title: interrupted
fandom: Cowboy Bebop
characters/pairings: Spike/Vicious
rating: Teen
warnings: bad language, Vicious, sex
summary: no time to think as the bullets fly
notes: for trowacko, on fic on demand. "experimental" style, so apologies in advance...

...and this isn't right, of course, fucking nitwits, someone blew it, but there was no place to go but down, no point looking back right now, and there was dust in his eyes, but he couldn't blink while shooting, not now...

...blood on his shoes, had to keep running, get down, fires of hell, maybe, ha, and wouldn't that be a something, if it was real? But nothing was real, not now, reality was a joke, and fuck it all if this wasn't the worst possible time to be thinking like this...

...body to the right, someone he knows, but it's just a body with blood now, lots more for the burying, or shooting off into space, and this is becoming a better and better place to die. No point dying alone, not when there were so many people who deserved to die, too...

...a fucking black cat, right in front of his path, and didn't Annie say something about that, earlier? Not important. No such thing as luck here, unless it was bad luck, and shit all you could do about that, not that it mattered, because as long as the blood was flowing, you were either dying or dead, and fuck it all, there was no fucking way outta here, fuck it lazy-ass bastards, fine, fucking fine, then they could all die together, fuck it, not like anyone lived forever...

...back-to-back now, and just a moment to look over their shoulders, into each other's eyes, and smirk, because when you were in hell, you needed a demon on your side, and hell if there was a better demon anywhere...

...smoke now, everywhere, and laughter, his laughter, but of course he was enjoying this, he could even taste the blood in the air, so naturally, a demon would love this place, and he hated to admit it, and he would deny it in the morning, but he loved it, too. How could he not? This was his blood, too, filling the air, filling their veins, and any day that was a good day to die in was a better day for killing...

...cold now, and he was laughing, the demon dragging him along to run, and the demon was laughing, too... around them, swirling like cotton candy, the lights and sirens like dizzy music and drunk children, and sure, it was a good day for them to die, too, as long as they kept running, because who knew? Maybe it was their day, too...

...the mattress creaked under his back, and the neon lights from the street were filtered through the paper taped over the window, the demon over him was grinning... but this was just the same, wasn't it? Life, death, blood, smoke, dust, cold, concrete, wood, canvas, sex...

...this was his heart, pounding in his chest, the same tribal rhythm as bullets breaking flesh, splattering blood over the walls, the same call for domination as he wrestled his demon, gorgeous silver hair sticking to his cheeks, slim body pushing against his, teaching him to turn torture into pleasure, to take and never give, to bite kisses and seal their affection with bloodletting...

...his fingers slip over the skin of his demon, gorgeous beast with fire in place of a soul, this cold, scalding fire, and for a moment, he imagines himself at peace, at war, in death, in life, because in this now, there is just these sticky sheets, and dirty walls, and there's no reason for meaning, just that their hearts were beating too fast to calm down, so they might as well fuck and call it a day...

...ringing in his ears, and it's the phone, and sultry purr by his neck suggests that it might be Julia, but he clings to the filth that surrounds him, and closes his eyes to deny the morning that tries to drag him out of this glorious nightmare too soon...








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