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By the time they ended up with the dog, Spike and Jet had already been traveling together for three years. They’d been fucking for almost as long.
They weren’t dating, though. They’d never used that word. Not because they were both men – when Spike was young, much younger, before Julia and everything else, he’d had boyfriends and girlfriends, had dated whoever he wanted loosely and freely. He suspected Jet might have done the same when he was younger and freer, though they rarely talked to each other about their pasts – only in blips and slips when they were drunk or tired or bored.
But they were both running from muddled pasts; that much Spike knew. Lost loves and broken hearts. It was easier this way. They were bounty hunting partners – they had each other’s backs, and they had sex, and sometimes, on nights that felt longer and emptier than others, they would lie on Spike’s cramped cot or the couch in Jet’s bonsai room and just hold each other, more gently and tenderly than either of them probably deserved.
But mostly, they hunted bounties. And Spike thought they made a pretty good team, even though they always seemed to be strapped for cash. So they’d chased a ridiculous bounty back to Mars, a pet thief who shouldn’t have been worth their time, but they needed the woolongs. Nights alone together in the ship with food were a lot better than nights alone without it.
But of course they’d ended up with no bounty, no money – and one dog.
Spike hated dogs.
“I hate dogs,” he said. He lay sprawled on the narrow couch, his head hung over the edge, watching Jet sit cross-legged on the floor with the furball in his lap. Jet ran the fingers of his real hand through its fur with an expression that was trying to be aloof but was clearly delighted.
“I hate it,” Spike said again, just to make sure Jet knew exactly how he felt.
“I know,” Jet said. He pinched one of the dog’s ears gently and its other ear flicked rapidly. Jet laughed. “I used to have a dog.”
“Yeah?” Spike tried not to sound too interested, but he knew so little of Jet’s past that it was hard not to be.
“A big black one,” Jet said.
“Black Dog Jet had a big black dog?” Spike snorted.
He flicked his cigarette butt into on ashtray on the floor. The dog lifted its head at the action and sprang out of Jet’s lap to go sniffing around the ashes.
“No, Ein, come back,” Jet said, reaching for the beast.
“Ein?” Spike swung around so he was sitting on the couch facing Jet now. “You named it?”
“Like Einstein,” Jet said. “Because it’s a smart dog?”
“Why did you name it?”
“We’re keeping it around for a while, right? It’s expensive.”
“Yeah, and if you name it, we’re never gonna sell it.”
“Gotta call it something while it’s around. Ein! Stop.” He’d gotten to his feet and scooped up the dog before it had a chance to inhale a mouthful of ash and cigarette butts. “Let’s find something for you to eat.”
Jet carried the dog out of the room. Spike fell back onto the couch with a groan. He couldn’t believe that Black Dog, former terror of the ISSP and current terror of the bounty hunting world, had a soft spot for puppies.
He closed his eyes and laughed. That wasn’t true. He could absolutely believe that Jet was soft for mongrels and kids and anyone who needed to be taken care of.
After all, Jet was soft for him.
Three years earlier, Spike sat in a shitty bar on an asteroid just outside of Mars’s orbit, getting drunk on the cheapest stuff they had to offer. He’d left the Red Dragon months earlier and even though they thought he was dead – except for Julia, they all knew he was dead – he was high strung and anxious, paranoid about every shadow that loomed over him. He rarely slept. He was running out of the money he’d taken with him, too. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do to make money, what he was going to do with this life he’d run away to have. Right now, all he could do was survive.
A hand clamped down on Spike’s shoulder, hard and metallic. It took everything in him not to jump out of his skin. He sat still, lazy, barely turned his head to look back at the broad-shouldered man who’d grabbed him.
“Hey,” Spike said, a non-committal greeting. He reached for his drink and swirled it, didn’t pull away from the man, already formulating every detail of his escape.
“There’s a bounty on your head, kid,” the man said.
Spike fought not to stiffen, not to tear away and run right then. “Yeah? How much?” Buying time.
“1,500 woolongs.”
Spike blinked. “1,500?”
The man laughed, a loud and rumbling sound. “They don’t put high bounties on petty thieves, kid. You’re small fry.”
Spike’s shoulders relaxed despite himself. Petty thievery. As his money ran out, he’d started nabbing food and clothes and cigarettes. He thought he was a pretty nimble thief, but he’d had to make a mad dash to get away from some particularly perceptive shop owners. It hadn’t occurred to him that they might put a bounty on his head for that.
