[Disclaimer: Cowboy Bebop was created by, and is copyrighted by Yadate Hajime in association with the legal entities Sunrise and Bandai. The characters are used without permission but no material profit of any kind is being made from the following work. Sunrise and Bandai reserve all rights to Cowboy Bebop material, but all of the situations unique to this work of fan fiction are property of the writer.  Especially, since my subconscious was the only thing that had anything to do with this one!]

[Note:  I was inspired to finish the fic by a short dream I had last night.  It is very odd and might be hard to understand.  I don't quite get it, either.  I'm not sure if there's boy love in here or not.  I'm not inclined to think so, but after I started writing it out I could see some undertones.  I think Spike and Vicious are about twenty-two in this, possibly younger.  Enjoy the extreme ooc-ness.]


Omake: Hide from Time

The walls were a supernatural shroud in the dim light of blue neon, devoid of the cigarette smoke the sun would point out.  His nose was dripping when he awoke from the chaos of his crumpled white sheets in the gray hours of the morning.  The power was out again in the apartment building, but he would have little trouble finding the tissues on windowsill.  If they'd been there.  The vaguest impression of a question concerning whether or not Spike had them wasn't really a thought in his foggy mind.  Everything seemed unnatural.  Unreal.

The feel of another drop, cooled by the air on its descent, touched his arm and then his hand.  He wiped at his nose reflexively, feeling the moisture spread across his face and arm.  There was a change in the impression of blue on white.  The soft blue light filtering through the stiff blinds did not reflect off his arm where he had rubbed it across his face.  That area was no longer pale blue, but black.

            Another drop hit his hand, a circle of black on blue-struck skin.  A whisper of impact showed him a spreading circle on the fitted sheet covering the stiff mattress beneath him.  Perhaps he did not indeed have a running nose, but he was too confused and hazy to make the leap of comprehension a normal person would make.  He needed to make the flow stop, but there were no tissues on the windowsill.

            With a sort of vague fascination, he felt his muscles pulling under his skin as he swung his legs to the edge of the bed.  There was no feeling of urgency, just simple wonder when the tangled sheets followed his legs off the bed.  Warm feet met the uneven hardwood floor.  The tactile sensation was no less interesting.  When he stood uncertainly, the sheets drifted down his legs, freeing him. 

            He did not see the drops hitting the floor so much as he felt them.  It was like feeling the floor feel them, but when he took a few unsteady steps forward, he did not feel the floor feeling them.  He did not feel the moisture running down his chin, neck or chest, but his mouth tasted of copper.  When his young friend entered the room he did not notice. 

            For a moment, everything blurred, and he didn't know at all what was going on in the dimly blue-lit room of white walls, furniture, and bedding with the impression of an orange-grained floor.  There was somebody suddenly supporting him with warm hands.  "Come on," the apparition before him was familiar as was its voice. 

            There was movement.  They were going somewhere.  Then there was a name on his blood red lips.  "Spike."

            The damp hand towel wiping at Vicious' face was not in Vicious' hands.  He was somewhere else where everything was a little more white, a little less blue, with tiny square tiles under his feet and a claw-foot bath tub behind him.  The mirror before him doubled as the door to a medicine cabinet.  In the mirror he made out a blurry impression of another pale shape, wearing red on the lower half of its face.  He didn't know what to make of it.

            "You need to stop taking those drugs," the Spike apparition was saying.  "You really need to stop."

            Vicious didn't know how to interpret the sounds into words.  He worked his jaw, opening and shutting his mouth in interest as the reflection's red shape stretched and contracted.  He wasn't in any pain, but the red still flowing out his nose felt distinctly cool as it continued to flow down his face, copper in all but color.

            "Did I take drugs?"  Now his own mouth was making noises he didn't understand.  "Did they do this?"

            Fear tasted like copper.  "Yes."  And copper was the flavor of Spike's words.

            "I shouldn't take them." 

            "No, you shouldn't."

            The slightly rough texture of the damp hand towel became the more immediately abrasive smoothness of a crumpled handful of dry tissues.  "Why did I?"

            "I don't know."  The impression of Spike was warm and worried.  Spike's body felt warm, while his body felt temperature-less. 

            "Spike."  He didn't know how he was making the sounds or how his friend understood them, but he sensed a plaintive note in what he was speaking.  "I don't feel anything."

            He felt Spike's hair feeling itself brush against temperature-less skin.  "I know… I know."  Copper also tasted like helplessness.

            Vicious could feel Spike feeling terrible sadness as he felt muscles moving under Spike's hands.  "I don't feel anything."  He felt the air feeling the sensation his lips made as they smiled at a joke he never heard.  "I don't feel anything."

            He tasted copper as Spike's voice vibrated the air.  "You're scaring me."  He had the vaguest vague impression that his friend wanted to take him to another white place; a sterile white place where people wore white clothes and white paper rectangle's over their mouths, but couldn't.  They had to stay there.

            "I don't feel anything, Spike," he repeated, fascinated now with the feel of the sounds slipping over his tongue and past his lips.  Words tasted like foreshadowing.  "I can feel your being scared."

            Slowly, he noticed the impression of something inside his body, feeling him.  It felt itself feeling like copper and it felt the way his organ walls curved around it, compressing it suddenly very tight. 

            Vicious saw the white blur of his torso as it arced out of Spike's warm grip and onto the tiny tiles squares that made the floor.  Copper flooded from him, spreading over the white floor in a red pool, running along the gray channels between the tiny tiles.  The floor felt the splash of thin liquid.  It had no feeling, but it tasted of copper.

            But Spike, Spike saw nothing on the white tiles but Vicious.