When the day is long and the night the night is yours alone,
when you're sure you've had enough of this life well hang on.
Don't let yourself go, everybody cries and everybody hurts sometimes.
Sometimes everything is wrong. – REM

After eight weeks of doing his own physical therapy on the Bebop, Spike had to pay a visit to the clinic where Barleigh reigned for a check-up. Spike had actually hoped to see Thompson as well, because she had been very kind to him and acted as a buffer between himself and Barleigh. That day, Jet had accompanied Spike in the taxi to the hospital, but left Spike on his own to visit the doctor himself. Faye, of course, was missing, chasing down yet another bounty – lately Spike had to tease her about leaving some for him for when he got better.

Spike carried one of his sticks with him, mostly for balance around a lot of people. This was actually his first trip off the Bebop since he returned to it eight weeks ago, and he felt skittish being outside. A touch of agoraphobia, what a nice addition to the litany of current ills, mused Spike, as he approached the sliding doors of the clinic where he was scheduled to meet Barleigh. As he approached the desk, his prayers were answered: Thompson and her pretty face and her chestnut hair were at the nurses' station, furiously typing into an electronic chart. He sidled up next to her and cleared his throat.

Thompson turned and her warm smile lit up her face. "Mr. Spiegel!"

"H'lo."

She grabbed him in an impulsive hug, which probably did more wonders for Spike than she would ever realize, but it was shortly ruined by the presence of Barleigh, "Oh, it's you. Back for another round of love, physical therapy style?"

Spike released Thompson and raised an eyebrow at Barleigh. "Eight-week checkup."

"Has it been that long? It seems just yesterday we tossed you out on your ungrateful ass. Unfortunately, Thompson here continued to worry about you long after we fired you out of here, and it was all Spike this, and Mr. Spiegel that. So, where's Sweetcheeks?"

"Which one?"

Barleigh actually chuckled at that. "I meant your female companion but of course I could also mean your strapping bald friend. That's the joy of terms like Sweetcheeks."

"C-can we get on with this ex-sham or are you going to act like a prat all day?"

"Oh, goodness, the student has surpassed the teacher in snark. Fine. Follow me. You too, Thompson. Take notes!"

Despite Barleigh's annoying behavior, he was actually a rather good doctor, and extremely thorough – although Spike might have argued that forcing Thompson to do a hernia test on him was stretching it a bit. However, Thompson had such a charming blush that Spike ceased to mind. Barleigh was concerned about the marked difference in strength that still existed between Spike's left and right sides. "Not that you haven't recovered by leaps and bounds, but that amount of weakness is still troubling to me. I don't suppose it would be wise to return to your previous occupation yet."

Spike sighed. "I s-shupposhe not."

"What about your pain?"

"T-tolerable. I get headaches, though."

"That's to be expected. However, those painkillers won't do you any good in the bottle."

"I don't want to t-take them."

"You prefer to punish yourself, then?" Spike didn't answer. "I don't know what kind of penance you feel you have to complete. I'm not your priest. Or anyone else's, thank God. The whole celibacy thing is overrated. However, managing your pain is part of your recovery. I just happen to believe in the magic of modern pharmaceuticals." Barleigh swallowed a couple of his Vicodin to make his point.

"I'll m-manage my pain my own way."

Barleigh studied Spike for a moment. Spike was unsure of just how much this Barleigh knew or didn't know about the circumstances of how Spike got to this hospital, and Spike preferred to leave it that way. Thompson might have been a different story, but he figured that Thompson, while pretty to look at, wouldn't quite be able to wrap her head around someone like him. Or precisely how he got here. She'd probably have a kanipsa, as his mother would say.

Suddenly, there was a voice in his head, clear as a bell: For a Catholic woman, your mother used a lot of Yiddish terms.

Spike nearly slid off the table in surprise and shock. In fact, he must have registered something on his face because Barleigh was looking at him even more intently, and Thompson was asking him to do things like smile and raise his eyebrows. Spike gave a shudder and said, "I'm f-fine, I'm n-not having another shtroke."

Barleigh said, "Indulge us anyway."

Spike was finally released after another battery of tests, which all seemed to say he was within normal ranges for whatever they were testing for. Jet returned with the cab, and Barleigh gave him a brief rundown of Spike's condition; however, when Barleigh was about to tell Jet about Spike's "episode", he caught Spike's eye, and did not reveal anything to Jet.

