catch me if you can...

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Cowboy Bebop - 15 (lol oops)

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If someone were to ask how to describe Spike Spiegel in five words, others might say things like: annoying, cocky, boastful, arrogant, idiot. You, on the other hand, would use: I hope he drops dead. 

Something about the tall man just rubs you the wrong way. He’s always taking your bounties and rubbing it in when he’s actually successful in bagging them. He would win some, he would almost win others, and no matter the outcome, he’s always smirking at you and saying something that makes you see red. Even when you’re the one getting the bounty, he’s making it seem like he let you or he knows you’re desperate for more money; always something. You swear he pisses you off more than anyone else in the world ever could. He just knows exactly where each button to press is located to get you steaming. 

It’s just a repetitive process at this point. 

You’re about to bag a bounty, he swoops in and steals it, sometimes you steal it back, he’s the cocky motherfucker he always is, you go your separate ways, and you, usually, mull over the loss for several days, unable to get a certain green-haired male out of your head. Sometimes it’s vice versa. This was as certain as the oxygen you breathe or that you need to drink water to survive. It always happens, it never changes, it’s always definite. 

This time though, things got a little rocky. 

And some big things changed. 

*

You look over the rim of your glass as you take a drink, feeling the burn of the cool liquid as it goes down. You probably shouldn’t be drinking on the job, especially when you’re in a mafia bar, but hey, that’s never stopped you before. 

Your bounty throws his head back as he laughs at something his companion said, his hand roughly slapping him on the back as his laugh booms throughout the joint. Your target seems to be drunker than a skunk, so one drink shouldn’t harm you any. 

Your eyes scan the room for the fourth time that hour, making sure that no one has caught onto you yet. Then again, you’re one of the few women in this place who has a top on or isn’t dressed like a hooker. You aren’t surprised that this mafia doesn’t have many, if any, women in their arsenal. From what you hear, these are some of the most sexist, misogynistic assholes on the planet. 

God, these men are the reason that you hate Mars. It’s the planet of aggression and conflict, of competition and drive. Here recently, it’s also become the planet of sex and desire, not to mention drugs. 

Just thinking of the despicable planet has a certain green-haired fool that has been popping up everywhere you go for the past year doing just that. Popping up into your mind. 

The thought of him brings a frown to your face, a sour taste suddenly coating your tongue. You take a big gulp of your drink to rinse the taste out, trying to forget the infuriating man. Your eyes scour the room and you don’t see the head of green anywhere. You’ve been here for an hour and a half, and you’re surprised he hasn’t shown up yet. Then again, he likes showing up in the midst of battle, as soon as you’re about to get the bounty, to make a dramatic entrance. 

Once you finish your drink, you turn forward to look behind the bar for the bartender. Your brow raises though when you can’t find the burly man anywhere. Where did he go? Surely he’s not on a break or something. There are far too many thirsty patrons. Dangerous thirsty patrons. 

Just as you start to get suspicious, the saloon-style flappy doors swing open and your jaw drops to the countertop you’re forearms are currently resting on. “Another drink for the lady?” the man asks, coming to a stop in front of you. Your blood immediately starts to run hot just by the smirk he throws at you, his hands leaning against the counter opposite you to lean against. 

“What are you doing here, Spiegel?” you hiss between your teeth, showing said teeth like a feral dog. God, you wish you could rip his throat out with your teeth like one, not caring about the consequences. Okay, yeah, that just moved from second on your “My Dream List” to number one, replacing “become rich and buy mansions on a beach, mountain, and forest.”

To make matters even worse, he looks good. Like, ridiculously good. Like, an unfair amount of good. Like, if he never spoke again, you’d consider sleeping with him good. 

He must’ve stolen a uniform from the back because he’s wearing a white button-up collar that’s actually completely buttoned up (I know, shocking. I didn’t think he was capable of such a thing either) with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He has his usual tie on, that’s also done up correctly (again, shocking). Instead of his normal coat though, he’s wearing a black vest along with black dress pants to match. He looks sexy and it pisses you off to new, undiscovered ends. 

“Might want to pick your jaw up from the floor, sweetheart,” he coos, playfully tapping your chin and pulling his hand away before you can smack it away. 

“I could say the same to you, Spiegel,” you reply with a smirk, noticing the way his eyes keep flickering down. Seeing as how you were coming to a high-scale bar, you decided to dress to the nines. The fact that you’re wearing a red dress with your breasts on grand display–and just now realizing it’s his favorite color–gives you a phenomenal feeling. You wore it because it has a lot of sex appeal, and it’s easier to lure men off to take them to jail when they’re unsuspecting and horny. The fact that Spike Spiegel is now in the same category as all the other men here has you smirking up at him. 

“What can I say? I’m a tits kinda guy,” he shoots back with a wink, not even a bit ashamed by his behavior, causing your smirk to drop and for a scowl to take its place. 

You make a noise from the back of your throat, showing him that you’re clearly disgusted by him. You lean back off the counter, pulling the front of your dress up to hide some of your cleavage. He, of course, watches the entire thing like the pervert he is. He chuckles at your sudden distaste, taking your glass from in front of you and pouring you another drink. 

“I don’t need any more,” you interject, giving him a blank look. He just keeps pouring though, his eyes flashing up to you before focusing on the glass again. 

“You might not need it, but you want it,” he argues, setting the topped-off glass before you. “It’s not the only thing either,” he murmurs, not even trying to hide that last part from you. 

