Disclaimer: Cowboy Bebop doesn't belong to me. I'm not creative enough right now to think up a witty comment to put here. -_-

Author's Notes: This all spawned from a super nifty picture I saw. All written with moment spurness in an e-mail to a friend of mine. Whom I have to thank multipule times over for her wonderful description I used for this fic. Thank you, Jany!

I'm a big fan of the rather strange 'friendship' between Jet and Spike. Too bad for me hardly anybody writes about it. And why not? Are they just not interesting enough? ::sigh:: I guess I'll just have to get over it.

And about the title... I can't explain it. I just can't. It's perfect for Jet&Spike friendship, and I just can't explain why. It's a bit frustrating, but I like it and I'm sticking to it.

Warnings: No added preservatives! All good clean fun.

Forget Me

Spike Spiegel paused in mid step upon the metal stairwell, groping hand coming up empty. He frown a bit, cigarette hanging from his lips jaunting at a downward angle in response, and patted his other pocket. Once again, his search yielded nothing. Where was a lighter when you really needed one, anyway?

Spike huffed, stuffed his hands sulkily into his pockets, and continued downward into the Bebop's main sitting area. The blaring trumpet fanfare, gratingly loud in the lazy afternoon atmosphere that perpetually hung over the room like a warm blanket, heralded the beginning of Big Shot. Jet Black's hulking form had already settled into his customary side of the yellow couch, the other side open in an unspoken, yet always silently welcomed, invitation.

Spike had known Jet for a year, and half that over again. Their first meeting had been... awkward, to say the least; an ominous warning of their 'relationship' to come. The skinny bounty hunter had been blind sided by a man who had to have been twice his admittedly minuscule weight in a bar fight, then had the man's equally hefty buddies join him in a good old fashion gang beating.

The heavy boot connected solidly with a sickening crack, Spike desperately muffling the grunt of pain as the precious bones within his arm shattered.

Spike was sure he could have handled the bunch of drunk idiots by himself. After all, its not like he hadn't been doing so for almost as long as he could remember.

The hand, which had been steadily sneaking towards the Jericho hidden within his suit jacket, suffered next, the heel of a boot stomping on his delicately tapered trigger finger and snapping it like a twig.

Sure, they might have had the upper hand for a bit-

A swift kick left him bruised and winded, curling about his injured hand as the overwhelming mass of flesh and alcoholic stench closed in tighter.

-But he would have gotten them in the end. And all he wanted right then was a light for his ciggy. Two long legged steps brought him to the back of the couch and directly behind the preoccupied Jet, where he snaked an arm around and gripped the older man's chin lightly. Slender fingers entwined in his scruffy beard, Jet complained readily enough to the gently yet insistent pressure, tilting his head back to blink inquisitively - and a bit annoyed - at the upside down image of his partner.

Spike leaned over Jet in his dangerously exposed position, bringing their faces to where only a mere scant few inches separated them. Spike's cold fag tip had barely touched Jet's smoldering one before he took a deep breath, the two cigarettes burning bright orange simultaneously. Then Spike's fleeting touch was gone, feather light vault over the couch back with liquid grace, and the younger bounty hunter was seated in his normal languid sprawl on his designated area of the couch.

Spike grinned lazily over at Jet, and took a satisfying drag from his now lite cigarette. "Couldn't find my lighter."

Jet folded strong arms across his chest, grumbling half heartedly and rolling his eyes. One and a half years he had know the guy and he still couldn't get over his strangely teenage like quirks. Running his mechanical hand over his hairless head, Jet turned back to the show, already in progress. Punch and Judy's commercialized voices talked, but he didn't pay much attention.

Jet, morbid curiosity peeked, used his formidable size to push his way to the front of the crowd. He had been hoping for an entertaining barroom brawl. What he found was a slaughter.

Spike was more trouble then he was worth, some times. Annoying, lazy, getting in more trouble getting milk at the grocery then any other man Jet knew. But he didn't bullshit, and that's all Jet needed. Brutally honest, even at the worst of times.

Jet wasn't big on lies.

With an angered cry of protest, Jet reached out for the nearest attacker, snagging the back of their collar. Muscles taunt under his long sleeved shirt, Jet hauled the man back, flinging him into the thronging group of onlookers, shoving another to the side before standing protectively over the beaten figure on the ground.

Spike didn't ask about Jet's past. Jet didn't ask about Spike's past. They knew next to nothing about one another, except for the experiences they had shared together. They lived for the now.

A gun was pulled and aimed at the nearest thug. "Clear out!" Jet's gruff voice was commanding, directed at both the drunken gang and the crowd itself.

Jet preferred it that way. Partners didn't need to know each other's family history, they needed to know how to catch bounties.

Jet crouched down beside his unofficial charge, who's long limbs were pulled inward in awkward angles. Calming surveying the damage, Jet let out a simple, "Hey."

A puffy mass of green hair rose, revealing a pair of rusty eyes that, though narrowed against the pain, still sparkled with humor. "Yo."

Spike made as best a partner Jet had ever had. He glanced, from the corner of his eye, over at the engrossed Spike. But...

"You alive down there?" Jet puffed away at his cigarettes, arms resting on bulging thighs.

The young man's laugh came out more as a gurgling cough, unscathed arm braced against the floor as he pushed himself into a sitting position, broken arm cradling close to injured ribs, useless finger dangling limply. "I've died already."

As a...

"Do dead men bleed?" In spite of himself, Jet was finding himself actually enjoying their light banter, both callously ignoring the man's injuries, and not giving a damn.

"Apparently, they do." Smirking a weak smirk that would probably have been disturbingly smug under normal conditions, the lean man wiped blood away from his split lip, and proudly presenting it for inspection.


"Name?" Jet smirked also, strangely content and already familiar.

"Spike Spiegel." The man grunted as he tried to lever himself to his feet.


"Jet Black." Jet rose as well, easily lifting Spike the rest of the way. An arm wrapped carefully around the younger man's thin chest, the other gripping the bony wrist of the arm Spike had thrown of Jet's broad shoulders. They both kept their matching smirks throughout the whole process. "This looks like the beginning of a very strange friendship."