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thestarlightsymphony · 22 hours

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the laconic marksman

spike spiegel/faye valentine || sickfic, first kiss, fluff, banter

in which faye deals with a mild-high fever, breaking the tension between her and the evasive cowboy in her doorway.

(or, spike gives his all to take care of faye when she gets sick -- and faye realizes her burgeoning feelings may very well be mutual).

read on ao3

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“You and your never-ending lamenting.”

“What about it, lunkhead?”

“It’s never enough to kill someone, point-blank. Just enough to keep them perpetually dying.”

“Aren’t you a gentleman? Ever so efficient with your words.”

“I try, my valentine.”

Faye and Spike are out on one of many bounties, one that she hopes will be enough to put food on the table tonight (some amalgamation of stir-fry, not that she’s complaining anymore). They’re scouting a hole-in-the-wall restaurant in the south of Europa where they’ve gained word of drug trafficking – crushed sage powder that evolved from pharmaceutical to hallucinogen. Dimmed bulbs illuminate the counter of the sidebar, where she idly fiddles with a half-cracked shot glass. Walls of aged wood, floorboards that creak beneath every footstep, oil paintings of cowboy folk tales stringing the walls.

Spike is making conversation with the bartender, whose voice is laced with not enough motivation to answer questions on a minimum wage; but Faye knows his alluring cowboy charm will win him over.

It’s that same charm she’s had her eye on for the past few months. She’s not sure when it hit her – maybe when he began lighting a cigarette for her out of habit, maybe when the silence of her morning shower wasn’t complete without his muffled yelling at the door. Maybe when once, his sardonic teasing about her off-tune singing ended up in her pressed between Spike and the wall, him leaning on his forearm as he mumbled something dripping in sweetness, almost sedating, against her ear about how instead of arguing, he could always find some other way to keep the two of them quiet.

(If she looks into it, she can’t tell if it was sardonic or eager – it's this thought that kept her tossing and turning in the middle of the night, cool moonlight insufficient to keep her temperature down).

It’s not the simmering heat from the kitchen nor the faint clicks of forks against plates that catch her attention, though; it’s a pair of passerbys on the street.

A young couple – mid-20s, she’d estimate – dressed for the sudden spring heat, the woman in heeled boots and a full, flowing skirt, ill-fitting leather jacket draped on her shoulders, the man in a wrinkled button-up and loose slacks. They stopped in front of the door to the restaurant, as the woman brushed loose strands from her boyfriend’s (fiance? husband?) face. His tired expression shifted to a soft, gleaming grin. He mouthed something she couldn’t quite make out, ruffling her hair, to which the woman split into laughter, head thrown back in joy.

And she’s watching the two’s hands clasped together, fitting like a puzzle piece, and she feels this sharp twinge of pain. Like a needle pricking her finger, like a heart breaking – but not shattering like glass. Like it’s being weathered down by desert wind and a never-ending heat, a humiliation she feels crawling up her neck whenever Spike leans against her doorway in that nonchalant manner, fixates on her to retort about her every move.

He's got her heartstrings between his fingers like he's weaving a tapestry of her soul with him as the center of gravity – and he won’t even notice.

Later that night, when Jet has gone to tend to his bonsai and Ed has gone to hack another distant state’s security (or play chess, or take apart her CPU, it’s a gamble), and the two of them are seated facing each other, picking at dinner with a fork, that same humiliation bleeds into her cheeks. Though now, it’s accompanied by an ever-so-slight chill and fatigue settling in.

Imagine how surprised she is when he abruptly gets up, saunters over, and thump sits down next to her. Raising the back of his hand to her forehead, vague concern written in his eyes.

She thinks her body might give out, but the daze she’s in could be more than flustered heat.

“You do look sick,” he says, a more prominent worry lacing his tone. “Get to bed. I’ll finish off the bounty myself.”

Before she can return a stubborn reply about how no bacterium could deter her from coming with him (lest he make some smug, reckless decision), he finishes it off with a sharp “Don’t argue with me on this.”

She’s still on the fence about returning a skeptical reply, but a blazing heat takes over her face and her eyes feel dimmer by the minute, so she lets him take the victory this time.

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It wasn’t a bacterium – it was a virus. Gunshot wounds and near-death injuries and that full week of shiitake meals, and this was the thing to take her out. Humiliating.

It wasn’t the worst of conditions – but she’d been plagued by constant coughing and her nose was running like hell. Her fever grew worse by the minute, and in her semi-conscious daze she heard different sets of footsteps ever so often. Soup one hour, bitter medication the next.