“Now that you’re here? I definitely need another drink,” you agree, ignoring his second comment. You really shouldn’t have anymore though, especially since if you get even a little bit tipsy, it’ll throw you off your game and he’ll come in to swoop your prize away. 

Having decided, you push the glass towards him and give him a hard look. “Fine, fine. Be a party pooper,” he surrenders, picking up your glass and downing the contents in one go. You roll your eyes at his behavior, looking around you at the others at the bar to see if they’re finding his actions odd. Most of them are either too drunk to notice or are having too good of a time to really care. A few are starting to get impatient with waiting for him though. 

“Get me a glass of water,” you command. 

“I love a woman in charge,” he says with yet another wink before doing as you say. You’re pretty sure that if you roll your eyes one more time, they’ll be lodged in the back of your head forever. 

After he gets the water for you, you make a shooing motion with your free hand. “Run along. You have thirsty customers to tend to.” He salutes you with a “yes, ma’am” before casually strolling to the other end of the bar to take care of someone else. You watch him as he helps each person, finding his fumbling to make drinks, despite his cocky smile the entire time, amusing. 

You were going to leave the bar to sit somewhere else, but you knew the second you did, some of these men would flock to you like vultures to carrion. Besides, even though Spike Spiegel makes you see red, you know the other men here would cover you in red if they found out who you are. You feel a whole lot safer with Spike than anyone else here for obvious reasons. He might act like a pig, but you know he’s just doing that to get to you. These other men actually think like that, that you’re just a slut that can be used however they want and to do whatever they want with. It sends shivers down your spine. It’s nice to know that you have backup if things get ugly, even if you don’t necessarily need or want it. From what you can tell, almost every man in here has some sort of weapon. So, yeah. Having backup is a plus. 

You take your sixth look around the room, catching at least a dozen men eyeing you up. All except the one’s attention you’re actually trying to get. You sigh and face the bar again, staring up at the expensive bottles that you can only dream of affording on a regular basis. 

You glance over at Spike, finding him chatting up with one of the topless hookers, and angrily frown. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe he is just like all the other pigs here.

With that thought driving you, you stand up to head to your target, but before you can go, someone clears their throat. You turn your head up to look at Spike, finding an oddly serious look on his face. The hooker who was entertaining him huffs when you catch his attention, stalking off to go press herself up against a drunk man at the counter. 

“Don’t do it,” he warns lowly. You scowl at this, crossing your arms over your chest. You’ve never liked being told what to do–hence why you work alone–and he knows as much. 

“Do what?” you fire back, taking a step closer to him so no one can overhear your conversation. You could’ve been going to the restroom for all he knows. 

“I know who you’re here for, and it’s a bad idea,” he replies, his tone dropping significantly into a whisper. 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. He’s the leader of the most dangerous mafia on the planet, making him the current most wanted man, blah blah blah,” you reply with an eye roll, making a talking motion with your hand. You go to turn away, but are stopped once more by his hand reaching over the bar to grab your upper arm. 

“I’m serious, (Y/n). These guys don’t play around. You’ll get yourself hurt,” he says, his words almost becoming jumbled from how fast he’s talking. And, sure, looking back on it, he’s making sense. You should’ve listened to him, but if there’s one thing that pisses you off more than being told what to do, it’s being told that you can’t do something. That you’re weak, that you aren’t capable of handling something on your own. 

So, with this thought in mind, you tug your arm out of his grip, grab your handheld purse, which has a Ruger LCR hidden inside, and walk straight for the man of the hour. Vinicio 'Razor' Porro. He looks tough, and is from what you hear, but he’s not exactly known for his brain. He’s got all the street smarts and none of the book smarts. He’s covered in warts and moles, along with plenty of scars from years of being the leader of the most feared mafia on Mars. He’s nicknamed “The Razor” because he always cuts his victims, either letting them go with these marks or letting their allies find their dead corpses with his markings on them. Either way, they’re always used as a warning to others to never cross him. 

So, what do you do with this thought running on a loop in your brain? You slap a sultry smile onto your face, despite the raw fury coursing through your veins, and walk right up to him. 

“Hey there, handsome,” you coo, sidling up beside him at the pol table and running your hand along his chest. Immediately, his gaze turns to you and you can see his eyes light up with interest, along with many other, fouler, emotions. 

“Well, hello to you too, gorgeous,” he coos in a thick accent, bringing one hand up to cup your cheek. This would almost be sort of sweet or at least surprising since he’s not acting like a total degenerate, but it’s quickly ruined when his other hand quickly finds your ass. 

Ah, there it is. 

“I’m assuming you’re the owner of this fine establishment,” you flirt, making sure to boost his ego to sweeten the deal. It obviously works if his back straightening and his shoulders going back have anything to say about it. 

“You’d be right, little missy. What can I do you for? You lookin’ for a good time?” he slurs, leaning into your space further to nibble at your ear. 

You swallow a gag and force out a tinkering giggle, ‘playfully’ shoving at his chest. “Only if you’re the one to show it to me,” you coo in response. You bite your lip when he suddenly lifts you up and sets you on the pool table that he was using with his buddy, the bigger man stepping in between your legs. 

