Bad: Chapter 2

"Home is where I want to be
Pick me up and turn me round
I feel numb, born with a weak heart
Guess I must be having fun
The less we say about it the better
Make it up as we go along
"

– Talking Heads


Spike wondered what his life would have been like if he'd never met Julia. He supposed he would probably be dead in one way or another. Either he'd be really dead, like worm food dead, or he'd be completely dead inside where no one could reach him. It was her love that had made it possible for him to really be able to stand himself. Maybe it was because no one had ever loved him before. He had no parents or siblings, and while he was always able to make friends, she loved him.

She had never said it once. She couldn't say it because it was too dangerous, too truthful. But he knew.

However, that fact alone saddened him deeply, and reminded him of all the things that they had never gotten to do. They'd never gotten to celebrate a birthday or Christmas together. He'd never been able to watch her do her makeup or paint her toenails or pluck her eyebrows. They'd never been able to get in a petty argument about what to have for dinner. Hell, they'd never had a single fight—time really didn't allow it. Every moment was stolen and thus accompanied with a complete lack of assurance as to its next occurrence.

Sometimes he heard the thought, the one that said..."maybe you didn't know her at all." It hurt to think it, and he didn't really believe it, but it popped up here and there in his seemingly endless ruminations on the subject. He'd felt her in every part of him, and that he knew was true. Everything else, well, it didn't matter much now. She was gone.

Spike lay in bed and smoked and thought. He'd accepted that he didn't have much of a choice at this point. His insomnia persisted, and he had to admit, he was getting quite addicted to all this introspection. Not that anyone needed to know this.

He could get up and around, he supposed. He'd proven to himself he'd been able to. But it didn't seem worth it. Not when the effort he'd put into getting back to his room had caused him to vomit (which Jet had to clean), and his shipmates were barely tolerating his existence (the vomit hadn't helped).

Being that he was a bonafide asshole, part of him wanted to tell them to get bent. He was a grown-ass man and his choices were his. But since he wasn't a total idiot, he knew they were only mad because they cared and because they hurt and because they were all three emotionally retarded and had no better way of showing it. And so he was mad too, because, God help him, he did care.

It had been hard to acknowledge it at first. To his mind, he had just been passing through, whiling away the hours until he met up with Jules again. Then he could be happy. That was where happiness would begin. Any happiness in between, any care he had about anyone or anything else seemed to discolor his fantasy. It would work on him, and he would lose his way.

He hadn't known until he saw her again just how much he'd been worked on. If he were a lesser man he could be mad at them for making him care, for making it so he could feel like himself again, for making him feel like he couldn't run away anymore. For making it so that he chose to stay and fight, and that fight had caused her to be dead. If he were a lesser man.

He hated this maudlin bullshit. He had to get the fuck outside or he was going to go crazy. This time he remembered his jacket.

I'll show her.

But again, as he shuffled down the hallway, he heard voices and saw light from the TV.

"You just don't know when to give up, do you?"

Her voice echoed metallically down the corridor. He reached the opening and leaned against it to catch his breath.

"Seems like you'd know that by now. I guess we're both slow learners."

She didn't turn to face him, but instead stared blankly forward, an arm folded across her stomach, the other elbow resting on the back of her hand, cigarette smoke drifting from her fingertips. He noticed the ash was about the entire length of the cigarette.

"You gonna smoke that, or do you want me to?"

Her head jerked to look at the hand holding her cigarette. She moved her eyes past her cigarette and fixed them on him. She made a show of flicking the cigarette high into the air where it bounced off the wall, tiny embers scattering like fireworks.

"Well, I'll take that as my cue." He began the arduous process of edging his way down the stairs.

"Hey, seriously," she stood, "you've gotta cut this shit out, Spike."

He continued his teetering descent. "What do you care? Let me be. I want out of this tin can."

She came to stand in front of him at the foot of the stairs. "Well haven't we become quite the drama queen? Last time I checked, I'm the one that paid your goddamn hospital bill."

"Yeah, well, I didn't ask you too. I don't much fancy the idea of letting you have that to hold over my head for the rest of my life."

"You're not gonna have a life if you keep pulling these fucking stunts."

He was on the last step now, and she stood her ground. It was the first time he'd looked her in the eye since he'd been back. Her face was pure anger, but her eyes gave her away.

"Look, Mom, I'm twice your size. Even in this shape, you know you can't stop me. So if I were you, I'd get the hell out of my way."

She scowled with unadulterated disdain, and after a long moment, stepped aside.

"I hope you pull something inside and bleed out."

He limped forward. "I sure missed you, Faye."

He began moving toward the hallway that would take him out onto the flight deck, dragging one of his legs behind him. Brilliant as he was, he called out over his shoulder.

"So are you just going to stand there? I mean, I am injured after all." He imagined the look on her face. It made him happy inside.

He heard her shuffle around behind him and curse to herself as he carried on. Moments later she came up beside him, pulling a sweatshirt over her head.

"You're unbelievable, you know."

He looked at her.

"I know."

It sounded apologetic even to his own ears. Her expression didn't change. Despite his past and somewhat present cynicism about almost everything regarding Faye Valentine, in that moment he wanted her to accept it, as lame as an apology as it was. But he figured he wouldn't really know for awhile whether she did or didn't. Faye was a woman in every sense of the word.

She turned away, crossed her arms, and they continued on side by side.


Spike was somewhat concerned that he'd built up this "outside" thing to be more than it really was. So, yeah, it was cold, it was wet, but it was not a disappointment. He closed his eyes and let the smell and the sound wash over him. Faye stood beside him inside the hangar door and lit two cigarettes. She passed him one for which he nodded his thanks.

"You're a strange bird, Spike."

"Guess that's better than being an odd duck."

"You just proved my point."

"Well, I have plenty of time to think of witty comebacks these days."

"What the hell do you do in there all day?"

"I'm knitting booties for your and Jet's future offspring."

"Someone's jealous I see. Don't worry, Spike. You'll always be the favorite. Jet even went to that weird old Indian to try to find you."

"I believe the term is 'Native American'."

"He said your star was going to fall. Said he had dreamed it."

Something about those words felt strange, like a rock had just been tied to his insides and it was dragging him down, pulling him apart.

"Maybe that means I'm dead."

"Yeah, and hell is a diet of ramen and cheap novelty soda."

Her words...he felt like he'd been cursed. This was his life, it was all his own creation, and he was like poison to everyone around him.

"I'm going to bed." Again she flicked her cigarette, and this time it skipped across the damp flight deck, extinguished by the rain.

He reached out and put his hand on her shoulder.

"Why can't you sleep?"

Her pale face glowed brightly in the moonlight. She looked like she could barely comprehend the question, let alone give him any answer. He could tell that he was the last person on earth she ever wanted to tell, but he held on. She spoke to her feet.

"I just can't stop thinking lately. All I think about is who I used to be and I can't sleep."

All at once she looked like a total stranger to him, but he felt closer to her than he ever had before.

"I get that."

She didn't look at him. "C'mon. You'll never make it back on your own, and I don't want to hear Jet bitching about your vomit."

He braced himself, his hand on her shoulder as she walked ahead of him back to the common room. She felt tiny in his grasp. He decided the couch was far enough so she left him there and headed down the darkened hallway to her room.

He figured she had accepted his apology, but he'd never know for sure.