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“I’m gonna go out and find somewhere to get noodles.”
You felt your heart jump into your throat as you threw the pen in your hand across your desk. You turned around to see Spike sprawled out in the armchair at the foot of your bed, his limbs draped lazily over it, an unlit cigarette tucked behind his ear, nearly lost in his thick mop of hair.
You clutched your chest as your pulse started to slow to normal again. “You scared the shit out me, you asshole. How long have you been sitting there?”
He shrugged. “Long enough. You’re not very observant when you’re focused on something.”
“Well yeah, no shit, I figured I was safe to focus on writing because no one else was in here.” You closed your eyes for a moment and rubbed your temple. “So, wait, you’re going out at this hour?”
“Why not?”
“Fair. Still, seems kinda late to start a night out, but I suppose when food calls to you, it’s hard to say no.” You turned your attention back to the notebook in front of you; you had written a couple words when you still felt like someone’s eyes were on you. You turned around to see Spike still sitting in your chair. He was leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees.
“Yes?” you asked with raised eyebrows.
He smirked and rested his chin in his hand. “So, are you gonna come with me?”
“Well, I didn’t know I was invited.”
“Why else would I have come in here?”
“Spike, you’re in here all the damn time. If you wanted me to come with you, why didn’t you just say that?”
He stood up, exaggeratingly extending a hand towards you. “Would you like to come with me to get some noodles?”
You smiled as you shut your notebook and tucked it away in a drawer. “Why yes, I would. Let me get my jacket.”
***
The whole walk over to the noodle shop, Spike was remarkably pleasant and chatty; he stopped occasionally to show you things in shop windows, his broad gestures illuminated by the neon shop signs, and told you about an engine upgrade he was making to the Swordfish, and waxed poetically about what type of ramen he would get since he had a little extra left over from his last bounty. You couldn’t help but laugh to yourself the entire time as you nodded and “mm-hmm”-ed and encouraged him with as many pointed questions as you could come up with; you weren’t sure if it was the fact he had woolongs in his pocket, or that Faye and Jet had been out all day and the ship had been relatively quiet and tranquil, or just the simple fact that he was nearing ever-closer to getting real food, but you were enjoying this side of Spike.
You occasionally got glimpses of it when he’d come and sit in your room with you, silently sprawled out in the chair at the end of your bed, a cigarette dangling from his lips, his eyes closed and head lolling back as he’d tell you some rambling story about that day’s bounty. You weren’t sure when he’d started coming into your room of his own accord—when you really tried to rack your brain, you think it had started when you’d made him sit in there with you so you could watch over him when he’d gotten in a particularly nasty scrape with a bounty gone wrong, and Jet tasked you with bandaging Spike up and making sure he didn’t overexert himself and crack one of his remaining good ribs. However it started, you found it charming that he’d slink into your room some nights, often unnoticed, and plunk himself down in your chair or stretch across your bed while you worked at your desk, and just exist in the same space with you, silently, often only drawing attention to himself when the smoke of his cigarette would start to fill the room. You didn’t know why he did it—why he’d join you a few nights a week for no apparent reason other than to just have somewhere quiet to sit—but you’d become grateful for the company, even craving his presence when he wouldn’t show up for a while.
God help you if he ever knew how much you missed him when he wasn’t around though, if he ever knew how much you’d started to worry about him when he was off tracking down some big-time bounty, if he ever knew that thoughts of him—lanky, languid, practically liquid in your armchair—ran through your mind nearly every waking moment. He’d never let you live it down if he knew, of that much you were certain, so you kept it all tucked away carefully inside—or at least hoped that you did. You had never been all that successful at hiding some of your less enjoyable emotions, your face innately a blank canvas for your displeasure, but you crossed your fingers that your expressions wouldn’t betray you when it came to whatever unidentifiable feelings you had grown to have for Spike over the time you’d been aboard the Bebop.
