Embers

You're an idiot, Spike Spiegal.

An idiot for throwing your life away for a woman who was too much of a coward to stand at your side from the very beginning. For not asking for help when you had only to give a word, a sign, and we, Jet and I, would have been at your side. And for being the same stupid gaucho I've always known you to be, for being a hero in the end despite what you might believe to the contrary.

And I'm an even bigger idiot to stand here, fingers skimming the glass of the observation deck as I stare out into the far flung emptiness, half-searching and half-hoping for a glimpse of the Swordfish streaking in with the same reckless abandon with which you approach so much of your life. The Bebop is quiet now, the lights running at half power as the engines hold position, devoid of all the sounds and colors that once ran so vibrant here. No brilliant shock of red hair and squirming energy greets me, shouting 'Faye-Faye' as Ed was once wont to do. No soulful brown eyes and bemused knowing lupine expression grins up at me from the stairwell, Ein tilting his head as if to ask a question only I knew the answer to. Even Jet is gone, the sound of his footsteps still hollow in my ears as he walked out to his ship, leaving not long after you did. Perhaps to see how it all turned out, to retrieve a body... I shudder, my hands raking into tense claws as they grip the glass. You goddamn idiot, I think again. If you do make it out, I'm going to kill you for making me go through this.

But then you're never coming back, are you? Had Julia lived, you would have gone off with her, lived your happily ever after, that dream that you never could escape. Only Julia is dead, lost in a puddle of blood and leather, cut down by someone you once called friend. And instead of leaving well enough alone, you went after that psychopath, tossing aside that casual indifference to become what I always suspected you really were; a hero, a knight in a rumpled suit and the lingering scent of cigarettes. So ridiculous. You, a hero? I laugh, a short bark thick with emotions I'd rather not acknowledge. I hate you. I hate you so much for what you did, for being who you are. Mostly, I hate you for making me care, for reaching deep inside and finding that hopeful little girl from the video. She was dead, lost and gone until you came along with that absurd hair and lazy grin, your lanky form always somewhere between fluid action and repose. And now she's all I can feel, her pain and loss cutting me to the quick. She mourns you too, you know? Mourns for yet another person lost to her, taken by whatever curse has lengthened our existence while stealing from everyone around us.

It used to be so easy, moving from place to place, always one step ahead of those hunting me, never having to rely on anyone or anything. Then you and Jet had to waltz into my casino and wreck everything.

Do you know why I revived the legend of Poker Alice? It's not for the reason you might have thought. True, the alias was convenient but I could have chosen another name and been far less conspicuous. No, I chose to become Poker Alice again because Alice was everything Faye Valentine never was. Gutsy, sophisticated, and completely heartless -- Alice would never have let herself be caught in this trap because she would never have allowed herself to care about something so pointless, something beyond the need to make more money. If I'd stuck to that goal instead of letting myself be sidetracked then I might have been well on my way to paying off my debts. There were certainly better ways of making cash than sticking around this tub with its motley crew of losers.

The sad thing is that I think I'm the biggest loser of all. I knew better and I let myself start to feel again, to come to think of all of you as my family. I *depended* on you and I swore never to depend on anyone. I trusted you and I'd sworn that off, too. Every goddamn rule in my book I broke willingly and look where it's gotten me. Moping around this rusting bucket, feeling as if every rib in my body has been kicked in while I wait for Jet to confirm what my head is already telling me.

When Ed left, I should have been happy. I'd never liked the kid anyway, even if she did have her uses and the damn dog... Oh, please. I never expected the silences to grow so much louder with her gone, the ship sucked of some energy that she had imparted to us all. And now that...now that you're gone, I fear those silences might swallow me whole.

"Faye."

Jet's voice sounds so hoarse, so gravelly that I can't help but flinch. So this is it. This is where he tells me that you were a good man and that you wouldn't want us to mourn you. Same old trite formula, same barren words of cold comfort that sting all the more, adding new layers of salt to a bleeding wound. So much has changed from my childhood but this hasn't. This feeling of helpless anger and despair remains the same no matter what era. I smack my fist against the glass. ‘Idiot,’ I bite off bitterly, you complete and utter moron. "I'm not divvying up for the funeral," My voice sounds funny to my ears, too high and wavery to be real.

"Faye--"

"We should just space the body and save ourselves the trouble, Jet," I babble on. I need a cigarette, nerves craving something to take the edge off, to end this maddening stretch of memory chasing thought. Yeah, a smoke would be nice but a drink might be better. Find a nice bar planet-side and drink myself to sleep. It beats crying and puffy eyes any day. "Why should we pay for his stupidity?"

"Gee, Faye, I love you, too."

My body freezes, the sound of blood rushing to my ears and the feel of my stomach lurching almost blocking out the sound of that sardonic, half-amused voice. I turn around as if underwater, each movement costing me more than the effort seems worth. 'God, I've never asked for anything before, but just this once...Just this once...'

Mismatched brown orbs flicker into my view, your lean body nearly slumped over Jet's larger frame. Bandaged and stiff, you look as though you've seen hell and back and I know you probably have. None of that matters though; not the scruffiness of your appearance or the smirk I can almost hear in your voice. The only thought I can process is that you're here--you're alive, and you're really *here*.

I'm staring, I know I am. I can see Jet struggling not to chortle out of the corner of my eye and uncharacteristically, I don't rise to the bait. There are so many things I want to say--not the least of which is the desire to shake you thoroughly for scaring the shit out of me coupled with the equal need to throw my arms around you, wounds be damned, just to feel flesh underneath my touch. To assure myself that you are indeed real and not some imagined ghost conjured to keep me company in this long night.

I do neither, instead stealing just a bit closer, close enough that I have only to reach out and I'll feel warm skin and bandages. You really did get banged up, didn't you? The thought carries a tenderness that I never knew I was capable of. Then again, you always did inspire the damnedest emotions, Spike Spiegal. Why should now be any different?

My mouth twitches, tears tickling the corners of my eyes as I search your face, the words coming at last, "Welcome home... Gaucho."

***End