Bad: Chapter 3

"Leave your stepping stones behind, something calls for you
Forget the dead you've left, they will not follow you
The vagabond who's rapping at your door
Is standing in the clothes that you once wore
Strike another match, go start anew
And it's all over now, Baby Blue"

- Bob Dylan


"I'm glad to see all of your abdominal injuries have healed nicely. How's your mobility?"

"It sucks. I feel nauseous whenever I try to walk."

"It'll be like that for awhile. You've suffered major trauma."

"That's not new."

Spike sat shirtless and sullen on the examination table in the Doc's tiny office. Being poked and prodded in any form never went smoothly for Spike. It was impossible for him to cooperate, no matter how hard he tried to be good. He started getting irritable and surly and that always made whoever was doing the prodding prod harder.

The Doc placed a cold stethoscope to his chest. He felt his temper flare.

"You're right about that. Breathe in deep. But we all get old, and you're no exception. Exhale."

The Doc took off his stethoscope. "You treat your body like shit. I suppose it's pointless for me to tell you that you should probably think about quitting smoking."

"I could think of more fruitful endeavors."

"I'm a little concerned about that leg. It's possible you've experienced some nerve damage. If it's still giving you trouble in a few weeks, we'll have to take a closer look at it. I'll give you an anti-emetic for the nausea."

"News like that and you're asking me to quit smoking? Can you believe this guy?"

Doc turned to Jet, "Are you going to be able to continue accommodating him?"

"Yeah, me and my partner…our other partner, I mean…she helps me out."

Spike suddenly went from being pettily annoyed to downright inflamed.

"Ah, that girl with the dark hair? I'd like it if she was taking care of me too," the Doc said, winking, and scribbling away on his charts.

Jet seemed to have realized his earlier blunder and remained pointedly silent. This bristled Spike more.

"Yeah, well she's a real pain the ass sometimes," Spike said looking Jet's direction. "She has a way of standing on your dick." He was quite satisfied with himself now.

Jet said nothing and the Doc scribbled away. "You can put your clothes back on."

"Finally, " Spike said, jerking his shirt over his shoulders.


Spike was trying not to be pissed, trying to tell himself he was overreacting, but he was failing miserably. He stalked back to his ship, nausea be damned.

Partners! When had Faye ever taken less than half of anything? Partners respected each other, had an understanding. Spike and Jet had the boys club and Faye was always the outsider.

Jet trailed behind him in some attempt to put distance between them. He looked old and tired in a way Spike had never really noticed before. It seemed he had grown 10 years older overnight. His beard was peppered with strands of gray, and his skin was…looser somehow, it hung on him differently than before.

Spike leaned against his ship, still steaming. The Swordfish had been fixed up quite well. He'd been a little surprised at how good she looked. He hadn't thought much about it until now.

He watched Jet ambling toward him as he took deep breaths and tried to will away the nausea. Then he vomited.


Spike didn't try to be too cool for school—he just was. He liked to fight and smoke and drink and make caustic remarks and do whatever the fuck he wanted.

But being too cool was starting to catch up with him in a bad way. The fighting, smoking, and drinking were starting to age him. It had never really occurred to him that he wouldn't live forever, especially considering his recent brush with oblivion (which, from an outside perspective, looked more like a really complicated suicide attempt). But his body was starting to creak and crack and hurt in funny places when it was cold outside. This was decidedly not cool.

The other stuff was coming back to bite him too.

He didn't want to think about it. He couldn't change who he was anyway. It was easier not to try.

He just wanted to sleep. Everything would be better. He was fucking miserable, and he knew if he could sleep he would feel like himself again. He would wake up and he would find that all of this was really nothing, that it was less than trivial, that his life was just as it always had been. Jet wouldn't be turning into an old man before his very eyes. Faye would go back to being a shrill wench he could conveniently ignore. And he'd go back to not worrying or thinking at all.

Except now she was really dead, and nothing could bring her back.


Spike thought maybe the sofa would solve the sleep problem. He always seemed to sleep much better there than in his own bed. But it didn't help. He just ended up watching re-runs of Big Shot.

He had no idea why anyone would want to watch a show with info on old bounties. Maybe it was a nostalgia thing. All of the bounties had their faces blurred and their last names bleeped out. Sometimes, he would see one that they'd gone after and he would be right there again. That time Edward had found the guy's address but would only give it to him if he solved a word puzzle she'd devised. Or when Jet got so excited after they finally caught one because he hadn't been grocery shopping in a month that he bought them all a bunch of old Halloween candy that was on clearance.

Actually, he realized it was perfect entertainment for ex-bounty hunters, which is what he supposed he was now.

"Re-living your glory days?"

"I'd have to have some to re-live them."

Faye stood in the doorway in her oversized sweatshirt and tiny sleep shorts. The images from the TV danced across her pale legs.

"Whatcha you got there?"

"Lime soda."

"Ugh."

"Nah, it actually kinda tastes like 7Up."

"What?"

"Nevermind. I'm thinking I'll try mixing it with vodka."

"Make sure I'm far away when that happens."

She descended the steps, sat in the chair, crossed her legs, and looked thoughtfully at the TV.

"This shit?"

"There's nothing else on."

She produced a pack of cigarettes. They sat in silence, her smoking, sipping her soda, and Spike staring into the TV without really seeing any of it. His mind was nothing but white noise, and he wanted to disappear into it.

"Hah, I remember this guy."

Spike re-focused. "I remember was when we were doing recon on this guy I got an amazing hotdog from some guy who was just cooking them in one of those street carts. I don't remember much else."

"You probably forgot on purpose because you fucked the whole thing up."

"I never do that."

They were silent again.

"So, are you pissed off you're not dead?"

"I don't know. I guess not. Are you?"

"Sometimes."

He was annoyed, but he laughed anyway. She smiled at him a little, a spark of mischief showing in her eyes.

Maybe Jet liked her or something. He understood it, he guessed, but it was still irritating.

"You think you'll start bounty hunting again soon?"

"I'm still not a hundred percent yet. Maybe I won't anyway. I don't know."

She scoffed, "What else ya gonna do?"

He shrugged.

"If you don't sleep, how do have it in you to do it?"

"I get some sleep, just not much. I guess it's enough. Did you get something from the doctor for it?"

"I forgot to tell him. I guess I've just gotten used to it."

"Damn. I was hoping maybe he gave you something."

"Why, so you could swipe some?"

"Duh."

"Why don't you just go yourself?"

"I've got this thing with doctors and hospitals."

"Right."

"This is boring. I'm going back to bed."

"Sweet dreams."

"Something."

She padded off back down the hall, her tiny feet swishing over the steel, a sound his ears had begun to search for come nightfall.

He switched off the television.

He guessed he got it, but maybe not.