A Letter for Beth

Hey. Beth.

For a year and a half I've been showering with you so I think if anyone besides you's going to be any kind of authority on your body and how it looks, it's me, right? At least I'd hope it'd be me and not the guy from down the hall. Just kidding. First, I think you're fucking gorgeous. I always have. You also know kids were never in my plan -- who, me? With the parents I had? No fucking way. Not that I think I'd make anywhere near as shit a father as my own but still, I figured... well, you know what I figured. I wasn't going to make it past 25. How fucking selfish of me to go die, right? Well. Yes, ma'am. It was a selfish thought.

For a lot of years I didn't much look past myself to the world around me. Kind of caught up in my own little dream, or whatever the hell it was: living on the Bebop was kind of perfect for me. Jet didn't have any expectations outside of me helping catch bounties, and that's something I can do with my hands tied behind my back... figuratively speaking. He never asked for explanations on my past. I mean hell yeah, I told him I was ex-Syndicate just like he told me he was ex-ISSP and doesn't that make for a real cute couple of exes? No, both of us were... the fewer questions asked, the better, and we were both good that way. I used to call him Mom and he used to call me Kid. Let's not get into those psychological dynamics, all right? We tough guy bounty hunters don't ever go there. It's against the code. But anyhow, for a lot of years life was just what it was: the immediate things, the immediate needs. Need cash? Go risk your life for a bounty, Kid, and I'll be backup. Promise I'll get there, I'm former ISSP after all... and fuck, every damn time Jet announced that? made me cringe and laugh at the same time. Did he think it was real wise to go around announcing that? Don't move, I've got you. After all, I'm former Syndicate. I learned how to kill when I was sixteen. Kind of takes all the damn drama out of the situation.

Beth, I'm rambling. Hey. They're my thoughts. You know the only damn time my brain is quiet is when I'm falling asleep with you in my arms? The only time. Otherwise it's like some goddamn traffic jam at a spaceport at rush hour: thoughts coming and going and colliding, all that shit. The worst is when I argue with myself. I mean, that's pretty fucking stupid. Maybe we all do that. Maybe it's that whole angel-or-devil-on-my-shoulder thing. But my thoughts, they run off without me sometimes, like now, like when I started out this whole thing talking about your body, right? I know there was a point to it beyond you're fucking gorgeous which is still this grand and undeniable truth. There really was something I wanted to say. Seeing as how I talk a hell of a lot more in my brain than out loud, I figured I'd better write it. Look, it's Spike Uncensored. In the space of about five seconds my thoughts go from writing this to remembering Doc examining you in Tharsis to the way you looked in the water in Eleuthera to that little smile on your face last night right before you fell asleep to remembering I need to go work out by the lake now the snow's gone to hoping your morning sickness is done with to...

Hey. You have this belly I never noticed before. I swear it wasn't there a couple days ago.

Now before I get out the tape measure, let me tell you: I think I've been a pretty damn good student of your body. I kind of feel like I know it real well. The way it looks, the way it feels. Inside (at least the parts I can touch), outside. Both you and that damn hot sexy body of yours are like this endless fascination to me, the one school where I can be a student forever and hope like hell class never ends. I mean it: I'm not poetic by nature, though I appreciate good poetry as much as the next guy. Sometimes more. I mean if I could write shit like Wine comes in at the mouth and love comes in at the eye, that's all we shall know for truth before we grow old and die; I lift the cup to my mouth, I look at you, and I sigh then I'd be the one with my name on the books but I can't write that shit. I can only recite it to you, share it with you, soak it in with you.

Look. See? Damn if I can keep a single train of thought going in my brain for more than ten seconds. I was talking about your body but fuck it, you know what? I said what I wanted to say about that. I love your body. I love that you let me play with you. I feel privileged. I don't claim ownership over anyone, ever, but damn, Slim, sometimes I look at you, look into your eyes, and the word mine surfaces and it makes me smile. My woman, my woman: I love you. On paper and everything, I love you.

And look. That finally killed the conversation in my brain. I got stuck on "I love you" and that's where my thoughts want to stay.

- Spike

(no subject)

Beth has this thing for his tie and he knows it. It's kind of funny, because he only wore it by habit after a while out there, not because he needed it or anything. Not because there's some Official Bounty Hunter Code that comes with a little sticker saying Jacket and Tie Required. But these days he's glad as hell he came to this place wearing the tie.

He likes the way Beth plays with it, and even more than that, he likes the way she takes it off from around his neck. So today's definitely a shirt-and-tie kind of day. The room's moderately cleaned up -- not like he's some neat freak or anything, it's just he knows what pile of shit things are in now -- and he found his old favorite pair of jeans in the closet. The ones with the holes in both knees but damn, they're soft and comfortable and nothing says a guy can't dress differently every once in a while.

So no jacket. Shirt and tie, not quite on all the way yet. Soft old broken-in jeans. It's a good compromise.