I tried to do handstands for you
But everytime I fell for you
I'm permanently black and blue
Permanently blue for you.
She knew she was acting like a child. She shot the gun like she was ringing a bell.
Look at me. I don't want you to go.
And then he disappeared, swallowed up by the dark cavernous mouth of the ship's hangar. She wondered now what else she would have expected him to do. When had anyone in this goddamn bachelors' den paid any real attention to anything she'd ever had to say?
She supposed what she'd initially liked so much about this whole arrangement was that she welcome to come and go as she pleased. But, of course that meant that they could all come and go as they pleased. She hadn't seen Ed or the dog in some time. She guessed they'd been gone for some time. And now Spike, too...
There wasn't any point in her trying to follow him, and not just because she'd suddenly felt like she'd lost her legs. You can't save someone who doesn't want to be saved. Instead she took her time collecting herself before turning and heading back to the sofa. She'd be up all night thinking about her next move. Jet couldn't be expected to take care of her forever. It was different when it was the three of them. She'd always sort of felt like Katharine Ross to their Newman and Redford ever since she and Jet had watched the film together late one night. She vaguely remembered Spike being there, too, passed out and snoring at the other end of the couch.
She sat back, sinking into the cushions tiredly. She wiped away the last of her tears before catching sight of a grey t-shirt lying half under the armchair. It clearly belonged to Spike – it was far too narrow for Jet's broad frame.
She glanced down at her white and sinewy arms, the ones that couldn't make him stay even while holding a gun to his head. She thought about his hands, fingers long like spider legs. She remembered with little effort the time he accidentally touched her cheek, held her hand, with those fingers.
It happened one afternoon in Sulcus on Ganymede. They'd been watching a bounty having a beer at a local bar from a coffee shop across the street. She'd only just eaten a huge slice of cake slathered with vanilla icing, which later resulted in a crippling mid-chase cramp. Spike had reached back behind himself in an effort to drag her along with him. Feeling around for her, he'd accidentally brushed his fingers along her jaw, touched her lips before finally capturing her wrist. He finally grabbed hold of her hand, dashing forward.
She knew he was just making sure she kept up with him so they wouldn't lose their bounty. But despite that, the wide-eyed girl Faye kept hidden deep inside thrilled and blushed at the memory of the touch as though Spike had intended it.
Faye wasn't sure how the t-shirt had ended up in her hands, but she laid it flat across her lap and smoothed out the wrinkles with her fingers. This whole thing is my fault, she thought. I shouldn't have told him about seeing Julia. He's going off to die and it's my fault.
She held the shirt up in front of her. It was only hours ago that she'd come to the pitiful yet fitting conclusion that this was where she belonged. She'd come a long way to enjoying their company and suspected that Jet and Spike might have felt the same way, though they'd probably have admitted it aloud as readily as Faye would have. But Jet always set a place for her when there was food to be eaten. Jet always set some clean, freshly folded towels aside for her without calling too much attention to it. More than once she'd woken up in the big, orange armchair to find a blanket had been draped over her in her sleep. Jet always joked about how she was an intruder on his ship, but little things like that suggested to her that she was part of a family. Well, not exactly a family, but a reasonable facsimile. It was as close as she was ever going to get to belonging somewhere.
At the other end of the spectrum, Spike would bang on the door of the bathroom and shout at her about using up all the hot water. He'd stomp around like a child mid-tantrum whenever she accidentally misplaced his zippo. He'd smoke her last cigarettes and silently watch her losing her mind trying to find out what happened to them.
While Spike never went out of his way to physically shove Faye off the ship and out into cold, dark space, he put an equal amount of effort in ever knowing or understanding her. He tried to hide his selfishness behind Jet alot. Like it wasn't his own best interests he was trying to protect. Spike was just trying to keep his ol' friend Jet from being taken advantage of.
Earn your keep, he'd say. That pretty, painted face of yours isn't any kind currency you can get away with using on this ship.
She leaned her face into Spike's shirt and sighed. She inhaled slowly, exhaled then inhaled again.
She opened her eyes softly and they prickled with tears.
Ever since memories resurfaced that afternoon in the shower she'd become much more aware of the sounds, scents, and textures around her and how they might connect her to her past. The scent woven into the fabric...
It was the same as that of the blanket she'd woken up under countless times after falling asleep in the armchair.
It wasn't Jet.
It was him.
She bit her lip hard, aching inside. That blanket belonged to Spike.
It was Spike.
She wasn't prepared for it. She wasn't prepared for the consequences of the actions of her heart. The realization of her true loss hit her hard and fast.
She threw the t-shirt from her hands, trying to put some distance between them.
She hadn't thought it would be Spike's self-destruction she'd mourn. Selfish and self-absorbed to the very end, that's what he was. Idiots never learn until they're dead. She'd told herself it wasn't him she'd miss; it was them. The four of them. A family. And that was still part of it, but...
She chuckled bitterly, glaring at the t-shirt lying in a heap across from her as though he were still in it. She loved him.
She was in love with him.
Idiots never learn until they're dead, and Faye Valentine wanted to die.
Lyrics quoted from Chairlift's Bruises. Don't sue, please. I do not own Cowboy Bebop. Hell, technically I don't even own the jeans I'm wearing.