Chapter Nineteen:

Left and Leaving


I'm back with scars to show.
Back with the streets I know
Will never take me anywhere but here.
The stain in the carpet, this drink in my hand,
the strangers whose faces I know.
We meet here for our dress-rehearsal to say: "I wanted it this way."
Wait for the year to drown.
Spring forward, fall back down.
I'm trying not to wonder where you are.

-The Weakerthans


Sound. Too much sound. The whirring of the ship's engines, the hiss of recycled air circulating throughout the halls. Spike winced as he heard the sound of his own footfalls echoing off the walls of the Bebop. A symphony for his homecoming. Fitting.

He entered the common room, and Jet looked up from where he was sitting, raising an eyebrow in his direction.

"Back already?" he asked.

Spike withdrew a cigarette from his pocket and placed it gently between his lips as he descended the stairs into the room. "Stupid fucking question, Jet."

He grunted. "Okay, why are you back already?"

"You should probably sit down," he said.

"I am sitting down."

"I know, but I figured—I figured I ought to say so anyway. I think it's obligatory when you're bearing bad news."

"Enough with the bullshit, Spike. What's going on?"

Spike gracelessly plopped down on the yellow couch across from Jet and kicked his feet up onto the coffee table. "Woman's gone," he said, exhaling a plume of smoke.

"Then go find her."

Spike shook his head with more force than he meant to. "I told you not to trust her, Jet. I knew she'd go and pull something like this. I knew it…"

"Knew what, exactly?"

"Nothing." He paused long enough to take another drag off his cigarette. "And everything."

Jet sighed and leaned back in his chair. "For Chrissake, don't tell me you're drunk, Spike. It's ten thirty in the morning."

"Okay, I won't tell you."

Jet mopped his face with his good hand and closed his eyes. "Lay it on me. What'd she do this time? Make off with all the cash?"

Spike gave a graceless laugh, the cigarette falling from between his fingers and landing on the dirty yellow couch cushion beside him.

"Watch it!" Jet barked.

Spike shrugged dismissively as he picked up the half-spent cigarette. He ran his hand over the scorch mark it left in the upholstery. "If only it were that simple," he said. "Apparently our little Valentine has moved past bounty hunting and has started working as a contract killer."

Jet crossed his arms over his chest and waited for Spike to continue.

"That husband of hers—Luke Kennedy? Apparently he took control of the Dragons after Vicious checked out."

Jet closed his eyes and ran a hand over his bald head. "Kennedy sent her for you. Tying up loose ends," he said plainly.

"Yeah."

Jet just shook his head and stood, making his way toward the kitchen. "Knowing that I'm surprised she didn't pick you off the first chance she got." He froze as soon as he finished the sentence. "So—why didn't she?"

Spike hesitated for a moment, licking his lips. "She wants me, Jet. You know that."

Jet grunted in response. "Yeah, right. What aren't you telling me, Spike?"

Spike just dragged the heel of his boot over the edge of the coffee table, eliciting another grunt from Jet. Ignoring him, he continued two more times before taking a breath. "Fuck if I know."

Jet stalked back to the chair, and it gave a groan as he lowered himself into it.

Spike didn't dare look up. He knew that if he did he'd find himself looking square into Jet's disapproving gaze. He hated that look. And he seemed to be getting a lot of it lately. "I said 'fuck if I know,'" he repeated tersely. "That means you aren't getting any further answers, so stop looking at me like that."

Jet raised his hands in mock surrender and redirected his gaze. "You're right. None of my business," he conceded.

"Damn straight."

"It's just—"

Spike closed his eyes and exhaled. He realized he was being baited; he realized, also, that he was just drunk enough to fall for it. "It's just what, Jet?"

"No. Forget it."

"Don't play this game with me. If you have something to say, fucking say it."

He took a breath. "I don't think she—"

"That is such bullshit!" Spike shouted. In an instant he was on his feet, punctuating his sentence by throwing his lighter down on the coffee table. His head spun, and he felt the ground tilt beneath him. "It was all her fault. It was her fucking fault. Whatever she told you, it was a lie."

Jet's eyebrows were raised, his mouth slightly agape. Spike was suddenly struck with the realization that he'd either said something incredibly stupid or something incredibly brilliant, but he was too drunk to know which. Jet just pursed his lips together and swallowed. "What?"