“For you, my dear, anything,” he purrs, starting to leave kisses on your neck. Your eyes flicker over his shoulder to the bar, embarrassment flooding you when you make eye contact with Spike. You aren’t sure why, but having him see you this way feels…wrong. Not even in the moral ‘no PDA’ or ‘sex in public’ way, but in a ‘I don’t want you to see me like this with someone else’ kind of way. You’re not really sure why. Guess being vulnerable in any sort of way in front of your enemy is always a no-no. Well, unless you’re in this situation. Speaking of–

When Porro’s hand starts sliding up your leg, his bare skin touching yours thanks to the slit up the side of your dress, you reach a hand out to stop him. “Hm?” he asks as he pulls back, looking up at you with a mix of confusion and anger. “Why’d you stop me, donnina?” he asks, his brow raising up at you. You mainly stopped him because you have a Glock strapped to your thigh on that leg, but also for the obvious reason that you don’t want him to touch you at all.

“We shouldn’t do this here,” you whisper, acting shy and nervous. 

“Do you know you are the most desirable woman here?” he whispers breathily into your ear, looking around the room at all his men and random patrons who are watching hungrily. “If I don’t assert my dominance now, they’ll try to take you from me, bambina,” he finishes, biting your earlobe. God, he really is the textbook definition of an alpha male with a Napoleon complex. It takes everything in you to keep your face neutral, trying to think of what to do. You’ve never had a bounty not fall to your knees and not want to please your ever-waking demand. Sure, you’ve had other alpha males like this who want to take control of you, but never to this degree. It’s like he’s not hearing a word you say. 

“I want us to be alone. I’m…” you purposefully trail off, years of practicing allowing you to force a flustered look to your face. 

“You’re what, cara mia?”

“I’m a virgin,” you whisper back. Whoo, if you were Pinocchio, your nose would be out the door right now. You notice the shift in him immediately, his eyes becoming heavy-lidded and his pupils dilating. 

“Fuck. You don’t know what I want to do to you, mio fiore,” he moans, not even trying to hide it. You blush for real this time from the pure filth and embarrassment, hoping Spike doesn’t hear any of what’s happening right now. You feel disgusting and can feel the imaginary grime on your body. Well, maybe it’s not completely pretend. This man’s tongue is currently laving your jugular, so maybe you’re on to something. 

“Why don’t you show me in one of those private rooms in the back then?” you purr back, tugging on the man’s hair. 

Your stomach drops when he shakes his head, pulling his head away from your throat to look up at you. “Can’t wait that long. Want you now,” he groans, reaching for the hem of your dress.

Many things occur at once after that. 

Porro’s hand meets your gun, you’re pulling the gun out of your purse to point it at his chest, and Spike is suddenly over the counter and holding a gun of his own to the back of the man’s head. 

Everything goes silent then and you swear the temperature in the room drops a few degrees. All the men in the room stand and point their guns at the two of you, dozens of guns pointed at you both. 

Your eyes flicker to Spike and you almost drop your gun out of surprise. You’ve seen him mad and annoyed, typically these sorts of emotions directed at you, but never have you seen him show such unadulterated rage. Your eyes return to Porro when he begins to laugh, his hands squeezing your thighs, making the tip of your gun press further into his chest. 

“So, this is how it’s gonna be, eh? You and your partner come in here, on my turf, and threaten me?” He laughs some more before bringing his eyes to you, a smirk on his face. “And you, sgualdrinella. That wasn’t very nice of you to lead me on like that. Is that why the brutto bastardo behind me is itching to pull that trigger, hm? Are you two perhaps lovers?” 

You don’t dignify that with a response, just squinting your eyes up at him and keeping your finger hovering over the trigger. He chuckles at this, turning to look over his shoulder at the much taller man. Despite the height difference, he doesn’t seem that intimidated. “No, that’s not quite right, is it? Lovers would insinuate that you two are together. No, no. I think there’s something between you two that hasn’t been spoken aloud yet. Am I right?” he continues as he brings his eyes back to you, a crazed look within his green irises. 

Your eyes look over his shoulder to focus on Spike, wanting to see his reaction. He doesn’t react at all though. He just keeps his glare focused on the back of Porro’s head, his knuckles white from how hard he’s gripping the gun. “Ah! I saw that!” he cheers, making your eyes snap back to his. “Man, I am good! There must be so much unresolved sexual tension between the two of you. Hm? Am I right?” 

“Can you shut up before I put a bullet in your brain?” you hiss as you press the barrel of your gun on the underside of his jaw, your temper getting the better of you. Porro doesn’t even look fazed though, just continuing to grin at you. You hear the guns around you move, some cocking and some men just itching to shoot you, but waiting for the go-ahead. 

“Aww, did I touch a nerve?” he coos teasingly, pulling his hands out from under your dress to slip them up your thighs towards your sides. This causes Spike to harshly nudge his gun against the man’s head though, causing two of Porro’s men to come up and press their own guns against Spike’s body. Either way, it succeeds in making Porro stop. “This guy gets it,” he hums, using his eyes to motion behind him.

“So, we can either do this the hard way or the harder way, which do you prefer, bambola?” You purse your lips, silently glaring at him as you try to think of a way out of this. Yeah, you really didn’t think this plan through. You just really wanted to prove Spike wrong and you’re sure the alcohol in your system didn’t help any. You feel as sober as a nun now though. 

You wonder why Spike stepped in. Normally he doesn’t mind letting you get hit around a bit. Sure, he eventually always helps you out, but he’s had his fun of leaving you stranded on planets with no ship or leaving you in a room full of people who thought you were his partner. You have plenty of scars to prove just how much Spike Spiegel cares. 