All the way back to the Bebop, Spike listened for that voice again, but nothing was forthcoming. He felt pretty sure that it was Ein, but how could the dog talk to him over such a great distance? Confused, Spike was quiet, waiting for an opportunity to see if Ein would be willing to talk to him again.

But for now, Spike was spending his days alone, practicing katas. Ein had stayed quiet since the argument in the kitchen. If his voice had been the one in Spike's head while he was visiting Dr. Barleigh, Ein wasn't saying. He would only occasionally sit to watch Spike as he continued regaining his strength and balance. Sometimes, Spike would watch the dog sleep. Lately, Ein had been sleeping a lot more, and it seemed to Spike that he slept very fitfully: his paws constantly twitched, and his mouth and ears never seemed to stop moving. If Ein was startled awake, he would mutter something about the "uneatable" or the "unspeakable" that made no sense to Spike. Another time, Ein was awake, but staring off into space. Spike had snapped his fingers in front of the dog's nose, and Ein shouted blood! once again, but when Spike asked about the blood, Ein refused to elaborate.

Spike almost found that he missed the dog's company. Ein was a rough taskmaster, and Spike was not disciplined enough to work himself out to the extent that Ein had. It was also strange to speak aloud to no one. Faye had even been giving him grief about "the rain in Spain", whatever the hell that meant, so Spike had taken to speaking softly to himself either in the shower, or in the tower far away from the others.

Today, a few days after his checkup, Spike was shirtless and barefoot, his abdominal scars still fresh-looking and puckered. Spike balanced on his left foot, wobbled only a bit, and gave a mighty kick with his right foot. He then brought his right foot back to his left knee without having to put it on the ground for balance.

Not bad.

Spike wobbled a bit more, surprised by the dog's words. "You're talking to me, again?"

You're speaking much better, too.

"Thanks."

Did you miss me?

How can I miss you when you don't go away?

Ein rolled his eyes. Use your words, please. Anyway, don't let me stop you. Jet was a bit concerned because you've been in here all day.

"Just trying to get better." Spike resumed his kicking exercise. Ein watched in silence. The human was getting better. His balance was much improved. He hardly needed the sticks anymore, and he only limped or slurred his words when he was tired. Unfortunately, he still got tired easily.

Spike's appearance was much improved as well. His hair, while not grown back to his usual mop-like length, now covered his skull and hid the scars. The interesting change on his hair, though: Spike's hair had grown a sparse sprinkling of grey at the temples, which amused the hell out of Ein as well as Jet and Faye. Spike, however, found this to be an even bigger insult than the rest of his injuries, and he spent a good amount of time fretting over the change in the bathroom mirror. Jet merely grumbled that he was lucky that his hair was growing back as well as it was. Spike briefly considered putting hair dye on it, but he would probably need Faye's help for that, and that wasn't something he felt inclined to ask her for help on.

Mostly, though, his improvement was simply because he worked hard at it. Ein was even impressed at how quickly Spike was restoring his faculties. He'll be back collecting bounties in no time, thought Ein.

Spike had now decided to move on to a turning kick, pivoting on his left foot and bringing his right leg around in a wide sideswipe. He overcorrected his balance and landed on his left buttock, making Spike exclaim, "Ow!" Ein grinned. Spike grinned back. "Laugh it up, fuzzball."

Suddenly there was a commotion outside. It sounded like Faye, but for once she wasn't cursing or yelling. It actually sounded like she was laughing. The dog and the man looked at each other, and Spike shrugged. Both of them got up and walked to the common area, where Faye was dancing around the couch.

"I did it! I did it!"

Jet came into the room then, clippers in hand. "You did what, Faye?"

"I paid off my debt! It's all paid off now! I'm a free woman!" Faye cackled with glee.

"You did? That's incredible!" Jet caught up Faye in an impromptu hug. "Did you hear that, Spike?"

"Yes."

Faye danced across the room and squeezed Spike's arm, eyes twinkling. "I'm so happy! That nightmare is finally over!"

Spike raised an eyebrow. "So we'll finally be rid of you, then?"

The light went out of Faye's eyes and dismay crossed her face. Even Jet's face fell.

Spike! You piece of shit! Don't do that to her! All she wants to hear is that you're proud of her!

Spike caught the dog's face out of the corner of his eye. Ein stood with his teeth bared. Spike relented. "I'm sorry, Faye. I shouldn't have said that. You worked so hard. You did good, Faye. G-good for you."

