as he and the other man, Vicious, were, he could never one-up him. He was too cool, he was too silky. Yeah…silky was the best way to explain him. Vicious, the name, suited his personality, but silky, the term, suited the man. And he could never compete with that. He was sandpapered wood at best.
In his mind, there didn't need to be a gun to her head to get her to change her mind. She was wishy-washy, anyway. But that didn't change the fact that he loved her. And it didn't stop the ache in his body that was the result of that fact. So he placed a cig between his lips, fully aware that it would never light. He needed to feel the stick, though, to know it was there. He could only find solace in all things tangible now.
Maybe I'll sleep inside my coat,
And wait on your porch till you come back home,
Oh right, I can't find a flight.
Looking down at the bouquet of roses wrapped in paper in his hand, he slowly brought them up to his nose and gave them a light sniff. He always did like the smell of red roses. It was almost like the smell of a promise. The promise was broken, though, and the roses were starting to wilt.
He resigned himself to waiting for ten more minutes. Okay, maybe fifteen. Twenty at the absolute latest. It was funny, the fact that he'd wait. Such a thing always irritated him in the past, but he'd wait a lifetime for her if he had to. Today had felt like two lifetimes.
So thirty minutes later he blew out imaginary smoke and flicked the still unlit bud to the ground. Pushing off of the brick wall that seemed so blue in hue, he pulled his trench coat tighter around him and sadly walked away. It was set, she wouldn't come with him. He had offered her his life, and she had turned it away. He wasn't as glamorous as the man she was with, and he never would be. He was what he was, and that just wasn't good enough for her.
The thought sliced him through the middle both ways and made him almost want to hurl his breakfast of 4 cigarettes and 3 vodka shots, but held it in. He wasn't that weak. It was just love, after all. But God had that love been good. He wondered if she knew he was waiting for her. That he'd always be waiting for her? Even in his next life, he'd still be waiting.
We share the silence,
Split screen sadness.
Ducking into another alley on his way back down the road, he began to pull a few roses out of the bunch and drop them haphazardly to the ground. Then, producing a machine gun out from under his coat, he slipped it into the bouquet and made sure that the weapon was sufficiently concealed.
Hearing a whimper and feeling a nudge on his leg, the man looked down and cocked a smirk at the mutt from earlier. The dog, possibly mangier than before, sniffed and licked at the fallen flowers, then looked back up at him.
Feeling a camaraderie between himself and the pup, he bent down and gave it a scratch under the chin. The dog licked his face in return. He thought for a moment about how he wasn't fond of pets, but this was a different circumstance.
Hearing a rumble of thunder above him and realizing that time was passing him by, the man rose again and began to head off. Another whimper stopped him, though.
"Sorry boy," he said with a sad chuckle. "But I got things to do. Take care."
And he continued on his way. A few blocks down, he spotted a 'lost dog' sign on a street post, and smiled at the picture of the dog. At least someone cared for one of them.
Two wrongs make it all alright tonight,
Two wrongs make it all alright tonight,
Two wrongs make it all alright tonight,
Two wrongs make it all alright tonight.
There were a few more men then he had originally anticipated, but it was nothing that he couldn't handle. Pulling the gun from the roses, he fired like a calculated maniac. But that's what he usually was most of the time, anyway. His opponents got lucky a few times and landed bullets in a few body parts, but he surely wouldn't go down that easily.
Grabbing a grenade that hung around his waist, he caught the ring between his teeth, momentarily tasting the alkaline flavor of his blood, he smirked and gave it a pull.
"Whatever happens, happens," he said as he threw the mini bomb and stood his ground.
"All you need is love" is a lie, 'cause,
We had a love, but we still said goodbye.
Now we're tired, battered fighters.
Eyes opening wide and body shooting up like a sprung trap, Spike woke with an audible gasp and it took him several seconds to remember where he was. It was the smell of bell peppers and beef, beef not included, that brought him back to reality.
Lying back down on the yellow couch, he rubbed at his eyes, trying to get certain images out of his head. But it wouldn't matter if he wiped them away this time. They'd only remind him again later.
