Disclaimer: I do not own Cowboy Bebop nor profit in any way from this story.

Warnings: Dark themes, mature content both sexual and otherwise. Implied rape, sexual situations, violence, swearing...I think that about covers it.

A/N: Much pleaded for and long overdue. Apologies. I wrote this maybe twenty different ways and every single one of them felt equally valid. This could have gone anywhere and as a result, ultimately, ended up nowhere- which seems fitting for this duo so it must be right.

She's hoping that he doesn't ask her that question. She's knows better than to pray for it, but she's a hair's breath away from begging for it.

"Spike, don't." She can still taste gun smoke.

"Why not Faye? What difference does it make compared to everything else we've ever done?"

"Julia's dead, Spike. You don't have to do this. You don't need to keep chasing her."

"I know. I know better than anyone. She took her last breath in my arms."

"Stop." Please.

"It's a simple question Faye. Only two options."

It's been three blessed months since that near catastrophe. Faye thinks she's outdone herself. She's taken avoidance to a whole new level. Three planets, four moons, and seven bounties. It's been six weeks since she's seen the Bebop, its two male occupants, androgynous child, and the genius pup.

But…

If she were honest with the reflection she sees in her compact, Faye would tell that woman she doesn't recognize in the reflection that she was—is tired. Running takes energy, massive amounts that never seems to get fully replenished. Faye has been running for more than a half-century and even now, though she'd never admit it, she's running especially hard now.

Fucking Lunkhead.

The fury she feels at the memory of their last encounter is only eclipsed by the shame. It's soul consuming. Faye cannot tell what it ends or begins with: her actions that night, her fears, her desire for him, her thoughts on the rare insight into Spike's past or on both men in general. It's all a jumble and she can find not one—not one positive aspect in the whole clusterfuck.

Unfortunately for her he's managed to plant himself nonchalantly in the café where her next bounty is supposed to show up. As if everything was perfectly normal, as if they were old friends, or worse yet lovers meeting up for a date.

Hey, Faye, I got a question for you.

His voice echoes in her head, raspy and taunting, tinged with mirth and promise. Faye knows she's not blushing. She's too old to do so out of embarrassment and only does now when she's had too much liquor. It's better that way. More charming. It lulls men into a false sense of security making them easier prey.

But something in her face must give her away because he knows. Somehow he knows the effect he's had on her with a look and smirk.

"Wipe that shit-eating grin off your face. You have thirty seconds to clear out."

"Hello to you too, Romani."

"Fifteen."

"That hardly seems fair. I won't even get a chance to finish my lunch here."

"Ten."

"What makes you think I'm here for you? I could be here on business just like you."

"I don't care why you're here as long as you're gone before my bounty gets here."

"He's not coming."

"Excuse me?"

"Your bounty. He's not coming."

"You little shit, how dare you! There's something called professional courtesy, you ass."

"Professional courtesy goes both ways. Like telling the people you've been free-loading off of that you're planning on splitting and maybe settling old debts before you go."

Spike takes a casual sip through a striped straw. It's some ridiculous looking sundae, complete with strawberries, whip cream, three different kinds of ice cream and what looks like brownie chunks. He's looking at her over the rim of his glass, smirk still place and swagger still in his voice. Only now something in his eyes has changed. They've gone hard, duller. Faye wonders if he's angry.

"Fuck you."

"We tried that remember? We didn't get very far."

Now she's blushing. She'd expected him to throw it in her face- was even waiting for it. But even so, it still stings.

They've very quickly crossed into dangerous territory. If nothing, Faye has learned to be careful of what she says around Spike Speigel. She has yet to out-bluff him. It's on the tip of her tongue to say, 'yeah well wanna try again?' She literally has to bite it to keep the words from spilling out. Because something tells her if she says it he will accept the offer. Spike has never backed down, even with death staring him in the face. It's always been a game of 'who's the better grim reaper.'

Instead of leaving like she should have, bolting to the farthest planet in the galaxy as would be prudent, Faye finds herself in Spike's hotel room later. She wonders how he got Jet to spring for this.

She can't remember how it started. Probably with an insult. Maybe along the lines of 'You just like sleeping with helpless women.'

To which he may have answered, 'Are you offering?' She can remember him lighting a cigarette, drawing deep off it, and exhaling.

There might have been silence for a moment before it occurs to her to respond that she is not helpless.

Helpless by circumstance maybe but not by choice.

"No one is helpless by choice but my previous statement still applies here," he says.

Is she offering?

She remembers looking at him through the haze of expelled cigarette smoke.

"And if I was?"

Eventually this conversation must leave the realm of figurative and route itself in the literal.

Not if she was, but now that she has, how will he respond?

There are lines, however, that she will not cross. No matter how fucked this whole situation is, rules still apply.

She is not above begging, at least not for own pleasure. She's not above giving orders either. She has no problem making it clear what she wants.