The two of you slid into a booth, sitting across from each other, and Spike ordered for the both of you before you could utter a word. You didn’t mind, your thoughts a bit of a jumble from the walk over, and you flashed him a quick, appreciate grin before letting your eyes wander around the darkened room, taking in the knickknacks shoved into every corner of the shop; you weren’t actively trying to avoid engaging with him, but you weren’t not trying either. The room was filled with the low buzz of conversations, the other patrons laughing and slurping their ramen and clinking their glasses on the tables, and you let yourself be distracted by people-watching and eavesdropping.
You glanced over at Spike as he watched out the half-shuttered window at the passersby. The darkened streets were still damp from rain earlier in the evening, and the neon shop lights glittered in the puddles on the sidewalk, rippling as pedestrians splashed their way through them. You sighed a little inside as you saw the faint twinkling of the florescent lights reflecting in Spike’s near-black eyes, and you wondered how often you’d stared at them when he wasn’t paying attention. He quickly turned, probably noticing your incredibly obvious glances, and shot you a smile.
“What were you looking at?” he asked, his expression making it clear that he knew full well the answer.
“Oh you know, just the street lights,” you fibbed, fidgeting with the wrapper from your chopsticks.
Before you could embarrass yourself any further, a man came by and set two glasses of amber liquid on the table, followed by two bowls of ramen, and you suddenly felt hungrier than you had all day at the sight of the steaming bowl of noodles. You quickly started to dig in, hoping that throwing yourself into eating would keep you from any further slip-ups.
Spike picked up his chopsticks, then quickly set them back down. “Oh before I forget, I got you something.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a notebook—small and seemingly leather-bound, the jacket a stunning, rich burgundy. You reached across the table and gently picked it up, rotating the little book in your hands, opening it to run your fingers across the smooth pages lined with gold ink, marveling at the small strip of pink cloth serving as a bookmark.
“What’s this for?” you asked as you carefully set the book aside, not wanting to have even so much as a drop of ramen broth or alcohol dare touch its delicate pages.
“I dunno. I saw it in a shop I was in the other day.”
“Yeah, but why’d you get it for me?” you asked suspiciously. “I can buy my own notebooks, you know.”
He rolled his eyes. “Of course you can. But I know you write a lot, and you said one time you wished you had something small you could bring with you in your bag when we’re off the ship, and this seemed nice. That’s all.”
You stared into your bowl, unsure how to respond. “I’m just surprised you remembered something like that.”
“I do pay attention to things.” He paused and took a sip of his drink. “Sometimes.”
“Oh yeah?” you asked, tilting your head to one side. “What else do you know about me?”
“Hm.” He hesitated for a moment, glancing up at the ceiling. “Well, I know you’re a lot better at fixing things than you let on. Probably because otherwise Jet would never let you leave the engine room.”
“Oh, is that so?” you asked incredulously.
“Oh come on, I’ve seen all your little tinkering projects in your room. And I know you go to the engine room at night sometimes when you can’t sleep, and suddenly whatever wasn’t working the day before is running a lot better the next morning.”
“That was one time! Maybe twice.”
“Are you sure about that?” he prodded between mouthfuls of ramen.
You were caught. “Fine. Sometimes I do work on stuff after you’re all asleep. Or at least I assumed you were all asleep. I don’t mind fixing little things around the ship but if Jet knows I can work on the engine, that’s all I’ll ever do. Plus he gets so weird about it, ‘cause the ship is his pride and joy and if anything were to happen to it and it was my fault well...” You sighed and supped at your beverage. “Anyway, enough of that. What else do you know about me, Spiegel? Hm?”
“I know your writing is good. What you let me read of it, at least.”
“You mean what you read when you steal my notebooks from me,” you said accusingly.
“You’d never let me see it otherwise!”
“Of course I wouldn’t!” you laughed. “What I write is for me and me alone. And maybe for an audience one day when I publish it as a memoir, at which time you can buy it like everyone else.”
“Do I at least get a discount?”
“No, but I’ll sign a copy for you. And it won’t just be generic, I’ll personalize it and everything.”
“You’re too kind,” he laughed. “And just for that, I’ll tell you something else I know about you. I know you’re bad at asking for what you want. It’s like you think you’re inconveniencing everyone just by existing.”
