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Faye awakes to the sun shining on her face. That was the first red flag. She remembers falling asleep on the bathroom floor after having too much to drink. They were parked at a space station loading up on fuel and supplies. Jet and Spike went into the shops while she stayed behind. She had opened a bottle of good wine they’d been saving. It was a night for celebration after all, they’d just cashed in their biggest bounty in months. They wouldn’t have to be so frugal for a while.
As she shot up she realizes not only is she no longer in the Bebop bathroom, she isn’t in the spaceship at all. Cushioning her is a queen sized soft mattress surrounded by beige walls, blue curtains half open revealing a morning sky, green grass, and beyond that just on the horizon, an everlasting expanse of blue water.
Panic set in and she reached to her hip, where she kept a small switchblade in her belt, only to press against nothing but a large cotton t-shirt. She had briefs on, antithetical to her style but comfortable. The bedroom was vacant. She slowly got up and creeped over to the dresser, looking for anything sharp she could brandish as a weapon and found nothing but a sewing needle shorter than her pinkie. She might as well be bare handed.
She quietly made her way through the house to the stairs and heard the sound of metal clanging and water running before being shut off. Someone was in the kitchen. She reached the last step and prepared to spring for the front door, body full of adrenaline.
“Faye?”
She knew that voice.
Her body froze for a second, then whipped around. He stood there, shirtless in a pair of sweats. A familiar sight from mornings on the Bebop, especially after the Vicious incident.
“…Spike?” She clenched the needle and accidentally pricked herself. She winced but otherwise didn’t react. “What are we doing here?”
He quirked his brow, looking like he didn't know if he should be lost or amused.
“What do you mean?” he walked over to her and she had half a mind to back up and keep the distance, but didn't. Something here was very strange, she could feel it, but he was not a threat. They did not bail on each other anymore, and they certainly did not betray each other. “Let me see that,” he said, voice low with concern as he held her hand smeared with a few drops of blood, a kitten scratch compared to the injuries she’s survived already.
His hands were still rough, streaked with scar tissue and calluses, years of training in dojos, bar fights and shootouts immortalized in flesh like hieroglyphics carved in stone. She has tried to keep her own hands a clean slate. She has tried to not let anything leave claw marks on her, signage of the past printed on the one thing she can never escape from, the only relic she has to look back at her life with nostalgia: herself.
He took the needle from her and wiped the bit of blood away with his thumb, revealing a tiny puncture wound. It's nothing, she barely registers it, but Spike’s mouth twisted into a frown as he guided her to a kitchen she does not recognize. Words evade her. She couldn’t wrap her mind around it all. What are we doing here? How did we get here? And since when is he so quiet? But Faye had witnessed Spike’s lows before. After Julia, after Vicious, when his infinite word bank of witty quibbs and jabs shriveled up to silent nods and mumbled one word responses. When she discovered that his pride was overridden by his grief and he gave up all attempts at pretending not to be weak. She didn’t know what to do with that Spike other than bring him plates of Jet’s cooking and sit beside him, shoulders barely apart, ignoring the silence between them that used to feel so charged—replaced with complete hollowness. But why here? Why now?
In the kitchen he runs her hand under warm water cleaning away the blood, then takes a package of bandages out from a cabinet and applies it to her palm as carefully as a surgeon operating on his patient.
”You’re being ridiculous,” she muttered, unable to raise her voice any higher, reluctant to break the quiet bubble they find themselves in.
”Only for you, Valentine.” His voice drips with sarcasm, more playful than aggressive.
”What’s going on?” she asked again once he let her hand go, warmth receding.
He let out something between an exhale and a laugh. ”You never stop with the questions.”
”You never answer.” She crossed her arms.
“I’m making breakfast.” He waved a black spatula at her before dropping it on the marble countertop. Then, before she can blink, his arms are wrapped around her, pressed against the small of her back. Her face prickles with a surge of heat and her breath catches in her throat.
”Where... uh. Where’s Jet?” Her fingers curled into fists, squeezing then letting go again, not knowing what to do with them, not now, not out of the blue like this.
“Jet? Why, did he say he was coming by?”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
To this Spike shrugs, fingers moving in soothing motions against the thin cotton of her shirt. It puts her into a haze, the world of dreams calling her back as her eyelids droop. She lets her head rest, cheek pressed against his chest and returns the hug, something she’d never had the nerve to do until now, after a demonstration.
Maybe she’s overthinking it, but ever since he came back from the Red Dragon, she’s been weary of playing her hand too soon, still feeling a bit humiliated at her desperate attempt to keep him from walking towards his death, walking away from their crew, from her. She had left the ball in his court, and in the months of his recovery Spike had unraveled into a more vibrant version of himself she hadn’t seen before. His aloofness which once felt cold and uncaring became mellow and amiable. A weight had dropped off his shoulders. He wasn’t about to vent to her or Jet for group therapy, spilling all his feelings in vulnerable coherent sentences, but he didn’t hold them at a distance either.
The biggest tell of this change had to be him verbally admitting one night over instant ramen that he missed Ed and Ein. Something they all felt but didn’t have the heart to speak into existence.
