Bad: Chapter 1
"I'm wide awake
I'm wide awake
I'm not sleeping"
– U2
They were as broke as they had ever been. More, maybe.
Jet brought him his meals in bed, half of which were a cup of microwavable noodles and a can of orange soda. In theory, orange soda sounded great, but really it was terrible stuff. Sickeningly sweet. Spike had no idea how he was going to recover on this diet. Jet said they would leave Mars soon and go head up some bigger leads. Faye had bagged a couple of hacker nerds who were living in their parent's basement and brought in 10 million woolongs, but most of it had been spent on fixing the Bebop and himself.
"You're joking."
"Yeah, makes me wonder just how hard she'd been trying in the past."
"Jesus." Spike couldn't remember the last time he'd caught such a big bounty.
"Don't be expecting any filet mignon. It's already gone."
Spike made a face like he was about to gripe.
"The whole engine had to be replaced. Between that and your hospital bills, we're cleaned out. Plus, all the heat hanging around here, the bounties have made for the atmosphere. Faye is chasing down every lead she gets."
That shut him up.
"We'll leave for Venus in two days. Try not to smoke your cigarettes too fast."
Spike made another face. Jet was still pissed.
There was something strange about the idea of Jet and Faye having what appeared to be a functional partnership of sorts while he was the odd man out. Whatever paradigm shift his leaving had started, well, it was still shifting. He didn't want to think about it.
He still had not seen hide nor hair of the broad, but he heard her at night. He wondered if he couldn't hear her, would he have noticed that she wasn't around? She didn't really factor into his life at all. He didn't think about her too much when she wasn't in his face. But whenever she blew out without telling anyone, he was aware of her absence, usually before anyone else. Maybe it was because she was so goddamn loud.
He stood up and tried to stretch, but couldn't stay up for very long. He wanted to go outside badly, to see the sun or the stars, something beyond these metal walls. Unfortunately, walking was out of the question. His leg had been badly injured. He wasn't quite sure how it happened. If anything, he'd felt assured some vital organ had been split apart by that last swing. His abdomen clenched at the thought, and he began to cough.
He lowered himself back to to his inviting bed. Sighing, his eyes drifted down the dim bulkhead. He was completely alone. Maybe it was selfish, but he wanted to go far away from Jet and Faye and everyone that knew him.
When he and Jet had come back yesterday, his arm slung over Jet's shoulder as they meandered through the corridors, Spike found his room to be much tidier than he'd left it. The whole ship looked very clean, actually. He wondered who had cleaned it. Probably Jet. He couldn't help but smile a little, thinking of Jet cooking and cleaning, wearing that ridiculous short order apron, and Faye bringing home the bacon.
He stared at his cooling cup of Kimchi-flavored noodles. Everything was so quiet. He listened, hearing the bubbles fizzing in his open can of soda. He wanted something good to eat. Some buttery lobster, some white chocolate raspberry cheesecake, loaded mashed potatoes with sour cream and chives, piping hot cinnamon apples, and chocolate mousse served to him by a hot redhead with double Ds in 4 inch heels.
A wave of fatigue began to swell, pulling him down into the comfort of his pillows. He curled up under the covers, tried to make himself warm, and something occurred to him then...he felt clean for the first time in forever.
Maybe it was because he was in bed 23 hours a day, but Spike had developed a case of insomnia.
This was an obvious source of annoyance because it meant he was forced to be conscious for endless hours of boredom and thinking, both of which he had little tolerance for. The lack of sleep had slowed the healing process to a crawl, and, if possible, he felt worse now than he had in the hospital.
Spike decided that he'd almost rather be bored than be forced to think. It's not that he disliked thinking—he was a fairly sharp guy, after all. It's just that he preferred to operate on his instincts and not sweat stuff. He hated second guessing himself, and if that made him an arrogant prick, well, he couldn't say different.
He thought about Julia the most. He felt guilty that he wasn't totally crippled by her death. The thought that she was really gone seemed to slip into his mind every few minutes, even when he was feeling alright, and it would floor him for a moment. But despite himself and his quickly departing certainty that his place in life was with her, it was obvious to Spike that he would make it. She had been gone from his life for so long, somewhere along the way he had stopped looking for her everywhere he went, stopped missing her every time he was alone.
He thought about Vicious, about how everything about him seemed wrong, and how somewhere inside Spike himself there was real badness, some truly inexcusable depravity, just like what was inside of Vicious. It was almost embarrassing in a way, to know he'd allowed himself to become so indoctrinated by the ways of the syndicate with all their bullshit traditions and pageantry.