It wasn't anything he liked to think about, but it was always on his mind. She was always on his mind. And he was still waiting, in case she cared to know. But he was getting tired, though he wasn't quite sure of what. Maybe he didn't want to wait anymore, or maybe he didn't want to fight for the will to wait. He didn't know, but he wasn't sure if he cared anymore, really.
Or perhaps it was the flipside of the equation. Maybe he cared too much. He doubted, though, that he could love her too much. After all, she was the first woman to inspire the feeling in him, and the only one thus far. But the emotion wasn't enough to bind her to him, as he was to her. She was stronger than him in that respect, since she could cut ties without blinking. He couldn't do that, though. Heh, who knew? Spike Spiegel was a sentimentalist.
"I'm hungry, Jet!" He heard Faye whine.
"Well if you're so damn hungry," Jet shouted back to her, "then learn to cook for yourself!"
Usually, Faye's bickering didn't annoy him so much as it did right now, and normally, he'd even join in the fun. Now wasn't usually or normally, though. His past always put him in a bad mood, and to stay around would only cause more drama for everyone. And though Spike was the biggest drama queen on the ship, even he knew when to give it a rest.
So he rolled himself off of the couch and lit himself a cig. Puffing out a weary billow of smoke, Spike stood up and began the trek to the hanger. With his hands shoved in his pockets and his head hanging uncharacteristically low, he snorted when the smell of Jet's cooking was replaced by the smell of rain and gunpowder.
"Where you going, buddy?" Jet asked as he saw Spike walking by.
"Huh? Oh, just out," he responded around his cig.
"Well, dinner's almost ready," Jet told him, sensing that something was off with his fuzzy-haired comrade.
"Yeah, well, save me some," he said as he continued to walk on.
Looking at him, but then turning his attention back to the stove, Jet glanced at Faye, who was sitting at the island in the kitchen.
"What's eating him?" She asked as she glanced up from her magazine.
"Who knows? I never claimed to understand him."
And it stings when it's nobody's fault,
Cause there's nothing to blame at the drop of your name,
It's only the air you took.
And the breath you left.
Climbing into the cockpit of his mono racer, Spike lazily pulled on his steering gloves and rested his head against his seat. Reaching up for his visor and flipping it down, Spike pulled a picture of her to him. While she was beautiful in that tattered photograph, there was no camera on Mars that could properly capture her beauty.
Deftly tracing the outline of her face, a sorrowful smile etched its way onto his. It still felt like an open wound every time he thought about her. So needless to say, he was always bleeding on the inside.
Placing the picture back where it was and putting the visor back into place, he stuck the key in the ignition and gave it a twist. And nothing happened. He quickly gave his gages the once over and realized that he was out of fuel. Beyond out, actually.
Groaning and hitting his head on the steering wheel, Spike momentarily thought about siphoning a few gallons from the Red Tail, but thought better of it. A fight with Faye at the moment could lead to a lot of bad things. He could get so angry that he'd hit her (she was unfortunately that infuriating). Or worse yet, he'd sleep with her. And sex with Faye, while tempting, would do nothing to ease his soul.
Hoping out of his ship, Spike walked back through the Bebop and out the front door. He preferred to walk, anyway. Fresh air would hopefully clear his head, and Christ knows he needed that.
So he leisurely strolled down the street and inhaled the air, which was clean after an early morning shower. It was a little cooler out than he had anticipated, though, and he sunk into his suit jacket, looking for a pocket of warmth.
"Julia! Julia, get back here!" He heard a woman shout from behind him.
Jerking his head up and looking all around, Spike searched almost frantically for the object of his agony, but was only greeted by a little brunette girl bounding up to him.
"Hi mister!" She said as she waved at him.
She opened her mouth to say something else, but her mother had caught up to her by then.
"Julia Lyn Andrews, what has gotten into you? I'm taking you home right now! Sorry about that, sir."
