Sanctuary

Disclaimers: Cowboy Bebop belongs to Bandai.

Warnings: Spike/Vicious. Sex, drugs, and murder. Explicit slash and language.

Summary: It's a special day.

Radishface

…

She was a pale girl with platinum hair. Her name was Jenny Rose and she was in Spike's apartment. Four martinis and X and shrooms to boot, it had been a fun night. It had been at a club, where else? Guys, their guys, standing at the door, armed to the teeth and looking cool in shades even though it was three in the morning when Spike wandered in. Kenny Yeung had been heading the boys around that time. Around his paunch was his latest acquisition; the belt of a Blue Leopard gangleader. Spike punched at it good-naturedly as he entered the club, gave Yeung a high-five-handshake with all the works.

"Good going last night, Kenny," he said. Kenny was built like a sumo wrestler, had a head like one too, hair black and shiny shiny, bald in all the right places. Kenny knew him, they were like brothers. He'd killed that guy with Kenny last night. Kenny sat on him while Spike put a bullet in the guy's head. He let Kenny have the belt, a diplomatic move of sorts.

"What happened to your face, man," Kenny asked, grunted through thick breaths.

"Got hit," Spike said, hand coming up reflexively to cover his cheek and the bruise there.

The music rattled Spike's ears as he entered the club. He hadn't been looking for Jenny Rose, but Jenny Rose had found him.

But before that:

Six-o-clock. Spike had been posed on the couch, one arm curled around the armrest, the other one draped over the back. He fuckin' owned the couch, man. Look at him pose, look at him go. He was a total gangster. His foot, shoes on and socks with holes in them (but nobody could see), propped up on the coffee table. The other leg crossed over his knee. Look at him go, he was a total gangster. Nine cans of beer on the coffee table (might as well call it a beer table, Spike had never touched the damn stuff in his whole life except for the one time he'd gone out on that date with the artsy chick to the artsy café downtown. He dumped her right afterwards.), two cans of beer rolling around on the floor, aluminum clicking like a wiseass on the tile. He was smoking a cigarette and chugging a beer at the same time, hot and cold streaming through different windpipes. He wanted to drink smoke and smoke beer. That'd probably kill him, if Vicious didn't first.

Six-fifteen. His cell phone buzzed, it was Lin. Spike fumbled with the "answer" button and pressed it a little too hard, feeling the little piece of plastic crackle beneath his finger. "Yeah?" he said.

Six-thirty. The sun was still up, it was summer and it wouldn't set until eight. Cue Vicious. Cue broken doorknob, cue broken door, cue busted hinges.

No, just kidding. Vicious came in, calm-like. Spike had left the door open. Twenty cans of beer on the beer table and five cans of beer on the floor.

"Yo," he said. Maybe he said it wrong, like, "lo," or "mo," or something. How could he possibly slur "yo?" Oh yeah, damn it, it was all a part of the plan.

"You were supposed to meet me at five-thirty, Spike."

Spike heard water. He closed his eyes. "Yeah? So? Sorry I ditched you. I had to take care of my beer table."

"You fucked it up, Spike."

"I did no such thing," Spike stood up. "Lin called me. It went okay. It went okay, buddy, and," he stumbled over to Vicious, standing as straight as a tree by the door, and laid a hand on the other man's shoulder. "You did good, buddy."

"I had to handle the whole den by myself."

"You're a warrior, Vicious, a true warrior." Spike meandered over to the refrigerator. "Hey, want a beer?"

"Spike."

"You've got blood on your coat, man." Spike shook his head. He snapped the beer cap open on the edge of the counter. It opened with a hiss and a fizz, and some beer spilled onto his shoes. "Can't believe you came all the way over here without changing first. Beggars can't be choosers, but I ain't one."

Vicious closed the door behind him, walked into the apartment with clean, brisk steps. He kept his shoes on. They were black and shiny, except for the splotches of blood here and there, on the toes, the shoelaces.

"You can't do this again, Spike," Vicious said quietly. "I'll cover for you this time. I won't tell the Elders—"

"Fuck you, you self-righteous bastard." Spike's head hurt. "You did it yourself. Just take the credit. Get promoted, shit." He flopped down onto the couch, spilled beer on himself.

Vicious was silent for a beat. "Don't do it again, Spike."

"Fuck you," Spike said. He would have been more eloquent. He should have been eloquent, it would have been part of the plan. God, Vicious, be pissed off. Both of them. God and Vicious willing. Come on, hit me, Spike thought. I wish I could push the right buttons. But he wasn't on point right now, he wasn't primed to be on point—the mood wasn't right, the setting wasn't set straight. He needed company, and this one was not cutting it.

"What the hell have you been doing today?" Vicious said, his voice tight. Spike grinned.

"It's my fuckin' day off," Spike laughed. "I would say that it's my birthday, but you might not believe me. I can do anything I want when it's my birthday."