Faye didn't seem convinced that Spike was sincere. She let go of his arm and looked away. Jet, however, came to the rescue. "I think this calls for a celebration. How about we get off this barnacle breeder and take a night out?"

Faye brightened again. "Oh, yes! That sounds great!"

Jet continued, "It'll be my treat. Let's all go."

It was Spike's turn to look dismayed. All of us?

Faye countered, "Not on your life, Jet. I'm paying. No more owing anything to anyone.

You're coming along, aren't you, Spike?"

Spike's instinct was to say no. He had only been off the ship once since his return to it weeks ago, and Spike felt fairly certain that he had a panic attack while at the clinic, which, for him anyway, explained that voice in his head. In an attempt to explain why he didn't want to go, Spike went through a number of litanies in his head, trying to find an excuse: he was tired, which he was, but he didn't want to see people who might remember him from before, and mostly, he didn't want to look foolish. It was bad enough having to go to the hospital being half the man that he used to be, the great Spike Spiegel, the supposed heir of the Red Dragons, limping on a cane and slurring his words like an old man. But the idea of going out in a social situation frankly scared him half to death.

Go.

Spike's eyes went to the dog.

She wants you to.

Ein . . .

And you do need to get off this ship.

I . . . I'm afraid.

This isn't about you, it's about her. It means so much to her.

Finally Spike took a breath, and said, "Okay. I'll go, but on two conditions. You're buying me a steak, and a single-malt scotch the size of my head."

Faye's smile returned to her face. "Absolutely. Oh, I can't wait. I'm first in the shower! And you better wear something other than that horrible rumpled suit of yours!" And she squeezed his arm once more, and danced away, leaving the men to look at each other.

Spike sighed and closed his eyes. "We're going someplace high-end, aren't we?"

"Looks that way."

"Shit. I don't even know if I have a goddamned monkey suit anymore."

Well, you better figure something out. She's now a woman with a purpose. She'll flay you both if you keep her waiting.

Thanks a lot, Ein.

Anytime, Spike.

A short while later, Spike stood, freshly showered, staring into his meager closet. That "rumpled suit", the one that Faye hated so, but was so damned comfortable, must have been in a landfill by now. Spike only vaguely remembered it being sliced off him both by Vicious and the hospital staff.

Like it was worth saving.

Spike nearly jumped. His eyes moved over his room until they rested on the dog.

Damnit, Ein, what are you doing in here?

I was sleeping.

You sleep a lot.

I'm tired. I'm an old dog.

How old are you?

In dog years? More than you can count, cowboy.

Fuck you, dog.

I don't think so. There are laws against that in most parts of the universe, you know.

Spike chuckled and returned his focus to the closet. He shoved some shirts over to one side, uncovered a moth-eaten jumpsuit from another century, and came across a garment bag. Frowning, he unzipped it to find a designer suit inside, a suit of dark navy blue, made of light summer-weight wool. Also inside was a crisp shirt that smelled of factory starch, and an expensive-looking silk tie of dark burgundy was draped over the slacks hanger. He knew the suit was his, but where had it come from? Spike racked his brain for a moment, trying to recall the suit's origins, and then he remembered.

Julia.

Long ago, she had decided he needed a suit to compete with Vicious, and so she had bought him this. He had never worn it, preferring to stay in his comfortable blue jeans and worn Bruce Lee t-shirt, along with his bombardier jacket with the sheepskin collar. Vicious was the well-dressed one of the group. The joke was that Vicious dressed like the vicar, and Spike was the gravedigger.

Julia was the widow at the gravesite, Spike mused. She was the woman who cried on the outside, but internally could barely contain her glee at her new-found freedom.

That has got to be the most cynical thing I have ever heard, Ein replied.

It was a cynical time.

And now?

Spike didn't answer. He pulled the suit out of the closet and removed it from the garment bag. How had he managed to hang on to this? He couldn't remember. He laid the suit on his bed, looking at it. He then recalled that he did wear it once. For her. Then it went back into the garment bag and remained there.

It didn't stay on for too long, if I remember correctly. It's a miracle it didn't get wrinkled, Spike chuckled. He realized then that for the first time, the memory of Julia brought no pain. And no desire to remain in the past.