Faye did appreciate everyone’s efforts to take care of her – she was used to dragging herself through fever dreams and stomach flu. A twinge of shame burned into her, however. Was she weak, now? Letting others care for her, letting her guard down. Would anyone chide her for taking up too much of their time? Culminating in some sick, wasted effort on a woman with no gratefulness? She was scared she’d never hear the end of it--

Until she did hear the end of it. Hair tousled and head buried in the pillow, there’s a shifting in the carpet loud enough to rouse her. It’s not Jet’s slow, concrete steps nor Ed’s pitter-patter tread, not even Ein’s taps accompanied by the jingle of a collar. This set of steps drags itself with a bizarre confidence. Vaguely disoriented, she lifts her head and leans over to see Spike against her doorway, again, gaze softer than usual.

With a slow, almost seductive saunter, he makes his way over to the side of her bed, bending low enough to reach her gaze. Dimmed starlight filters through the blinds onto the blanket.

“Morning, Valentine.”

She groans and turns over in response, pauses, then turns back to him. She’s not one to turn down any of their moments alone.

“Be glad I bothered checking in on you.”

“I’m well and fine on my own,” she remarks.

He smirks – and though her fluttering eyelids obscure her vision, she feels the atmosphere tense with that same cowboy charm he flaunts so effortlessly.

She’s going to chide him for this, until she feels fingers running through her hair with an ease she hasn’t felt in ages.

There’s no sly banter, no battle of wits – and that fiery ache isn’t there either, surprisingly. Just a strong, golden sense of warmth, flowing from his hand to the roots of her hair. He continues this motion for – well, it’s not like she’s keeping count, not like she wants the minutes to slow down so she can commit this to her memory – until his thumb is tracing down the tense lines on her forehead, the roundness of her cheekbones.

Her eyes shoot open – not with suspicion, but intrigue. “What’s plaguing you now? Didn’t know the contours of my face were that fascinating.”

“You’re completely drained of your color. Not very fascinating to me.”

What else did she expect? “Sickness does that to you. One of these days, I’ll be full-flushed and rosy again. Don’t worry too much.”

“Back to your usual rambling? Woe is me.”

“I bet you’ve missed having someone to argue with.”

“I did. I did miss you.”

She didn’t expect that much. “Having a change of heart? Didn’t know you were that fond of me.” Her voice trembles slightly – she seizes before the letters tumble down the stairs.

“You’d be surprised, Valentine. You are important to us, you know.”

There it was – that us. The ever-present us. The tension ever so briefly bubbled to the top then simmered down. She wanted to break it open so desperately.

A signature Valentine move, prodding at the tense surface with a sardonic acrylic nail. “What would you ever have without me?”

“Now, I don’t think I know, Faye.” Faye. “Lower blood pressure, for one.” Asshole. “But really, I don’t know. You’re impulsive, sure, but you’re dedicated. You’d give your all for everyone here – you don’t have to say it for it to be true.”

That much was right. She had developed an unwavering loyalty to the Bebop – couldn’t imagine ever picking up and leaving like before.

“Just don’t run off again. We love you too much for that.”

Her heart stops, then begins pounding a mile a minute. She craves the now-absent fingers that have returned to his pockets. “Love? Awfully vulnerable. The Bebop has softened you, hasn’t it?”

The thought of how much Jet, Ed, and Ein cared for her, though, did tug at her heartstrings. Maybe she had become soft.

Something shifts in his eyes – that glazed nonchalance replaced with a vulnerable shine. Shifting his gaze to the floor, his head follows suit as he slouches at an angle. When he comes back up, his face is flushed raw, red almost soaking into his curls. “I love you too much for that.”

Something clicks in her head, gears shifting into perfect position.

She loves him. “You love me?”

“Go to bed. You’re delirious.”

She loves him. “I love you. Your words, cowboy.”

“We’ll talk about this when you’re not feverish.”

She loves him. “If you’re insisting.”

He gets off his knees and sifts his fingers through her hair, down to the roots this time. Eyes shifting back to the floor, captivated by the swirl in the carpet. She chooses not to push the subject any further, letting the comfort of his hands lull her into sleep.

After what feels like a full moon cycle, he saunters off, that flustered glow almost lighting up the whole room.

The hum of the Bebop’s engines filling the air, she sleeps better than she has in years.

(When she feels well enough to get out of bed, she notices bottles of brand-name medicine and empty meal-wrappers lining her drawers like paintings at a museum exhibition.)

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The Bebop, small and rusty as it was, was comforting. That’s what she missed about staying cooped in her room – hearing the warm domesticity of shuffling footsteps and muffled conversation, laughing over dinner and bickering over dishes. She doesn’t think she could go another morning without hearing at least one of those voices yelling about her exhaustive beauty routine.

She enters the kitchen, finding Jet at the stove and Ed finishing off a bowl of peppers. “Faye-faye! Spike-person is on the deck of the Bebop! Flowers, flowers, no April showers.”

“How’re you feeling, Faye?” Jet turns to face her, concern written across his face.

“Not as horrible. I can go an hour without sneezing, big surprise.”

“You’ve got Spike to thank for that.” Now he’s completely turned around, ignoring the peppers charring in his pan.

