Edward couldn't remember ever wanting anything. When she thought about it, the only memories she could dredge up revolved around food. And really, food was a human necessity. If her body didn't need food, Edward wondered if she would want it.
Spike slowly stood, and Edward remembered the question.
Had she ever really wanted anything?
Edward remembered initially searching for the Bebop and then tracking the ship until the ship and its crew finally arrived on Earth. She remembered their attempted escape, and she remembered hacking their systems and forcing a turn-around.
The memory was hazy, and she immediately knew that the day wasn't the same as this moment, the last few moments.
Edward couldn't remember any distinct time before the Bebop. It was as if she was born a teenager. Edward knew she had family. She knew she had traveled Earth. She knew she had traveled beyond Earth, then back to Earth. She knew she had met people, fantastic and wonderful people. She knew there had been adventures. She knew there had been fun.
Yet, all she really knew was of the Bebop, and now she understood why.
Edward followed Spike into the dining area. When he slid into a seat, she climbed into the seat across from him.
Then, she looked at him.
His shirt was open, so she could see his blood-stained bandages. Some of the blood even soaked through the light fabric of the shirt he wore. His sleeves were rolled up, like they usually were, and Edward could see the bandages surrounding one of the nastier wounds above his wrist. After patching that wound, Jet had raged about infection for an hour.
Despite his wounds, Spike's face was impassive. He calmly smoked his cigarette, and he only indicated his discomfort when he fidgeted with some bandages near his temple. His dark hair was unwashed, unkempt, and it seemed wilder than usual. There were still clumps of blood at the edge of his hairline that Faye hadn't washed away while she was cleaning him up after the fight.
"What are you looking at?" Spike snapped at Edward.
Edward had never felt the need to hide anything before. She spoke her mind when she liked. She said every thought that came to her. However, she now felt that some sense of discretion was required. Edward didn't believe that Spike would appreciate it if she told him what was on her mind.
But then lying wasn't something Edward had ever done, and she was especially uncomfortable with the idea of lying to Spike, so she avoided his question altogether and asked, "Why do you get hurt so often?"
The reminder of his wounds did nothing to improve Spike's mood. "Jet says it's because I don't have any sense of self-preservation."
"Is Jet right?" Edward asked.
Spike scowled at the girl. It had been a long time since someone had truly asked him about his actions. When Jet or Faye asked him questions, they were more accusatory than curious.
"Of course not. I'm still here, aren't I?" Spike finally answered before taking another long drag from his cigarette.
"Then why?" Edward repeated.
Spike shrugged at her, the movement aggravating some of his injuries. "What can I say? I like a good fight, and I can't duck every bullet."
"Is that why your eyes are different colors?" Edward asked.
Her question startled Spike, and he paused to stare at her from a moment.
"Yes," he said.