After donning the shirt and the slacks, Spike managed to find a good pair of shoes and spit-shined them. He tied the tie in a perfect Windsor knot without even looking in the mirror. The jacket went on perfectly, but there was something in the inside pocket. Spike reached in to find a pair of cufflinks, each with a brown-red stone. To match your eyes, Julia had said. Well, only one eye now, thought Spike. So he shot his cuffs and refastened them in the French style, adding the cufflinks. He smoothed out his lapels and took a look in the mirror. Not bad.

Not bad by half, Spike. The man is handsome. Spike turned to look at the dog, only to see that he'd fallen asleep again. Spike leaned over to scratch Ein's ears, and as he touched Ein's fur, it happened again. It seemed to Spike that he was able to see Ein's thoughts or memories or something, but this time, Ein seemed to dreaming of a time when he was a puppy. Spike got a definite feeling of warmth of other little furry bodies and an aura that was particularly maternal. Spike smiled at the thought, and then left the room.

The common area was still deserted. Not wanting to sit on the filthy old sofa, Spike stood, waiting. Presently Jet appeared, wearing his lightweight tan suit, with his matching fedora, which he whizzed across the room like a Frisbee at Spike.

Spike grinned and caught the hat. "Nice one, cowboy."

"I think you're supposed to call me Odd Job."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know." Jet returned the grin, and then held out a wallet to Spike. "Your wallet. The hospital gave it me."

"I was wondering where that was." Spike took the wallet and peeked inside. "I don't remember carrying this many woolongs."

"You weren't."

"Gee, thanks, Dad."

"Give 'em hell, Son. Nice suit. Where the hell you'd pick up that?"

Spike shrugged. "Had it a while. C'mere. Your tie is crooked." Jet came over to Spike and let him work on his tie, which Jet had clumsily tied into a four-in-hand. "Shit. Now I'm screwing it up. Turn around." Jet did, and Spike reached over his shoulders to tie Jet's tie from behind as if it were his own. He had just run the rabbit around the tree when a distinctly feminine voice rang out.

"Hello."

Both men turned their heads to the sound of the voice. Before them stood a creature of grace and dignity, of elegance and refinement.

It was Faye.

She was wearing a gown neither of them had seen before. It was red as blood and as scarlet as all the sins that even Spike never had the nerve to commit. The bodice was held up by thin straps, and was cut high across her bosom, hugging her curves down to her waist. The satin was delicately beaded in an intricate pattern. The skirt, made of a lighter fabric that Spike didn't know the name of, flowed from her waist down to her ankles. She wore a long scarf made of the same fabric wrapped around her slender neck, and her hair was piled in curls on the top of her head.

Never had Spike seen Faye in anything so demure in comparison to what she usually wore.

He had never seen her look so beautiful.

Jet was the first to recover. "You look exquisite, my dear."

Faye grinned and dropped into a mock curtsey. "Thank you, kind sir."

Spike stood stock still, hands still on Jet's tie, unmoving until Jet elbowed him lightly, but still painfully, in the gut.

"Do you want to finish that tie there, Spike?"

Spike drew his gaze away from Faye. "Sorry."

Faye wasn't ready to let him off the hook. Cocking a fist on her hip, she challenged,

"Like what you see, Spiegel?"

Spike had finished Jet's tie and turned to face Faye. "Yes, I do. Very much."

Not expecting such a direct answer, Faye dropped her gaze and played with a curl of hair at the nape of her neck. "The car should be here."

"The car?"

"Yes, I hired a car. Did you think we were all going to pile in the Swordfish?"

Jet shrugged. "It's your night, Faye. You call the shots."

"Then let's go." Smiling, she hooked one arm through Jet's, and the other through Spike's. The three of them left the ship and into the car that was, in fact, awaiting them.

"So where are we going?" Jet asked.

"The Beau Rivage," replied Faye. "It's been a while since I've been there. But I remember they had a succulent steak and the best single-malt scotch in town. Hopefully they have something that appeals to even your fine palate, Spike."

The car sped through the night across town. The three of them shared jokes and laughed the whole way. The car pulled up to the valet, and Jet knocked the uniformed man out of the way to hand Faye out of the car. She waited for Spike's arm, however, and the three of them were soon seated in a revolving restaurant near a large dance floor. As usual, Faye commanded attention, and she had shortly sent off the waiter with an order for three single malt scotches, straight up and at least 20 years old, and three of the finest prime ribs, preferably still mooing when they hit the table. Spike and Jet both grinned at her audacity, and then she excused herself from table. In perfect fashion, the men rose to see her off.