“What do you–”

He points the spatula at the door to the deck.

Hurriedly, she rushes over, and before she can step onto the deck, there’s a cigarette pointed in her direction, already lit. She tucks it between her fingers before turning to face Spike, his usual monotone expression lining his eyes.

Maybe she was delirious. Maybe it was some grand fever dream she had composed in an attempt to put her id and superego together. Maybe –

“Feeling any better, Faye?”

Faye. “I..sure. You know, someone shouldn’t smoke post-infection.” She turns away to gaze at anything that wasn’t his outreached fingers.

“Alright, Dr. Valentine.” He takes the cigarette, lilting from her fingers, and puts it out. His hand grazes hers, lingering for a split second.

This shameless display of intimacy overwhelms her, choked sentiments rising to the surface. “But…thank you. For taking care of me. I suppose I was fading in and out, but I remember you there, quite a few times. Lots of medication on the chest drawer.”

“Took me 4 bounties for those. You can repay me later, with interest.”

For the first time in days, she took on a full grin. “You’re ever so kind.”

She was still turned away from him, scared the delirium would return if she met his eyes. A sudden warmth pressed against her as she felt an arm wrap around her shoulders.

“I could be kinder.”

Stars dripping in shimmering silver begin to light up before her. The sky is a deep, rich blue, swirling in a never-ending chase to keep the stars in its grasp. How had she never noticed them before?

Like clockwork, she hesitantly turns to meet his face. His gaze is softer, more concerned than ever, eyes shifting from her eyes to her lips and back. How had she never noticed it before?

The mid-sickness visits, the sitting dinners, us. The ability to know what the other was thinking on a whim, how they moved like clockwork in battle. The bickering over what they’d eat at a restaurant, the prolonged silence after a fight, the warmth of his voice washing over her in an apology.

“Don’t exhaust yourself too much. You’ll still need a few days to recover.”

“Wasn’t planning on it. You know I hate effort of any kind.”

“So the fever did wear off.”

“I’m conscious enough. Not like a fever could take me out.”

She feels her pulse freeze, then return rushing in. “Conscious enough to remember what you say to me.”

That same shift in his eyes is back, but the vulnerable glimmer from before is now dimmed. “Faye…” His tone turns serious, losing its regular jest, and he swallows hard.

What did she expect? An explicit confirmation, a few words to let her know the truth? There was a constant craving obscuring her judgment – he was teasing her, he loved her, he cared for her as a teammate. With Spike, there was no way to know for certain.

She felt a twinge of guilt in her dissonance – when you’ve been the pawn in a grand plot so many times, how foolish would she have to be to expect she was anything more? But again, hadn’t he let her into his life, let her settle among the weeds of his past and roots of his future?

Eyes flickering to a passing comet, she wished he would say something, anything. She would even take a vague, mumbled admission just to let the mystery dissolve. His stubbornness had always eluded her, but now it was digging into her skin.

Instead, she laughs it off, vague disappointment lining her voice. “Don’t even worry about it. I was delirious. You were just kind.”

He inhales, then pauses. Seized with hesitation, charm seeping out of his heeled boots. Unsure if it was a trick of the light, she caught his cheeks beginning to flush. Did he catch something while taking care of her?

She pokes a nail into his cheek. He winces, half-hearted smile lining his lips. Smiling ear to ear, feelings fallen and forgotten. There’s no use in pushing this any further, she laments. It’ll be back to their game of chess-and-checkers, pushing the envelope until one of them pulls away with a paper cut.

“Come inside. I’m sure you’re hungry.” She turns back to the entrance. The drag of his boots don’t follow her inside.

Confusion glazes her face as her eyebrows furrow, and she whirls to face him. “Spike?”

“I’ll be there in a minute. Don’t even worry about it.”

After walking inside, falling out of his view, she presses against the wall near the door to the deck. With bated breath, she can’t help but overhear him rehearsing a set of lines -- something about taking his time.

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Later that night, when he stands in her doorway like a permanent fixture, she beckons him in.

It is there that he kneels by her bedside, runs the thumb over the contours of her face, like it’s a lifelong habit, like it’ll become a lifelong habit.

It is there she wraps her arms around his neck when he ushers her closer, pulling her forehead to his, whispering her gratitude in solace – she doesn’t hear his hushed response, but she does see a shine return to his eyes. His thoughts spill over – sentiments, rushed confessions, I’m sorry it took me so long, so long, too long. He mouths a few words, muted over the blood rushing in her ears. She doesn’t have to hear them to understand what he's saying.

With a clement two fingers, she traces over his lower lip, and he in turn closes the distance between them.

(There will never be an inch of space between them again).

It is there Spike kisses Faye for the first of many times.

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#ohe of my all-time favorite first kiss fics #fucking ADORE this #been looking at old art and thinking about them again lately #fuck

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