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Jun. 24th, 2005 04:44 pmJust one more night.
One more morning.
One more day.
Spike's not used to thinking this way. But when he wakes up in his bed, in his little berth on the Bebop, with Beth by his side, he's relieved. Almost like he was expecting something to happen during the night and that's a damn bad fatalistic attitude to have. But that phrase borrowed time keeps floating through his head like some backwards temptation, some bad-ass bad luck thing.
He knows they can't stay out here forever. It's not her time.
They can push it as far as they can, but there's no guarantees that the next door won't throw them back into the bar, or the one after that, or the one after that. Maybe it's part of the lesson the place needs to teach him: take nothing for granted.
Well, shit. He never has, he's not about to start now.
Moving so he's on top of her, he leans on his elbows and looks down at her green eyes struggling to open, and kisses her lips. She's the one who met him at the station. She's the one who, like him, wants them to be together. She's the one who's indulgent enough to walk through every door with him hand in hand and he knows what she said on Venus is right: if things are going to fall apart, holding each others' hands isn't going to be much of a saving grace either way. But it makes him feel better.
He lets the index finger on one hand trace across her scar. It's both soft and not soft, and she's never really expressed any displeasure at having it.
Spike likes it, in much the same way Beth seems to like his multitude of scars. She sets her fingertips into them, or traces across them, or joins them together in abstract patterns and they all tell their own tales for anyone insightful enough to listen. Beth... well, he thinks she can probably read them like a kid's book.
He kisses her again because he can and because she's here and because he can feel his heart beating against hers.
Today, he's going to try to take her to see Earth.
One more morning.
One more day.
Spike's not used to thinking this way. But when he wakes up in his bed, in his little berth on the Bebop, with Beth by his side, he's relieved. Almost like he was expecting something to happen during the night and that's a damn bad fatalistic attitude to have. But that phrase borrowed time keeps floating through his head like some backwards temptation, some bad-ass bad luck thing.
He knows they can't stay out here forever. It's not her time.
They can push it as far as they can, but there's no guarantees that the next door won't throw them back into the bar, or the one after that, or the one after that. Maybe it's part of the lesson the place needs to teach him: take nothing for granted.
Well, shit. He never has, he's not about to start now.
Moving so he's on top of her, he leans on his elbows and looks down at her green eyes struggling to open, and kisses her lips. She's the one who met him at the station. She's the one who, like him, wants them to be together. She's the one who's indulgent enough to walk through every door with him hand in hand and he knows what she said on Venus is right: if things are going to fall apart, holding each others' hands isn't going to be much of a saving grace either way. But it makes him feel better.
He lets the index finger on one hand trace across her scar. It's both soft and not soft, and she's never really expressed any displeasure at having it.
Spike likes it, in much the same way Beth seems to like his multitude of scars. She sets her fingertips into them, or traces across them, or joins them together in abstract patterns and they all tell their own tales for anyone insightful enough to listen. Beth... well, he thinks she can probably read them like a kid's book.
He kisses her again because he can and because she's here and because he can feel his heart beating against hers.
Today, he's going to try to take her to see Earth.