Maybe Vicious left after Spike fell asleep. Maybe Spike fell asleep and that's why Vicious left. Or maybe, Vicious left and then Spike fell asleep. He remembered the latter almost shaking in anger, hands drawn into fists at his sides.

He woke up around one-thirty in the morning. Spike could feel a bruise on his cheekbone, blooming freshly, not visible yet, pain of impact still there. He brushed his teeth and took a long shower, taking much longer than necessary to wash his hair and his pubes. He contemplated jacking off in the shower but figured he'd save his juice for later. He got out of the shower and put on a dress shirt, something silky and button-up, slipped on a pair of slacks. Spike threw his jacket over his shoulder and made sure he had a pack of cigarettes in his pocket. Lighter in the other, check.

He wandered around the city for an hour, taking in the sights, smoking cigarettes at street corners to piss people off, he went and visited Omar, the guy who manned Annie's shop during the night shift. He told Omar it was his birthday, and Omar got out his best brand of scotch and they had a toast. He couldn't understand what the fuck Omar was talking about through that thick accent of his, but he didn't really care. Yeah, praise Allah and Vishnu. Fun stuff. Giving Omar a high-five-handshake with all the works, Spike felt ridiculously happy all of a sudden. Hey, world, he thought, it's my birthday.

Or at least, I think it is.

He arrived at Club Bellagio without a hitch. "It's my birthday," he told Kenny, and Kenny let him in without a hitch. "Cool, man," Kenny said, his voice booming and aristocratic.

The club literally bounced with the music. Some fast-paced, ear-grating electronica was playing, and the deejay was sweating buckets behind the turntable. Spike went to the bar and ordered two rounds of Sex on the Beach. Some pretty brunette came by, sipped with him, entertained him with some story about cleavage and lizards, and left again. Spike couldn't remember the story too well. He was drunk and off-guard.

It was his birthday. Nothing was going to happen to him. People were invincible on their birthdays, right?

People were like ghosts around him. Spike danced a dance or two and then wiggled his way off the dance floor. He ordered a cosmopolitan for the girl he had danced with and did two shots of vodka himself. His head felt light and carefree. She giggled when he stuck his hand up her skirt. He toyed around with her pubes but didn't venture any further, didn't feel like it. The bitch wasn't worth it.

"What's your name?" Spike said, right in her ear.

"Miranda," she giggled.

And then a pale girl with platinum hair walked up to Miranda and tapped her on the shoulder. "Hey, Miranda, Jim's been looking for you."

"Shit," Miranda said, and wrenched herself out of Spike's grasp. Spike shook his head, signaled the barkeep. Another round, please. It's my birthday.

"It's your birthday?" The pale girl said. She wore lots of eyeliner, and her hair fell in her face. She had bags under her eyes like she hadn't slept for days. Spike wanted to fuck her, and he knew exactly why.

"Yeah," he said. Charm, on. "Did you get me a present?"

The girl looked alarmed, but quickly settled into the back-and-forth. "Yeah," she said, crossing her legs awkwardly, even as she tried to make her voice sultry. "But you'll have to wait and see."

"You look hot tonight," Spike said. He had really meant to say, you look dead.

Her name was Jenny Rose, and she was twenty years old. She was a student at the city university nearby and was majoring in health sciences. Bogus, thought Spike. What a nice name for a girl. He never called her Jenny once, that night. Not once. He only called her by her first name and her last name. Jenny Rose. She seemed relatively new to all of this. She laughed and giggled whenever Spike wanted her to. He felt great. He felt big, expansive, loving, like he could suck in the whole world. He felt benevolent. It was his birthday.

He took Jenny Rose back home and fucked her. She was crazy. She wanted more, and he gave it to her. God, he didn't know what he was doing. He fucked her raw. He rubbed cocaine on her tits and up her cunt and stuck mushrooms in her ass and then made her eat them. She was screaming and screaming until her voice was hoarse. Oh, she had never had it so good before. Come on, more, more. Spike gave it to her. She was wiry, strong beneath him, and he pushed her down into the bed. Her hair fell limply over her eyes. How she fought. Spike imagined…

When he woke up, Jenny Rose was dead. I've really done it this time, Spike thought. I've really fucked one of them dead. Pride flooded him, bittersweet and sickeningly out of place.

He turned her over, looked at the eyes rolled up into the back of her head. Ghostly. Flecks of foam beaded her lips. She was positively blue and her fingers were purple. Spike was in deep shit. His fireplace wasn't working and it was in the dead of the summer, why the hell should he have his fireplace on? He couldn't burn her. He could chop her up and flush her down the toilet. His toilet would run dry from all the flushing. It would be like that time he had the stomach flu and was shitting every five minutes. God, his mouth was dry. He needed a drink.

His hand was shaking as he poured himself a glass of bourbon. He let it drop on the ground, ignored it. God, bourbon didn't help, did it? It just made your mouth drier. Tap water sounded nice. He wanted bourbon-flavored water. So he poured out the bourbon and filled the jeweled bottle with tap, took swigs.