They watched her retreating form, and Jet remarked, "Not bad. We might be able learn how to be gentlemen yet."

"A dance floor, though. What is it with women and dancing?"

"Whatever Faye wants, she gets." Jet looked across the floor to the orchestra that was just taking their places. He then studied Spike. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Just tired."

"I didn't even think about that. You must be exhausted, working out all day, and then us dragging you out. I was only thinking about Faye."

"I'll manage." The scotch had arrived, but Spike let it stay where it was. "You must think a lot of Faye."

"I do. I'm happy for her, closing out her debt like that."

"Why is it that you two didn't hook up while I was gone?"

Jet looked away, studying the orchestra. His jaw worked for a moment. "It would have been for the wrong reasons."

Spike frowned at the older man, who appeared to be working through . . . something. Then Spike saw something red out of the corner of his eye.

"Am I interrupting?"

Jet rose and pulled out Faye's chair. "Just waiting for you, and letting the scotch breathe."

"Ah, lovely. Shall we propose a toast?" Faye smiled and raised her glass. "To Spike's recovery."

Jet countered, "To Faye's financial freedom."

Spike raised his glass. "To Jet's cooking, may he actually learn how."

Laughter. "Salud." "Prosit." "L'Chaim.""Mud in your eye." "The hair of the dog that bit you." "Oh for the love of Mike, just drink, fer chrissakes."

Just then, the food arrived, and the orchestra went into a swing. As predicted, the prime rib looked more like it had simply been held over the flames for a moment instead of actually cooked. There was a heated discussion over whether to start using the forks from the inside out or the outside in. Faye dared the men to hang spoons off the ends of their noses, a contest that Jet won. More scotch arrived, and soon, there was comfortable silence. Faye gazed wistfully at the dance floor, which still remained empty.

"I like coming here," she said softly. "The music they play here is a lot of the same stuff I watched my parents dance to when I was a girl."

"I suppose you'd like to dance, then?" quipped Spike.

Faye turned to Spike with a blinding smile on her face. "Yes, yes, I'd love to." Then she looked at him expectantly. Spike simply stared back, and then glanced at Jet.

"Spike, you asked the woman to dance, so go dance."

"Faye." Spike leaned in closer to her. "Don't make me do this. I have no idea how to dance."

"Don't worry," she whispered. "You'll be fine." She took his hand and the next thing Spike knew, he was walking on the dance floor with Faye on his arm. "Okay," she said, turning to him. "Put your right hand here. . ." Faye placed his hand on her waist just below her ribcage, and took his left hand in her right. "Now, don't look at my feet. Look at my eyebrows." Spike chuckled, and Faye stepped closer to him, so close that their legs were almost touching in the voluminous folds of her skirt. "I've got you. Make a small step forward with your left foot. Now bring your right foot to meet your left, and shift your weight so your left foot is free." At the same time, she had stepped back slightly with her right foot and matched it with her left foot. "Now take a small step to your left, and now rock back onto your right foot. Put your left foot back under you. Shift your weight so your right foot is free. Now, we're going to do the same thing . . . but step back just a little on your right. Meet it with your left. Now side step, rock, together. You got it. Forward, left foot."

"It's weird to move backwards."

"Try it in high heels. And don't look down. Keep looking at me."

"Tell me why I'm supposed to look at your eyebrows."

"It's easier than looking at me in the eyes."

"Who told you that?"

"The nuns did, in our dance class. In school. Looking at each other's eyes would reduce us to sinful things. Keep going. Left, together, left, rock, together. And right, two, three, and four. . ."

"Does this step have a name?"

"I learned it as the box step, but my parents called it the foxy. I like calling it the foxy boxy." The two continued the simple step pattern, as Faye delicately led the step into a slow arc.

"So, how do I make you spin?" asked Spike.

"Raise your left hand. Then rock in place while I turn." He did so, and she did a small spin under his arm and floated back into his arms. "If you want me to turn in the other direction, pull your left arm across your body a bit, like this . . ." She demonstrated the arm move, and she then spun in the other direction. Her skirt luffed up a bit as she turned, and then swirled back around her legs. "Very good."

"You're a good teacher."

"Thank you. You have now completed basic ballroom dance 101 and 104." The music changed, and a singer took a microphone. Faye and Spike were still the only ones on the dance floor.