Spike nodded lightly at the woman and watched as she scooped up her child and walked away. He cursed himself then for his near frenzied behavior. He couldn't avoid it, though. Even three years later, his heart still skipped beats when he heard the name "Julia", and his eyes still searched the crowd for her golden curls. He never found her, though, and he knew in the back of his mind that he never would.
Coming to a stop to contemplate his thoughts, he cursed out loud when he saw where he had ended up. It was her apartment building, still the same as he remembered. Chancing a look up, he saw a light on in the window, and was so tempted to rush upstairs, break down the door, and pull her to him again. But she didn't live there anymore. In a way, she had never lived there at all.
So maybe I'll sleep inside my coat,
And wait on your porch till you come back home,
Oh right, I can't find a flight.
Pushing on, Spike walked past the building, determined to never cross paths with it again. Pulling a cig from his pack, not sure when he had finished the other one, he eagerly lit it and took another long drag. Nicotine was one of the only things he could count on in this life, and the prospect of that actually disheartened him a little.
Out of habit borne that day, he spared glances down empty alleys, almost wishing to see his little friend. He never did, though. Sparky had an owner who undoubtedly found him. And Spike was still a wandering stray.
So I'll check the weather wherever you are,
Cause I want to know if you can see the stars tonight,
It might be my only right.
He wasn't quite sure where he was going, he just knew he needed to go. And maybe that's why it was better he was on foot. He'd probably kick himself when it came time to go back home, though. While he could walk forever one way, the trek back might not be as forgiving. He'd deal with that later, though.
The street lights began to flicker on then. He hadn't realized how late it was. Well, it wasn't late, per say, it was just time for the sun to go down. And seeing as though the seasons where changing, the sun disappeared sooner than later.
As he looked up at a light that was particularly bright, his eyes focused on the first stars dotting the sky. His guardian star was up there somewhere, according to that crazy old man, Laughing Bull, but he doubted such a thing existed. He couldn't count that hundreds of times he'd aimlessly searched those skies, though, and wondered how far those stars could translate.
We share the sadness,
(Two wrongs make it all alright tonight)
Split screen sadness.
(Two wrongs make it all alright tonight)
We share the sadness,
(Two wrongs make it all alright tonight)
Split screen sadness.
God, he didn't know how many times he'd prayed, actually prayed to forget how it felt to love her. To forget how it had felt when he was in her arms. But there was no one to burn that memory from his head. Sure, he could opt to have that part of his mind erased since technology had come that far, but when faced with the option, he'd rather wallow in the past. He was good at wallowing, after all.
He wasn't akin to, though, this feeling of distress. He couldn't get away from it because the feeling was associated with her. And she was always on his mind, and as one can see, it ended as a vicious circle, which ironically, had no end.
But maybe he didn't want it to end. Maybe he needed this to remind him that he was alive. Living in his dream world didn't really give him that feeling, but thinking of her did. At that's probably the greatest reason why he'd continue to let himself feel this way.
I called,
Because,
I just,
Need to feel you on the line.
Don't hang up this time.
He was there before he even realized it. It was the cemetery where they were supposed to start their new life together. That didn't happen, though, and the story had to be rewritten. Standing in front of the tombstone that marked his failure, he ran his fingers over the bumpy surface and dared to read the name inscribed upon it:
HERE LIES CHESTER A. MORGAN. FATHER AND FRIEND. HE WILL BE MISSED. 2041 – 2071
Funny, he'd never read that before. He must have been too preoccupied the last time to even notice.
"Hey there, Chaz," Spike coyly said. "Long time, no see. How's the weather down there?"
As he chuckled lightly to himself, he realized he shouldn't taunt the dead. After all, he could very well be his plot mate at any time.
Looking around the graveyard, Spike secretly wished that the hills had eyes. And though he knew that was simply the name of some old Earth movie, he meant it, anyway. Then, maybe they could tell him if she came. Maybe she did, who was to say? He still wanted to hold out hope that she showed just a little too late. He didn't dare refute whether that were true or not. He deserved at least one thing to still believe in.
