the stars twinkle delicately beneath the veil of the indigo-painted atmosphere, softly illuminating the inky darkness which spills into the bridge. spike sits tirelessly at the navigation console, mouth twisted into a thin frown of dismay. a cigarette tucked behind his ear, its backing lost in the thick mop of his mossy hair, he kicks his feet up onto the surface of the screen. the crate he sits upon creaks uncomfortably beneath his weight, and he puffs a sigh. your figure is but a silken silhouette at your approach. jet is asleep, faye is off somewhere in search of trouble; and for the softest of moments, the bebop is at peace. "couldn't sleep?" spike rasps, gaze finding your own in a lazy flittering. your sleepy response of a hum earns you the slightest hint of a smirk. in a rare gesture of something akin to sympathy, a hand is outstretched. yours finds it. your body finds his own. your lips, his. existing within the warmth of secure arms is a comfort which makes the task of falling asleep much, much easier to do. his bed is a comfort, the sheets which smell of him, the gentle rocking of the craft. a lullaby.