So, what’s different this time? Why step in when he could’ve slipped out the back undetected? 

“Having trouble deciding? That’s okay, I’ll help,” he speaks up after you remain silent, lost in your own little world of trying to figure out the mind of Spike Spiegel. 

Before you can even react, he’s snapping his fingers and everything goes by in a blur. Men swarm Spike and even with his superior fighting skills, he’s outnumbered. You can’t even move to help him since more men come to the pool table you’re still sat upon and pin you down. It took them longer than they thought it would since you’re a skilled fighter with a gun, but you run out of bullets eventually and these men are much stronger than you are. 

After forcing a ruffled-up Spike down into a chair and having you pinned face up on the table like a starfish, Porro slicks his hair back as he circles you both. You feel exposed lying like this, your legs parted as far as they’ll go in your dress towards the corners of the pool table. “I chose harder. Hope you don’t mind, zuccherina.” He starts to hum a tune you don’t recognize as he flattens his hand over your hair. You can hear Spike struggle against the men holding him, your heart racing in your chest. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see a scrawny-looking man carry a bag over to Porro, holding his arms out once he’s reached his boss. Porro sets the bag beside you and continues to hum as he undoes the buckles on the bag, flipping it open to reveal his collection of knives, razors, daggers, and you name it, it’s there. You gulp a bit and look up towards the ceiling, taking a deep breath to calm yourself down. Think, (Y/n), think. 

“Now, tell me who you both work for,” he commands, his fingers ghosting over each weapon. You both remain quiet, choosing to simply glare at him. “Sorry,” he apologizes with a chuckle, picking up a common chef’s knife, “I forget that I always need to make myself clear with these things.” 

With that said, he presses the line of the blade against your neck. You don’t even dare to breathe as you stare up at him. “Alright. Take two. Who do you work for?” he directs at Spike, since one movement of your throat would cause him to start slicing into your delicate skin. Spike grunts and moves around against the chair, trying to get up once more. When he doesn’t speak though, Porro raises his brow at him. 

“Really? Still nothing? Alright then,” he says with a shrug before sighing. “I really hate to mar that perfect skin, but it must be done.” He pulls the knife away from your neck only to drag it a few inches down your arm. You bite your tongue though, making his eyes widen. 

“Wow! You two are some tough cookies to crack! You must’ve had some serious training!” he marvels, seeming to find this fascinating. He sets the bloodied knife down and picks up a chef’s knife, whistling as he walks over to Spike. 

“Third time’s the charm?” he asks, bringing the blade to Spike’s face. 

“We don’t work for anyone, you pig!” you shout before he can barely even place the blade there. He turns to look at you over his shoulder from his bent-over position, tapping the flat side of the blade against Spike’s cheek. 

“Ah, there we go! Now we are getting somewhere!” he cheers, standing up straight. “Note to self, she loves him more than he loves her,” he says out loud to himself, holding the knife up and waving it around almost like it’s a wand. 

“Right then. So, you supposedly don’t work for anyone. Why are you here then?” he continues the interrogation, raising his brow at you. When you don’t immediately reply, he holds the knife towards Spike again. 

“There’s a bounty over your head,” you reply, huffing and looking towards the ceiling for a moment. 

“What, is that all? You’re here for some prize money?” he asks in disbelief, his slow footsteps taunting you as he walks towards you. “Why didn’t you just say so, tesoro? I could’ve given you all the money you wanted if you just spent the night with me,” he coos, moving to the edge of the table. Once he’s there, his men tug your legs forward until you lay at the edge of the table. From tugging you down, your dress rolled up to reveal your black panties. 

There’s more struggling from Spike as Porro hums while he leans forward and presses his face right into your clothed core, inhaling deeply through his nose to get a nice whiff of you. Your body curls in on itself as much as it can with four of his men holding you down. Disgust rolls through you in waves. “Mm, fuck. You smell so good,” he groans, his eyes focused on you. 

“Touch her again and I’ll fucking kill you,” Spike seethes. “Bounty be damned,” Spike adds, his voice low and rumbling. You pick your head up and turn to look at him, finding him littered with bruises and trails of blood. Speaking of, one of his men hits the back of his head with their gun when Spike says that. The man grunts but barely moves his head, keeping his eyes trained on you, or more specifically, where Porro’s touching you. 

It hurts you to see him in such a way, wishing he’d just give up so they’d stop hurting him. 

Porro laughs tauntingly as he smirks over at Spike, his knife coming up towards your panties to, presumably, cut them off. 

It was a jerk reaction, really, but next thing you know, you’re pulling one of your legs free from one of the men whose grip went slack as he marveled at your body. You knee the leader in the face and he stumbles backward. He curses as he drops his knife, cradling his face in his hands. “You fottuta puttana! Ti ucciderò!” he roars, pulling his hands away from his face to reveal a probably broken nose that’s gushing blood. 

He storms forward and brings his hand up, letting it fly and letting his palm meet your cheek in a brutal hit. Your head swings to the side, a hiss escaping your mouth at the sting. He doesn’t even pause from his attack then. No, he picks his knife back up and slides it from your thigh all the way down to your knee. He made this one deeper too, causing you to let out a guttural scream of agony. 

“(Y/n)! Leave her alone! I’ll fucking kill you, you fucking son of a bitch! I swear to-” Spike screams as he thrashes in Porro’s men’s hold before he gets socked in the face. He doesn’t stop struggling though, no amount of injuries can get him to stop. 

