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In between jobs and when the money isn’t so tight, the Bebop takes the chance to stock up on supplies. Before you, it was usually Jet who did all the shopping around. When Jet didn’t want to, Spike would get forced to under the threat of not being fed. Of course, then you come along, and you’re always so eager to help. ‘It’s the least I can do,’ you tell the rest of the crew with an easygoing smile, Ein cuddled up in your arms with a leash on, ready to walk around the planet with you and excitedly murmuring about something she wants to see nearby. Only then does Spike voluntarily go out to help supply the ship. After all, someone has to keep an eye on a pretty little thing like you.
It’s on these trips where you two can be most honest. A lot of the time during jobs, the crew will have you tucked away on the Bebop under the guise of protecting Ed while she works or making sure Ein doesn’t run out and mess things up. No one mentions the way you hate seeing others hurt. Even if it's inevitable in this line of work.
Still, he doesn’t quite know why he still does it. You’re his biggest motivator to quit. But apathy tends to grip at this one part of him and asks why does it matter? So now, he can’t stop. Or, at least he doesn’t stop. Not even when the door opened and shut quietly behind him. Not even when he knew it was you.
“Spike…” Your voice was demure as you walked up to him. A soft whisper. A silent plea. It’s amazing that he didn’t buckle so quickly to give into you. His only saving grace was the way he was facing away from you. And although the feeling of your hands coming to rest on the back of his suit jacket made him tense up, ultimately he couldn’t bring himself to say anything. Instead, he kept looking forward. Out into the rainy city. And took another drag from his cigarette.
Stillness settles in between you two. There’s hardly anyone outside. A few people rushed under tiny umbrellas, just trying to make it through. They’re even fewer people who are people-watching like him. Standing under shops, just out of the rain, as if waiting for the sun to make its grand debut. Sure, it may be peaceful outside. But inside his head, it’s a warzone.
And it’s all because of you.
He can feel your fingers twist and tug at his clothes- a habit he noticed you only did around him when you’re feeling restless or worried. He was the only one you trusted enough to be this vulnerable with. Even Jet hasn’t seen you whenever you were like this. That is why he hates that he was the cause of this. He absolutely hates it. Right now, he wants nothing more than to turn around and wrap you in his arms and not let go. Not let you see what he just can’t stop from doing.
And your body nearly collapses into his, he thinks himself a broken man with barely any patience left for his own actions.
“Spike…” You try again, but you’re still not able to find all the right things you want to say. Your head is resting against his back, and you sound so defeated. It’s like he’s the only thing left to keep you standing. And even then, he’s your enemy. That’s why he needs you gone, so he doesn’t cause you any more damage. Any more heartbreak. “Spike you know-”
“Why don’t you get back inside.” He speaks, pulling the cigarette from his mouth to talk. The sudden and deep rumble of his voice is enough to make you gasp. His words don’t hold any room for argument. It’s a question, it’s a command. Even still, you don’t listen. Your fingers just tug a little harder at his clothes, and you breathe a little quieter as if to say you aren’t there. It won’t change the way you haunt him in his every waking moment. The way you haunt him in his every mistake. So he tries again, this time with a little more reason. “You’ll get sick if you’re out here too long. It’s cold.”
In a while, it’s not a lie. Nor is it a bad excuse to get you to go back inside where you’re safer from all things he ruins. You’ve always been the softest edition to the Bebop. Sensitive. Compassionate. Kind . You weren’t a cowboy, and he hated it when you tried to be. You were just a pretty face, easily sick, and could never hold a gun to someone’s head with a bullet in the chamber. And he’d rather die than ever see you in that position where you had no choice to shoot. So why?
Why couldn’t you let him ruin himself in peace?
“Spike those things are going to kill you one day.” You murmur at him, and he can’t help but chuckle. He can picture your reaction- your eyebrows pulled together as you frown at him, wondering how he can be so insensitive to his own health. You start tugging at his clothes again, and in retaliation, he takes another drag, hoping you have enough sense to give up on him. “Spike! I’m serious! You could die!”
But you don’t. Because you don’t live on the Bebop because you’re a good shot or a merciless cowboy who’ll stop at nothing to get your money. You’re on the Bebop because you’re stubborn, and you care . And maybe that will be the end of him.
