Edie placed a bunch of grocery bags on the countertop next to Jet, grilling meat over the stove.
"What's in there?" He scooted over, leaving the meat unsupervised, and peeked into the white plastic bags.
"Vegetables. Doc's orders." Her voice muffled by the chunks of meat she stuffed in her cheeks.
"Edie, goddamnit!" Cried Jet, swatting her away with his wooden stirring spoon. "So how did it go? What did they say?" He slid his hand to smooth his flying hairs.
"Oh the usual. Eat more vegetables, watch your weight, stop moving around so damn much so I can find myself a primary doctor." She mumbled. Jet arched an eyebrow and peered at her over the sizzling meat.
"Maybe he's..."
"It's a she." Edie interrupted. Jet burrowed his brow and frowned.
"You know what I mean… Maybe she's got a point. Maybe you should start considering a place to stay and lay low."
"Out of the question." She threw a bunched up gum wrapper at his head and smacked her lips. "Anyways, where's the lughead?"
This conversation is far from over. "I have no idea." Jet shrugged his shoulders and poured meat into two dishes. "But he sure is missing out on his favorite meal."
"You mean he's still not in by now?" Edie rubbed her lips against each other and, unknowingly, pouted.
"Eh? What are you? Worried?" Teased Jet. "I wouldn't worry about him, he can handle himself. Which, I imagine, he's doing a lot more now as of lately." He threw her a cunning wink.
"Wha...what?! Me worried? Far from it…" Her cheeks flushed and she struggled against her tongue. "and what in the hell is that supposed to mean!?" Edie's face now a vibrant shade of red. Jet stuffed his face in meat and inaudibly, grumbled nonsense. You win this round, Jet.
Spike stewed in his hazy buzz. He practically spent the day in the dive bar, drinking to what? His misery? His loneliness? His desperation? Fuck that. He drank to have a good time and feed off the high only alcohol could appease him with. A man sat himself beside Spike's bar stool and drowned him in tears. His sob story of how his wife left him, he has no job and no money. At the end of his tale, Spike arose and straightened his navy suit, throwing Woolang on the counter.
"You have control over what you do today. Want to get your wife back? Then get her, fight for her. Want to get a job? Then go out and get one. Don't wait for tomorrow. Do it today. Do something about it… Don't worry about the tab." And with that he walked out the bar, leaving the broken man feeling a little more put back together.
He now dazed at the night sky and searched the stars. Never had he felt so lost, so unsure of things and he reached for those stars. Spike eased as star flew through the twinkling sky. He searched a little bit longer before wandering back to the Bebop, in need of his Zipcraft.
"Much time has passed, Swimming Bird." Hummed the tan old man with two braids framing his face, smoke hanging over his cracked lips. Spike nodded and puffed on the pipe, exhaling brashly.
"You're right, old man. It's been awhile."
"You have questions."
"Yeah, I guess I do." Spike looked up to their ceiling of shining stars.
Laughing Bull nodded his head and turned to a small bowl that laid in his lap. He fumbled in the sleeve of his blue tunic, withdrawing a small bottle containing some red powder. He syphoned the glimmering powder within his palm and released it into the bowl, alongside a handful of Mars's sand. Spike handed him the pipe, and Laughing Bull poured the remaining ashes as well. Smoke formed and whirled before the two men, into the night sky. Laughing Bull's narrow eyes searched the smoke and the bowl's mixture, swishing about the consistency. He faintly chanted to himself. Spike's eyes followed his, surveying the smoke, then met Laughing Bull's impassive face as the chanting ceased. Laughing Bull peered into Spike's cold eyes.
"A star will fall from the sky and in its place, a bright, new star is born. Your eye will no longer see the past, Swimming Bird, but look to the future."
Spike rose from his seat on the planet floor and brushed the sand from his suit. He thanked the old man for his words and time, and turned to stroll over toward the Swordfish. Whatever you say, Old Man. Spike muttered under his breath. He never once doubted Laughing Bull's words. Many said a shaman's words were worthless, general idioms much like fortune tellers, who just wanted your money. Spike knew otherwise. There had not been once that one of Laughing Bull's prophecies had not come to pass.
"Your eye will no longer see the past, but look to the future." No longer see the past? Like that would ever happen. It felt much like Spike was living in the past. Death was the only escape. He regretted it. He regretted not dying in the final showdown. He should've died, there, along with his past. Was it his will or fate that denied him that? What will? His will to live? No such thing existed. More like will to die. Spike tore a cigarette from his suit pocket, used his lighter to burn it, and took a heavy drag. The smoke danced around.
"Your dying star will shine brightly." Murmured Laughing Bull and Spike pretended he did not hear him.
At four in the morning, Spike finally arrived back at the Bebop. He slugged back a glass of whiskey and trudged to his room. As his door shot open, he idled in the hallway and peered into the parts of the ship endowed in darkness. He shrugged his shoulders and stepped into his quarters.
...
Edie crept from the edge of the wall and sighed in relief. She had settled in the downstairs common area, dozing off on one of the rugged couches. She stirred when she heard footsteps tackle the stairs. Edie slid against the walls, where she watched a shadow hover near Spike's doorway. The aroma of tobacco and alcohol radiated in the direction of the shadow and it scorched Edie's nose. But there was no mistaking it. It was, undoubtedly, his. As she heard the door shut close, she made her way down to her own dormitory. Now she could sleep with ease