“Oh? You don’t like that, huh? Well, you should’ve thought of that before coming here!” he shouts over both of your screams, getting a sharper knife out to cut it from under your right breast to the top of your left hip. The blade slices through the dress like it’s made of butter. The dark red of your blood turns the red of your dress a maroon color, the green of the pool table beneath you becoming matted with the thick liquid. 

After that cut, he drops his knife by your side to grab hold of the ripped cloth. He then stretches his hands away from each other, the ripping sound filling the room. He lets it drop from his hands and begins to fondle your breasts through your bra that matches your panties. “You wear this for me, puttana? Huh? Should I show your little boyfriend how a real man can please you, hm? Should I make you la mia puttana? Huh? Answer me!”

You shake your head as you try to stay conscious, doing your best to form the words to reply to him. “I’m gonna make that bella figa bleed. Gonna make you scream my name and make your boyfriend watch the whole thing,” he threatens, starting to unbuckle his pants. 

At this point, you’ve lost quite a bit of blood and your vision is becoming spotty. You’re too weak and in too much pain to move, let alone speak. You start to give in to the black depths of your vision despite the screams of Spike calling your name and cursing the man before you to hell. You can’t keep ignoring the pull of darkness though, wanting to just give in and let it lull you to sleep. 

Just as you cave and close your eyes, there’s a big boom. 

It’s too late though. 

You let your eyes close just as flashes of reds, oranges, whites, and greys fill your vision. 

*

You awake with a gasp, sitting up too quickly, you realize too late. You wince and cry out as your hand goes to your abdomen, your eyes squeezing shut until you hear, “Woah! Relax, (Y/n). You’re alright.” You turn to find Jet’s worried gaze on you, a damp rag in his hand. 

“Jet?” you ask softly, one of your hands releasing your front to go to your head, your vision swimming for a second. 

“It’s okay. You’re on the Bebop. Take it easy,” he reassures. 

“How…why…” you try to get out, trying to process what he’s saying and the last thing you remember. There was an explosion. You think. Maybe?

“I’ll explain everything, but first, are you alright? What hurts the most?” he asks softly, stepping closer to your bed from where he had jumped back in shock when you suddenly sat up. You take in his words and assess your body, it becoming very obvious very quickly what hurts the most. 

“My…” you trail off, motioning to the front of your upper body, unsure how to describe it. You then realize that you are already covered in gauze, bandages, just about all the medical supplies that the Bebop possesses, you’re sure. You’re also dressed in foreign clothes. How long have you been out? 

“I figured as much. He left you a pretty deep gash going from your hip to your, uh, you know,” he supplies, giving a shrug as he gestures to your chest with a blush. Despite your condition and your raging headache, you give him a smirk. 

“Never thought you’d be so timid around the word “breast,” Jet,” you tease, watching his face flame up even more as he sighs and closes his eyes with a shake of his head. 

“I’m not timid around the word breast,” he argues with a huff. 

“Coulda fooled me,” you giggle out. “Well, either way, thanks for patching me up,” you properly thank him, giving him a smile when he looks at you again. His head tilts a tad at that. 

“I didn’t patch you up. You don’t remember?” he asks softly, moving to take a seat by your bed. Speaking of, looks like you’re in a spare room on the ship. A couple random wanted posters hang up on the wall, but nothing else as far as decor goes. There’s a bookshelf with some dusty, old books and a fake plant. And what is some sort of figurine that you’re not really sure what it’s supposed to be. It looks like if someone was trying to make a lizard and a bird love child. Probably Ed’s doing. 

“Uh…no? What happened? There was an explosion, right?” When you try to think about what happened after that, your head pounds harder. 

“Yeah. We got a distress signal from Spike and came as fast as we could,” Jet explains, rubbing the back of his neck with a guilty look. 

You reach your hand out to place it over his real one, giving him another smile. “Thanks, Jet. I appreciate it. I know…” you trail off for a moment, clearing your throat before trying again. “I know I haven’t exactly been the nicest to y’all, but I-”

“Don’t start with all that,” he waves off with his metallic hand. “You’ve been nothing but a sweet angel to the rest of us. If not out of the kindness of your heart, then at least to bother Spike.” He gives you a knowing smirk at that last part and you chuckle. You then gasp, eyes going wide. How could you forget? You’re a terrible person, confirmed. 

Before you can even ask where he is though, Jet reads it all over your face. “He’s fine. He’s actually the one who patched you up. Well, him and Faye. She did your chest for obvious reasons.” He pauses and seems to remember the interaction with those two before continuing, “He wasn’t doing too hot either, but he insisted on being the one to help you, the stubborn brat,” he reassures, grumbling that last part. “He’s been sleeping in this very chair ever since we brought you here. I had actually just kicked him out and asked him to go shower not too long before you woke up.”

He then grunts as he stands up, giving you a warm expression, but you can see the mischief in his eyes. “I should actually go grab him. He wanted me to come grab him the moment you woke up,” he tells you.

Before he can turn to leave though, you reach out your hand and place it on his arm to stop him from leaving just yet. “Actually…do you think I could go find him?” you ask unsurely. You don’t belong here, and they’ve already gone out of their way to provide you a bed and mend your wounds. Sure, you’ve spoken with the group a couple times and have been nothing but friendly with them, but you’ve been an absolute asshole to Spike, so surely they can’t stand you just like he can’t. 