I've never seen you looking so lovely as you do tonight
I've never seen you shine so bright
I've never seen so many men ask you if you wanted to dance

"So many men? I wonder where they are," mused Spike.

"Ha ha. You only need one man in order to dance," replied Faye.


looking for a little romance
given half a chance
and I have never seen that dress you're wearing
or the highlights in your hair
they catch your eyes
I have been blinded

Lady in red

"He's singing about you," said Spike. Faye turned pink.


is dancing with me (cheek to cheek)

"Oh, wait. We're doing this wrong." Spike gently pulled Faye closer and rested his cheek against her hair. Faye nearly turned as red as her dress. Spike took a deep breath, taking in the smell of her hair, with its scented lotions and potions.


"You look beautiful tonight, Faye."

"I bought the dress with you in mind."

"Did you?"

"You always hated everything else I wore. I thought you'd like this better."

"I do."

Lady in red
is dancing with me cheek to cheek
there's nobody here
its just you and me
its where I wanna be
and I hardly know this beauty by my side
I'll never forget the way you look tonight
I never will forget the way you look tonight

Lady in red

The music trailed off, and there was a smattering of applause. Spike and Faye pulled away from each other. Faye couldn't meet his eyes, and Spike grinned at the blush that went from her bodice to the roots of her hair.

Jet suddenly appeared at Spike's shoulder. "So are you going to dance with her all night or do I get a chance?"

Spike dropped Faye's hand. "Be my guest," he said, making his way back to the table. He was more exhausted than he realized, and his limp was becoming more pronounced. But he sat and watched as Jet and Faye waltzed, very expertly and imposingly, taking wide sweeping steps on the first beat.

Jet took a look at Spike, who appeared to be even more tired than he let on. "Spike's worn out. He was working out practically all day."

"I didn't think about that. That's a nice suit he's wearing, though. I wonder where that came from?"

"I don't know," said Jet idly. They made another turn. "I'm proud of you, Faye."

Faye lifted her eyes to his. "Are you really?"

"Of course. You had a lot of debt to work through."

"Spike seems ready to get rid of me now."

Jet frowned. "And I suppose that what Spike thinks and says is more important than what I think or say?" Faye didn't answer, but her cheeks turned pink. Biting her lip, Faye dropped her gaze again. Jet closed his eyes briefly, but continued to lead Faye gracefully in the four-step pattern.

Near the end of the song, Jet spun Faye nearly across the entire dance floor, and ended with a deep dip. The applause was greater this time, and Jet and Faye did an exaggerated bow and curtsey to the small crowd. They returned to the table, but were strangely quiet until more scotch arrived, this time with cigars. Spike declined to smoke his, but watched as Jet and Faye had a smoke ring contest. He didn't even realize that he was dozing off until he felt Jet's hand on his shoulder.

"He's turning into a pumpkin, Faye."

"We better go, then. Will you see about the car?" Faye rose and helped Spike up. She somehow managed to support Spike as they walked out while making it look like he was escorting her. That's talent, thought Spike idly as they piled into the hired car and sped off, back to the ship.

Suddenly Jet said, "Wake up, Spike, we're home."

A giggle from Faye. "Put your shoes on, honey, we're at Grandma's."

Spike opened his eyes and realized that he had been leaning against Faye, pillowed by her bosom with her arms around him. She giggled again. Spike rubbed his face and muttered, ". . . wasn't asleep."

"You were, too. Up and out." The three returned to the ship and Jet said his good nights. Spike nodded, and let Faye lead him down the corridor. Faye took one look over her shoulder to see Jet scowling in her direction. Then he turned his back and disappeared. Faye, still holding Spike up, walked with him towards the other sleeping corridor. As they got to her room, she let go of Spike and leaned up against her door jamb.

"I had a wonderful time tonight, Spike."

"So did I."

"You really are a good dancer."

"Thank you."

There was a long pause. A very long pause.

Faye blushed again. "I had fun tonight."

"So did I," Spike repeated.

There was another long pause.

"Well, I . . . um . . . would you . . ." She made a small gesture with her head.

Spike frowned. "Are you asking me to come into your room?"

"I . . . yes."

Spike sighed. "Faye."

"It's her, isn't it? Julia . . ."

Suddenly Spike leaned into Faye, pinning her against the wall with his body, covering her mouth with his hand. He put his mouth right next to her ear.

