A/N: For Mary, again. This was supposed to be a part of her Christmas present, only it's much better than Razor Edge. Influenced way too heavily by her excellent War Bride, which just about owns this thing I've written here. That's about all. Enjoy; review if you please.

Faded

The mornings after are always the hardest.

They both feel hung over, temples throbbing and thighs sore, lips puckered expectantly in sleep—something they both try to hide. They dress separately and disregard each other, as if they aren't even worthy enough to be ghosts.

The Bebop goes quiet without them. It's hard to stay loud when you're in space, because you're very small and space is very big and every echo dies down sometime.

Sometimes you can't hear Ed giggle-hacking at her computer, diving into the ocean-like net, coming up with top-secret information and silly rhymes.

Sometimes you can't hear Ein scratch-sniff-barking at the shadows, a furry bulk of warmth at Ed's tan bony ankles.

And sometimes you can't hear Jet drive-talking, his hands smelling like trimmed bonsai leaves.

That's when the Bebop really comes to depend on Spike Spiegel and Faye Valentine. They are expected to make noise, but on the mornings after, they won't.

They take care to only interact once.

It happens at around three in the afternoon in the back storage room, where the Ganymede lobster rotted and colonized the refrigerator with a city of mold that almost killed the lot of them.

Spike is already folding the yolks in the broken shells because the only time Faye did it, the only yolk fell useless on the floor.

They hadn't talked for a week after.

Now Spike takes care of the eggs, while Faye shakes up the Worcestershire sauce, throws the red spices in with the tomato juice. The yellow yolks fold so easily over the liquid, and Spike contributes some vinegar to the sticky, god-awful mix. Faye adds some pepper, kissing her fingers like stereotypical Italian chefs—but it is a joke that is lost on Spike.

For a moment Faye feels very very old.

For a moment Spike feels very very stupid.

It's almost the same thing.

They say nothing, only pick up their identical glasses to toast in silence.

This is the last time I'll ever do this, Spike thinks.

I'll see him go down before I do, Faye thinks.

The entire mess goes down their throats. Their noses widen, their mouths gasp for air, they are wired and awake now.

In a desperate attempt to burn off their over-awareness, they separate.

Spike takes the south route while Faye heads north, their footsteps opposite, parallel, fading away into the big black void of the Bebop in the bigger black void of space.

They go back to their monotone tasks.

Faye turns to napping and painting and repainting her toenails, which are hardly ever seen.

Spike takes to loading and unloading guns he won't fire for about two more weeks while he suffers from his unusual insomnia.

It's better than anything else they have planned for today. Until another bounty comes to them and they're happy to be alive at the end of it, they won't cross paths again. They're both becoming comets, passing by at the right time only every once in a while.

And even if it's everything they want, even if it's setting off ecstatic fireworks when it happens, it's still just a memory in the morning.

And because memories always fade with time, they decide it's best to fade away from each other.

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