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Jun. 20th, 2005 11:14 amHe's not quite sure what wakes him up, but he's awake early. The powers that be haven't even started the changeover from dark to light yet, but Spike sits upright in bed with a nagging feeling that something's wrong.
No, not wrong. Different.
Normally, he'd brush that shit off and go back to sleep and really, looking over at Beth sleeping so peacefully, he's tempted to do that. And he tries, but he just can't keep his eyes closed and he's getting restless, so he gets up and opens the balcony door and steps into the hot tub and in the relative darkness of the Venusian night, he can just barely make out a spore shower in the distance.
Overhead, the ever-present clouds lift just enough so that he can see the lights from ships up there: little ones, big ones. And some stars and constellations.
They look different from here than they did when he grew up on Mars, and he has to tilt his head to the side and narrow his eyes to find Orion.
He sets the hot tub jets on low and sinks in up to his neck and lets the water wash over him and it's hot and soothing and good, and it would only be better if Beth was in here right next to him but she's sleeping and he isn't and he's not going to wake her up because she had a smile on her face, maybe from some dream or maybe just from comfort and she looked so happy. And when he closes his eyes, he thinks about time and space and timing and the absence of Jet from the Bebop and that, out of everything, doesn't make sense to him but what the fuck does he know: Jet was alone before he came along and he can figure out how to be alone afterwards. It isn't like Spike's been around to be a bounty hunting partner for him for a long time now.
Maybe it all makes sense. Time keeps going, even though it's a relative thing. It doesn't stop.
How many months does it take a bounty hunter to smoke a hundred cartons of cigarettes at the end of the universe?
He sits, contemplating the nature of existence and his place in the universe and how humbling that is, and he contemplates opportunity and opportunism, and he replays everything he's ever done with Beth just because he can and it makes him happy when the rest of that shit makes him feel so lonely and all alone. By the time he opens his eyes the night's beginning to change to day, and there's a little bright-green Venusian finch sitting on the opposite edge of the hot tub watching him.
Or maybe just watching its own reflection.
It's a good morning for reflection.
No, not wrong. Different.
Normally, he'd brush that shit off and go back to sleep and really, looking over at Beth sleeping so peacefully, he's tempted to do that. And he tries, but he just can't keep his eyes closed and he's getting restless, so he gets up and opens the balcony door and steps into the hot tub and in the relative darkness of the Venusian night, he can just barely make out a spore shower in the distance.
Overhead, the ever-present clouds lift just enough so that he can see the lights from ships up there: little ones, big ones. And some stars and constellations.
They look different from here than they did when he grew up on Mars, and he has to tilt his head to the side and narrow his eyes to find Orion.
He sets the hot tub jets on low and sinks in up to his neck and lets the water wash over him and it's hot and soothing and good, and it would only be better if Beth was in here right next to him but she's sleeping and he isn't and he's not going to wake her up because she had a smile on her face, maybe from some dream or maybe just from comfort and she looked so happy. And when he closes his eyes, he thinks about time and space and timing and the absence of Jet from the Bebop and that, out of everything, doesn't make sense to him but what the fuck does he know: Jet was alone before he came along and he can figure out how to be alone afterwards. It isn't like Spike's been around to be a bounty hunting partner for him for a long time now.
Maybe it all makes sense. Time keeps going, even though it's a relative thing. It doesn't stop.
How many months does it take a bounty hunter to smoke a hundred cartons of cigarettes at the end of the universe?
He sits, contemplating the nature of existence and his place in the universe and how humbling that is, and he contemplates opportunity and opportunism, and he replays everything he's ever done with Beth just because he can and it makes him happy when the rest of that shit makes him feel so lonely and all alone. By the time he opens his eyes the night's beginning to change to day, and there's a little bright-green Venusian finch sitting on the opposite edge of the hot tub watching him.
Or maybe just watching its own reflection.
It's a good morning for reflection.
