Truth Be Told
This is the truth.
Faye can't stand Spike. He is arrogant, and careless, and everything is difficult with him. A snarl lives in her throat, an angry puff of breath waits at her lips, and yet Faye does not leave the Bebop, and Spike, and her furious irritation.
She thinks about leaving, often. She does leave, sometimes--and comes back before she ever goes too far, before she's gone too long. Faye stays because the Bebop has hot water (sometimes), and food (little enough), and a room Faye can call her own (Jet and Spike don't protest too loudly, too long). She stays, Faye thinks, because the Bebop has resources she needs, because Jet and Spike have contacts she does not. Staying makes sense, makes for a bigger profit (won't ever make her rich).
She stays, because Spike doesn't care about her at all.
She uses all the hot water, eats the last of the food, and smirks when he glowers at her.
This is the truth.
Sometimes, Faye looks at Spike and feels want curl hot and low in her belly. She likes the long line of his back, the way his hands move, and thinks about winding her own hands into his hair and tugging hard, holding him tight against her breasts.
She dreams about Spike, sometimes, only sometimes. She dreams about other men, too. She dreams about the men she's fought, the men who've shared her bed, and a man with smoky eyes and a brilliant smile who she imagines she might have loved in a lifetime past (until she finds his movie-star smile in the pages of an old magazine).
She's not a little girl, and desire is as much as she chooses to make of it.
She's not a little girl, and none of this means anything. Nothing at all, so she grins, long and slow, when Spike catches her studying the column of his throat.
In her bunk, later, her movie star lover's face comes to her as easily as Spike's.
This is the truth.
They spend weeks in transit, with nothing but the darkness of space and each other's company to occupy them. They grow bored, hungry, snappish, and Spike and Faye kiss for the first time because they can think of nothing else to do. She presses him up against the nearest wall, he lets her, and their lips meet--too softly to be desperation, too roughly for tenderness. It's been so long, so long, and she's been going crazy without hands at her hips and a mouth at the base of her throat. She rolls against him, pelvis, and belly, and breasts--and pulls back at the sing-song sound of her own name.
She's not sorry it happened, and hates that she kissed him first. She doesn't want him to think that it meant anything, and hates him for not seeming sorry at all for the interruption. She smiles at Ed, tosses her hair at Spike, and pretends that her knees aren't wobbling and that her cheeks aren't flushed.
She thinks about leaving, and doesn't. She wouldn't want Spike to think she's running away from him, even if the kiss had meant anything at all.
She spends the rest of the trip playing card games with Ed, and hardly thinks about the feel of Spike's body against her own at all.
This is the truth.
Spike never calls Julia's name when he is with Faye. He keeps his eyes open, focused on her, and it's good, better than good. Faye never spends the night, doesn't want to, is never asked to. Sometimes, rarely, even more rarely than they do this, Spike falls asleep before Faye leaves. He snuffles into the pillow, his fingers curl into the sheets, and he sighs Julia's name.
It doesn't bother Faye at all.
She's not a little girl, and she knows that sex isn't love. She doesn't love Spike, and he doesn't love her, and she doesn't want him to. She doesn't, doesn't, doesn't, because Spike loves Julia, and loving Spike couldn't be anything more than an exercise in heartbreak. If her chest aches, and her vision blurs, it is only because Faye wonders whether she's ever been loved, ever will be loved.
She thinks about ending this. Thinks about this being the last time. It isn't, never is. Desire is as much as she makes of it, and stopping is an admission of weakness, a retreat in the face of defeat. She doesn't want to be alone, doesn't need love so long as she's not alone.
Faye knows how to play the hand she's been dealt.
She'll play this one to the end.
This is the truth.
The truth doesn't matter.