Jet makes a face, debating your question. You remove your hand and give an awkward, forced laugh, a pit forming in your stomach. You should’ve known better. Of course he wouldn’t want a stranger wandering around on his ship. “Aha, sorry. Never mind. I’ll just stay here.”

You look up at him again when he chuckles, the sound confusing you. “(Y/n), you’re basically already family. You don’t have to ask to do anything. I’m just worried about you walking around with those wounds. I don’t want your stitches coming undone…if they haven’t already…” 

Your brows knit together at his words. Family? How so? Before you can ask, he’s ruffling your hair and moving to the door. “You can go find him, just be careful, okay? If you need help, just give a holler. We are all on standby for you two.” He opens the door and takes a step out before turning to look back at you. “Just follow this hall all the way down to the end,” he says as he holds his arm up to the right, “then just take a right, another right, and then a left. You got it?” he asks with a smile. 

“Right, right, left,” you repeat with a nod, mirroring his smile. Though you think you two are smiling for different reasons. He gives you a final nod before disappearing. 

You take a deep breath once you’re alone, looking down your front to assess what damage you can see or feel. You gently finger the gauze wrapped around your chest, a blush simmering across your chest. Thank heavens Faye was the one to do your chest. Not that you would necessarily mind if Spike sees your chest, but you’d rather be conscious for the first time. 

A blush sears your face as you realize your thoughts and you smack your cheek lightly. Not that there will ever be a first time. 

You huff and turn to face the door again, deciding to stop stalling and to get this over with. He’s probably going to kick you off the ship as soon as he realizes you’re okay enough to walk. You sigh and slowly scooch closer to the edge of the bed, letting your feet touch the floor. What exactly did Jet mean by you feel like family? 

A memory from the bar surges to the forefront of your mind. “Touch her again and I’ll fucking kill you.” You remember his face when he said it, a shiver going down your spine. You remember feeling a little relieved once he actually showed up, and yeah, okay you’d probably kill someone for him, and probably have, but to say it like that? He was so…angry doesn’t even describe what he looked like. Wrath or fury might be a better word. 

You shake your head, rubbing your arms to try and rid yourself of the goosebumps that had formed. You hope you never have to see him like that again. Well…it was also kinda hot…

You groan and, as punishment, go to stand up, and, as predicted, it hurts like a bitch. You slump forward a little bit, unable to stand up straight. You take shallow breaths, your chest aching with every expansion of breath. 

You lick your lips and take a shaky step forward, one hand gripping the nightstand next to you and the other still stationed on the hidden cut stretching across your chest. 

It takes you a while, but you slowly make your way to where Jet directed you, which turned out to be Spike’s room. You don’t bother knocking, just walking right in. You don’t see him anywhere, but you see a light shining through the crack under the door, and what sounds like running water. You shuffle towards the light, straining your ears to listen. You don’t want to just barge in on him while he’s showering, but the water sounds smaller than that. Like he’s at the sink. 

With a shrug, you silently slide the door open. As you thought, Spike is at the sink. What you weren’t expecting was for him to be in only a towel wrapped lowly around his waist. He doesn’t notice you creeping there, gawking at his slender waist, broad shoulders, strong back, glistening skin. 

No, his head is hung down, his eyes hiding behind his poofy hair in the mirror. The green strands drip droplets onto the porcelain below his hands, which lean against the bathroom counter. You cross your arms over your chest and lean against the doorway, continuing to eye him up. 

When he still doesn’t notice you and just continues to hang his head there with the sink running, you purse your lips. You slowly come up behind him, making sure not to make a sound. You bring your hand up to the back of his head, your fingers going down to make a gun out of your two fingers. 

“Bang,” you whisper as soon as your pointer finger hits the back of his head. 

He jumps with a holler and spins around to look at you, his eyes wide. “(Y/n)!” he shouts, his hand flying up to his chest as he gapes at you. 

You start to cackle but quickly stop when that hurts your chest. “Ow,” you grumble, gently rubbing at your chest. 

He crosses his arms and gives you a smirk. “That’s what you get,” he says matter-of-factly. You scoff and roll your eyes, placing your hands on your hips. 

“Wish I had a real gun…” you grumble jokingly. Your eyes shift down to his crossed arms, watching as water now drips onto his arms from his hair and cascades down his muscles. Realizing what you’re doing, you quickly look back up to him to find him looking smug. Busted. 

“Oh really? A gun doesn’t really seem like what’s on your mind,” he teases as he reaches behind him and turns off the sink without even looking. You roll your eyes and turn, walking back into his room. Normally, you’d be snooping it up and going through all his shit to annoy him. Right now though, it’s taking all your energy just to stay standing. 

You slowly sit down on his bed, hissing as you hold your stomach, sighing in relief once your ass meets his mattress. He’s standing before you in record speed, his hands meeting your arms as he tries to see what’s hurting you. “Are you alright? Should you be up walking around yet? Damnit, I told Jet-”

“Relax, cowboy,” you interrupt, placing your hand on top of one of his. His eyes leave your hand that’s holding your stomach to go to your hand over his before meeting your gaze. He takes a breath and lets you go, moving to sit beside you. 

You look away from him with a blush. “Can you put some damn clothes on?” you grumble. You feel the bed shake with his chuckle, noticing him not getting back up to do as you asked. 

