Cowboy Bebop Fan Fiction ❯ Spike's Own Blond Angel ❯ one ( Chapter 1 )

Spike's Own Blond Angel

By Nix

He licked the end of the butt in his mouth, swirling smoke in his mouth as he watched his bounty sleep. Kids and critters, right up there with them were fools. Spike leaned back in the worn hotel chair, a sketch book open on his lap. His fingers moved over the texture of the drawings, the soft rough of the paper, smooth of lead laid down in solid shades. Beautiful drawings. Yes, they were beautiful drawings. Cigarette between thumb and pointer finger, he held the cigarette a kiss away from his lips and let the smoke roll out.

This bounty had green eyes, like stolen jade, and Spike knew very well the curse on stolen jade. He'd found the man on the streets, sitting on a corner, blond hair pulled to one side, as he drew a stray cat. Spike still wasn't sure why he'd stopped, why he'd watched the pencil flowing over the paper, or why he'd dropped a woolong into the pencil box where a few other lay. In doing so, he'd gotten close enough to see the faint scar running between the man's eyes. There was his bounty, an 800,000 wl bounty sitting on the street corner in a tee-shirt and tattered blue jeans, drawing cats.

Spike bit the end of his cigarette, swallowed a little smoke and enjoyed the burn for a moment. He should be back on the Bebop, this pretty guy chained up in the john. He thought Faye might drool over this one too. He had a pretty face, young, pale, lips with just enough curve to them that he could think they'd feel very nice under one's tongue.

It hadn't been stupid enough to give the man money when he hadn't known who he was. This was a man who'd been the right hand general for a vicious leader who practiced genocide and torture. This was a man who was said to have personally tortured quite a few people, but when the blond had looked up at Spike and smiled, something had cracked in the bounty hunter. The smile held an innocence that Spike didn't think even Ed had, and a kind of blond sensuality that only an adult could generate the hormones for. Spike remembered squatting down, right there in the street, searching the green eyes as if he could find the key, the edge of the curtain and pull it back to see the man he'd expect. The blond had only smiled more and started to draw Spike. Lines had gone onto the paper fast, the pencil held lightly between slender fingers and there was a Spike in pencil and cream colored paper, a Spike with wild hair and smiling eyes, a slight lift to his lips. He'd scowled at it, until he realized that he had been smiling, had felt light and then he'd found himself asking one of the most wanted bounties out there if he wanted to get something to eat.

That had lead to a hamburger and a milkshake. It had been obvious that the blond couldn't read, or write. He didn't remember the last time he'd eaten, didn't remember where he was staying. By the time they'd left the restaurant, the blond didn't remember that he hadn't been with Spike forever and Spike had wanted to forget that the blond artist was a wanted criminal. So he'd gotten this hotel room, told Jet that he'd be spending the night, come back tomorrow. The night was half over, and the blond had the bed to himself, had had the shower to himself, and had walked from the bathroom to the bed with his clothes folded in his arms. The body the blond had looked like a soldier's body, lean and muscular, tight, graceful, powerful. Blond all over, Spike had decided against his own best interest that he'd stay in the chair, stay out of the bed. Beauty was a crime. Yes, it was.