“Whoa, hey now. I didn’t come here to get analyzed.” He wasn’t wrong, you just didn’t want to hear it, least of all from him. Jet taking you in had been a merciful act, and while you made yourself useful around the ship (you were no bounty hunter, but you had a way with words and could be charismatic enough when you wanted to be that you were useful to have around when needing to negotiate for information or haggle for better prices on engine parts), you still tried to make your presence as small as possible, never asking for anything above and beyond what was required to survive. You’d been doing it your whole life anyway—taking care of yourself and not relying on anyone else, that is—so why would you start now?
Spike grinned, bringing his glass to his lips. “That’s fair. You couldn’t afford my rates anyway.”
You poked your chopstick at a green onion floating in the milky broth, watching it lazily drift across the bowl. “Anything else? I’m willing to hear one more, as long as you stay out of my head.”
He leaned back in the booth, stretching his lanky arms out across the back of the seat, a smug grin creeping across his face. “I know you seem to sleep better when I’m in your room.”
“W-what are you talking about?” you asked, brows furrowed, mouth full of noodles.
“Whenever I walk by your room at night, I can see your light’s still on. I can hear you in there, talking to yourself, listening to music on low, probably writing to try to keep yourself busy. But the nights when I come in, you usually end up falling asleep before I ever leave.”
You paused, carefully considering how to respond. It seemed useless to protest at this point, but you certainly weren’t ready to lay all your cards on the table. “Yeah well, you’re usually quiet when you come in; you don’t hassle me, so it’s easier to relax I guess. Sometimes it’s just nice to have another person around.”
He grinned and leaned in towards you. “You know, you’re cute when you’re asleep.”
“Spike!” you hissed, feeling your face grow hot.
“It’s true,” he smirked, reading every smidgen of embarrassment plastered across your face. “You seem… peaceful. Like all this shit doesn’t matter, and you’re just off somewhere that’s gotta be a hundred times better than here.”
You sat back in your seat, trying to distance yourself from him, as your hands shook a little and your eyes darted around the room, trying to land anywhere but on his face. As you tried to gather yourself, you felt his leg rest against yours for a moment. You attributed it to the small booth and the absurd length of his legs cramped under the table, but you glanced up to see his eyes half-lidded, a mischievous smile on his lips and realized it had to have been intentional. You quickly pulled your legs against the booth, pressing them as tightly as you could to the cool wooden bench, preferring to risk splinters than more accidental-but-on-purpose physical touch.
He chuckled. “Sorry, did I embarrass you?”
You pressed one hand to your cheek, feeling how searing-hot your skin had become. “I just think I’ve heard enough for right now, that’s all.”
“Alright, alright. We can just eat our dinner.”
You let a few minutes pass before you said quietly, “Thanks again for the notebook. I really do like it.”
“You’re welcome.” He downed the last sip of his drink and motioned to the man at the bar for another. “Maybe you’ll write about me in there sometime?”
Your ears burned and your heart skipped a beat. “Maybe.”
***
You finished the rest of your meal in near-silence, trying to make sense of what happened, and hastily settled the bill so you could get back to ship as quickly as possible. The walk back was mostly quiet, punctuated by the sounds of a few drunken strangers stumbling out of bars and into the dim streets, and the occasional car or bicycle whizzing by. You weren’t looking forward to another sleepless night as you ruminated over and over and over again on every little detail—every glance, every touch, every word—wondering what you should have said, should have done, should have felt differently. You were, however, looking forward to at least suffering in the comfort of your bed, wrapped tightly in blankets and dressed in the warmest sweaters you could find; the damp chill in the air was beginning to penetrate every layer of clothing you had on, and you found yourself shivering as you walked a little faster to keep yourself warm.
“You look cold,” Spike finally observed, breaking the quietness between the two of you.
“I’m okay,” you said with a shaky shrug. “Just should have brought a heavier coat, I forget how cold it gets after it rains.”
“Why don’t I warm you up?”
“No, that’s okay I—”
Before you could protest further, he had wrapped one arm around your shoulder as he pulled you against him. You tried to wriggle away, not wanting to seem too eager, but he yanked you back towards him with remarkable ease, his long arms like braided ropes of steel cables.