“Everybody dies, sweetheart.” He dismisses you easily, but there’s a twang in his chest that always comes when he talks like this to you. It’s unfeeling. It’s not like you, and part of him feels the need to repent just for being an example that the world isn’t as soft or as pure-hearted as you. Instead, he just grips his little cancer stick tighter between his fingers and hopes you’ll go back to holding Ein and making sure Ed stops running around the store. “Everyone.”
What’s left of his heart shatters when you gasp at his harshness.
“How…how can you just say that-” You began, but he cuts you off with the full intention of finishing what he started.
“It’s the truth.” He’s brutally honest now because it might just be the only way to protect you from him. There’s a load of bad he brought into this world. And absolutely none of it should ever come close to enough to touch a hair on your precious head. He knows he’s not a good man. He’s not a worthy man either. There are so many things that could pull you away from him. So many lies and so many more truths. He just wants it to be on his own terms. He rather make you cry because he smokes than because he kills. “We all die someday. Whatever happens, happ--”
“What if…what if it were me?”
His blood runs cold and suddenly the only thing he can see is the color red.
“ What ?” His voice is clipped as his hands tighten into fists. Everything around him fades away until his mind is completely tunneled on you. There’s no denying what you just implied. But he wants you to say it again. Say it without the rain as your cover. Say it without your touch as his biggest distraction. Say it without hesitation.
Because if you could, he might not be able to stop himself from doing something drastic.
“What if…” The way you trail off, unsure of yourself, is the only thing keeping him from losing his cool. You’re back to holding onto his jacket as if the idea of what you’re about to say is terrifying to you. And that’s good , he thinks to himself. Because Spike is a selfish man and he knows if he has to hear you say it again- if he has to hear you entertain it again, he wants you to be scared of it. So scared that you can barely think of it. Because maybe that fear will keep you alive if he’s ever not around to protect you. “What if it were me instead…slowly…slowly…”
The word just can’t leave your lips. They just fall into the air- unspoken, yet heard. Silence fills the air between the two of you again and Spike tries to ignore your trembling body in exchange for taking one last, long drag and dropping the half-smoked cigarette onto the floor. He’s still wordless as he picks up his leg and digs his heel into it, effectively snuffing out. When he’s done, he picks up his foot and gives it one last look. It’s nothing special. Just another piece of a habit he can’t break off. But it means something to you. So maybe one day, it’ll mean something to him too.
The decision to finally turn around and face you is a slow one. He practically dreads it more than anything else. But it alls melts away when you’re finally, perfectly in his view. Your hands are tucked at your own sides, tugging at your clothes while you peer up at him. WIth your quivering lip and big, round, softer than soft look in your eyes, Spike starts thinking dumb thoughts. Dumb, stupid thoughts Like how he wished he was a cloud so he could whisk you away to someplace nice, all safe and sound. Or how he wished he was the sun just so he could get rid of this gloomy mood and make you feel warm again.
Or how he could have given you a better life than cowboys and gunfights if he was never a dog for the Syndicate.
His arms spread out, and you waste no time leaping into them. The force of your hug is enough to send him stumbling back a few inches, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. So he’ll just stand there. He’s let the back of his head and neck get soaked in the rain if it means you’ll have something to cling to a little longer. And with the way he sees you tuck your head under his chin, he knows you appreciate it too.
“ That’s different .” He finally answers your question in a low voice. You don’t say anything to that. You just sigh and hold onto him as if you’re scared he’ll drop dead right where he stands. And a part of him has always had that fear. Not a fear of death. He couldn’t bear to care about what happened to him. No, the fear of being the death that breaks you. “You’re different.”
You let out a quiet sound- almost akin to a whimper, and it has Spike thinking dumb, stupid thoughts all over again.
“I’ll quit.” He promises before he can even think things through. He knows his words are going to bite him in the ass one day. And it might even be later today when he starts instinctively reaching for the lighter in his pocket. But all he can think about is the little things he promises you now. If not for a better life, then for a better Spike. “I’ll stop smoking between jobs, I promise you. So just…”
The words die on his tongue, and you pull him impossibly closer, and it takes everything in him not to scoop you up, take you on the Swordfish and fly far, far away from this life. Make he’ll give you Ein since you love the damn mutt so much. And maybe he’ll let Jet and Faye and Ed visit every once in and while too. As long as he can get you away one day. Far away from pain and violence and watching your back, even when you want nothing more than to give up and go to sleep. So he’s glad you’re not a fighter.
In fact, he’s more than glad to be the one that fights for you.