Bad: Chapter 7
"Sometimes days go speeding past
Sometimes this one seems like the last
It's a sad and beautiful world"
- Sparklehorse
Spike wondered vaguely if this migraine was a symptom of a stroke or an aneurysm. He'd had a lot of concussions. Actually, he didn't know if the two things were related. But he had this feeling that the aching blood vessel in his skull was soon to collapse, that any moment he'd get dizzy and pass out and fall right off side of the Bebop, into the water where he would silently and unceremoniously drown.
As such, he continued to sit on the edge of the deck with his feet dangling over the water, waiting to see if his suspicion would be validated.
After he'd finished washing the dishes, he waited in his room for Jet to come back inside so he could slink out and get some fresh air. It seemed to be everyone's favorite spot lately, and being that he was the least mobile of the group, he never seemed to get to it before someone else did.
Unfortunately, he barely got ten minutes of peace before he heard the Redtail approaching. He saw the softly blinking navigation lights float like specters in the dark and then hurriedly zoom in overhead. He made no move to get up which meant Faye was forced to hover and land from above as opposed to being able to cruise in and land the easy way.
She climbed out, cigarette pursed in her lips, and made a hateful face.
"Asshole."
"I was here first."
She turned away scowling, and threw her cigarette on the deck. "You…suck."
He shrugged.
She leaned into her ship to pick up a brown paper sack and re-emerged again, slamming the door shut. "You should put a shirt on. You look emaciated."
"Like you know what that means."
"It means you look like a fucking Holocaust victim."
"A what?"
"Oh, never-fucking-mind. You're hopeless."
She spun on her heel and began to head inside.
"Hey, is that food?"
She called over her shoulder. "Maybe."
"Wait up."
He hoisted himself to his feet and began to follow.
"Who said there was enough for you? You've been hoarding all the goddamn dishes in your room so we've got nothing to eat on. I think we should let you starve."
He scoffed as they moseyed toward the common room. "Huh. Cavalier today, aren't we?"
She cast an unimpressed glance his direction. He was walking slightly behind her with his hands tucked in his pockets, cigarette resting laconically in his lips.
"Like you know what that means."
"It means you're being especially bitchy. As in more than every other day."
"I was feeling just fine until about five minutes ago. Funny how that goes."
"You skirts and your mood swings."
"So that's how you rationalize women's behavior toward you."
"You know how it is. One minute they're acting like they can't stand you and the next they're begging you not to go."
The words had just fallen out of his mouth.
He hadn't even been thinking about Faye when the sentence began, but by the end, there it was—bare and artless and unambiguous. He'd acknowledged it straight to her face. Or, well, to the back of her head.
He couldn't see her expression, and there was no overt indication that she had also made the connection between his words and that night save for her immediate silence. Certainly it couldn't have been lost on her, clever girl as she was, but with she gave nothing away and instead continued to walk ahead of him saying nothing at all.
The moment passed; it was now impossible to ever know for sure.
The narrow, darkened hallway expanded suddenly into the bright an open common room. Sometimes it was the only place in the whole ship Spike could stand. Much of the ship was dark and cramped, especially for a tall person. He'd spent most of the earnings from his first bounty buying a bed that was actually long enough to accommodate his height.
He deposited himself in the middle of the sofa, rubbing his overtaxed thigh with one hand, smoking with the other. Faye continued onward toward the kitchen. He could smell something cooking and hear the sizzling of a frying pan, although he wasn't sure what it was.
"Well, I wish you would have called. I wouldn't have wasted my goddamn time cooking. I coulda been changing the oil filter."
"Shit. I'm fucking sorry. I won't even bother next time."
Spike blatantly eavesdropped on their conversation, leaning in further to hear better.
"I didn't mean to snap. It's just been a rough night."
Their voices lowered and disappeared behind the ugly crackling of oil in the skillet. They must be talking about him. He forcefully threw his cigarette butt to the ground and watched it bounce back up and land on the yellow chair across from him.
"God damnit."
He scrambled up to brush away the butt, the cherry disintegrating into tons of tiny embers, burning his hand and creating a buckshot pattern of holes in the upholstery. He quickly flipped the cushion over, turned on the TV and sat down, pretending as though nothing had happened.
This was the way things were now. He supposed it was time to get used to it.
Faye materialized in the doorway, arms crossed, gaze darting suspiciously between him and the vacated couch. After a moment, she sighed heavily and Jet appeared at her side. They looked like the weary parents of a juvenile delinquent who just wouldn't shape up.
"Something's happened. It ain't good."
When had she gotten rid of the hotpants?
During tonight's "state of the union," Spike had found himself searching for some distraction from the events that were unfolding before him. It was during this time that he noticed Faye's routinely exposed legs, often a lighthearted diversion that no one would think less of him for indulging in, were no longer that.
Everything was changing around him and he could barely be made to notice.
He rolled over in bed. So it goes. Brotherhoods will crumble, lovers will die, and shameless broads will suddenly become demure when it is least convenient.
In a span of ten minutes, Jet had laid out the entire path his life was to take, either by choice or by proxy. Should he decide to stay here, he was likely to be completely ensnared by the system he had been dodging since the moment he ran away from the boy's home when he was twelve. By choosing not to stay, he would now and forever be a fugitive, forced even further out into the margins than he'd already placed himself. As long as he was alive there were no other options.
It wasn't the worst pickle he'd ever been in, he supposed.
The only thing left to do now was make a decision.
Three years ago, the choice would have been stupidly obvious to him and everyone who knew him. But even he had changed, it seemed. He'd faced down Vicious to close the door on the past, to put an end to running away. To start running again now…
Maybe he was just getting too old. Soon he would be 28, practically ancient for someone in his line of work.
He pushed himself out of bed, convinced he was never going to sleep again in this lifetime. At least now he could walk.
The midnight stroll to the common area had grown into both a comforting and melancholy ritual. He enjoyed the eerie quietness, the ethereal cast of the television that left everything beyond it even darker for lacking its light. And, if for a moment he could be honest with himself, he enjoyed being around the broad. At present, she was about the only person who injected any humor at all into his life. That had to be worth something.
As if on cue, "And here he comes, dragging his feet like fucking Night of the Living Dead." She threw her head his direction. "If this ship were carpeted, it would be completely ruined."
She was bent over the keyboard of the computer, pecking purposefully at the keys, on some kind of mission. He sauntered to the couch, hands in pockets, and came to stand behind her.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"If you wanna beat this wrap, you're gonna need a lawyer. A real good one."
He was completely taken off guard. "A what?"
"A lawyer, you blockhead."
"That's a new one," he stated irritably. "I think you're getting a little wound up about this. I don't need a lawyer."
"If you don't need a lawyer now, when exactly would you need one?"
He rolled his eyes, trying to play off her concern. "I don't even know what kind of trouble I'm in yet."
She looked at him flatly. "Yes, you do."
"And just how the hell am I supposed to afford that?"
She turned away breezily, already prepared with an answer.
"Easy. Blackmail one."
A/N: A quick thanks to everyone who has taken the time to review this story. It's been a pleasure reading your comments.