But it wasn’t from the Red Dragon. They didn’t suspect that he was alive. It was fine. To that world, he was dead.
“You gonna turn me in, then?” Spike asked. If this guy hunted 1,500 woolong bounties then he’d be even easier to escape than Spike had thought.
But the man laughed again, shook his head. “Not worth my time.” He released Spike’s shoulder and slid onto the barstool next to him. “Just thought I’d give you a heads up. You look like you need a break.”
“Yeah?” Spike asked.
“You look rough,” the man said. “And you remind me of someone I knew who could have used some kindness.”
Spike didn’t answer. He sipped at his drink, bitter asteroid moonshine, and watched the man as he ordered a whiskey and downed it in one go – barrel chest, bald head, scruffy sideburns, a torn flight suit, a glinting prosthetic arm that was a few decades out of style.
“You a bounty hunter, then?” Spike asked. It would be smarter to leave. The man had said that he wouldn’t turn Spike in, but that didn’t mean he could trust him. It would be easy to slink out of the bar, to stow away on the next passenger ship to another asteroid, to continue hopping around the galaxy as he had been for the past few months, to get as far away from this man and from Mars as possible. But he was curious, and he was tired of running, and he liked the rough curves of this man, the sound of his deep laughter.
“Yup,” the man answered. “I’m Jet.” He turned towards Spike and offered his hand.
“Spike.” They shook.
Jet ordered two more whiskeys. Spike ordered another moonshine. The night deepened. They talked idly about the price of booze on the outer asteroids, the traffic jams at the busiest gates, the money they’d been swindled out of at local casinos. Spike’s vision softened. By the time they’d lost count of how many drinks they’d ordered, they’d leaned so close to each other that Spike didn’t have to reach to twist his fingers into the fabric of Jet’s collar.
“They rent rooms above the bar,” Spike said, almost a whisper. “I could get us one.” He really didn’t have the money to spare, but he wanted to see where this would go.
For a moment, Jet hesitated, and Spike almost pulled away. If he had misread this, this whole situation, he would escape as he’d planned – out the bar and onto the nearest passenger ship and away to an asteroid or a moon across the universe.
But then Jet grinned, all teeth, and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll get the room.”
Spike hadn’t slept with anyone in the months since he’d left Mars. Partly it was the paranoia, the inability to rest long enough to hole up somewhere with a prostitute or a one-night lay. But mostly – and he hated even thinking it, but it was true – even the hint of romance reminded him too much of Julia, and that wound was as raw as ever.
But Jet was nothing like Julia, and Spike was desperate to touch another human being. They stumbled up the stairs to the rooms above, already tearing at each other’s clothes, kissing hungrily. Jet tasted like cigarettes and whiskey and strong mints. They tumbled into the room Jet had rented, and only Spike’s paranoia made him look around to take in the space – a tiny rectangle, one narrow double bed with stained sheets, a rickety dresser, no window.
Jet pushed Spike onto the bed, and he fell willingly. He watched Jet peel off his torn flight suit, then shuck the t-shirt and the boxers underneath. Jet was solid, heavy with muscles, covered in scars. Spike reached up and ran his finger along the seam where thick plates of metal were screwed right into Jet’s chest, holding the heavy prosthetic arm in place. The metal was warmer than he’d expected, but still cool.
“This looks rough,” Spike said.
Jet shrugged. “It’s been a few years. I’m used to it.”
He reached for Spike’s jacket and undid the buttons, surprisingly gentle with them. Then Spike pulled off his shirt without bothering to unbutton it, kicked off his pants. He yanked Jet down on top of him and Jet let himself be manhandled, pressed his lips roughly to Spike’s mouth, to his collarbone, to his chest.
This was nothing like Julia. Jet was rough, in control. He grabbed both of Spike’s wrists in one hand and pressed them above Spike’s head, and Spike gasped.
“Okay?” Jet rumbled near Spike’s ear.
The question almost startled him. “Perfect,” he answered.
Jet was rougher than Julia but so much gentler than so many other people before her, more pliant, more careful. He bit at Spike’s collarbone enough to sting but not to bleed. He touched Spike roughly but carefully, bending him instead of breaking him. When Spike hooked his legs around Jet’s waist and rolled them over, Jet let himself be flipped, melted into Spike’s hands as Spike took control.
