Cowboy Bebop Fan Fiction ❯ Going Under ❯ Baby Blue ( Chapter 2 )

*~A/N~*. . . Okay, let me just state once and for all that this is NOT-- I repeat, NOT a Spike X Original Character. In fact, this fic isn't even a romance. I understand the annoyance of Mary Sue characters, but the story wasn't flowing with just Spike and Doohan chapter after chapter. So, just to clear up any confusion, there is NO romance between anyone other than Spike and Julia in this lovely little tale. Go ahead and use/abuse my characters if you find the need to, considering I'd be a hypocrite if I told you not to.

P.S. Review, please. I enjoy knowing what you think.

*~DISCLAIMER~*. . . Cowboy Bebop. Not mine.

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Baby Blue

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If there was one thing Spike hated, it was waiting. It left too much out in the open, allowed the mind to wander too far.

He lay in the shade beneath the Swordfish's undamaged wing, sprawled lazily with his arms cocked at his neck and his long fingers laced behind his head. The last of his cigarettes smoldered idly, balancing precariously on his lips; his eyes were closed.

He fought hard to keep his mind on other things, random things: fish, peking duck, pondweed. . . but eventually all strings led to the same seam before they came unraveled.

Julia.

His thoughts wound themselves around her, her very essence. Every fiber of his being ached at the memory of her smile, her eyes, her kisses, her cooking, the way her hair felt like liquid silk between his fingers, the way she smelled like incense and jasmine when they embraced. . .

Never before had he felt a physical longing for her presence so strongly before. He felt so very frail, so heavy at the same time --like bricks on a brittle table-- eventually the legs would give and the tower would collapse.

He couldn't bring himself to believe that she abandoned him. Spike had never believed in soulmates, but something about he and Julia, they just fit. Soulmates-- they were meant for each other, there was no way she would leave him if their love were meant to be.

His mind sought other refuge. However, every single excuse he thought up for her was tragically flawed. There came a point when he could not deny it, and he felt angry.

She'd hurt him, broken his heart, all because she was scared. She feared her lover's wrath more than she loved Spike.

She was a coward. . .

Spike sighed.

No, she was no coward. She was simply terrified.

She made Spike feel alive for the first time, made him give a damn about things, and it was a wonderful feeling to want to live. He *wanted* to live. For once, there was something worth living for. Julia.

She had always loved life. The thought of loosing the vibrant feeling she gave him made his heart clench painfully in his chest; no wonder she was frightened.

Funny, unlike her, he didn't feel remorseful about what they had done. Had they really done anything wrong?

It made no sense. His brother in arms, his best friend, when had he become the holder of Cerberus's chain? He trusted him with his life, with more than that-with Julia's life. He couldn't remember when he had begun to hate him, but inevitably it happened.

She feared him. Everyone feared him. His very name caused the most hardened gangsters to cringe and grip their weapons in horror. But she, unlike the other slaves to the syndicate, was eternally damned, chained to the devil; and no matter how he tried Spike could not set her free.

Her words echoed in his mind, agonizingly clear.

//~`We can't. . . it's not right, we can't. He'll find out, Spike, he'll *know*.'~//

Blowing smoke from his nose, Spike opened his eyes to stare absently at the underside of the ship's wing. Everything was empty. Broken. Gone.

He was dead on Mars. Perhaps he was dead here, too?

Faintly, the ground began to tremble beneath him and a quiet rumbling carried across the Earth, catching him off guard. Lazily turning his head to the side to face the horizon, Spike watched through a smoky haze at the billow of dust forming in the distance. The rumbling grew louder as the thing neared.

"Finally. . ." Spike grouched around his cigarette as he rolled out from the cool shadow of the ship's right wing, not bothering to brush the powdery dust off his pants and jacket.

Lacing his fingers together he stretched his arms over his head, enjoying the relaxing pull of muscles before casually thrusting his hands into his pockets.

The oncoming vehicle roared and thundered as it plowed over the Earth's bumpy terrain, shaking the ground with its immense weight. Soon, it came close enough to make out its shape; an ancient, enormous truck slightly distorted as it climbed the horizon. Spike recognized it immediately-- no one in their right mind would drive that monstrosity of a relic-- though he had no doubts beforehand.