His hand brushes carefully through her messy hair, snapping her out of her reverie. Everything is too serene, but for a moment she doesn’t want to question it. Getting answers means bursting the bubble, preparing for what they’re going to do next. Jet will meet them at the house, or whatever homeowner who has invited them in will make their return any moment, and soon enough they’ll be back on the Bebop surrounded by nothing by a black ocean expanding outwards forever.
But the next part is impossible to ignore, and too out of character to not send her head spinning: Spike peels them apart and dips down, kisses her chastely, on her cheek first and then her lips, then turns back to the stove where french toast is turning golden brown, humming as he flips them like he didn’t just flip her world on its axis. The whole thing happens in less than five seconds and completely knocks the wind out of her.
There’s a moment of suffocating tension that only she seems to be aware of. Spike, nonchalant as ever, seemingly lost in the daze of early morning laziness, is far more relaxed than he should be. Is she blacking out? Losing time? How did they get from just recently admitting their fondness for each other’s friendship to this?
“What the fuck was that ?!” her voice cracks. His shoulders sag with a sigh and he turns the stove off before facing her. He backs her up a few steps until she’s pressed against the kitchen island, trapped between his arms placed on the counter.
“You know desperation looks good on you but it’s not necessary. Just ask.”
There’s that arrogant smirk she both loves and loathes. She wants to smack it just to throw him off kilter. She wants to kiss him until he forgets his own name.
Something in his gaze shifts, becomes softer.
“You’re angry,” he says. “Just tell me what’s wrong, alright?”
She doesn’t know if she’s really angry, just that being out of the loop like this agitates her more and more the longer it goes on, but at the same time she is hesitant to actually discover the answer. Something is clawing at her gut, the same off feeling you get before it’s about to rain, or get deja vu. Something inside her wants to run from it before it can catch up.
So with her mouth twisted into a frown she looks away from him. “Forget it.”
But he takes hold of her chin and makes her look at him. His voice goes terribly soft, “Faye.” And he cups her cheek, brushing a fingertip under her eye with a featherlight touch. Something inside her is liquifying, organs smelted and forged into some mold spelling out his name.
All sense must leave her, because any attempt at acknowledging the absurdity of the situation is abandoned.
“Just a bad dream. It put me in a shit mood.”
He squishes her face, pushing her lips out into a pout because he’s an absolute clown. She smacks his shoulder but he only laughs under his breath.
“Hm. Let me help you out of it.”
Another kiss, longer, warmer. She’s sinking in quicksand before she knows it, hands pressed to his waist, unwilling to let go.
She doesn’t know how much time has passed (breakfast has definitely gone cold) when they break apart, but Faye peeks her eyes open to a dumb content smile on Spike’s face. She can’t help but return it. Then in the corner of her eye she sees something that makes her do a double take.
A photo stuck onto the fridge with magnets, of herself, her parents who looked so much older than she remembered, and Spike . Something clicks into place. This isn’t her life, her world. It isn’t real, and if it is, she’s not supposed to be here.
It’s like a bucket of freezing water was dumped on her. She lurches away from Spike, lungs tight in her chest and head spinning. She runs to the backyard door, heart pounding as she bursts into the yard and it takes it all in. The path, the palm trees, huge rocks she used to climb as a child. That beach, that ocean she could smell half a mile away. She’s on Earth. She’s in her hometown. She’s home, she's home, she's home… and he’s with her.
Echoing from the house is Spike’s voice calling after her.
“This isn’t real,” her voice breaks into a whisper.
“Of course it’s real.” Spike says.
“Even if it is…” Her eyes cloud until her vision is a blur. “If it’s real, it’s not mine.” And the tears pour down in a flood.
“What do you mean?”
She feels like she is suffocating. There exists a world in which he chooses her, loves her, marries her. The same world where her parents grow old and time isn’t stolen from her. Everything she could ever want served on a silver platter, and yet she can never have it. She can’t bear the thought of stealing happiness from another version of herself—as much as she wants to stay here, she cannot be with this Spike without feeling that hole carved out in her chest, he doesn’t know her, and she doesn’t know this version of him, although she would like to.
He’s standing before her, wrapping one hand around her waist, the other cradling the back of her head, fingers soft in her hair. She presses her face into his neck, dampening it with tears, and takes in a shuddering breath. She doesn’t want to cry like this in front of him, part of her pride is wounded even if it isn’t her Spike she’s embarrassing herself in front of.
He presses a kiss to the top of her head. “What’s going on?” he asks, voice low.
She shakes her head.
“It’s alright,” he says.
But how could she possibly explain it to him—that she’s possessed his wife’s body, that she has no clue on how to give it back and return to her own reality?
“Just… it was just a really bad dream.” Her voice chokes up, “I can still see it, feel it, don’t wanna talk about it.”
“I know the kind.” His arms tighten around her. “C’mon, you might feel better on a full stomach,” he says, leading her inside.
And so she eats his food and lets him do all the dishes and watches him take extra care to not provoke her. No teasing or playful jabs, just an arm around her shoulders pulling her against his chest. She can’t bring herself to turn away a single kiss, or pry her hand out of his. When she goes to sleep that night tucked against his side, she can only hope she’ll wake up on the right side of reality, even if it means losing the thing she wanted most.