Clean

Disclaimers: Cowboy Bebop belongs to Bandai.

Warnings: Spike/Vicious.

Summary: Why does one drink?

Radishface

Spike always got smashed for a reason.

Whether it was for a good time—actually, there was no "or not," a "whether or not" clause—Spike always got drunk to have a good time. Of course, it was the definition of "a good time" that varied from person to person, that was subjective.

This time, this time—Spike remembered vaguely, through the red miasma that was now his mind, this time—it was because they were celebrating the victory of Ward 3's bust-up of their rival gang's warehouse, a mission that could be summarized by a single elementary-school phrase: tattling. Lin had led the raid of the cokehouse under the name of justice, and he could, the fucker, he could sweet-talk himself out of or into anything, out of jail and bail and into cunts, he could talk through cunts, that was how good the fucker was.

Spike was only thinking of Lin because he was patting him on the back right now, rather strongly, Spike registered distantly, look at how Shin's martini was flying all over the place. The olive had tripped onto the floor about three pats ago. Spike decided it was time to stop, although his mouth was still running praises.

Look at Lin, laughing it up, usually so reserved and stuck-up about things, look at him now, what a big kid he was, leading raids on cokehouses in the name of justice, and he could, the fucker, because he could sweet-talk himself out of or into anything, especially into things, like women, that's how good Lin was, Spike was saying, and his hand had resumed its sporadic place on Lin's shoulder, giving him hearty slaps of congratulations. And then Spike was turning away, and he wondered if he had even finished his last sentence.

He saw a glimmer of silver out of the corner of his eye, and grinned to himself; that would be Vicious, of course, always lurking in the corner somewhere, never appearing in the right moments, always hovering over somebody's shoulder when they least expected it. Not a chance this time, Spike thought, I'm watching you, I've got my eyes on you, kid. And he knew that Vicious had seen, had seen Spike's ostentatious display of affection for Lin's achievements, because you know what? Bitch, that fucking brown-noser isn't just yours, fucker, he belongs to the Reds, to the Dragons, he belongs to all of us, and that means I can put my hands on him whenever I want, wherever I want, chaste to shoulder or lewd to thigh, it doesn't matter, because your thoughts don't matter, fucker, I'm the only one who matters right now.

Spike was so consciously aware of himself, of his own egoistic existence, of his being, of his body, his voice, his laugh, and, paradoxical as it was, his mind. He was aware that it was only functional in spurts, every other purpose obliterated to make room for the one. Every action of his was geared toward the singular purpose of attracting attention, and that purpose—to attract attention—was only to gain the attention of one particular person; the one who would have otherwise, in other circumstances, cared the least. He was never as unpretentious as he was now, never as humble, never as unassuming. He was completely at the mercy of somebody's attentions.

Spike hid a smile to himself, as if that would negate it ever having been there on his face. Somebody's attentions. He congratulated himself on his honesty to himself. Who was he fucking with? Who was he kidding?

That's right… that's right… himself.

Spike felt wanted by the rest of the room. He had put on this charismatic face as to make people want to be in his company. Indeed, wherever he went, the calls followed, Spike, man, I haven't seen you in how long? Spike, you motherfucker, where the hell have you been these last months? Spike, I haven't seen you in forever! Spike… Spike put on a show, the masculine and the feminine, he laughed, chuckled, and grinned broadly; he simpered, cajoled, flirted, crooked one knee up on a chair and crossed his arms on his leg as he leaned in to speak to people, a sort of staged intimacy. The peoples' voices around him were much too loud, the voice of the person whom he was speaking to, much too soft. It was a perfect blend of imperfection; Spike knew that among all the noise, he didn't stand a chance of being heard, and that was why he had to be seen.

Like a woman, he'd dressed up for the occasion tonight. He'd washed his hair, blew it dry, combed it, shaved, applied cologne and deodorant, brushed his teeth, flossed, put on his best suit, and had taken two shots of vodka before he'd left his apartment. When he got to the party, he'd deflowered himself, little by little, debased himself section by section; he'd thrown his jacket to the bellboy, he'd loosened his tie and unbuttoned the first button of his silk shirt, he'd rolled up the sleeves and run his hands through his hair, he'd taken two more shots and his breath smelled like alcohol and he danced with the girls until he was dripping sweat, and an hour into the party, Vicious had arrived, and Spike was completely disheveled. It was intentional.

