This idea would not leave me alone—never mind I have so much to do today—so I'm getting it out of my system in a quick one-shot.

For the Girl I Once Was

Her cheeks are still damp, the taste of salt on her lips. It seems ironic that the only person who has been able to pierce the impenetrable heart she keeps locked up in her chest should be herself. She's surrounded the organ with bars, with indestructible steel, with everything she could think of so that no one would be able to get in.

So that no one could see how truly vulnerable she was. Not even her.

For a while, it even worked. But then she saw the girl on the screen: green eyes still innocent, wearing a smile she didn't even know her lips could make. Soft and young, and so full of hope.

I'm cheering for you.

Faye Valentine's lips curve into a bitter smile—the only one she seems to be able to make these days. Not that her surname actually is Valentine. That was just something the doctor had given her, named after his favourite song. How pathetic.

But then she is pathetic. She's mourned a man for three years who lied and betrayed her—a man who had dumped her with his debt and faked his own death so that he could save himself. She's been hurt and wounded so much since she woke up from the cryogenic sleep that all that is left is this unfeeling shell of a woman. A woman too afraid to let herself care, too afraid to admit even to herself that she hates to be alone but doesn't know how to be with people either.

Maybe it's an effect from being forced to sleep for over fifty years. Maybe she just doesn't belong in this time. Maybe.

She wishes the girl on the screen could have told her more. She hates that she still feels so vulnerable—more so since she saw the tape—like fragile glass that will shatter any moment.

Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?

The words have echoed in her head for three years. She's learnt to block it out with gambling, fighting, and a lot of booze. It's never quite enough, though. She's still a child demanding answers, and now she's seen a glimpse into her past and the life that was. It hurts her heart more than any man, like all her barricades have been stripped away, leaving her raw and exposed.

I'm cheering for you.

Faye turns on her heel. She needs a drink. Maybe a cigarette or two, but she has barely taken three steps before a man's chest blocks her way. The blue suit is a dead give-away, and she raises her gaze in a resigned way to see Spike staring down at her. She doesn't like the speculative look in his multi-coloured eyes. He saw the video too.

"What?" she snaps, jutting her chin.

She hopes her eyes are not too red-rimmed and puffy. She doesn't want him to know she has been crying.

Spike just pushes his hands in his pockets, slouching in that lazy way of his. "Nothing."

Nothing?

Really? He saw a video of her as a bright-eyed teenager—a girl who is the complete opposite to the woman standing before him—and all he can do is give her a weird look and then say 'nothing', as if she and her past do not matter at all.

Faye doesn't know why she gets angry. Maybe it's because they're too alike. She can see right through that façade of nonchalance. He's thinking more than he's saying, and she hates herself for wanting to know. It shouldn't matter what he thinks. He's just a guy who travels with her on the Bebop. So what if she bothered to stay by his side when he had been hurt by Vicious. So what if she's started to expect him to have her back, as if she might actually trust this guy with the ridiculous hair and charming smile.

It's not going to last. Either they'll betray her or she'll betray them. That's just how life goes.

Isn't it?

Spike sighs and looks up at the roof. "You saw the tape."

Faye tries to plaster a mask of indifference on her face. "What, that old thing? Like I'd actually—"

"There are tears on your cheeks," he interrupts.

Well, damn.

Faye folds her arms across her chest. "I'm not paying Jet back those woolongs."

Spike just shrugs. "Hey, that's between you and him. Not my business."

Faye shifts on her feet. He's disarmed her at every turn. Now she can't even hide behind the guise of stubborn rudeness. That just leaves the emotions she doesn't want to show in front of him, let alone the rest of the crew: vulnerability, sadness, fear. She really needs that drink.

"You were a cute kid," Spike says with a smile. A beat. "Too bad you turned into such a terror of a woman."

Faye's eyes narrow. "You really wanna go there, pretty boy?"

He laughs, even as her face gets redder and redder with frustration. But then something shifts in his expression, becoming more serious.

"You want some real advice? Listen to yourself, Faye."

She blinks. "What?"

Spike sighs and once again looks at the roof, as if is wishing he were anywhere but dealing with her emotional self. Bastard. "The video," he explains, and then his eyes meet hers. "She told you to focus on your future. So do it."

"How can I when I don't know who I am?"

The words are spoken in a small voice that doesn't seem to belong to her. She regrets speaking them the moment they are out of her mouth. To her surprise, Spike does not mock her. He just places his hand on her shoulder, and the warmth of the contact surprises her, sinking deep into her skin.

"You know who you are," he says firmly, holding her gaze. "You're Faye Valentine: a bounty hunter, a gambler, a liar, a cheat, the most selfish woman I've ever met, and—"

Her expression sours. "Hey, is this supposed to be making me feel better or not?"

His eyes soften into a smile. "And you're loyal, even though you like to pretend you don't care. You always have our backs when we need you, and I've seen the way you look after Ed." He removes his hand from her shoulder. "So, yes, you do know who you are. You're a member of the Bebop. You're one of us."

She is stunned. His words have stolen her voice, her boldness, leaving her feeling disgustingly warm.

One of us.

The words whisper of family and companionship—all the things she has denied herself for three years. All the things that girl on Earth obviously had.

Faye allows a smile to touch her lips. "Well," she says in her usual offhand way. "I suppose I can live with that."