He thought about what he would do with the body. He thought about it for a while, until the sun went down again. He thought it about it so hard that he started to cry. Tears down his cheeks like bourbon, fuck it. Tears like bourbon and ethanol. He slumped down in the kitchen and slammed the bottle on the floor. When he grimaced, the skin on his cheeks tightened, and he felt the bruise from earlier begin to flower, blossom on his cheekbone.

Later, Vicious appeared in his vision. He hadn't heard the other man come in. Spike didn't move to get up.

"You forgot it," Spike said, as if it were that simple, that clean. "But you can make it up to me."

Vicious stood there, waiting, a column of black, eyes hidden under a mess of white hair.

"Get rid of her."

…

When Spike woke up for the third time, it was light outside. His head felt clearer but he wasn't going to give it away. He was not wearing his shirt; he'd been put to bed. His sheets were pulled up to his neck and folded over. He felt like a pig in a blanket. Spike wiggled his toes; no shoes, no socks. No corpse in bed next to him. Not really.

Vicious was next to him, jacket off, shirt slightly unbuttoned. His mouth was slightly open, slightly pink, breathing softly.

Spike reached over and unzipped Vicious's pants. He fished out the other man's cock and spit on his hand, started jerking him off. He could still smell Jenny Rose's perfume on the sheets. He pulled harder, faster. Blood and sensation rushed to his own cock, but he ignored it.

Vicious's eyes snapped open. "Spike," he said. His voice was empty, without any feeling at all. Vicious was scared shitless.

Spike crawled over him, leered, not letting go of his cock. "You know what I want."

"Son of a bitch," Vicious said, digging his fingers into the mattress.

Spike bent his head over Vicious, breathing hotly. Vicious lay still there, body held rigid and unmoving as Spike's breath ghosted over him. "Come on," Spike said. "Join in the fun, why don't you." He pushed out the words between soft, shallow breaths.

"Oh—" Vicious covered his face with both hands and Spike took him into his mouth and his head shorted out.

Spike knew he could be good. His hands were good. He made his mouth fierce and felt Vicious push up imperceptibly, into his throat, fucking that juicy sweetness, and Spike had never felt more like a cocksucker in his life. Spike started to touch himself, his dick riding so hard against his belly it hurt.

"Don't touch yourself," Vicious said coolly.

Spike choked out a gasp, a jolt like electricity coursing through his body. It dropped him flat against the bed, his face pushed into Vicious's junk, and he inhaled deeply. Vicious smelled like coffee and rain, his dick red and heavy in Spike's face. Spike pulled his hips closer, and Vicious pushed into his mouth with a harsh grunt.

He wrapped his arms around Vicious and urged him to fuck his mouth. Vicious cried out again and grabbed Spike's head, shoving in hard, demanding. Spike rubbed his thumb up under the head of his dick; Vicious bucked.

"Come on," he said, voice gravelly. "You fucking—"

Vicious came after a few thrusts, head of his cock bobbing, come hitting the back of Spike's throat. Spike let him go and swallowed, drawing a hand across his mouth, wiping the spit and come off. He took some deep breaths, learned to inhale again.

Vicious had his arm thrown across his eyes. He was breathing hard, pale chest heaving up and down, a sheen of sweat trailing down to his crotch.

"Oh god," Spike said, and slid his hand back around the other man's head, white hair slipping like silk through his fingers. "Oh god," he whispered again, closing his eyes. He felt honest for the first time in a long, long while.

He pressed his mouth against Vicious's lips, which opened against his with a sigh. The kiss was soft, fine, and Spike ached terribly for a moment, hovering on the edge of pleasure, before he gave in and collapsed, fell, the kiss becoming hot, desperate and wet. Vicious made noises against his mouth, and Spike forced the other man's lips open with his tongue, and it was so strange, but not a bad strange. Their noses bumped and it was Spike's first time with a girl, wet and sloppy and not suave at all, but this kiss wasn't for suavity and Spike was glad for this.

He wanted to say more, and knew he couldn't. He pulled back, eyes still closed, and let their foreheads knock lazily for a moment, his eyelashes kissing Vicious's cheek, his lips grazing the side of his jaw.

Spike fell to the side of the bed, drawing the sheets over his head, giving Vicious ample room to leave when he was going to leave. It was still light outside, there was still time in the day to cover this affair with others.

He let his eyes open hours later, sun setting and red light flooding his vision. It might have been red anyways, Spike felt the blood pulsing deeply in his brain, filling every vein to its capacity, clotting, overflowing. His bed sloped downwards to his side, he could feel the warmth of a body still there. There was a hand in his hair, thumb and forefinger stroking lightly at a few strands, erratic in rhythm. It moved down to his face, fingers gliding over the bruise on his cheekbone, light and gentle. The smell of cigarettes hung in the air, recently smoked—thick, heavy, beautiful company.

…

end part 3 of 4

to be continued

…