july 2004
http://cakehole.org/zedpm
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Faye wakes with that itch in her bones, an unpleasant feeling that she's long since gotten used to. She's never asked for it, much as one would never ask for a cold or a fever or one of your grandmother's knitted sweaters, but it's there all the same, unwanted and yet wonderfully familiar at once.
This is the itch that tells her to leave, to move on, to gather her stuff and get on with her life, because staying on the Bebop isn't doing her any good. But then again, nothing she ever does seems to do her any good; at least she's got some company on this rickety ship, no matter how eccentric her cohorts may be.
She stands up, the blanket falling around her ankles on the floor. The radio blares tinnily in the corner and she switches it off, yawning as she walks to the door and steps into the hallway.
The lights are on in the main room and she notices Spike, fast asleep, on the worn yellow couch. He must have just gotten back, Faye assumes, and failed to make it to his own room. The single liquor bottle on the table indicates what a meager bounty he'd managed to catch.
Faye contemplates going back to her own room, but decides to stay here instead. She drapes herself across the chair and leans against the back, resting her head on her arms. Spike moves in his sleep, one of his hands falling over the edge of the couch, and he gives a small sigh. Faye wonders what he's dreaming about, but realizes that she'll probably never guess.
She closes her eyes, quietly humming one of her favorite songs, and hopes that she'll somehow fall asleep.
Spike's never understood why people dream about their past. Sleep, he thinks, is supposed to be an escape from reality; there's no point in reliving history unless you have the power to change it. Images parade across his vision, familiar memories of times and faces and places long gone.
He sees himself years ago, older than a boy but still too young to call himself a man. His grin's much too big—too damn cocky, kid, you're gonna get yourself killed someday, he thinks scornfully—but it's open, honest, exactly like a child's.
"Spike," a lilting voice says from behind him. He turns around, the pool stick loose in his hand, and sees Julia standing at the other end of the table. Her hair sweeps over her shoulders, a pair of sunglasses keeping it off her face. Her eyes crinkle faintly at the corners and she gives a soft laugh at his stunned expression.
"Never thought I'd run into you here," she remarks casually, leaning her hip on the green felt, but her smile tells him that's exactly what she counted on. All around them the pool hall bustles with activity, noise and cigarette smoke mixing to create a hazy atmosphere. The dim overhead light swings slightly and in a distant corner someone makes a lucky shot.
It's all about taking that risk, Spike thinks, even if you fall behind. There's chalk on his hands and he swallows and wipes his palms on his jeans. He looks up and returns her smile, feeling his heart quicken as she walks toward him—
—and then it's another dream, another time, another place. Still a dark room, but this time Spike feels the cool touch of sheets against his fevered skin. Early light spills through the thin slits of the window blinds, pink-tinged with the rising sun.
"Spike," Julia says. She sits by him on the narrow bed, her hair tumbling down her pale back. She looks like a goddess, Spike thinks, framed by the morning sun, her golden hair alight. But for some reason there's a nagging feeling in his mind, and his eyebrows knit together in confusion.
"I didn't think you'd be here when I woke up," he says, raising himself onto his elbows. "Why...?"
Julia doesn't respond, just pushes him back gently against the pillow. "Go back to sleep," she says at last, laying a tender hand on his cheek and kissing his forehead. "I'll be here as long as you want me."
Spike closes his eyes. The last thing he remembers is Julia's warm voice, quietly humming the same song from that day long ago. With a last fleeting smile, he surrenders himself to the darkness.
He opens his eyes.
The world blurs, tilting everywhere at once in a whirling display of lights and darks. Above him the spinning blades of the fan send shadows into the corners of the ceiling. The last notes of a familiar melody drift across the air and fade away. Part of him wishes the dream had never ended so that she would always be there by his side. But the rest of him is stuck in the present, in the here-and-now, and nothing will bring her back.
"Ah, you're awake," a voice murmurs. Spike looks upward at that face he knows so well—
"Julia," he says. It doesn't matter that it's the wrong name; he knows it and she doesn't bother to correct him. He reaches up, brushing aside the dark strands of hair that frame her face. "Are you going to leave?" he asks, eyes half-lidded with sleep and the traces of an emotion he hasn't felt in years.
She shakes her head, as if trying to convince herself. "I won't," she replies. Then she smiles, a sad sweet smile so much like the one he remembers, and in that moment Spike sees the woman he once loved in the face of the one who loves him now.
Spike's never been a man of sentimentality, nor one of kindness. He's lived twenty-seven long, reckless years and never put his faith in anything besides the one person who meant so much to him. He's never believed in God and he's never believed in luck, but now, he thinks, maybe faith isn't so much blind hope as it is trying to grasp something you've lost.
"Sing for me," Spike whispers, "just like that."
Faye does.