"Faye."

Faye held her breath.

"Let me tell you something." He took a breath, another breath full of the scents in her hair and on her skin. "There is a reason I'm not going to follow you into your room. And that reason is not Julia. Julia is dead, Faye, and I'm alive, and so are you. So alive that I think I would love nothing more than to carry you into that room, remove that beautiful dress from you and molest you seven ways to Sunday. I might want you so much I think I might just be pagan. Just in case you don't believe me . . ." His hand drifted down her back, over her buttock to her thigh, which he gently moved sideways around his hip.

Faye slowly realized that as Spike was pressing her against the wall with the full length of his body, she could feel his hardness against her thigh through the thinness of the fabric of her skirt. She breathed in his fragrance, a miasma of the food and drink from the evening, of cigar smoke, of his hair lotion, and she thought, I think I'm going to die. She closed her eyes and moaned softly.

Spike chuckled. "Yes, I am happy to see you, but, and I really don't care if you don't believe me now, I simply cannot do this. I am too goddamned tired. I would fall asleep before you even got my pants off, and that is simply not fair to you. You deserve better than that. Do you understand?" Faye nodded, her eyes still shut tight. "Goodnight, Faye." He released his grip over her mouth, cupped her cheek with his hand and kissed her, gently, on the corner of her mouth. He released her, turned, and began to limp down the hallway, using the wall for support. It wasn't until he had reached his door that he heard her soft reply.

"Goodnight." Faye remained where she was for a moment, and watched Spike enter his room and close the door. She leaned her head against her door jamb for a few moments, and then softly hit it on the wall a few times, whispering to herself, "Stupid, stupid, stupid." Once again, she'd received the brush-off from Spike. Before, when he was leaving to meet Vicious, she managed to convince herself that he needed to finish the situation with Vicious and Julia, and then he'd be more willing to give her a chance. But now, months later, with Julia and Vicious long dead, she'd even point-blank asked him to be hers, even if just for one night, just for one hour, for even fifteen minutes, for heaven's sake. And the answer was no.

Faye could have told herself that he was still healing, that he was tired and weak, and he was, but she held on to the hope that Spike's willingness would be enough to take her into his arms, and she would gladly go wherever he took her and gladly receive what he was willing to give.

But what Spike was willing to give was nothing, and nothing was what she would have to receive.

Faye needed someone. And right now, the only other person available was Jet. And he was probably angry with her, but Faye summoned up what courage she had left, took off her shoes, and silently padded her way to Jet's door. Faye knocked quietly and waited. After a few moments, Jet appeared. His shirt was open to the waist, and he was carefully centering his jacket on a hanger. "Faye?"

"Jet, I . . ."

"What?" His face was expressionless, except perhaps for a faint weariness upon seeing her. "Is Spike okay?"

Faye blinked and then said, "Spike? Oh . . . he's fine. He went to bed."

"I see." Jet was finished with his jacket, but he continued to stand in the doorway. "So why are you here?"

"I . . . I'm not sure. I thought . . ."

"Spike said no and so you came back here to find me."

"It's not like that."

"Explain it to me, then." But Faye couldn't. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but she had no more words, so she closed her mouth. "You don't know what you want, Faye, but I know that I don't feel like being your backup."

"It's not like that!"

"The hell it isn't. You didn't want to go out tonight if Spike wasn't going along. You worked your tail off to pay down your debt so that Spike would give you some sort of accolades. Spike was the only one you cared about while I've been here this entire time. If you would give me even half the regard you give to him . . ."

"Jet, please . . ."

"Jesus, Faye . . ." Jet closed his eyes. "Don't say please."

"I just needed somebody, Jet. Is that so wrong?"

". . . Needed somebody." Jet laughed, but it was a single harsh bark. He tossed his jacket on the chair, and then grabbed Faye so roughly around the waist that she cried out. Jet pulled her to him and forced his lips against hers. Faye pushed against his chest for a moment, but then acquiesced to his ministrations, and reciprocated the kiss. Jet slid her zipper down and shucked her dress down to her ankles in one swift motion, lifting her out of the pile of fabric and laying her on his bed before she could so much as squeak. Faye responded to Jet's manhandling of her by pulling his shirt from his shoulders. Jet pinned Faye to the bed, raising up on all fours to better hold her down as he forcefully continued to kiss her, taking time to pull on her lips with his teeth. He reached down between their bodies and ripped the elastic of her string bikini underwear, thinking that she wore them, probably just bought them, especially for Spike, and not for him, which frustrated him even more. Faye grew frustrated herself when she heard the fabric of her new underwear tear, and she forcibly undid Jet's fly and shoved his pants down his hips with the same determination that he removed her dress.