Gathering his bloodied coat from the wing of the Swordfish and slinging it over his shoulder, Spike sauntered out to meet the massive automobile, carefully masking a limp. The truck refused to slow as it approached, and instead swerved recklessly to the side, spraying the man with dry dirt and dust.

Unfazed, Spike watched the vehicle slow and stop a short distance away, brushing off his cornflower-blue suit and continuing his advance. There was muffled grumbling from the driver's side of the truck, the metallic `clank' of a wrench slamming itself into the steering wheel and more growling from the driver. Spike sighed knowingly.

He clambered up the side of the truck and slid open the door to meet the stern gaze of the old grizzled man, his fingerless gloves gripping the worn steering wheel tersely and his thin lips pulled into a taught line.

Spike took a drag from his cigarette abstractedly. "You're late."

"Yeah. Hurry up and load the `Fish. I've got more important things to do than pick up hitch-hiking ghosts."

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Once the MONO-racer was loaded and secured in the back of the mammoth truck, Doohan hit the gas hard. In the passenger seat, Spike leaned towards the open window, watching the desert of Earth whisk by in a blur as the truck jounced along its craters. Cool air blasted his face and blew his hair from his eyes, gently caressing his weary body and stroking his skin with soft fingers.

The inside of the truck was comfortably cluttered, the dashboard scratched and coated with a thin layer of dirt and mountains of random knick-knacks. There were a few pictures tapped above the radio, yellowed and frayed with age but the smiling faces still recognizable.

They were Doohan's trademark, his love for photography-- mind you, he was no real artist, but the pictures all had emotional value that could be clearly evaluated in the people posing in front of the camera.

Wordlessly, Spike shifted in his seat, his long legs shuffling in the papers and magazines that crowded him. The floor was littered with strange odds and ends; at one point he was sure his foot hit something living --or once living-- while he was resituating himself.

Doohan watched his passenger carefully from the corner of his eye, not missing the blood and scent of gunpowder on his clothes, nor the anguish in his guileless eyes, the forced apathy in his slight movements. The man looked as if he were about to fall apart, as if a single breath could cause him to crumble like dust and scatter in the breeze. This wasn't the brazen, hotheaded rascal he knew Spike Spiegel to be.

Perhaps Spike Spiegel really was dead.

News traveled fast despite the huge expanse of space. His recorded murder on Mars was no small talk among the syndicates. Besides, Spike was a friend, almost a son. And Doohan had ears everywhere.

When he had heard, he was shocked-- the unbeatable Spike Spiegel, dead? It just didn't seem possible. . . but after a few days, it started to work its way through his head, and a voice kept telling him `it was bound to happen sooner or later.' Syndicate members rarely stay on top for long.

But here he was, a walking contradiction.

Uncomfortable in the thick silence that hovered over the front seats, the said ghost leaned forward to play with the dials of the truck's archaic radio. He leaped back in surprise as it immediately began furiously blaring rock music, nearly deafening him and causing Doohan to release the wheel to cover his ears.

The truck swerved haphazardly to the tune of Nirvana's `Territorial Pissings,' electric guitars wailing and the lead male vocalist screaming out the lyrics at the top of his lungs. Spike grimaced and fumbled with the console, only succeeding in further raising the volume.

The truck bucked violently.

Cursing a blue streak and hitting the edge of his patience, Spike lashed out at the radio, his boot striking the primeval thing several times with surprising force. The music stuttered and died, leaving only the blessedly soft growl of the truck's engine.

Shaking his head and glaring at the smoking remains of the radio, Spike adopted a nonchalant tone as he spoke. "What the hell was that?"

Doohan, once again in control of the massive automobile, glanced up at Spike with a frown before replying. "My assistant drives this thing to pick up the parts I need. Plays with the radio, see?"

"Another one?" Spike sighed and looked out the window. "What happened to the last one? The pothead that only listened to hippie music?"

"Apparently I'm `too oppressive, man'."

"You don't say."