He tried where he could to think about what good things he had, despite how few there seemed to be. His comrades. They'd been on a good streak for awhile. Catching bounties, getting along as well as people who could barely stand each other could get along. They had a good run. But it was over now. Things couldn't be the same, it seemed. Something between him and Jet was different. Edward…God only knew where in the universe that kid was. And Faye, she was a woman, and whatever axe she had to grind, he was sure he'd hear about it before too long.
He hadn't slept for more than 4 hours a night in two weeks. They'd landed on Ganymede this morning, and he was going to get some fresh air or die trying. He pushed himself onto his feet, ambling toward the door. He only left his room once a day to go to the bathroom, and usually Jet was hanging in the periphery to spot him. His door whooshed open and he edged out, bracing himself against the bulkhead. He was already beginning to think this was a terrible lapse in judgment.
He made slow progress, one arm gripping his freshly-scarred abdomen, the other sliding along the wall, holding him steady as he dragged his bare feet across the sticky cold metal floor. He began approaching the common area. He squinted, hearing the low bass of voices on the television. It had to be Faye. If his supposition about her movements around the ship at night were correct, he was not the only one who had been suffering from a sleep disturbance.
He stopped, considering the scenario. He could turn back now as his body was begging him to do and in effect become a participant in the awkward stalemate she had initiated, or continue onward and ignore whatever he didn't care to acknowledge about his body or Faye Valentine.
He smiled to himself.
The big yellow couch looked white in the phosphorescent glow of the television. He didn't see her immediately, and became annoyed at himself realizing that his first reaction was one of relief. But as the distance closed and he stood in the opening of the hallway, he saw she was dozing away on the sofa. She looked extra tiny, her legs pulled in, her head curled down, spine arched, body turned inward toward the back of the couch.
…just like that!
Her voice came back to him, and he felt thrown. He'd avoided thinking about their last encounter as much as he could. His thoughts about it were murky and confused and full of things he was not good with. He'd decided to drop it into a "hysteria by way of life-or-death situation" slot. It could stay there forever as far as he was concerned.
He began attempting to descend the little set of steps into the common room. With no rail to speak of, attempting was the best he could do. He shuffled one foot down, holding his position painfully as he dragged the other down to meet it. It was an arduous task requiring all of his concentration.
He eyed Faye. She appeared undisturbed. After a handful of near-death stumbles, he was amazed to find he was standing with both feet on the common room floor. His energy was now totally exhausted and the idea of fresh air out on the deck seemed like a distant dream. He practically fell into the little yellow chair across from the couch. His breaths were ragged and he couldn't seem to get enough air into his lungs. He watched Faye across the table, waiting for her to wake at any moment.
After a few minutes of attempting to regain his composure, Spike's eyes moved toward the television. Some motorcycle movie. His eyes lost focus and shifted around on their own accord, refocusing on a tiny piece of heaven. Faye's cigarettes.
He used his foot to slide them across the coffee table, no longer caring about waking her. He extracted a single Chesterfield from the pack, packing it against the back of his hand. The flint sparked loudly, metallically, here in the dark belly of this dead ship, swaying to and fro in a dark night sea. He watched Faye, the orange light of the flame warming her sleeping figure for a long moment before leaving her cold again as his thumb slipped from the lighter's fork.
He closed his eyes. The first drag was amazing, but his joy was short-lived.
"Those are mine."
He inhaled so deeply on the cigarette in his lips that he began to hack and sputter. He hated to show when he was startled, but he was far beyond any semblance of composure at this point. She rolled over to face him, but made no move to help him, no show of concern. The fit finally began to pass, and his words came out between coughs.
"I suppose I deserved that."
"You'll live."
He tilted his head toward the stairs. "With no help from you."
She smiled slyly. "That was fucking golden."
He took another drag and glared at her over the top of the television. She propped her head up on her knuckle and looked back at him, giving nothing away.
"Just what were you trying to achieve with this little adventure?"
He rolled his eyes, aware of the whimsy of his own desire. "I wanted to go outside."
She snorted. "Dressed like that? If the trip hadn't killed you, you would have frozen to death. Not that you could be expected to think of such things."
The axe grinding had started.
"Save it, Faye," he said. He was irritated and tired, and his patience was thin.
She dropped her arm and quickly looked down. He saw her jaw squaring.
Now he'd done it. He braced himself for some sort of outburst, expecting a barrage of insults and accusations to be hurled his way. Instead he watched her stand, collect her cigarettes, and head to the door.
"You really look like shit, you know."
Huh.
Maybe he had over-thought the situation. Worse, maybe he was under thinking it. He sat and finished his cigarette and mulled it over a bit. He decided simply to be satisfied that he still had all of his parts and leave it at that.
He breathed in deep, happy to be out of that cursed room, and he realized suddenly that he had the couch all to himself.