There was no fabric between them now, and Jet didn't care whether she was ready for him or not, so he leaned violently into her, making her back arch as she cried out, driving her nails into the soft flesh of his upper bicep, and for a moment he couldn't decide whether to continue or slap hell out of the bitch, because, oh, those nails hurt.

And Jet finally realized just what he was doing to Faye, and he stopped moving altogether for a few moments, before he withdrew from her and sat near the end of the bed, looking away from her, but keeping a hand lying lightly on her ankle, probably the safest place on her he could touch at the moment.

Faye was breathless, and her eyes were wide. "Jet?" she said softly.

Jet shook his head, and sighed. "I'm sorry, Faye. I'm so sorry."

Faye was quiet for a long while, then she whispered, "Me too."

After a few moments of silence, Jet rose and went to a drawer and pulled out some soft cotton clothing items, which he handed to Faye. He then pulled on some soft-looking sleep pants and a t-shirt himself. As Faye pulled the clothing on, Jet went to her pile of discarded clothing, taking her dress and putting it on a hanger and then carefully folding the other items, laying the torn pair of underwear on top. He stood looking at the ripped article of clothing for a while, and then said, "Faye, I'm sorrier than I can say."

"Jet, don't. . ."

"I mean it. I've never manhandled a woman like that before, and it's important to me that I don't ever do that again." Jet finally looked up at Faye, but she was looking down at her hands, folded primly in her lap. He reached out and put a finger under her chin to lift it, and his heart wrenched when he saw the tiniest flinch from her. "I had no right to . . . hurt you like that."

Faye couldn't respond right away. She was still blaming herself; after all, she was the one who had come to this room looking for more or less what she'd gotten. Finally, she swallowed, and then said, "What do we do now?"

"I don't know. I . . . you can hit me, if you want."

Faye closed her eyes and chuckled grimly. "I don't want to hit you. It wasn't just you. I was . . . We . . . I . . . perhaps just chalk the past few minutes up to insanity and . . . let it go." She looked at Jet, standing just so, with her clothing over her arm, and wondered if either one of them would ever let this night go. Something seemed irrevocably changed, but right now, the best thing to do was to get through tonight and tomorrow would simply show up, uninvited or not. "I better go back to my room."

Jet opened his door and walked Faye all the way back to her room. Faye pushed open the door to her room, and then turned to look at Jet. His sad eyes looked back at her, and he handed her the pile of clothing that he still held. Their fingers touched again in the voluminous fabric of her dress, and they stayed that way while Faye closed her eyes for a moment. Then she turned, entered her room, and shut the door. Jet silently and briefly laid a hand on her door, and then retreated to the other side of the ship.

It would be a long time before sleep came to either one of them.

Meanwhile, Spike had entered his room and clicked on the light. Ein squinted and stretched. "Ein? What are you still doing in here?"

Who are you, and what have you done with Spike Spiegel?

Ha.

Is that a rolled-up sock in your pocket, or are you happy to see me?

Lay off, Ein.

She was signed, sealed, delivered, opened and laid out for you on a silver platter, you know.

I know. Spike sighed wearily and began undressing.

So the reason you're in here, undressing in front of a dog rather than, as you so eloquently put it, 'molesting her seven ways to Sunday' is because?

I'm tired, dog.

Not that tired.

She deserves better.

She wants you.

Jet wants her.

Perhaps, but he'd rather cut off his other arm than step into your territory.

There's something between them.

That's nothing.

Nothing? So there is something?

Christ, Spike, they were grieving for you. Think of it as flotsam and jetsam.

How about the unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable?

Ein sat up. What the hell is that supposed to mean?

You tell me. You say it often enough in your sleep.

A pause. Whatever.

Precisely. Whatever. Spike turned off his light and rolled into bed. He was already nearly asleep when he heard Ein once more.

She was beautiful tonight, wasn't she?

How do you know? You didn't see her.

I saw her because you saw her. I saw you dancing.

What do you mean, you saw us dancing? How could you see that?

Never mind, you're just confused, Spike. Go to sleep.