"Hey," he'd said. "You finally decided to come."

Vicious only nodded.

Spike had gone to the bartender, had asked for three shots of vodka, and on his way back to Vicious, he'd handed one of the shots to some random passerby; it was a move to disguise his intention. He handed the shot to Vicious.

"To the Red Dragons." He'd said, and lifted his glass.

"Cliché." Vicious intoned.

"Bitch," Spike said affectionately, and threw his shot back. "Yeah, that was good," he said, wincing. Three more shots, that's all he would need until he couldn't taste the alcohol anymore. Vicious hadn't touched his.

"Drink up." Spike said, and made a move for the shotglass. Vicious knocked his hand out of the way. "Or else I'm taking that for you."

Vicious was watching him with an intent look on his face. Spike pretended not to notice, Spike turned away, and in his peripheral vision, caught Vicious sipping the shotglass thoughtfully, as if he were at a fucking tea party.

A couple more rounds. Patience, grasshopper.

Spike made his rounds, fulfilled whatever promise he made to himself about keeping it on the edge, about not seeming too eager or too desperate or too heady. He made his way to the dance floor, felt somebody up, felt somebody press against him, gooey, wet, his pants would have stains all over them, some guy whispered in his ear, deal the X, man, hand it over, and Spike had elbowed him out of the way sharply, turned to his girl of the moment, given her an apologetic smile, had taken her by the waist, maneuvered him so that they were pressed crotch against crotch, her breasts pushing against his torso, heaving in effort. They moved together effortlessly, in complete synchronization. She was a blonde, but the roots of her hair were brown. Five minutes passed, the deejay switched songs. Spike left her.

He was wandering through the crowd when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He knew, from the width of the palm, from the length of the fingers, from the surety of the grip, that it was Vicious. He didn't bother to turn around, his head was spinning already. His throat pulsed and his stomach rumbled pleasantly. His liver ached, he could feel it screaming, leave me the fuck alone, and Spike thought, I'll leave you the fuck alone if somebody decides to cooperate tonight.

"What."

"You're done."

"I'm not done." Spike protested. "I've just gotten started."

"Go home."

"Nobody to take me." Spike shrugged, smiled guilelessly, put his hands in his pockets. "Lin was supposed to be our designated driver tonight. He was fucking trashed three minutes into the party. Go find him. He's the one with the Asian Flush so red his head looks like it's going to fucking explode."

"Spike."

"I've got somebody I want you to meet," Spike went on deliberately, and took Vicious by the hand, and started dragging him off to the corner to the girl he had been dancing with. "She's lonely, all by herself."

"You had been monopolizing her before."

"She's all yours now."

"I don't want your hand-me-downs, Spike."

Spike just grinned blindingly at Vicious, let go of his hand, and headed off to the bar. Vicious was there at his side, hovering, a little tense. "Give in a little." Spike laughed, and handed Vicious a sissy drink—vodka with a chaser, or a Screwdriver, something like that—and watched Vicious down it in two swallows. Spike laughed again, stumbled a little as he let go of the bar top, and Vicious caught him, hand firm on his hip, one finger caught through Spike's belt loop. Spike didn't say anything, and Vicious left his hand there, eyes staring straight ahead.

This is like.

This is like the time when.

He's touching me.

Spike thought these things in a state of glee, triumph, and fury. He didn't know what to think. Here was his goal, achieved, and to think, he had slaved miserably, had forced himself into what kind of fucking situation, he was so starved for something as simple as a touch, that he would bring himself to this.

He pushed himself off the bar and grabbed the sleeve of the other man's shirt. "This way."