"So, did you see a beautiful, blonde woman come by here, oh say, three years ago, Chaz?" Spike questioned his corpse friend.
"I'll take that as a 'no', then," he said, filling the silence.
Honestly, he wasn't toying with the dearly departed now; he just wanted an honest answer. But dead men tell no tales. Damn.
He felt his comm. buzz then and was hesitant to pick it up. He gave in, though, by the fifth ring, and answered with a slightly aggravated sigh.
"Yeah?"
"You've been gone for a couple of hours. Your food is cold and Faye and Ed are eyeing your plate with hungry eyes."
It was Jet. Ever worried and ever the caregiver, he was worried about Spike, and the man knew it.
"I'm fine, Jet," he tried to assure. "I'll be back soon."
"How soon?"
"Geez, mom, I don't know. Eventually, I guess."
"Stay gone all night then, see if I care!" Jet yelled back at him, sore over the "mom" comment. "Just…don't do anything stupid."
And he hung up. Spike couldn't help but chuckle as he looked at the disconnected comm. Jet could never stay mad at him, and he could never fake not caring. It was in his voice, and for the love of Christ, Spike could feel the man through the receiver. He could never do that with Julia, though, as he recalled.
He never really felt anything from her, actually, even in person. Even when she said she loved him, a part of him never felt like she really did. But he refused to believe that it was all a lie. Angels couldn't lie like that.
And I know that it's me who called it over, but,
I still wish you'd fought me till you dying day.
Don't let me get away.
But why had she let him go, then? He had probably asked himself that question at least a million times by now, and he had gotten to the point where he was sure that he'd never know the answer.
On good days, he believed that Vicious had made her do it. He had found the note and refused to let her leave. On bad days, though, he knew that she had voluntarily left him for the other man. Well, he was actually the other man, but still.
Lately, there were more bad days than good, and more often then not, he'd have his little walks to clear his mind. It was the first time, though, he'd ventured back here. Maybe that's what the change in the air was. He couldn't place it, but he felt like something was shifting.
Maybe it was his past catching up with him. Things had a way of doing that to him nowadays. Then again, maybe he was just reading too much into a situation. Overanalyzing was never a strong suit of his, but he couldn't quite make that claim anymore. His brain was working overdrive, and it all had to do with her.
"What kept you?" He quietly whispered. "Why didn't you…didn't you…"
He trailed off. That was a sentence he couldn't finish aloud. He wanted to ask why she didn't come for him. He wanted to ask what he did wrong. But Spike had a certain outlook on himself that didn't allow for him to believe that he was in the wrong. Though he knew he was, he wouldn't believe it in this case.
"She was a real piece of work, Chaz," Spike offered to the plot once more. "You would've remembered her if she had come by."
And with that, he stood up, briefly wondering when he had originally sat down. Dropping the rose that he had picked up along his way, Spike walked away from the spot, vowing to never return there again. But if she told him she was waiting there, Christ knows he'd show in a heartbeat.
Cause I can't wait to figure out what's wrong with me,
So I can say this is the way that I used to be.
There's no substitute for time.
So back up the road he went, dragging a little slower this time around. The original goal of his excursion was lost on his destination. As he thought about it, chances were that he was the reason that she didn't come. He did, after all, date her behind Vicious' back, and he knew better than anyone that that was one man to not be crossed. But he took the chance, anyhow.
Of course, Vicious must have found out. How could he not. Hell, he might have killed her himself. Well, he probably wouldn't kill her right off the bat, but he'd definitely threaten her with it. No, he'd promise her; threats weren't his thing.
In the end, Spike had to figure that maybe he should have told Vicious what he was planning. But what was he supposed to say?
'I'm in love with your girlfriend and me and her are going to fake our deaths to get out of the syndicate.'
Yeah, that probably wouldn't have gone over well. He had been a coward, as much as it pained him to admit that. He wasn't sure why he had actually feared Vicious, but then again, he was sure he did. The man could be terrifying when he wanted to be, and while Spike had never been on the receiving end, boy those tables would have turned so fast if word had gotten out.