“Better?” he asked.
“Yeah, thanks,” you squeaked, as you settled in under his arm, and hesitantly wrapped yours around his waist. You waited for him to say something, to move it away, but instead he made what you would have sworn was a barely-audible sigh of contentedness. You felt yourself relaxing into him, the warmth of his body comforting against you, and found yourself wishing you could feel this more often—his strong arm wrapped around you, his lithe body pressed against yours. You found yourself walking just a little slower, wanting to linger on this feeling as long as you could, unsure that you’d ever get to experience it again. He released his grip on you as you approached the Bebop, placing one hand on the small of your back as he followed in closely behind you.
“Hey, you hear that?” he asked as he slid his hand away from your body, his fingertips grazing your hips as he meandered away from you and flopped down onto the couch.
You paused for a moment, listening to the dull hum and rattle of the ship. “Hear what?”
“Exactly,” he said, leaning his head back to glance up at you. “Seems like everyone’s still out for the night.”
“Well, guess that means we get some quiet time to ourselves, then,” you said coyly. You dawdled for a moment, unspoken confessions floating in your mind, a tension lingering in the air, wondering what should come next. “Thanks again for dinner. And the notebook.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Oh? What about for keeping you from freezing?”
There was that damned fire in your cheeks again. “Goodnight, Spike.”
As you started to walk away, you suddenly felt yourself being pulled backwards; you looked down to see his long fingers wrapped firmly around your wrist.
“Don’t go to bed yet,” he implored, tugging at your arm. “C’mon, it’s not often we get the ship to ourselves. Enjoy the quiet with me for a little bit.”
“Do I have a choice?” you asked, a hesitant smile on your face.
“Not really,” he beamed. He released you from his grasp and you cautiously walked around and sat on the opposite end of the couch, your body stiff as you set your hands in your lap, interlacing your fingers.
He lit a cigarette, closing his eyes to take a long drag, and blew the smoke towards the ceiling. He stared up at the drifting vapors above as he asked, “You know what else I know about you?”
You rolled your eyes. “I thought we weren’t playing that anymore.”
“Just one more, I promise,” he winked.
“Fine, what do you know, Spike?”
“I know you don’t like it when I smoke in your room, but you let me do it anyway.”
You grew quiet, realizing over the course of the evening that either you were terrible at hiding every emotion and feeling, or that Spike was incredibly observant, or perhaps some sort of combination of the two.
He laughed. “You don’t have to pretend. You frown when I light up if you think I can’t see your face. What I don’t understand though,” he continued as he stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray in front of him, “is why you don’t ask me not to if you don’t like it.”
“I mean, you and Faye smoke in here all the time, not like I can do much about it.”
“It’s your room, though. You can ask me to smoke somewhere else.”
You leaned back on the cushion and crossed your arms, letting out a small huff. You knew perfectly well you could ask him to not smoke in your room. But you were afraid if you asked, that he’d stop coming in—that you’d be back to lonely nights marinating in your own thoughts, with brief interludes of Ed and Ein running into your room every so often. So you just dealt with it, and while you disliked it, you’d at least grown to tolerate it, all in the name of wanting closeness.
“You’re right, Spike,” you sighed, “I don’t like it. But it’s fine! I don’t mind all that much, really.”
He turned his body towards you, one hand resting on the cushion between you, the other arm draped across his lap. “I know you didn’t want to talk about it earlier, but… you’re allowed to ask for what you want, you know.”
“Oh?” you responded sarcastically.
“Of course.” He scooted closer to you, his thigh suddenly pressed against yours, his arm placed behind you on the couch, his fingers gently brushing your shoulder. “So tell me what you want.”
“Spike, what are you—”
“You heard me,” he interrupted, his voice husky and quiet, as he gazed at you unblinkingly. “Tell me what you want. Anything at all.”
“I—I don’t think I can,” you whispered, the words hitching in your throat as you looked down at your hands trembling in your lap.
“Aw, I think you can. I already know what it is.” He leaned in, his voice low and smooth and honeyed like expensive whiskey, his words burning in your ear. “C’mon, honey. Tell me what it is you want.”
