#willwant

   maybe, she thinks, part of her wants it all to be a useless, anticlimactic endeavor. another sabotage, leaving her solely with the mess of trinkets she had unceremoniously swiped off the living room’s table to make space for it: a record player, old and battered like earth itself. the hopelessness is not without good reason⸺  though spike may be nimbler with his hands, that still doesn’t explain why he claims there are extra pieces. faye huffs with her lips on her flask, starting to regret tempting his compliance via the promise of buying real beef, quality pending, for the next day’s meal. just as he’s about to pinch the needle, she scrambles on her feet to grab his wrist. she wants to do the honors, of course, but there’s the element of fear, too.

   the fear of having something fall apart before your eyes.

   she asks him to dim the lights, less as an effort set a mood, and more from not wanting to see in full brightness how the machine would sputter. or worse, have him see how her expression would drop with it. before she can have second thoughts, she flicks the speed switch and lowers the needle. there’s music, then. scratchy, real music, and the player holds up fine, a true survivor of time, much like her. she coughs an exhale, closes her eyes, nods to the bolero’s moderate tempo. she mouths the shorter sentences, guessing every other consonant. inevitably, it turns into a hum that matches the player’s discreet volume, mindful of not adding to the risk that is waking up jet ( or worse, ein ) this late into the night.

   stretching to her full height, she can’t tell if her stumbling is due the whiskey or the little friction between the floor and her socks. steadying herself by gripping his forearm, her head dips downwards, constant in its rhythmic nodding,  “  i think i know .  .  .  ”  trailing off, she frowns. her other hand reaches for his free arm, and what should be a silent request turns into a demand. against all complaints, when one hand rests on his shoulder blade and the other grasps his wrist, shy from entirely locking hands, there’s little that can break her focus. lids fallen, she tries to understand, tries to remember: she knows sound, much like scent, is forgotten last. in her meditation, which isn’t that different from a trance, she barely registers spike’s mimicry has made the foxtrot easier.

   it’s a push and pull not only seen, but felt. every time he accuses her of stepping on him, faye tugs at the hairs on the nape of his neck. every time she implies he has missed a step, spike startles her with a turn that effectively shuts her up. despite herself, she laughs, clicks her tongue, sways.   “  i must say,  ”  her voice has the lilt of a pleasant maiden,  “  you really suck at this.  ”  her forehead presses on his shoulder in an effort to concentrate, having already lost a verse while distracted by the angle of his jaw, the hand ghosting her waist.

   being close to him never gets easier.

   her humming grows breathier as the instrumentals suggest the song is coming to a close, a realization shattering like busted hard candy: the faye in her tape, even smaller, bubbling with laughter and dancing with her soles atop the shoes of a man that resembles her. the memory ends when the song does, and by then, she has already flinched. she can’t tell if she really calls out his name—spike’s, another’s—or imagines it. the grip on his wrist has slid towards the back of his hand, holding it closed like a flower bud she can’t allow to bloom. faye doesn’t know if she should thank him. and, if she should, doesn’t know what for. for the compassion to humor her, or for the memory she wouldn’t have dug up otherwise. 

   she picks up on the brutal scent of gunpowder, the faint notes that remain, as soon as she awakes. three make-shift beds, carefully parallel yet empty, and she can only tell gravity has been newly restored by the way ein and jet laid on different staircases. they’re quiet. they’re sleeping like corpses. clueless and barefoot, there’s nowhere to look for but the place where it all began, and she does so slowly, as if to retrace the steps. to her shock, it proves to be the only course of action: spike’s mass of hair is an universally recognizable volume. his body is limp against the steel, and, upon closer inspection, she sees his arm, the mark upon his arm⸺  

   the strange mass had gotten to him.

   doubts of his success arise from the panic, and there’s fear again: if it comes back, and only she is awake .  .  . the thought is motivation enough to tug his body, her forearms under his armpits and hands locking on his shoulders, to the nearest room with a functional lock. hers. she can’t recall the last time her limbs were so taut with strain, but there’s pride to be found in managing to settle him on her bed by herself. all without waking him, no less. or, more accurately, without noticing he awoke.

   watching him, it’s hard to tell sleep from death when spike wears the illusion of both so well. she hears the main computer remind through the speakers there are only thirty hours left before their descent to mars, and it all clicks: his plan, and the fact faye finds him easier to digest when his entirety exclusively resembles violent thrills, because there’s little worth in that simplicity. 

   men like that are easy to betray.

   but, because he isn’t, she doesn’t know what to name the expression she regards him with. if nothing else, it’s direct, unblinking. when she throws the blanket over his body, she slides down to sit on the floor, back pressed to the bed’s side.  “  children, dogs, women like me,  ”  for a moment, she can only sit there, unaffected by the shivering.  “  those are the things you hate⸺  you say you hate. ”  cheek resting atop her knees, she continues in a flat cadence,  “  i wish you did.  ”