A/N: PLEASE don't shoot this one down too. This is my third attempt at writing Bebop. I wanna know if I have the talent or not. So please. Read and review. I'm recent to the fandom. This is probably going to stay a one-shot, but I might do one from Spike's POV. Enjoy.
"Sometimes" is a funny word.
It means on occasion, every once in a while, rarely, just a few times.
A small, wry smile twists at the end of her lips. Sometimes.
Sometimes she hates this place. She hates this broken down, rusted Bebop. She hates the bad food, whenever there is any, and lack of hot water. She hates the long corridors of closed doors and the sounds that echo down them.
Sometimes she sits on the couch in the cold and smokes slowly and smoothly, propping her long legs up on the table and staring up at the ceiling fan, and wonders why she is here. There is nothing for her to do, no purpose for her to complete. She can't even daydream because she has no memories to travel back to. She only sits and smokes and waits for Ed and Ein to come bother her or Jet to come nag her or Spike to come pick a fight with her.
Sometimes it's hot because the AC is busted and she makes up an excuse to go out. She hopes that she'll travel to some town, some city, and meet someone who will take her away from this life of killing and waiting and killing and waiting and loneliness and anger and pain and scars.
Sometimes she looks at him and wishes that she were that faraway look in his chocolate eyes, the memory that makes his rugged, handsome face go blank with bliss. She wishes she could crawl across the couch like a cat and run her fingers through his hair, see if it's as soft as it looks, taste the alcohol on his lips, breathe in the scent of his neck and laugh at how he always smells like smoke. She wishes he would look at her and see how beautiful she is instead of imagining that she were someone else, that angel from the underworld, that devil from paradise. She wishes he would touch her, even an accidental brush, just to remind her she's still alive and not a ghost, not empty and lost and cold.
Sometimes she doesn't care what they think about her, the men who stare, the women who scowl, because she is not of their world. She's untouchable, unattainable, out of reach. A cold hearted temptress who always looking but never finding, always finding but never having.
Sometimes she lies awake because she cannot sleep. There is no place for her mind to travel, no faces to see that she can or wants to remember, no home that smells of cinnamon and apple pies, no handsome face with strong arms to hold her close, no kind faces welcoming her back from a long trip. She lies tangled in the white sheets and can only think of recent events; of faceless bounties, red skies, cigarette smoke, and the long, smooth line of Spike's neck. The tears taste bitter and make her pillow wet.
But only sometimes.
I really mean it, though. Do I suck? Is this weird? Or sappy? Feedback is very helpful.
Thanks for reading,