I want… I want… I want… The words ran over and over in your mind. What could you even say? What did you even want, after all? At the moment, you wanted to run, wanted to hide in your room for the remainder of the night, wanted to forget that this whole evening had happened and go back to silently, painfully, pining over Spike like you had been for who knows how long.
The refrain of I want was reverberating in your skull, becoming too loud and too much for you to ignore. You inhaled deeply, at last blurting out, “I want you to kiss me, Spike! There, are you happy?”
He chuckled softly. “That’s all you had to say, sweetheart.”
He leaned into you, his fingers delicately wrapping around the back of your neck, his parted lips—tasting faintly of whiskey and nicotine—barely grazing you at first, almost teasingly, before he pressed them to yours. He was warm, so very warm, and so soft, softer than you ever thought he could be, as he carefully parted your lips with his tongue and quietly moaned into your mouth.
When you imagined this moment, as you often did, you always expected that kissing Spike would be urgent, frantic, even desperate—a flurry of tongue and teeth, hands exploring your body, perhaps a firm grip on your neck or waist. But he was careful with you, his touch incredibly tender; he kissed you as though you would break apart like a glass figurine under his touch if he was too rough, like a fragile little thing that he had to protect. His gentleness was intoxicating, and the feather-light kisses felt like a drug as you melted into him, the couch feeling like it was disappearing beneath you, leaving only the two of you suspended in time and space.
He placed his palm on the side of your face, running his thumb gently over your trembling lips as he pulled away from you. “See? Was that so bad?”
You shook your head, barely able to meet his gaze, you head so full of static that you weren’t even sure that what you said next were even intelligible sounds. “No, not at all.”
“All you have to do is ask sometimes,” he said, planting a small kiss in your forehead before leaning back on the couch and pulling you into him, “and you get what you want.”
You rested your head on his shoulder, feeling his muscles taut beneath the stiff fabric of his shirt. You laid one hand on his chest, and were taken aback at the fact that his heart was drumming fast under your outstretched palm, almost as fast as yours, faster than you would have expected given how composed he seemed about the whole thing, how he took the lead in pulling your little confession out of you.
You wondered—how long had it been that he’d known? And how long had it been since he’d felt the same way? Was it that night where you watched over him like a fretful nurse, cursing at him to sit down and stop reinjuring himself, covering him with a blanket when he finally fell into a fitful sleep on your mattress? Was on one of the many evenings he would laze about in your armchair, a bottle of liquor next to him on the floor, a cigarette held loosely in his lips, as you listened to music together and wondered how long it would until Jet asked you to keep it down? Was it when he’d stand over your shoulder and read what you were writing, sometimes snatching your notebook away from you to recite it aloud, holding it as high above you as he could, his long arms stretched to their limit, forcing you on your tiptoes begging him to give it back, lest he read something he shouldn’t?
Or perhaps, you pondered as you felt the rise and fall of his chest under your hand, was it long before you ever even knew for yourself?
You stayed there in stillness, eyes closed, body pressed to his, one leg slung over his lap, as the ship thrummed a mechanical melody. You knew it would end eventually, that there would be an inevitable interruption from Jet or Faye or Ed, with some real or manufactured crisis taking precedence over the quiet affection that consumed you, but for now, at this exact moment, you were his and he was yours, and that was all that mattered.
After a little while longer basking in the quiet, Spike stretched his arms above his head, groaning as his muscles shook. He absentmindedly kissed your forehead. “You know I was thinking—while we’re at it, is there anything else you want?”
You looked up, knowing he couldn’t possibly have meant what you thought he was suggesting. “Like what, exactly?”
He smirked. “Like anything at all.”
You grinned guiltily, not even bothering to hide the look of embarrassment on your face. “Ah. Well… I can think of a few things.”
He stood up, extending out a hand to you, pulling you up from your seat with such force that you stumbled into him, your hands pressed to his chest. He grasped your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your head up towards him, as he kissed you again, this time capturing your lips with a hungry urgency, one that left with you a heat burning deep inside you.
“Well,” he said playfully, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke, “why don’t we go somewhere a little more private and you can tell me all about them?”