Cowboy Bebop Fan Fiction ❯ Under Pressure ❯ Ch. 3: Rhythm of the Night ( Chapter 3 )

Sadly, I do not own the characters of Cowboy Bebop. They are the property of Sunrise, Bones, and Bandai Visual (2001). They make the money, not me. Nor can I take credit my chapter headings- they are the product of their authors.

 

Chapter 3: Rhythm of the Night (Debarge)

 

Faye snarled at the constant thump. Beat her pillow and rolled over.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

She knocked on the wall, “Knock it off, Spike!”

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Scowl, What the hell's he doing over there? It sounded like he was jumping on the bed.

Tap..t ..tap...t.. ap..t ..tap...t.. ap..t ..tap...t.. ap..t ..tap...t..

Shrug, At least the rhythm changed. She stilled; soft groans and heavy breathing trickling through.

“Uh…” and a long exhale drifted over.

Worried she grabbed her robe and crept into the dimly lit hall. Carefully easing towards the tightly closed door; pressing her ear against the thinner material she could easily discern the labored breathing and grunts. She waited, the noises were not pained; therefore, he probably hadn't reinjured himself. He almost sounded, tired. To ease her worry, she tapped the metal softly, “Spike?” another soft rap, “Spike. You ok?”

“F…fine, Faye. Mind your business.”

She pinked, “I would but I can hear you! Could you…” she shifted, “Could you do your workout somewhere else?”

“No.”

“But…”

“My room, Faye. You don't like it, move.”

“Good grief, Spike, this is the third time!!”

“Then move!” snarled from the space.

She stared at the wall, deciding Spike had opted for a late night run through his exercises just to rattle her, she shrugged and puttered back towards her own bed. Idly wondering why he had been talking about her while jumping rope. Her shoulders bounced assuming it was some counting song. A slight grin tugging her lips, she'd never taken Spike as the playground, jump rope chanting type.

 

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Spike strained to hear Faye's movements. The door to the room over click closed. He was not a happy cowboy, he'd assumed she was asleep. Wary he listened as slippers slid across the floor, stilling when the bed began to creak and groan. He heard her punch her pillow, sigh, grumble about an insensitive lunkhead and burrow deeper below her bedding; the nightly ritual a part of his own routine. He remained stiff and wary, the soft sheen of sweat drying across his exposed back. Brown eyes swiveled to his door. That had been close. Too close. He'd awoken after a rather pleasant dream and decided, to deal with his frustrations for once rather than ignore it. A cold sweat replaced the warm residue of sustained completion when he discovered his lock had not been engaged. Cursing his laziness he scurried towards the exit, locked the bolt and returned to his warm bed. He always locked the door; it gave him an extra thirty seconds to remove any incriminating evidence or make some to hide what he was really up to. Irritated and in the need to vent he tugged on a pair of loose pants and grumped off to the observation deck- at least after a good workout he could relax in the shower.

 

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Jet grinned through his coffee steam. Spike looked frazzled and unkempt, not all that unusual first thing in the morning. But the dark circles and irritated snarl indicated the cowboy had suffered another long night.

An eyebrow rose, “Faye making weird noises again?”

“No.” Spike glared at the coffee maker, it was percolating far too slowly for his taste.

Snicker, “What were you so worked up about last night?”

Twitch. He forced, “Nothing.” Through tightly clamped teeth.

Grin, “Have some pent up issues about a nearly naked, dark headed cowgirl strewn across your racer?” More mocking laughter, “Perhaps in one of those lacy articles you were fingering the other day?”

Angry eyes snapped to the snickering ex-cop, “You know that sacred line, Jet?” Spike's eye ticked.

Chuckle, “Which? The no asking personal questions line or the no indicating you have the hots for Faye line?” His face felt sore with all the grinning, “Or the fact you're a panty pervert?” Jet had to set his mug down at the convulsions his innocent query produced.

“Not…” Spike appeared to visibly force the appearance of composure- he failed gloriously, “funny.”