There had been a time when Spike and Julia and Vicious were a trio in everything – in battle, in the bedroom. And at the time, Vicious’s roughness had felt like a thrilling challenge, every bruise and bite a reminder that they belonged to each other. But now the thought of Vicious’s unforgiving hands made Spike sick, and he welcomed the difference in Jet’s touch. Rough enough to be a distraction, but not hard enough to send him spiraling into flashbacks that could drown him.
Jet came first, a warm splatter across Spike’s stomach, and he worked Spike with slow strokes until he came, too, blinding release and then falling back, limp against the sheets.
Spike hadn’t felt so relaxed in months, maybe longer. It felt as if he could breathe again for the first time in too long. He pressed himself against Jet’s side for longer than he meant to, arms draped across his chest. He listened to their breaths fall into sync in the quiet of the small room. Distant voices filtered up from the bar downstairs. Jet’s skin was warm with the scent of sweat and sex and musk.
Eventually, they pulled apart without a word. Jet reached into the pocket of his flight suit on the floor and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He lit the cigarette and lifted it to his lips, breathed in. Spike leaned towards him, lips parted. He meant to ask for a cigarette, but Jet grabbed his chin gently and pressed their lips together, shotgunning the smoke. Spike closed his eyes, let Jet’s breath fill his lungs. This, somehow, felt more intimate than anything else they’d done that night. When Jet pulled away, he put the cigarette to Spike’s lips and lit another for himself.
They sat in silence for a long moment, perched on the edge of the bed, smoking.
“I could use a partner,” Jet said after a while. “Would be easier than hunting bounties alone.”
Spike laughed. “You asking me to come hunt bounties with you because I’m good in bed?”
Jet snorted. “I’m sure you’ve got other skills. Ex-syndicate member and all.”
The warm, calm feeling drained out of Spike’s blood. He didn’t move, didn’t stiffen, just asked, “Ex-syndicate?”
Jet reached over and tapped the discoloured patch of skin on the inside of Spike’s right forearm. “I know a tattoo removal scar when I see one,” he said.
Spike breathed out a stream of smoke through his nose. “How do you know it was a gang tattoo? What if I just got a really ugly piece of shit on my eighteenth birthday and got it removed out of shame?”
“You don’t move like a dumb eighteen year old,” Jet said. “You move like a fighter.”
Spike opened his mouth to retort, but Jet held up a hand. “You don’t have to. It was just an offer.” He paused, then added, “I won’t ask any questions.”
Spike leaned back, contemplated it. He had no direction, no plan. When he’d planned to run away with Julia, he’d thought they would settle down somewhere, doing – something. The plan hadn’t been fully formed even then. And now he had no plan, nothing, not even the hint of a direction. Bounty hunting could be good. He’d make money, would have a ship to live on, an excuse to zig-zag across the galaxy, never in one place long enough to catch the Red Dragon’s attention.
“I’ll think about it,” he said, but of course the answer was already yes.
Three years later, they were still zig-zagging across the galaxy together, and now they had a dog. Jet wandered back into the main room, hands in his pockets, no dog in sight.
“Found an old can of tuna in the cupboard,” he said. “Ein didn’t like it, but he ate it.”
“I can’t believe we’re feeding three now,” Spike said. “We can’t even feed two.”
“He doesn’t eat a lot.” Jet sat down heavily in the chair across from the couch. He slipped a cigarette out of its pack and lit it.
“Where is it now?”
“Asleep.”
“Did you make it a little bed?” Spike asked, his voice light and teasing. Jet didn’t answer, which meant that he had. Spike laughed. “I can’t believe you.”
Jet grunted.
Spike put a cigarette to his lips and leaned forwards. Jet reached over and lit the end of it with his own cigarette.
“You remember that night we met?” Spike asked, leaning back against the couch.
The side of Jet’s mouth quirked up. “Feeling nostalgic?”
“I just remembered,” Spike said. “You said I reminded you of someone, then. Who was that?”
Jet crossed his arms, shook his head. “Thought that was obvious,” he said. “Me.”
“You were a down on your luck criminal?”
“A down on my luck ISSP deserter. Almost as bad.”
Spike hummed thoughtfully. He had so many questions, so many things he didn’t know about Jet’s past, about his time with the ISSP, about his reasons for leaving. But they’d had a good arrangement for the past three years – he didn’t ask too many questions, and neither did Jet.
“Tell me more about this black dog,” Spike said finally. That seemed safe, innocuous.
“What, my pet or me?” Jet asked.
Spike paused. “Both,” he said. “Tell me more about both.”