"Harder, slow down." She'll press him and mold him so that he strokes perfectly that place inside her. "Stay there, right there."

She's less adept at taking orders. However if the old adage is true, his pleasure is her own. A little bit of submission is in her best interest.

It's easier than guessing though, to ask him what he wants her to do.

"Your mouth. I want-"

A flick of her tongue and a twist of her wrist fizzles the request out to a wretched moan.

She doesn't need details. General guidelines will do. There's only one place he wants her mouth and there's very little that she can do with it there that he'd find unpleasant.

Still though, there is lethargy to her movements that doesn't match the urgency in his voice. She likes to think it draws out the pleasure.

What she cannot do is say his name. She can't moan or whisper it like a lover. It's too intimate. She'll moan for him but she'll never say his name.

To hear her name on his lips, however, is entirely different.

"Faye…"

It's not just sounds, syllables made known on an exhalation. His whole body says her name. Shudders with it, tenses against it. Every taut muscle, every tremor is for her, only her. She's not a fool. She's heard Jet ramble on about how Spike only thinks with his dick or his stomach. How he's propositioned more than his fair share of the female bounties or women dating the bounties and how more than his fair share said yes.

Hearing her name like this squelches the fear that she's just a warm and willing body, that there's something more to what they're doing than that. That there is some part of her he actually wants and doesn't hate contrary to what he says.

She winces as slides into to her both relieved and disappointed to find there's no barrier to impede him. Faye can't help but wonder how she lost it.

Did she love a boy in her shy awkward youth, one she thought worthy of such a gift? Or did she lose it in an active childhood? She was a cheerleading at one point apparently. Or was it taken from her? Maybe by Witney just after she thawed out of cryo, before he even bothered to woo her. Or was it the pig man of a doctor?

She should know, she should remember. She should know who it was.

"Am I hurting you?" Spike's voice is low and tender, a whisper on her skin. Faye can feel her throat constrict and her eyes water with tears.

She doesn't answer, can't. Why should he care anyway? Instead she hikes her legs higher over his hips and tries to lose herself in the bare feeling of him.

Yes, this is hurting her.

His hips rock into her with steady strokes. She can feel every ridge and bump, each solid inch as he pulls out and presses into her again and again.

It isn't supposed to be this way. It isn't supposed to be this sweet slow burn like honey whiskey. It warms her whole body, sensation singing across every nerve. They're supposed to be fucking, raw and messy and primordial. Selfishly seeking one's own pleasure. What they're doing now isn't that. It is too close to the other end of the spectrum. But it can't be that other thing; it can never be the other thing.

She lashes out, using the only move that has served her and saved her life more times in bounty hunting than she can count. Faye grips him tight with her thighs and throws herself into him. The move catches him off guard allowing her to twist as she rises placing her on top. Her sudden movement has almost separated them. He's smirking up at her as though she hasn't done anything more than ran her foot down his leg. As if he's trying to tell her he prefers them this way.

She hovers over him, waiting. She can feel the tip of him pressing against her. He finally, finally looks the way she thinks he should. His smirk has dropped away. She hasn't sunk herself back on to him fast enough. There's a light, desperate twitch of his hips as he's tries to coax her wordlessly back into rhythm.

They should be fucking. And because she is Faye Valentine and because she's never done anything anybody has ever wanted her to do, she rubs herself on him making sure he brushes against the bundle of nerves just above where they join.

He chokes on a whimper while his whole body tenses, as though he's gotten an electric shock. She'd smirk right back at him, but as it is, she's not faring any better. Her whole body is humming. Spike wreathes underneath her, a needy mess of shaggy hair and slick sweat.

His back bows as he strains towards her. His moan seems loud in the room. Faye scores her nails down his chest and squeezes him between her thighs, arresting his struggles until he is forced to look at her. When she's sure that he sees her, really sees her, she drives herself down on him in one hard thrust. A broken cry tumbles from his throat.

Whatever power she had over him to tame his thrusts is gone. He impales her over and again while all she can do is gasp and sob and bite her tongue when she feels it begin to curl around his name. His hand bruises her flesh, tearing at her skin as he changes his grip. His teeth gnaw and gnash at everything, anything he can reach, the underside of her breast, a nipple, her ear lobe, her shoulder. His tongue retraces his path, laving each abrasion away.

Beneath her like this, he looks like the beast Vicious talked about. The pressure is building inside her, like a cresting wave. Her skin feels like it's stretched too tight, as if she's burning from the inside out. Spike fists one hand in her hair and throws his other arm low across her hips and grinds. She bucks like she's touched a live wire, but she can't get any leverage. His grip doesn't yield, the pressure keeps building and he keeps grinding into her. Searching, pushing, clawing deeper until finally the wave crests and she breaks.

A/N: I think one last chapter will finish this up. No promises on how soon though. As always, R&R please. :)