“Says you.” He took a pleased sip- mirth minimally checked, “I take it she nearly caught you.”

The spasms increased.

Jet snagged his popped toast and absently began buttering the slabs of bread. “Get interrupted in the middle again and have a hard time finishing?”

Spike had turned away from the heckler, his focus on the slowly dripping machine.

“I'll take that as a yes.” He began slopping jam across his breakfast, “That why you were up half the night working out and the other half in the shower?”

Grumble, “Not really any of your business, Jet.”

“What's not Jet's business?”

Spike's spine became abnormally straight; he spun on the chipper woman and snarled, “If it isn't Jet's business it sure as hell isn't yours!”

Blink. She ignored the moody outburst, sparkling green eyes focused on Jet as her head bounced towards the man by the coffee maker, “You piss in his creamer or something?”

Jet nearly choked at the strained, garbled rant that filtered from her left. “No. He just woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

“That's the problem.” she snorted, “He didn't go to bed. He woke me up because he was working out half the night and spent the other half in the shower.” Her eyebrows snuck together as she took a careful perusal of the slightly spasmodic cowboy. Eyes narrowed, “You didn't hurt yourself again, did you?” She stepped closer, her hand reaching out to tug his forearm away from his side so she could examine the still healing wound.

Jet fell off the stool. Spike made an uncomfortably, pathetic blend of a growl and mewl and darted from the kitchen. Still rolling on the floor Jet couldn't console the shocked woman.

Her jaw realigning, gaze studying the offensive hand, she muttered, “What's wrong with him?” She glanced at Jet's mug, “Isn't he a bit old to be afraid of cooties?”

Tears dribbling down his cheeks Jet continued to giggle. It was just too funny, Spike was afraid of Faye because she was female, he found her attractive and constantly nearby, fussing over him; which went against his continual rant that as a tomboy she was an untouchable waste of two X chromosomes and a nice ass. He'd noticed Spike had been a little less interested in the `of age' female population outside of the Bebop crew. Having caught several of the sideways glances or repetitious visits to the hangar whenever she had cleaning duty, he snorted. He had been right: Spike had a thing for Faye. The snickering intensified when he recalled the feeling was returned.

Faye stomped her foot, “Good grief! Whatever the hell's wrong with you two keep it away from Ed and me.” She snagged a toaster pastry, “You two are acting worse than a kid Ed's age!”

The comparison only compounded matters and sent Jet into another bout of riotous laughter- she'd hit the analogy directly on the nose.

Faye spat, “I'm headin' to work!”

Jet's guffaws following her down the hall.

 

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Spike continued, ignoring the cause of his predicament shuffling around and humming softly in the other room. He settled against the wall, the cool metal a nice pairing to his warm spine. His eyelids drooped closed. His last run-in with Faye flashed into his currently and constantly addled brain. She had popped her head from the bath, hoping to find Ed wandering. No kid in sight, she had ventured further into the hallway. Apparently, she wanted the teen to retrieve something. Spike had smirked at the steam heavy tresses, her face flushed from the warm water, one of Jet's bargain towels wrapped tightly around her. He groaned at the mental picture, he really needed to purchase a few decent sized towels. The scraps of material Jet had bought on sale barely covered the essentials and Faye had a tendency to run from point A to B in nothing but the scant swath of terry cloth. He had shifted when in her search for Ed he'd caught quite the indecent expanse of leg. Her exposed skin glistened in the sporadic hall lights.

He cleared his throat.

Green locked on him. He'd had to school his features to hide the fact he'd been ogling. She scowled, one hand on a cocked hip the other still holding the material closed. “You seen Ed?”

“Nope.”

Her gaze drifted to her bedroom door, obviously trying to decide if she should just get what she needed. Spike swallowed as a few bubbles slowly wrapped around her legs on their slithering journey to the floor. The thought of clothing, that towel, even his hands taking the place of the insipid froth filling his mind with more images than his frantic pace could handle.

His head fell against the metal. He'd been jealous of that trail of suds, still was if he were completely honest with himself.