Cowboy Bebop Fan Fiction ❯ Clouds in My Coffee ❯ Let me have a coffee ( Chapter 1 )

He hated her and he loved her at the same time.

 

Loved her because of who she was; vulnerable and innocent but strong and sophisticated. She was beautiful, amazing, not so much the big bad Faye that everyone else had always made her out to be. She was hard to understand but so transparent all at the same time. And he loved her, really loved her.

 

 

He hated that she couldn't see that. That maybe she didn't see him as anything other than Jet. To her, in his eyes, he was friend and confidant. Brother and comrade. The rock and pillar of strength and stability in her fragile existence. He was what kept her sane, focused, mentally strong and able to face all she'd been thrust into. He was her lighthouse man, guiding her safely through the storm. That was all fine and dandy, but he really would have loved to have something else added to that illustrious list of titles he bore: lover. He hated that she didn't see him as anything other than what was in front of her and that he really couldn't hate her for not doing so. Because it wasn't her that he hated; it was what he wasn't to her that he hated.

 

They still went after the occasion bounty every now and then, but didn't need to so often because it was just the two of them and because they usually went after bigger fish, ones that carried enough woolongs on their heads so that he and she could comfortably live off the reward for a month or so. In the time they didn't spend hunting, she wrote. There was so much to her past life, so many memories of time long gone, so much past and history. She would often talk about all the things she had begun to remember while they sat in the kitchen at breakfast, he over the stove and she, usually in a robe, smoking a cigarette and stirring her coffee. It was black, no cream, and two sugars, and she drank it like that every morning, while she talked and he listened, her hair always messy and in her eyes. It was the morning that she was telling him about her sophomore year in high school that he suggested she write a book. And it surprised him that she actually thought about it and decided to do it.

 

Faye's favorite author was Henry Miller. She read Tropic of Cancer cover to cover, over and over, becoming completely absorbed in the book. She was so enthralled by the story that she'd walk around the room quoting lines from the book, in a semi dramatic voice that always made him laugh…and made his heart contract so suddenly and painfully that he almost wanted it to happen again. And it usually did. Jet researched Miller, just to fancy her, discovered his sordid affair with Anais Nin, and it delighted her so much, that she smiled genuinely, something that hadn't happened since Spike died. And just to make her even happier, they watched “Henry and June” together and she loved it. And it was that movie and that book and that story that ignited her passion for writing and fueled her story, her memoirs, her autobiography about a life left behind.

 

Turned out that she had quite a way with words; Jet thought she was a brilliant writer. He bought her an antique typewriter, one from the 1930's and every night when they weren't hunting or tired or too caught up in every day life, she came to his bedroom, sat on his bed, and began typing, usually in her pajamas because she stayed up so late at times that she fell asleep in his room. He asked her once why she typed in his room and she smiled, chuckled a little and replied, “Because I like your bed better.” But she was serious a few moments later as she blew out a soft puff of azure smoke. “I guess because…you inspire me…” At that moment he decided that had to be both the best and worst thing anyone had ever said to him. He felt as if she was only saying it because he was her friend…and most preeminently in his mind, because when she looked at him, she was really imagining Spike.

 

He missed Spike. There was really no other way to say other than he missed him. He wished, and for more than one reason, that he wasn't dead. That he couldn't visit his gravestone in Tharsis and place flowers there. He wished that the crazy fool had never left in the first place, or at least, if he did go-and there was no doubt in Jet's mind that he couldn't have stopped him anyway-that he had survived to some extent. He would've paid anything to have his best friend back but he couldn't. It wasn't just that he missed him either, but because Faye had nearly had a break down because of it. If given the chance, he'd bring Spike back just for Faye, even if it meant he'd never have her to himself.

 

But he couldn't do that, and there was nothing that either of them could do, so she just settled into a menagerie of broken nights and suppressed tears that she tried so hard and so much in vain to hide. She was transparent to him, always had been and there was no way she could veil her pain from him. He was too attentive for that. At first, he let her keep to herself and didn't bother her because he figured she needed time alone. But enough was enough and after three silent and uncomfortable months, her detached, remote stance was really grating on his nerves. Maybe she didn't want to talk about it just yet, but she couldn't hide in her room forever. Jet wasn't prepared for the crash that night; it hurt more to watch her cry inconsolably then it did to know that his partner and best friend was never coming back. So he held her that night until she cried herself to sleep, and did so every night for the next two years until she finally came to grips with all the troubles her poor mind had gone through in the past.

