Chapter Text
“Do you know what camaraderie means?”
“Vaguely.”
“It’s like…a sense of connection between people who’re together often.”
“Do we have camaraderie?”
“...we live together, Spike.”
“So there's something there, when you're not trying to kill me.”
“This goes both ways, you know!”
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Despite a mindless attempt to brush it away, Spike has developed a fixation with Faye’s hands.
If someone asked him when it all began, he’d argue there was no timestamp, then snarkily ask if you were a cop. Then, he’d turn his gaze to the worn-and-weathered sofa before him and watch the creases in the leather, considering what Faye would say about the whitened scars of his own fingers. In this feign of ignorance lies the truth: he may not know when the fixation took root, but he knows when he first laid his hands on the burgeoning stems.
It is two weeks prior, at a restless 2 A.M.. A wave of insomnia permeates the Bebop, and a semi-alert Faye stands at the stove, steam swirling from the pans to the exhaust hood and intertwining itself in her hair. Spike is leaning on the adjacent counter, idly stretching his arms every few minutes and contemplating offering his help. Much to both of their silent chagrin, they both keep their silence. Spike figures Faye’s focus has no interest in having her space intercepted. Faye figures Spike is too fatigued to lend her a hand.
Despite this, Faye will occasionally call his attention to fetch her an ingredient, and the fabric of his sleeves brush against the nylon of her jacket. Their orbits briefly collide in an unspoken tension, then retract with no delay.
Each time she asks, he shifts a little closer on the counter, peering over the gently-bubbling pot – she makes no visible objection. She hums a nameless tune that grows louder and more melodic as she stirs – he makes no audible objection.
(Blame any heat rising to their cheeks from the haze clouding the kitchen.)
He watches her pour coarsely-chopped vegetables into the steel pot and watches the deftness of her hands as she arranges a makeshift meal of amalgamation stew. Though it's the early hours of the morning and the moon is beginning to wean, she’s alert and fixed on her target – she’d claim it’s simply out of her own hunger, but the sound of Ed mumbling about something to eat half an hour ago proves her motives lie outside herself.
(Actions before words was how the ship kept itself running.)
They’re trapped in a never-ending cycle of living paycheck-to-paycheck, much to the chagrin of the crew who would love to eat something other than steamed broth and half-boiled noodles. But Faye knows how to take what she has and make it work – it’s that persistence that shines through her constant comments to chip away at the impermeable layers he’s wrapped his soul in.
(He keeps the door slammed shut, locks lining the perimeters – but there’s rust on the spindles wearing them down. He never quite knows if he has it in him to open them on his own accord.)
As his eyes linger on her dexterity, he wonders what the palms of her hands feel like. He’s felt wisps of them when she hands him a towel in the morning or spare bullets on a bounty (why does she own bullets for the Jericho to begin with?), but hasn’t made much sentimental contact with them. Not as much as he’d like anyways, as much as he tries to suppress the thought under a veil of irritation.
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(He recalls what Jet said, once while he set his records to play as he read a novel, and Spike sat beside him in a half-awake slump.
"It's not what you're given, Spike – it's what you make of it. All of us have been hurt – I can’t deny that. But if there’s one thing we’ve all seen after you and Ed returned, it’s that the Bebop gives us a place to come back to. A place to feel safe.
This is so sickeningly sentimental that Spike aimlessly turns his attention to the geometry of the metal ceiling, but is reeled back in by Jet chiding him.
"If we don’t give each other some peace of mind, who will?"
Spike hums in vague agreement. “Right. What are you getting at?”
"You and Faye. Can't you give it a rest for one day?"
"What else am I supposed to say to her? She's always snapping at me."
"I know damn well that for every time you two have some cat fight, there's five times that she's fixing up your wounds, or you're buying her something for the road, or you two are laughing yourselves dry about something stupid."
Spike leaned his head against the wall, pensive.
Jet recognizes the silence, and lets out an exasperated sigh. “Give it a chance. Reign yourself in – you’re good at that.”)
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There was a part of Spike, now undeniable by the time of Jet’s advice, that wanted to get closer to her. Physically, mentally, somehow, it was only further affirmed by his musings. It was golden and burgeoning and warmed his hands like a gentle flame, and he felt it pound in his chest like a steady drum as he watched her at the chopping board.
Spike and Faye had an undeniable sense of camaraderie that had developed (in her words), and so Jet's observations were nothing but the truth: the frequency of what Ed once aptly described as "two rain-soaked cats at each other's throats" faded into obscurity if either of them even briefly mentioned some kind of discomfort, let alone pain. They had grown accustomed to each other's frequent-flyer behavior for certain areas of the Bebop, adjusted to tastes and preferences they unconsciously noted, and found a shared taste for sardonic and ever-so-slightly raunchy humor (though they usually ended up the target of the other's jokes).
However, any indication of wanting something more tangible was shared in flitting glances and almost-flirtations that fizzled out as soon as the match was barely lit; this sparked both a frustration and a motivation.
He was so used to the thrill of the chase, the burning blaze of adrenaline stirred by love that this tender beckoning almost spurred a shock in him.
"Let me help you," he spoke, but the noise died in his throat.
I want you to feel safe enough to let me in. I don’t know how to get to you, but tell me how and I'll do it, I promise.
I'll try.
But that would require a mutual destruction of the chains and locks that lined his soul like the satin and lace lining her evening dresses, a part you couldn't remove without the ensemble falling apart.
(With a needle and thread and a stitch remover, he mused, perhaps he had a chance.)
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None of them are tailors by nature – it's an acquired skill. When you believe yourself to have no future and then unbandage your eyes to be confronted with one, stitching up bonds becomes a pastime you catch onto quickly, one you enjoy more than you want to admit.
He wanted to bridge that boundary between the two of them with every loose string in his pocket.
With a clement two fingers – he imagines vividly – she would hold a stitch remover and hold the fabric close, eyeing each stitch with an air of skepticism but a willingness regardless. Pulling them out with eyes wide open, she’d catch extra thread on the remover and let out a string of curses. Regardless, she’d smooth it out and push forward – it’s that persistence that shines through, he notes, and it feels like he’s been here before.
Eventually she continues with a hesitancy, a fear that if she moves too impulsively, the dress would fall to shreds and perhaps she had no use as a tailor at all – what she picked up in the hope of creation could very well prove she had no use in forming bonds at all.
He wishes he could offer to remove the stitches, guide her with a gentleness and watch her hands rapid-fire like a machine. Fingers hovering above her own, he’d remind her to stop the string from tangling and take her time. Whether she was untangling her own fears or his, he couldn’t tell.
After all was said and done, he’d squeeze those unremitting hands and assure her that if anyone could break the chains of their past, it was her. The ever-tightening locks around his soul would collapse at last – through helping her open her heart, she would make her way into his.
(In another world, he could intertwine their hands, run his thumbs over her smooth acrylic nails, take in the curve of every callus and the angles of her palms splayed against his; and touch alone could convey the sentiment caught in the back of his throat –
– but that's just wishful thinking.)