Fic: Ran [Cowboy Bebop], Spike/Vicious/Julia
Title: Ran
Fandom: Cowboy Bebop
Pairing: Spike/Vicious/Julia
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The last birthday Syndicate Spike ever got.
The warehouse, the projector, the dilated black and white on forgotten concrete -- that was all Vicious.
The twenty-two Hail Mary candles in cultish configuration, the three red velvet chairs with fat, scrolled armrests -- that was Julia.
The film had been selected after much amused debate the night previous. Shouty swordplay for Spike, who sat in the middle. Regal decay for Vicious, on the right. A wicked, unrepentant queen for Julia, who curled up knees to chest to the left.
They shook the frost from themselves and kept the sound low, as a precaution; no good to get caught unawares. Besides, staring at those magnified, antique faces in the dark, with the wind sharping against the thin warehouse windows, Spike felt everything the characters said, even before they said it.
They passed the flask back and forth until his shivering stopped, while Julia murmured occasional points of cinematic relevance (whenever she drank, she suddenly remembered that she once had a previous life). "Look at the lighting here," she said as the wraiths onscreen wailed and schemed. She even lifted her finger to point, like they were children in a museum. Halfway through, Vicious shifted and settled a hand against the back of Spike's neck, right under the collar of his coat. His hand was heavy and surprisingly hot, and his fingernails scratched a little as they traced Spike's pulse. It was reassuring being gripped like this, Spike realized, and he understood Julia a little more.
“Bored already?” he said to Vicious. They had a job tomorrow, but not until evening.
“Excited already?” Vicious said with that little spur to his voice, and although Spike’s body had plenty of time to protest, he couldn’t bring himself to stop that train.
When the evil queen was beheaded, he automatically turned to Julia, but she didn't flinch, only squeezed her knees with a little sigh. The knobs of her wrists cast crescents in the candlelight. By now, the images and the wall were blurring in tandem, too much darkness over death. Besides, Vicious' tongue was salting his jawline, hands elsewhere, while Julia clambered over the armrest to press a kiss to his cheek.
"I remember you like it like this," Vicious said to his right, unbuttoning something. Not slow, or eager. Matter-of-fact, like there weren't any rules or loyalties he had to explain (because asking Vicious why was like asking your shoes why, or the stars).
"The king dies at the end," Julia said an inch from his mouth, and if anything convulsed in Spike’s throat it didn't matter, because it was just a game, she was just a girl, and they were all safely trapped in this castle, under miles of dirty white snow.
Fandom: Cowboy Bebop
Pairing: Spike/Vicious/Julia
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The last birthday Syndicate Spike ever got.
The warehouse, the projector, the dilated black and white on forgotten concrete -- that was all Vicious.
The twenty-two Hail Mary candles in cultish configuration, the three red velvet chairs with fat, scrolled armrests -- that was Julia.
The film had been selected after much amused debate the night previous. Shouty swordplay for Spike, who sat in the middle. Regal decay for Vicious, on the right. A wicked, unrepentant queen for Julia, who curled up knees to chest to the left.
They shook the frost from themselves and kept the sound low, as a precaution; no good to get caught unawares. Besides, staring at those magnified, antique faces in the dark, with the wind sharping against the thin warehouse windows, Spike felt everything the characters said, even before they said it.
They passed the flask back and forth until his shivering stopped, while Julia murmured occasional points of cinematic relevance (whenever she drank, she suddenly remembered that she once had a previous life). "Look at the lighting here," she said as the wraiths onscreen wailed and schemed. She even lifted her finger to point, like they were children in a museum. Halfway through, Vicious shifted and settled a hand against the back of Spike's neck, right under the collar of his coat. His hand was heavy and surprisingly hot, and his fingernails scratched a little as they traced Spike's pulse. It was reassuring being gripped like this, Spike realized, and he understood Julia a little more.
“Bored already?” he said to Vicious. They had a job tomorrow, but not until evening.
“Excited already?” Vicious said with that little spur to his voice, and although Spike’s body had plenty of time to protest, he couldn’t bring himself to stop that train.
When the evil queen was beheaded, he automatically turned to Julia, but she didn't flinch, only squeezed her knees with a little sigh. The knobs of her wrists cast crescents in the candlelight. By now, the images and the wall were blurring in tandem, too much darkness over death. Besides, Vicious' tongue was salting his jawline, hands elsewhere, while Julia clambered over the armrest to press a kiss to his cheek.
"I remember you like it like this," Vicious said to his right, unbuttoning something. Not slow, or eager. Matter-of-fact, like there weren't any rules or loyalties he had to explain (because asking Vicious why was like asking your shoes why, or the stars).
"The king dies at the end," Julia said an inch from his mouth, and if anything convulsed in Spike’s throat it didn't matter, because it was just a game, she was just a girl, and they were all safely trapped in this castle, under miles of dirty white snow.