"Yeah." Doohan mumbled distractedly, his eyes locked on the land ahead. "Anyways, this new one is a bona fide upstart. Real thick. . ."

"Is that so?" Spike drawled, taking a meditative drag from his cigarette.

". . . Just like some other people I could mention," Doohan shot Spike a level glare. "Good kid, though. Crafty little urchin, I'll tell you that."

"I see." Leaning out the window, Spike rested his chin in his hand to indicate that he was not in the mood for idle chitchat. An awkwardly thick silence filled the space between them, broken only by the growl of the engine and the clanking of the MONO-racer in the back whenever the truck hit a bump.

Morbid curiosity chewed at Doohan as he watched Spike from the corner of his eye, something was definitely off with the boy. Spike Spiegel was a carefree, happy man, more of an overgrown child, actually. The thing that really bothered the mechanic was the fact that since Spike had called him up until this very moment, the man had never smiled. Not once. Not even a smirk.

That in itself was a morose oddity.

But the old man knew better than to ask, because Spike wasn't one to give a strait answer, if he gave an answer at all.

Whatever was on his mind must have been a touchy subject, probably had some kind of connection to his `death', and Doohan silently decided it was something he simply did not want to know.

The older man hummed thoughtfully to himself, averting his eyes back to the open plain in front of him. Spike ignored him placidly.

Luckily for them both, it wasn't long before the dark outline of the junkyard could be spotted on the flat desert horizon. Blurred shadows of various old aircrafts distorted by the rising heat dotted the scope as the truck roved closer, jostling the MONO-racer every time it passed over a bump.

A small building housed an indistinguishable mess of wires and metal and was smoking ominously, and as the vehicle neared distinct cursing could be heard over the crackle of fire from inside the building. Doohan hastily parked the truck and leaped out, leaning a hand against a gigantic tire and pulling his grizzled face into a scowl, revealing a row of crooked teeth.

Spike followed him, standing on the opposite side of the truck and jamming his hands into his pockets; watching the gray columns of smoke fight for freedom from the building with an air of indifference.

"Jesus, can't I leave you alone for THREE MINUTES without you blowing something up?" Doohan shouted towards the hanger.

There was a resonant clang and more snarls from inside. Various tools were flung out the large bay doors, obviously with the intent to injure but falling short of the truck.

"It wasn't my fault, you old crone!" a discordant voice spat indignantly from the hanger. "The fuel injector on this hunk of shit backfired!"

Feigning boredom, Spike watched halfheartedly at the figure stumbling out of the smoke riddled building, catching brief snatches of Doohan's berating. The shadow slowly came into the blazing desert sun, their features coming into focus and causing Spike to blink in mild surprise.

Doohan's assistant was a woman.

Fucking wonderful.

Immediately Spike felt a surge inside him, a heated pain rising in his chest. Anger, maybe. Antagonism towards this woman for reasons he couldn't fathom. He could feel the muscles knot under his jacket, tensing as he warily surveyed Doohan's new apprentice.

He simply didn't have the patience for females right now.

She was a young thing-- couldn't have been older than twenty, short but not stocky, with thick raven hair that cascaded to her waist. Her face was plain and streaked with grease smudges and ash; hanging loosely around her waist was a worn leather tool belt.

"I said DON'T put the silencer on, you goblin!" Doohan growled at her.

She pulled a face. "I wouldn't have if you hadn't left it out!"

"It was packed away!"

"In a box of parts right underfoot!"

"Bah!"

"Oh, `bah' yourself!"

Spike watched the banter with a bemused expression, the young woman obviously refusing to take the blame for the mishap and the old man obviously refusing to let it go.

"Wench, you're some piece of work. . ." Spike murmured, letting his gaze wander back to the still-smoking hanger. All women were evil, sent to make the universe a living Hell for all those unfortunate enough to be blessed with a Y-chromosome.

This small insinuation caught the attention of the aforementioned spawn of Satan, and her eyes raked his slouched form icily.

"Who's the string bean?" she asked, one hand resting coyly on her hip and her head cocked to the side.

Doohan folded his arms across his chest. "Spike, meet Kerrian."