"What?"

"Sit down."

For once Spike did as he was told. He crossed his long legs in front of him and leaned back into the couch cushions. "She was willing, Jet. Swear to God. And I—look: I don't think she was wearing any…" he paused for a moment, then shrugged. "Not that I was paying her that much attention."

"Spike—"

"And on top of that—I mean, no pun intended, right?—on top of that, she gives me all this bullshit about comrades and betrayal and smoking all my cigarettes."

"Spike—" Jet attempted again.

"—which I still don't understand. Like that's an explanation for—fuck, I don't know. For leaving you like she did. For wanting to kill me. She said it all like she wanted a fucking apology, Jet. I did what I had to do; I had my fucking reasons. But she just won't let that shit go. So I'm supposed to feel bad that she's spent the past two years living as a shell of a human being. Or something. However that goes. Which is not my fucking fault, by the way. "

"Spike," he said evenly. "Stop. Talking."

"And don't think for one second that she ever asked about my reasons. About my feelings."

Jet scratched his eyebrow idly. "Your feelings?"

Spike's features twisted in disgust upon hearing those words, as if he hadn't uttered them just seconds before. "Jesus, Jet, I'm just getting some shit off my chest, here. You don't have to go and fem it up."

A wry smirk crept over his lips. "You're right; I apologize. Please, continue."

"Look, I had my reasons--"

"You said that. Twice, now."

"--but I don't owe anyone an explanation. Least of all Faye. And just because we slept together doesn't mean that anything's changed between us, all right? I don't know what she told you, but she's the one that pulled the gun on me. So whatever you were going to say, just keep that in mind."

With that, Spike sank back into the couch, the smirk spreading over his lips indicating that he was, indeed, rather pleased with himself.

"Actually," Jet began, attempting to hide the smile he felt tugging at his lips, "I was going to say 'I don't think this is a conversation we should be having while you're drunk.' But now I'm curious to know what you think she told me."

"You mean she hasn't called?"

"Nope."

Spike just huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. Jet wasn't sure if it was a sign of concern, surrender, or just plain indifference. In either case, he was going to be sure that Spike heard him out for once.

"The day she came back to the Bebop before you two left for Venus was the first time I've seen her in two years."

"So?"

"The last time I saw her she was—acting strange. Unusual. She was drunk."

His comment just elicited raucous laughter. "Oh, yeah? You aren't very well-acquainted with the strange and unusual, are you?"

Jet shot him a glare. "Shut up, Spike. I mean, she was completely trashed—just stumbling through the halls. She was smoking a pack of your cigarettes and tearing apart her room looking for something. When I asked her what she was looking for, her eyes just sort of glazed over and—" he shrugged.

"And?"
"She didn't have an answer for me. After that she finished the fifth of whiskey and the cigarettes and I never saw her again. Just disappeared. Took the red tail and left everything else behind."

"I'm failing to see your point."

"Look, Spike…I don't know what you and Faye had together. Or didn't have together. I don't know what's going on between you two now, and I sure as hell don't want to know what's behind you two sleeping together. But—" He paused, closing his eyes and raising a hand to roughly massage the back of his neck. "—But when you left…something changed. Something about her…"

"No." Spike said forcefully, shaking his head. "Don't you dare try and pin this one on me, Jet. Don't—"

Jet ignored him and continued. "That night, she was looking for something she'd lost. Something that disappeared along with you when you left that hangar.

"Don't wanna hear it, Old Man."

Jet slammed a fist against the metal coffee table, and the loud, hollow crash resounded from the walls. For a moment Spike was all flailing limbs and rustling clothes; then he was wincing, clutching his head in his hands and shooting a fierce glare across the coffee table.

"Enough. Fucking listen, and listen good, Spike. Honestly, I'm blown away by the fact that she didn't empty a clip into your chest the minute she saw you. She's changed. And it didn't happen when she left the Bebop in search of her past, or when she met Luke Kennedy, or even when she fucking married him. It happened the instant you turned your back on her and walked down that hallway. The way you let the few remaining pieces of her fucked-up life bleed out when you decided yours just wasn't worth living. There was a part of her that died with you, Spike. And I don't think she ever forgave you for that."

"Great, so now you're saying that I deserve it? That she's fucking justified in wanting to blow my goddamn brains out?