“Why? Am I too distracting?” he purrs, suddenly close to your ear. You bring your shoulder up to connect with his jaw lightly, causing him to grunt and lean away. You turn to look at him, finding him leaning back on his hands as he looks you over. 

“Not even remotely,” you lie, snapping your fingers in front of his face. “Though I should be asking you the same thing,” you return, a smirk making its way to your face. His eyes don’t snap back upward immediately. No, he takes his time from your bare thighs to meet your gaze once more, making plenty of stops along the way. 

“What can I say? I love a woman in my clothes. Though I have to say, you wear them much better than I.” Your eyes widen at this, quickly looking down at your attire. You turn your head away, mentally adding a tally to his score. You’re out of your element here. 

“Can you stop acting like a pervert and catch me up? Jet told me a little, but not much,” you jab, turning to look at him. At this, he sobers a little, sitting up again. He sighs and rubs a hand over his face before raking it through his messy, wet hair. 

“Alright, well…” he starts and stays quiet for a long moment. You raise a brow but don’t say anything, letting him gather his thoughts. “Ed gave me some sort of remote thing I can use in case things went south. She overheard where I was going and was worried about you, so she asked me to press the button if we needed help.” He sighs, looking away from you then. “I was armed to the teeth. I ever tell you about that one time I went after Vicious? You should’ve seen how many guns and grenades and who knows what else I had on me that day…” he chuckles as he seemingly remembers that day, shaking his head before sighing. 

“I had way more that night and it didn’t even matter. They knew what my weakness was just by looking at me…” Your brows furrow at that part, but you still don’t interrupt. His eyes meet yours, studying your face for a moment. 

“I wanted to be able to defend you, to beat the bad guys like I always do. I didn’t want help. But…I wasn’t thinking straight.” He lets out a dry laugh. “I stopped thinking right the second I saw you in that dress…” he licks his lips, and your heart skips a beat, the organ starting to beat like a wild bird in your chest. “Too bad you’ll never be able to wear it again,” he says mournfully and gives a dramatic sigh. You roll your eyes and playfully shove his shoulder. 

“Anyway, uh, I knew I was beat when they started hurting you. I had all the weapons and knew I couldn’t use a single one. I couldn’t risk them hurting or killing you because I wasn’t fast enough, because I couldn’t aim right from my shaking hands.” He pauses and shakes his head, looking at his limp hands in his lap. He laces his fingers together and squeezes, his knuckles turning white from how hard he’s gripping them. You reach over and place your hand over his, feeling his grip loosen. “I’m sorry, (Y/n). I should’ve protected you. I know you’re just going to say that you don’t need protecting and all that shit, but…” 

“Spike…” you start, giving his hands a squeeze. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he brushes off, lifting his head and trying to swish his wet hair out of his face, but it just falls limply back to where it was. Looks like he needs a haircut. 

“So I pushed the button, I surrendered and accepted the fact that I needed help. Jet and Faye came flying in, guns blazing. They must’ve shot something, cause something went kaboom. I don’t think I’ve ever run faster in my entire life. I was at your side instantly, shooting that fucker right in his fucking dick before putting a bullet in his brain.” His face morphs into anger at the memory of that poor excuse of a man, his jaw clenching. “That piece of shit. Should’ve let him suffer…” 

“Thank you, Spike,” you say softly, interrupting him before he can spiral. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you. I thought I could handle it…” He shakes his head, giving you a small smile. 

“Don’t apologize. There’s only one person more stubborn than me, and that’s you,” he says softly, bringing his hand up to knock his knuckles into your jaw in a fake punch. You chuckle and nod your head. 

“Can’t argue with you there.” He gives a fake gasp, his hand flying to his chest much like it had earlier. 

“You? Not arguing? I think I might have a heart attack,” he sputters dramatically. “Actually, are you okay? You have a fever? A concussion?” he teases, bringing the back of his hand to your forehead. You roll your eyes and smack his hand away, and this time he lets you make contact. 

“So you killed the fucker and then what?” you encourage. He sobers again, his smile dimming as his eyes scan his room. 

“I carried you behind the bar, letting the others have their fun in a shoot-out while I pressed fucking bar rags to your bleeding wounds. And, like the gentleman I am, I took my shirt off–well, not my shirt, but the shirt I stole–and put it on you. Was long enough to cover you up, mostly.” He sighs and suddenly lies back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. 

“There was so much blood…the rags didn’t stop the red from seeping into the shirt…” After a long pause, he adds, “I really liked that button-up. Was gonna keep it…” You smile grimly, knowing good and well he doesn’t give a fuck about the shirt, and he’s just saying that to lighten the mood. 

He clears his throat and sits up yet again. He can’t seem to stay still for too long. “Anyway, once everyone was either dead or running for the hills, Jet and Faye came in, rescuing us poor, helpless folk. You seemed like you were conscious, but…” he trails off for the nth time, his eyes slowly meeting yours. “You really don’t remember any of this?” he whispers. 

You shake your head, giving him a sheepish look. “No. I’m really sorry that y’all had to do all that for me. I-”

“Stop. I already told you not to apologize. I could’ve left whenever I wanted to.” He reaches over and slowly takes your hand, the movement unsure but steady. You lace your fingers with his, your eyes moving from your conjoined hands to his eyes. They’re dark, seemingly staring into your soul. 

“You said…right before you passed out, you said…” He starts the sentence twice but can’t seem to finish the thought. 

