I know, I know…these Alternate Ending fics must be getting tiresome, but nobody really wants Spike to die, right? Julia, yes, but Spike…? So read and rejoice as the coolest guy in anime lives on…at least in my twisted little world.
Claimer: Yes, I DO own CB! Mwhahaha! And I'm gonna make another season in which Spike is alive, Faye wears an even tighter outfit (hey, just lookin' out for all you guys out there), and Jet grows hair! And a new arm…
Warning: Okay, I cheated a little…Both the Redtail and the Hammerhead are in perfect working order. Actually, was Jet's ship even broken? I dunno, but it works here, so nyaa!
"Any last words?"
"You won't go through with it."
"You think not?"
The shot rang out dully, echoing eerily before fading away into nothingness. A heavy silence froze everything, capturing the moment like a photograph, then –
Slowly, noise crawled back, filling the space death had just vacated. The distant hum of machinery, the faint scratch of metal on flint followed by the sizzling birth of flame… The end of the cigarette glowed bright orange in the dim light. Smoke, released in a hungry sigh, unfurled majestically in the crisp air and drifted upwards, dissipating slowly. Two more long drags and the cigarette was reduced to an ashy butt. Confident, unhurried footsteps clicked loudly on the hardwood floor, moving away from the lifeless body.
Spike leaned back in his chair, letting the smooth alcohol roll over his tongue and burn a path down his throat. In one hand, he gripped his brandy glass, absently swirling the golden-brown liquid. In his other hand dangled a half-smoked cigarette. Spike lifted his arm mechanically and placed the cigarette loosely between his lips. His eyes flicked over to the clock on the wall. What am I doing here? He asked for the millionth time in the past fifteen minutes. Of course, he knew the answer to that. He just couldn't admit it, even to himself. Especially to himself. The truth just didn't fit in with his whole 'to hell with it, what will be will be' attitude.
He tilted his head back and released a cloud of smoke, watching it float lazily up to the ceiling. His eyes shifted side to side slowly as he scoped out the small, dusty barroom. Only two other souls had journeyed to the bar that day, and each looked about as pathetic and miserable as Spike felt. The older man, long gray hair pulled back in a ponytail, stared down into his glass as though he wished he could drown in its watery brown contents. Everything about him was tired and defeated. The skin sagged around his half-lidded, bloodshot eyes, and his mouth drooped heavily at the corners. The other man, younger with sandy brown hair, planted his elbows on the table and pressed his palms into his eyes. One foot tapped out a slow, heavy beat, and every once in a while, he would snatch up his glass and gulp down a swallow of his brandy. The bartender had disappeared into the backroom long ago, disgusted with the stench of despair and the sluggish consumption of alcohol.
What am I doing here? The question he couldn't stop asking, although he knew the answer. An hour ago, he knew exactly what he must do. He stopped by the Bebop to say his good-byes, and then he went on to face Vicious. Somewhere between the ship and Vicious…
I got scared shitless. There. He finally admitted it. But why? How? He'd gone off to face certain death many times in the past, and never felt this gut wrenching reluctance. He'd always been willing, almost eager to discover his limitations; eager to find the fight that he wouldn't come back from… And here it was. This was that fight, he was sure of it. But instead of embracing it, he was hiding out in this shit-hole of a bar, prolonging his wretched life for some unfathomable reason. If anything, he should be more ready to die than ever. Julia's gone.
That short sentence ripped into him like a knife. He'd seen her directly after death, bright red blood pooling under her body, a few soft, golden strands of hair flung over her pale face. But somehow he'd kept from processing the implications of her death.
She's gone. Never again will I gaze into those melancholy eyes, see that wistful twist of a smile…I'll never see Julia again.
That was the push he needed. Setting his glass down gently, Spike pushed away from the table, his chair scraping noisily against the floorboards, and rose to his feet fluidly. He exited the barroom with firm, resolute strides and climbed into the Swordfish II.
A life without Julia is no life at all.
can you see her standing there trying to find anywhere
there are flowers in her hand but she doesn't know why
offered is advice to you but all you do is fake it
she's only yours tonight and she never cries,
I know there is hurt inside, Julia.
drowning in her own visions,
she's begging the past to stay behind
there's a black cat in the night,
there's a black cat in that sky
offered is advice to you, you left but I don't blame you
we're digging up the past to bury it one last time
I know there's pain inside that truth
but you just have to face it
"Jet. I'm back, let me in."
"No, your fairy godmother…Yes Faye, goddammit, lemme in!"
Faye landed the Red Tail carefully and leapt out of the cockpit, sighing morosely.
"Ugh, I had a terrible time at the race tracks!" she called out to Jet. "Not one win…"
"What? You went to the tracks?'
"Yes, I went to the tracks," she replied irritably, hands on hips. "I told you I was."
"I mean… You really went to the race tracks?"
"For the last time, yes!" she shouted, pushing past him.
"Oh. Well, I have to go out, get some…supplies," he called, running toward his ship, the Hammerhead, as he spoke. Faye rolled her eyes. Supplies. Yeah right.
Spike strolled up and down the hallways of the Red Dragon Headquarters, slouched forward slightly with his hands pushed deep into his pockets. The building was eerily empty, vacated of human life. He reached the elevator and rode it up to the top floor, entering a single large room. It, too, was empty, but Spike spotted a staircase and climbed it slowly. Vicious, Vicious, where are…you…? Spike froze in the doorway of the main room. A body. Lying quite still in the middle of the room. Spike freed his hands from his pockets and entered cautiously. Silver hair, matted with a rust-colored, sticky substance – blood. It can't be… He moved closer and prodded the body with his foot. It was. Vicious was quite dead, gun clutched in his right hand.
"You bastard," Spike growled. "You fucking killed yourself?!" He kicked Vicious' limp body violently. "You managed to screw me over, even with your own death, you lousy son-of-a-" A small, yellow object rolled off of the body and stopped at Spike's foot. He crouched down and picked it up gingerly with his thumb and forefinger. It was the burnt remains of a cigarette butt. Spike's eyes widened slightly then narrowed into grim slits.
Ok, that's it for now…if you like what you see, review and I'll have the next chappie up tomorrow. BTW, I plan on having short chapters, cause hopefully I can get them out quicker that way.
Also, my next chapter's more action-y, so if you thought this was too slow, just wait…mwaha…
And (one last thing, I promise) the song in the middle of my fic is by Our Lady Peace and is titled "Julia." Appropriate, neh? Didja notice "…digging up the past to bury it one last time," and, uh, "Julia"?