#dedicated life was supposed to be a oneshot sort of thing but idk i really like the two of them.....

[stargazer-dreamer]

Cracking Visions

character: spike spiegel

reader: gender neutral. grim reaper

content warnings: nightmares. locking yourself into the relationship you created

notes: also on ao3. 400+ word count. set within the world of dedicated life (read that first). early days aboard bebop

When he slammed the door shut on his old life, violently, and started anew, you were right there behind him. His shadow. His anchor. You followed him through the rain until he was able to rest his feet for a bit.

In a large fishing vessel, too big and too cramped, in the blanket of the night, he shot up in bed and grabbed the gun from beneath the pillow.

---

He emptied an entire magazine into the dark. He would not be able to reload for quite the while. And he hates small fry—would rather feel the thrill of the bigger hunts—but those would have to do if he were to go in with no bullets; casings littering the bedsheets as he gasped, wildly. Dry-heaving and choking on nothing, breathing and stuttering, heart beating through his chest, ringing in his ears, inconsolable, as he tried, desperately, to find purchase.

That’s when you reached for him. Grabbing his elbow, he startled, panicked, and leveled the gun between your eyes. He looked through you. Quickly, he realized who was touching him. He leaned into it, heavily, until you fully supported his weight as he shook and stammered.

Of course, you were not able to interact with his physical form in a way that mattered—so what really happened was his body passed right through you, collapsing onto the mattress where it grew quieter. His essence clung to you in your arms.

You knew Spike had nightmares. You’ve watched him shake and scream in his sleep countless of times, but you’ve never once tried to comfort him. You didn’t think you could. You’ve never tried. You regretted all those decisions as you held him tighter, unsure of what to do.

You wondered how this was possible. You didn’t know much about the workings of the human body—not anymore anyway, you supposed. His heart didn’t give out, right? His body was still breathing. Did this have something to do with the brain? Was this something else entirely? Some external factor, something to do with his lost story and your mere constant presence by his side? You were unsure—but pondered on these thoughts only briefly. It didn’t really matter how it had happened.

You held him. He held on to you. You held him. He held on to you. Your fingers found his hair, running through the curls until it seemed to calm him, if only just a little. He held on to you. You held him.

It took a long time before he was able to speak; swallowing around nothing as he tried to find the words. “Angel,” he was out of breath. “My angel.”

Against your better judgment—“I’m not an angel. You know this.”

He shook his head, almost furiously. Desperately. “You’re my angel. Watch over me, always.” A pause. And then, quiet, almost too hard to hear—“Please.”

You couldn’t refuse. Not when he asked it like that, bullet casings surrounding his body, warm still; tethered to this plane by whatever force allowed it to. It didn’t stop it’s movement completely—the chest a telling comfort—but you knew, soon, you would have to send him back.

For now though, you continued to hold him in your arms. Safe. Yours. You exhaled. “Okay,” you said. “Okay. I will.”