A/N: Based on a review I recently recieved, I decided to continue this. But again, I need support. I have no clue if I have the gift of writing Cowboy Bebop. Let me know what you think. Your opinion matters to me. A lot. I think I'll go ahead and do Jet, Ed, Ein, and Julia in later chapters. I'm too scared of Vicious to do his voice. Anyway, please let me know what you think.
In red darkness, cigarette smoke looks like blood. Blood flowing upward in a river, twisting in the air like a snake, and finally dispelling as it reaches the ceiling. Why was he sitting here in the dark?
Spike had never been an eloquent person, or a thoughtful one at that, but occasionally he would sit and think about words. Like "sometimes". It meant so much more when you were alone.
A slow, humorless smile stretches across his lips.
Sometimes he wonders what would happen if he really left the Bebop, left and never came back. What would he find? What would he become? A ghost, haunting empty hallways of space and time for all eternity? A monster, tearing through bounty after bounty, spilling blood and laughing as the metallic warmth ran in rivulets around his shoes? He always believed that was what he would turn into one day. A predator that lived for the thrill of the hunt. A lone wolf. A demon. Alone.
Sometimes he thinks that they are just distractions: the woman, the kid, the dog, the cook, from what he always comes back to in the end. Him, sitting in his room in the empty red darkness and staring out at the surface of Mars and thinking of her. Julia. His angel from the underworld. His devil from paradise.
Sometimes he thinks it would be better for him to die, to let one of those bullets hit a vital spot and take him away from this life, this dream, of violence, of bullets, of blood, of bad food, of useless arguments, of cold, dead faces, of ivory skin to far away to touch, of smoke, of emptiness, of pain, of scars. Maybe if he dies, he will truly live. He already died once. Would twice be the difference between reality and fantasy?
Sometimes he looks at her and sees an annoying, shallow vixen that uses whoever she wants to get whatever she wants. The sultry smile, the way she flicks the ashes off the end of the cigarette, the constantly mocking look in her jade green eyes. Her presence irritates him beyond all belief. And yet sometimes, at night, he thinks about reaching a hand through that thick curtain of violet hair and pulling her close, pressing his mouth to hers, tracing a hand down the pale line of her spine, casting the silly red jacket aside and touching her everywhere. He wants to know if her skin is really that soft, if her lipstick is really that sweet, if her voice will sound just as husky as she moans his name.
Sometimes he travels back to a time that was simpler, a time he only sees in black and white and in flashes. Rain. Laughter. A blood-red rose falling into a puddle. Vicious passing him a beer at the bar. The way Julia looks in candlelight. The smoking gun in his hand. The blood flooding around his shoes. The stained glass of the cathedral. The moonlight reflecting off the golden strands of her hair. Her breath in his ear. His lips on her neck. The silken sheets rustling underneath them. Heaven. Her eyes. Darkness.
The smoke curls out of his mouth and nose, kissing his face, his forehead, and he drowns in it.
But only sometimes.