"Yo." Spike's gaze was unmistakably patronizing.

Her glare was enough to crack ceiling tiles, but it had no effect on the aloof Spike. Taking advantage of the brief (and rare) moment when the woman was not shouting, Doohan barked out his orders.

"Kerrian, unload the Swordfish from the truck, an' be careful with it. Then gimme the EV Transmitter, the absorber for the main gear and the three-eight pneumatic tube."

The woman `hmphed' and glowered, stubbornly holding her ground.

"Well, someone's got a stick up their ass, eh?" Spike spoke to no one in particular, his words laced with sarcasm and malevolence.

Grumbling and favoring Spike with a rather inappropriate hand gesture, the young woman trudged back into the smoking hanger, uttering curses under her breath. Doohan watched her go, his thin lips curling into a crooked smile as he shook his head tiredly.

"You sure got a way with women, don't you, Spike?"

"What can I say? I'm a real charmer…"

"Hah." Doohan watched as the bleached-red MONO-racer cautiously slid down the ramp and off the truck. It gave a sudden jolt as it hit the Earth, its worn gears groaning in protest of the manhandling. Spike winced at the sound, but Doohan was exasperated.

"Damn it, I said be careful!"

"Fuck you!" was the heated reply.

Spike shook his head and patted the older man on the back sympathetically. "You're a brave soul to hire such a high-strung wench, Doohan. A brave soul."

"I blame it on momentary insanity and lack of judgment."

Spike nodded, a ghost of a smirk touching the corners of his lips. Snapping back to the task at hand, Doohan clapped his hands together and approached the newly emerged Swordfish II, grinning fondly at the sight of his old ship.

"Now, down to business. Kerrian, where's the clipboard?"

The woman climbed out from beneath the ship's left wing and wiped her ash-covered hands on her jeans. "It's pinned to the Swordfish's damaged wing."

Doohan stroked the stubble on his chin thoughtfully as he studied the MONO-racer's injury with veteran eyes. Spike observed the older man curiously, gauging his hardened facial expressions inquisitively. The changes were slight and hard to read, but from all the years they had know each other Spike had learned the old man was as guarded as he himself was.

"You've been abusing her," Doohan stated musingly.

"Huh?"

The graying man shook his head and placed a callused hand on the Swordfish's metal hull. "As much as you refuse to believe it, the `Fish has her limits."

"I'm not one for delicate controls." Spike shrugged lazily.

Doohan snorted. "Huh, no kidding. She looks like she's been through hell and back…"

He trailed off, staring pensively into old memories, oblivious to Kerrian's attempts to grab his attention.

"Hey! Hey, you codger!" Kerrian impatiently waved a hand in front of the older man's eyes, catching him off guard and breaking his train of thought. "I'm takin' my break now. I'll be back late, don't wait up."

Without waiting for further permission, the woman unbuckled her tool belt and slung it over Doohan's shoulder before sprinting off towards the hanger. The mechanic growled in annoyance, curtly brushing off the heavily equipped belt and allowing it to hit the ground with a dry `thud'.

"Like I said before: momentary insanity and lack of judgment."

Spike nodded mutely, watching the woman disappear behind the bay doors. She was certainly an aggravating bitch if he ever saw one. Julia was never so hot-tempered. Or rude. Or foul-mouthed. Or bitchy.

It was a woman's kind of irascibleness that especially grated his nerves; he really hadn't intended to be so rude to the kid, but the way she spoke and the air she carried herself with aggravated him to no ends.

She was a prime example of why Spike hated women with attitudes.

There was a succession of several rather loud crashes and a string of curses from inside the hanger, just before a sleek hover-cycle burst from through the bay doors. Faintly Spike could make out a wave of Kerrian's long raven hair, waving out behind her like a flag as the motorcycle-like vehicle cut across the desert and sped away, leaving behind only a trail of rising dust in its wake.

Doohan was livid.

"Christ, you idiot female!" Doohan ranted, stamping the ground in a furious dance. "You gotta take the other ships out first! You don't just ride through and hope to AVOID them, imbecile!"

Spike sighed.

Satan must be a woman.