The girl—Spike's hand-me-down—was a leggy blonde, as was usual for Spike—he always had something for the leggy blondes, but didn't everybody? He knew Vicious had been looking. She was wearing just enough—a bright, flashy metallic gold halter top, her hair sweaty and messy and sexed up, her skirt so short you could see the pearls of her thong brushing the underside of her pussy if you dipped your head a little— and legs that stretched on and on and ended in a pair of heels that might have as well been a pair of stilts. Spike's secret mission, so secret that he hadn't even admitted it to himself—had been to trip her. He had wanted to trip the fucking bitch so badly the minute he saw Vicious looking their direction.

"Hey, gorgeous," Spike drawled, draping an arm around Vicious' shoulder. "This is my friend."

Hello, Spike's friend, she said, trying to be coy or something frustratingly womanish like that. Spike wanted to throw up. He hated the bitch. He hated that Vicious was looking at the bitch.

You fuckin' piece of meat, Spike thought gleefully, you're asking for it—

He shoved Vicious against her. The next song started up, a slow, jazzy samba with a heavy beat, the trashiest thing Spike had heard all night.

"I see my buddy Shin over there," Spike cast his gaze somewhere off into the club, and waved absently to Vicious and the girl. "Hey, I'll catch you two later."

"Spike—" He heard Vicious, low and gutteral and pissed. Spike felt something shoot straight through his spine and his dick.

"Have fun, you two," he smirked, and sauntered off.

He didn't find Shin. He'd never even seen Shin. He took great care to go the way of strangers and to not bump into anybody he knew. Spike went upstairs, a drink in hand, a Mai Tai or something tropical like that. The glass was too cold and he couldn't feel his hand. He didn't even know if he was holding it tightly enough for it not to slip out of his grip.

Spike leaned over the balcony and scanned the room for Vicious and the girl. Vicious was a gentleman, of course he'd do the lady the honor of dancing with her. Even if it was just this one time.

The two of them moved awkwardly, and Spike blamed it on Vicious' lack of initiative. Let him warm up. Give him another two minutes. The jolting, stuttering movement of feet and hands would progress into something fluid, liquid. Vicious would run his hands down her body, down the gleaming gold of her shirt, down her thighs. If he'd had enough to drink, he'd sneak a little feel up the crack of her ass. But otherwise, Vicious was a gentleman.

Spike watched them in the crowd. Somebody came up to him and asked him if he were Spike. He pretended to be asleep on the railing, and they'd left him alone. He watched them dancing together, the girl growing adventurous and putting a little more wiggle into her ass, Vicious' hair in his face so Spike couldn't see his face, not that he would have wanted to anyways, see his lips parted and working for air, sweat dripping down his face and into his shirt, hips pushing slowly into the girl's crotch, the two of them pressed together like that,

Vicious lifted his head up and looked directly at Spike.

Spike couldn't pretend that he hadn't been watching them. Hell, Vicious had probably felt the fucking holes being drilled into the back of his head. Spike raised his Mai Tai in a toast, threw his head back, and downed it like a shot. He tossed the glass into a dark corner and heard it shatter.

The back of his eyeballs had started throbbing. His dick was heavy and he was shaking. He needed to sit down or get out of here. He opted for the latter.

He went down the stairs and pushed through the crowd to get to the front. He hadn't brought a jacket so he skipped past the coatcheck. He thought he heard someone call his name, maybe it was Shin or Mao or somebody else. He didn't care.

He knew Vicious was following him.

What would he do, Spike thought, what would he do when he got outside, felt the cold air hit him, knock breath into his lungs instead of this despicable humidity he was breathing, what would he do… would he come to his senses?

Let me lie just a little longer in this haze—

He'd maintain a safe distance, past the parking meters and the gaslamps and down the street and into the alleyway and he'd wait around the corner and pull Vicious in by the lapel, pull his just close enough so that Vicious could smell the alcohol on his breath, close enough that he would only have to whisper so that Vicious could hear him say

What the fuck do you think you're doing

And slip, trip, fumble, release his grip on his collar and pull him in again and let their noses touch, their lips close enough for Spike to taste something so potentially dangerous…

It was so quiet outside. Quiet enough that he could only hear his own footsteps and his own heartbeat and the lulling hum of the street lamps and the neon shop lights. Where were the fucking crickets when you needed them, Spike thought to himself, where were the fucking crickets and the grass meadow and the park. He wanted to sit down, he wasn't feeling well. He couldn't drive home, look at how impaired he was. He wasn't afraid of a ticket or a DUI but he was afraid of the thrashing the Elders would give him for committing such a petty violation when he was supposed to be out there committing felonies.

