Disclaimer & Notes: This is a story about Jet and Spike. It does not have a happy ending. If you are looking for sweetness and light and true love and puppy dogs and things of that nature, you'll enjoy my other fic, "Spike Lives: A Cautionary Tale." Lots of hot Faye-on-Spike action in there. And I do mean hot.
With that shameless (not to mention misleading) plug aside, here it is.
* * *
Jet was dreaming about fish when something caught hold and pulled him to the surface. And there was Spike in front of him, in nothing but his skivvies, no expression on his face.
"Spike...what?" His habitual growl was hard to muster so soon after waking.
"I'm cold." He made no movement.
Jet sat up, coming more fully awake as he took the gauge of the situation. "I can turn the heat up, if you'd like--"
"That's not what I meant." He put his hand on the bed, inches from Jet's thigh.
It was all a little direct for Jet, who preferred his women demure and chaste, and his friends steady and predictable. "It's late." Spike didn't take his hand away. Jet sighed. "Sit down."
Spike did. He leaned against the larger man and rested his head on Jet's broad shoulder. It was an odd display of tenderness, particularly for Spike, who typically displayed all the sensitivity of a brick. Jet smelled liquor.
"Have you been drinking?"
Spike laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. "Have I ever not been drinking?" He wrapped an arm around Jet's neck and leaned in to kiss him.
Jet pushed him away and stood. "You're drunk. You're going back to your quarters to sleep it off."
Spike lay on the bunk, staring bitterly up at Jet. Finally he sighed and looked away. "Yeah. That's okay. I just thought you might be there for me when I needed you."
Jet folded his arms. He was immune to such an obvious guilt trip. Such an obvious ploy that Spike must be desperate. To come here so late, he must be hurting bad. He looked tired, worn, like he needed someone to take care of him.
Spike pounded the final nail. "Please, Jet," he whispered. "Let me stay with you tonight."
Jet was lost. He closed his eyes as he buried himself in Spike's arms.
A sea of stars glittered and scintillated outside. The Bebop slid through them, dwarfed into insignificance, a tiny fish in an endless ocean.
With that shameless (not to mention misleading) plug aside, here it is.
* * *
Jet was dreaming about fish when something caught hold and pulled him to the surface. And there was Spike in front of him, in nothing but his skivvies, no expression on his face.
"Spike...what?" His habitual growl was hard to muster so soon after waking.
"I'm cold." He made no movement.
Jet sat up, coming more fully awake as he took the gauge of the situation. "I can turn the heat up, if you'd like--"
"That's not what I meant." He put his hand on the bed, inches from Jet's thigh.
It was all a little direct for Jet, who preferred his women demure and chaste, and his friends steady and predictable. "It's late." Spike didn't take his hand away. Jet sighed. "Sit down."
Spike did. He leaned against the larger man and rested his head on Jet's broad shoulder. It was an odd display of tenderness, particularly for Spike, who typically displayed all the sensitivity of a brick. Jet smelled liquor.
"Have you been drinking?"
Spike laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. "Have I ever not been drinking?" He wrapped an arm around Jet's neck and leaned in to kiss him.
Jet pushed him away and stood. "You're drunk. You're going back to your quarters to sleep it off."
Spike lay on the bunk, staring bitterly up at Jet. Finally he sighed and looked away. "Yeah. That's okay. I just thought you might be there for me when I needed you."
Jet folded his arms. He was immune to such an obvious guilt trip. Such an obvious ploy that Spike must be desperate. To come here so late, he must be hurting bad. He looked tired, worn, like he needed someone to take care of him.
Spike pounded the final nail. "Please, Jet," he whispered. "Let me stay with you tonight."
Jet was lost. He closed his eyes as he buried himself in Spike's arms.
A sea of stars glittered and scintillated outside. The Bebop slid through them, dwarfed into insignificance, a tiny fish in an endless ocean.