Part of me would fade
Into this empty shadow I've becomeAnd now I feel so numb.
I no longer know myself
But I still know you.
…This was my life.
It never made much sense to me.
--SEATBELTS featuring STEVE CONTE
Letting Go, Hanging OnIf Jet could only see him now. He wouldn't hesitate in telling him how ridiculous he was being.
He couldn't see it that way. For him, nothing had ever made any sense. For him, a trip in an attempt to piece together what was left of his life was probably as sensible as it was going to get.
Even if it meant going to see old Bull.
He swung his jacket over one shoulder, eyes on the red dust that dominated the ground beneath his feet. He turned halfway round to gaze upon his aircraft, parked some distance away. One corner of his mouth hitched as he took in every dent and scratch. The old ship seemed to call to him, as though, in some way, it knew of his purpose. He'd made a lot of memories with that hunk of junk. It'd be a shame to retire it after fifteen years.
He shifted his focus upward, to the dark sky above him, littered with stars. He took in the entire view, in time distinguishing moving ships from fixed pinpoints of light. His thoughts drifted towards the Bebop, and for a moment, he pondered where the old wreck might be, and who owned her; whether the fishing vessel was doing what it had been built to do instead of serving as the home for a bunch of way-ward vagabonds. But the moment passed quickly, and his attentions returned to the task at hand.
He was determined. He was almost thirty-three. Not that it mattered, really, how old he was, but the number commanded some introspection. Thirty-three and no home; thirty-three and no wife; thirty-three and no job, not really, anyway; thirty-three and feeling ninety-five. Where were all his prospects? What had happened to his dreams, his goals? Where had he wanted to be at thirty-three?
A bitter chuckle escaped him as long, deliberate strides began once again to carry him across the landscape. He'd known exactly the answer to that up until five years ago: Dead. He'd never really been one for looking towards the future. Not when your whole life revolved around your past. He never thought of having a career, never thought of "settling down", or growing old, of moving on; he didn't think he'd ever need to.
He glanced up from the ground, squinting. In the distance, he could see pale smoke rising, the eerie dance of shadows and light from a flame. He paused again in his trek, wondering why he was so damn hesitant. He wanted to know what his future held for him, didn't he? Making up his mind to shed his old skin hadn't been so hard, when he thought about it. Jet's leaving had been the final push, forcing him to sell the Bebop. Being a cowboy wasn't so appealing when you had to do it alone. Hell, he was even willing to give up the suit and his ship, start completely over. So what was the problem?
He already knew the answer. He just wasn't ready to admit it. Taking a deep breath, he let it out in a long sigh, and set off with renewed confidence that he was, in fact, doing the right thing, for once.
No matter how much it hurt.
****
"You are afraid, Swimming Bird."
The ancient shaman's voice had a way of reaching into him and pulling out what should have been obvious all along. There was no magic, really, in what was revealed when Spike came to see him. The old guy just called it as he saw it. Most of the time, Spike didn't want to believe that simple truth, but not wanting to believe didn't make it any less real or true.
Spike had been sitting across from Laughing Bull, his legs crossed with his wrists resting on his bony knees. Barefoot and shirtless, he'd held that position for so long it seemed everything below his waist had gone numb. He paid no heed, having said nothing since his arrival, wordlessly joining the sage in quiet meditation. The silence having been broken, he opened his eyes and stared hard at the blank face of the Indian. He willed the old man to look him in the eye, just once, instead of watching that damn pile of sand grow steadily smaller in the palm of his wrinkled hand.
"A dead man who walks has nothing to live for. That is what you fear."
The younger man's jaw tightened reflexively, the only outward sign of his growing impatience. Some things would never change. "For once, old man, I wish you'd tell me something I don't know."
He received no immediate reply. Minutes passed, in which Spike found it more difficult to breathe. An invisible weight pressed against his chest, and something inside twisted. Shit, is that it? Is that all he's got to say? What's it mean? Do I go throw myself from a fucking building and hope to hell I stay dead this time?
The sand stopped flowing. Spike's focus shifted from the sand, to Bull's placid face, and back again. For fuck's sake, say something!
The old Indian opened his eyes, his gaze hooded, seemingly staring through Spike. One might be led to believe he had trouble with his vision, but Spike knew better. Those eyes saw more than some people ever wanted to reveal. Silence dominated, save for the pounding of his heart and the barely controlled rhythm of his breathing. Bull was right. He really was afraid.
"What? What do you see?" Spike's need to know got the better of him. But again, the man said nothing, looking as still as a statue, wearing a mask of indifference that disturbed Spike to no end. Muttering a stifled curse under his breath, Spike pushed himself, perhaps a little too quickly, to his feet, his anger anchoring him to where he stood. He ignored the painful needles and pins as the blood returned to his legs, awkwardly fetching his shirt and jerking it over his head. White spots blurred his vision briefly, a consequence of having risen too fast.
"Fuck it, then," he growled, blinking rapidly as the spots faded, looking around for his jacket and shoes. "The one time I actually come looking for answers about myself, and all you fucking give me is a reason for putting a bullet in my brain."
He felt like going on, venting all his frustrations on the crazy bastard just to see if he could get a reaction, but thought of better ways of wasting his time. His jacket on one arm and his shoes cradled in another, he turned around to leave.
"A dead man who walks has nothing to live for, but you are alive, Swimming Bird."
Spike's anger evaporated with those words, leaving only fear and, surprisingly, hope. Pausing in the doorway, he canted his head, sensing the sage had more to say.
"Twice dead, because of a woman. Now alive…." Spike's brow cocked slightly as he gazed sidelong at the withered form speaking to him. To his amazement, Old Bull was staring back at him, though his ancient eyes betrayed no thought or emotion. "…because of a woman."
Spike felt his jaw go lax, his lips parting slightly. Again, the old man was right. And like so many times before, he knew he shouldn't have been surprised.
He'd known it all along.
"I suppose I should stop taking women so lightly then, huh?" There was a sadness tainting his light-hearted remark. He slipped a hand in his pocket, jangling the contents idly. Keeping his back to Bull, he slowly pulled out the key from the Swordfish. After countless seconds spent in silent introspection, he turned, tossing the key to the ground behind him. Delicate mounds of sand flattened in its wake.
"She's yours now, old man." He turned away from him again, letting his shoes fall to the ground, taking the time to pull on his jacket. "I don't want her anymore."
He ducked out of the teepee, lingering just outside long enough to light up a cigarette. He had a long walk ahead of him, but he didn't mind. He'd need the time to think.