“What did I say?” you ask worriedly, trying to search your brain for a memory that doesn’t exist. You assumed you had passed out and stayed conked out for however long you’ve been on the ship. You still don’t know how long you’ve been here. 

He suddenly looks away, seeming embarrassed. This worries you. What did you say? A hundred possibilities race through your mind, but what he says next is one of the few things you hadn’t thought of. 

“You said, “In case I don’t make it…I think I’m in love with you.”” He stares at you, awaiting your reaction. Your jaw completely unhinges at that, gaping at him like a fool. 

“Are you fucking serious?” you squeak. He continues to stare at you for a moment before a mischievous smirk starts to sneak onto his face. 

“No,” he answers, not even trying to hide how satisfied he is with himself. Your mouth falls even further open, if that’s possible. “But now I know it’s true,” he teases.

“You asshole!” you scream, launching yourself at him to strangle him, completely ignoring the ache everywhere at the swift movement. All he does is laugh, letting you straddle him and wrap your hands around his throat, throttling him back and forth. Your cheeks are on fire–as a matter of fact, your whole body feels too hot. 

You eventually stop shaking him and slump forward, giving up on your murder attempt. God damn him. You lift your eyes to find him cockily grinning up at you. “I’m going to kill you,” you threaten despite the fact that you both know that that’s the furthest thing from the truth. 

“I love the kind of woman that will actually just kill me,” he replies before shooting you a wink. You huff and let go of him, sitting up and realizing with a start that you’re sitting on his lap. You clear your throat, trying to ignore where your bare skin is touching his. 

“Comfortable, princess?” he coos, shifting his hips upward to let you feel all of him. 

“Cool it, hotshot,” you hiss, slapping his chest, and against your better judgment, stays there. He laughs and brings his hands to your hips, his thumbs slowly tracing the bare skin there. You lick your lips and press them together, trying to ignore the new heat flooding your entire system. 

“Make me,” he whispers challengingly, the blacks of his eyes starting to grow larger the longer you stay there staring at him. 

And you stay in that position for a while. Skin touching, breathing labored despite no movement occurring, eyes staying locked on each other’s. 

Then, seemingly getting the idea at the same time, you lean down just as he leans up. Your lips meet for a clunky kiss, your teeth bumping and a little too much spit from your lips on your chins. After a couple of seconds, you both adjust and your lips lock harmoniously, like you were made for the other. 

You hum as he sits up, never letting your lips part from his. His hands slide up your back under your shirt, keeping your body close to his. You gasp when he pinches your side lightly, causing you to pull back to glare at him. He gives you a sly smile before using his nose to tilt your head back. He then begins to lay kisses there, going from your ear all the way down to your collarbone. A shiver runs down your spine when his tongue makes contact with your skin, letting him taste your skin. 

“Fuck, (y/n)...you have no idea the power you hold over me…” he mumbles against your collarbone before starting to suck there. 

You let out a shaky laugh, bringing your hands to the back of his head to card your fingers through his mop. “I think I have a pretty good idea…” you whisper back. Touch her again and I’ll fucking kill you.

You groan as you roll your hips down against his, feeling his hardening length beneath you. “You’re so fucking hot,” you whine, not even trying to hide how desperate you sound now. He groans at the feel of you against him, slowly pulling his head back to look up at you. 

“Wait, wait…” he pants out, blinking his eyes a few times. You whine, tightening your grip on his hair. 

“What?” you all but cry, starting to grind against him now in a slow rhythm. He squeezes his eyes shut, his head falling back momentarily. 

He takes a staggering breath before he reaches for your hips again, gripping them hard enough to stop you. “Are you sure you want to be doing this?” he suddenly asks, opening his eyes to look up at you. He looks as though it’s killing him to stop. You feel like it’s killing you. 

“Yes, yes,” you answer quickly and try to keep moving, but he doesn’t budge. “Why wouldn’t I?” you ask with a frown. 

You look into his eyes again and find all the unspoken words there. Because of what happened. You go lax against him them, bringing your hands to his face to cup his cheeks. 

“And you say you aren’t romantic…” you tease, smiling softly at him. He huffs a breath with a roll of his eyes. 

“That’s not romance, (Y/n). That’s just basic consideration and empathy,” he sasses. Your eyes mockingly widen at this.

“Wow, those are some pretty big words for you. I’m surprised you know them,” you say mockingly before starting to smirk at him. He scoffs and goes to move you off of him, mumbling something about you being a brat. You wrap your arms around his neck though, pressing your chests together. 

“Yes, I’m sure,” you finally say, growing serious. At the still uncertain look on his face, you smile before pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. “It’s always been you, Spike,” you confess, your cheeks warming. “Even when you were being a jackass,” you tack on, watching a smile break out on his face. 

“I love you, (Y/n),” he suddenly says, making both of your eyes go wide. The way his cheeks are turning a dark shade of red, you wonder if he even meant to say it. “Shit. I, uh, sorry. That slipped out…” he stutters out, seeming nervous, which isn’t like him at all. 

You giggle and connect your lips again, and you feel him relax against you. “I love you too,” you whisper back before connecting your lips for another passionate kiss. 

And with that, he flips you over onto your back and shows you just how in love with you he truly is.

⊱ ────── {⋅. ☆ .⋅} ────── ⊰

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Requested by @rxvxr. I'm so sorry this took me so long to do! I hope you like it! :)