"No. I'm saying I get it. That it makes more sense than you realize."

"Un-fucking-believable," Spike muttered, running a hand through his unkempt hair. "I had my--"

"—Reasons. I know."

"Don't mock me. I'm too drunk and too hungover to deal with your bullshit, too. So tell me why you're telling me all of this."

"You mean besides the fact that you're a cocky son-of-a-bitch who deserves to be taken down a peg?"

"Yeah. Besides that."

"Because I want you to find her before she gets herself killed. Because I still want you to bring in Bosch. Because, in a way, I think this is at least partially your fault."

"Just so you know, Jet, during an attempted manipulation—like the one currently underway—I'd choose to go with flattery. More effective that way," he said, pushing himself off the couch and to his feet.

"So?"

"So, what?"

"So, where are you going?"
"To take a fucking nap," he said, walking in the direction of his room.

"Where's the cash from Bosch?" Jet called after him.

"In the bank."

"What?"
Spike muttered something under his breath as he stopped and turned to face Jet one again. "In. The. Bank."

"And you're going to find her, right? You're going to go looking for Faye?"

Spike had started walking down the hall again, and he just waved his hand dismissively in Jet's direction.

"You know," Jet called after him, "one of these days you're going to need to learn to man-up and take responsibility for the messes you make. Do your own damage control for once."

Spike paused mid-step and visibly stiffened, keeping his back toward Jet. "When I left--" He stopped for a moment to take a breath and curled his fingers into a fist at his side. Then he exhaled slowly, relaxing his fist and letting his shoulders slump as he did so. "It wasn't just about me, if that's what you think. I knew full well what I was doing, and—" Jet watched as he shook his head. "Listen, take your own advice this time, Old Man. If you want the woman, go find her yourself."


Spike struck the control pad by his door with his fist, wholly unsatisfied with the quiet wooshing sound the door made as it closed. If there was one thing he hated about push-button technology, it was the fact it had made even the simple gesture of slamming a door obsolete. And considering the fact that he never gave push-button technology much thought, he supposed it now topped his newly created list of "things I hate about push-button technology."

He crossed the room and collapsed onto his bed, the metal springs in the old mattress creaking under his weight. Go find Faye. Jet's orders replayed over and over again in his mind. Do some damage control. Go find Faye. Why did everything in his life always come down to finding Faye? The safe's been cleaned out: go find Faye. We're out of food: go find Faye. You narrowly escaped being murdered by your ex-partner: go find Faye.

He turned onto his side and grunted as he felt something sharp prick against his rib. Rolling onto his back, he reached into the interior pocket of his trench coat and pulled out Faye's broken water globe. How the hell had it ended up in his coat again? He turned the small object over in his hands, examining it carefully. Paint had started to chip away from the once brightly-colored bird at its center, and a few bars of the porcelain cage had broken and disappeared. He wondered for a moment just how long he'd kept the damn thing with him. He remembered taking it the night he left. And he remembered seeing it when he woke up—sitting near his bedside, the only object in an otherwise empty hospital room.

A year and a half. He'd had the damned thing for a year and a half. When she found out, she asked him why he took it with him—why, of all the things he could take from her, he'd choose to steal a keepsake from her dresser.

At first, he didn't have an answer for her. Faye should have known better than anyone that he rarely had an explanation for the insanely stupid shit he did—so why would she think this particular case would be the exception to the rule? Still, the fact that he had the thing in the first place, and the fact that he'd kept it for well over a year, had bothered him. He must have held onto it for some reason.

But the only reason he could think of—the only one that came to mind—was one he just couldn't quite work out in his head. A reason he could hardly even understand, much less accept.


A/N: Wow. The last time I updated was in MARCH?! I sincerely apologize for the lack of updates, guys. My life has been a bit busy, and there is no sign of it getting less busy any time soon--BUT I won't let something silly like organic chemistry get in the way of my writing fanfic every now and again. It's important to not lose sight of what really matters in life, right? So for now, don't worry about me abandoning Tuesday. I promise you it's always in the back of my mind. :)

And again, I ought to give the obligatory thanks--especially to those of you who are still reading after all this time. I know I haven't always been the best author as far as updates are concerned, but I really appreciate you guys sticking with me! I'm glad to know that people are still enjoying this crazy thing I call a story.

Much love,

Nevi