"I don't want to be like this anymore," he said through a puff of smoke from his newly lit cig.
And he meant it. He was tired of feeling, if it meant he had to feel like this. He was tired of loving, if it meant he had to question the emotion every moment of every day. Besides, what would that get him in the long run, anyway? Nothing that he could use, that's for sure. He was positive that, in time, since time heals all wounds (yeah, right), he'd get away from those things. All they ever did was bring him grief.
Or for the sadness.
But he didn't want to feel that way. Not fully, and not yet, at least. Care free didn't have to mean care less. And again, the pain, the feelings, they reminded him he was alive. He was the tragic anti-hero, anyway, and sadness was his reluctant cloak of invisibility.
(Two wrongs make it all alright tonight)
Split screen sadness.
(Two wrongs make it all alright tonight)
We share the sadness,
(Two wrongs make it all alright tonight)
Split screen sadness.
A familiar whimper caught his ear as he continued back to the Bebop. Stopping and turning, he was greeted with the sight of a cleaned up, happy mutt. His mutt for those few seconds.
"I didn't think I'd see you again," he smirked.
Seeing the dog wag his tail in response, Spike figured he had a better way with dogs, now that he had Ein to deal with. Kneeling down as he had before, he offered the dog a scratch under the chin, and the pup eagerly took it, licking his hand in the process.
"Sparky? Sparky! Stop running away from me!" A young boy around eleven called out as he ran up towards Spike and the dog.
"Thanks, mister. Sparky doesn't listen to me too well, sometimes."
"No problem, kid," he smiled as he stood. "Take good care of him."
"I sure will, mister. Now you be a good boy, Sparky."
Turning away to start back on his path, he shook his head and sighed. Yeah, at least one of them had someone who came for them. At least one of them had somebody to love. And he could find some comfort in that, even if he was just thinking about a mangy, washed out mutt.
He wouldn't deny that he was crazy in that moment, hailing the praises of a lost doggy found. But the craze relaxed him and eased his thoughts, and he needed that every now and then.
A few minutes later, he looked up and saw his resident ship floating softly in the pier. And while soft may not have been the typical way to describe the Bebop, it was the best way to describe it in the moonlight, set against the city backdrop.
Oh, and the sadness,
It's alright, it's alright.
Oh, and the sadness,
It's alright, it's alright.
Oh, and the sadness…
He eased into the ship and headed towards the kitchen. Skipping dinner wasn't such a smart idea, but then again, he knew he had lapses in judgment. So he looked in the little fridge and was none too surprised to see a foil covered plate with a piece of paper reading "Lunkhead" on it, waiting for him.
"You got lucky, bub," Jet said from behind the man. "I distracted the girls long enough to claim the plate as yours."
Sighing contently to himself and picking up his plate, he turned to his partner, his friend, and smiled.
"Thanks mom. What would I do without you?"
"Well then, see if I save your food next time!" Jet shouted as he turned to leave.
"That's your call, Jet," he told him as he nuked his cold food.
"Ah…and I put an extra blanket on the couch, since I know that's were you'll crash. It was pretty cool out, and you're an idiot, so I'm sure you're cold."
Taking his food out of the re-heater and grabbing a fork, he nodded at Jet, even though he was no longer standing there.
He went into the common room, then, and took up his seat on the couch. Setting his food down, he pulled the old, blue blanket around him. Picking his plate back up, he sat back into the couch and flicked on the vid screen. Settling for a made for vid screen movie, he let his heart constrict one last time for the night, and dug in to his meal.
It's alight, it's alright.
DON'T LOSE YOUR WAY, LOST IN HEAVIER
THINGS, SPACE COWBOY…
and that's that. good? bad? eh? oh, and i decided to get a little pun-y with the tagline. 'heavier things' is the john mayer album that 'split screen sadness' is off of. clever, huh? i know, not really. oh well. so, thanks for reading, it's greatly appreciated. until next time, then.
phoenix