"Spike," it came.

Wait a beat. Pretend like you haven't heard him.

He waited. Then he turned around, putting an extra swagger in his step, tilting his head an extra ten angles for effect. "You."

Spike could see him perfectly. Vicious was standing right in the light of the street lamp, every shadow heightened dramatically, his coat wrapped around him protectively. He melted into the shadow that he cast, he looked like a ghost crawling up from the ground. One eye peeked out from under his lowered head of hair, faintly disapproving and incongruously patient. He held something bulky in his hand. Spike narrowed his eyes and brought it into focus; it was his jacket.

"Let's go." Vicious said, and turned around, as if expecting Spike to follow him.

Fucker, Spike thought, a smile finding its way onto his face. "You just got there, what're you leaving for?"

Vicious stopped in his steps, appeared to consider the question. "You knew I didn't want to be there in the first place."

It was a good enough reason. And Spike had known that.

He followed him, ten paces behind the other man, followed him to the car, had opened the door for himself and sat down and closed his eyes without putting the seatbelt on.

The car didn't start. Spike heard an intake of breath, the kind that betrayed insecurity—and then he felt a hand reach across his chest, grappling with the seatbelt, hands awkward, as if they didn't know what to do—he felt the hands slip back across his chest, dragging the strap with it, and then the satisfying click of the buckle as it latched into place. The hands lingered there for a moment, and then they were gone.

Bingo.

The key turned in the ignition, the engine rumbled to life, and Spike blacked out.

He woke up, half-heartedly, to find that his shoes and socks had been taken off, his belt removed, his necktie stripped, and the first two buttons of his shirt opened. He moved his tongue inside his mouth and tasted the remnants of toothpaste in the upper corner of his left molar and in the back of his tongue. His throat didn't feel as dry as it should have.

Spike cracked open one eye. Vicious was hovering over him, an indiscriminate shadow, nervous, shaking just slightly. His eyes caught the light streaming from the window, filled with uncertainty, and desperation.

"Isn't this what you wanted?"

Spike didn't know what to say to that. He turned around in his bed, murmured, goodnight.

Spike faced the wall, his eyes wide open. The bed sank and Vicious settled in beside him, covers rustling too loudly, bed creaking too generously, moving too much, saying too little—is this what I wanted, Spike thought, did I want him to ask me that?

The noise settled, and Spike forced himself to relax, to let the tension drain from his muscles, to melt into the bed. Vicious remained rigid, barely breathing, beside him. He felt the body heat emanate from the other man, the wide expanse of back and muscle through the flimsy cotton that Vicious wore as an excuse for a night shirt, the smell of Vicious' hair, damp with sweat and smelling of the remnants of cologne, heady and sweet and masculine,

I want to fuck you, Spike thought, squeezing his eyes shut, biting down on his finger, teeth grinding on the knuckle, the same way you're fucking me right now, making me crazy like this inside my head, playing games with me like this, I want to make you hurt as badly as you've made me hurt, I want to make your breath catch and feel your arms strain and beat you down and kill you—I don't want you to be able to breathe except when I want you to, I want you to breathe for me, I want you to make you gasp, I want to fuck you, I want you to fuck me, to do everything you're doing to me right now except more, I want it harder and faster and thicker and deeper, I want it, I want it, fuck, fuck, fuck,

Spike left in the morning while Vicious was still asleep. He put his shoes on, his belt on, fixed his necktie, and threw on his jacket. He grabbed a beer from Vicious' refrigerator and slammed the door behind him. When he was outside he leaned against the door and lit a cigarette and filled his lungs with inky blackness and sin and watched the sun rise up over the cityscape.

He'd satisfied his desire for a smoke.

End part 2 of 4

To be continued.