 

Anyone else would have been flattered to think they'd helped someone through a crisis like she'd gone through. Anyone else would have relished in the thought of being someone's closet, most intimate friend. And at first, Jet was. But time passed and his brotherly feelings of friendship turned into something much more complicated and so intangible that it only had to be described as love. He loved her, so completely and wholly it hurt because she didn't love him back. He wasn't Spike, and from where he was standing and from what he had come to understand, Spike was who she'd wanted the whole time.

 

But, as they say, love is blind.

 

After a while, Jet got used to Faye writing in his room and tried not thinking about why she was there. He didn't say much, since it seemed that talking threw her off kilter and she usually messed up something when she was thrown off kilter. When that happened, she had to use another piece of paper (since she hated bothering using white out), and the more paper she wasted, the more he had to buy. Of course, he had no beef with actually buying her paper; it was just that he'd rather spend his money on better things…say, beef for instance. Bell peppers with beef were always nice… So, he volunteered to spend the nights in her room or on the couch if she wanted to use his bed to type in. But she had shaken her head vehemently, her eyes widening as if he had just said he was going to blow up what was left of the moon. “No! No, no, no…just stay. Stay,” she commanded him as if he were a dog. “I like it better with you here.” He didn't know if she meant he was a serene presence in the room, or if she just didn't like being alone. Either way, he stayed. Partly because it was his room to begin with. Partly because he couldn't resist her. And partly, and probably mainly, because he liked to watch her type.

 

Sometimes, whenever she sat in the middle of his big bed typing, he would imagine they were in another place, another time. He would fantasize about him and her, and in his fantasies, she was his coqueluche and he was hers. They were in 1930's Paris, in an old hotel in Montparnasse and as she typed, he watched. She wore a satin night gown, dusty rose pink, which contrasted sharply against the black fishnet stockings that clung to her thighs with the help of a matching garter, a rip in the side of one of the stockings. And in his fantasies, just like she did on the Bebop, she smoked a cigarette, this one held in her perfectly manicured hand by use of an elegant holder, engraved and painted but a little worn. Her hair was always in her eyes, curly and wavy, dark and just inviting him to run his fingers through. As she typed, she unconsciously wiggled her stocking feet against his, which were propped up against the footboard of the wide but short bed. Everything in Paris was small anyways… He loved how she'd sometimes mumble incoherent parts of sentences out loud as she wrote, but didn't know it. And he'd always chuckle lightly, and then tease her in French, “Mon dieu! Que pourrait dire Sartre?” She'd giggle and swat him none to gently on his bare arm before setting the typewriter on the floor and crawling like a green eyed cat up to where he rested. “He'd say, `Ça ne faitrien', of course.” she responded, and leaning her lips to his ear whispered darkly, “Je voudrais...tu…” to which he pulled out her lipstick stained cigarette and whispered, “Bien sûr.”, before kissing her ruby lips as Count Basie played in the background and sepia light filtered in through the dirty windows…

 

Then his fantasy would abruptly come to an end when she cursed loudly because she'd messed up again, or `the feel of the paragraph wasn't right'. He had to get up then, get her another sheet of paper, and another ciggie or a bottle of water so she could keep typing. Then, after a few minutes of careful consideration, she would hand him the paper and ask him to read over it, to make sure it was good. He always told her it was, not because he was trying to be nice, but simply because it always was, and she'd smile brightly, even if she was sleepy and about ready to fall over in exhaustion. It was beautiful, those intensely and profoundly artistic days, and painful, too. Beautiful because his days were filled with her muses, her jokes, her smiles and laughter and his nights with the calming sweetness of her heart being put to page. Painful because she wasn't really seeing him when she laughed and joked and talked. She was seeing Spike, a ghost that haunted him to no end, which had a hold on him and her and refused to let go. Let go!

But, as they say, love is blind.