anythingbutblue | (no subject)

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Through a window, she can see the moon, bigger and more luminous than she possibly could imagined with both feet on the ground.

There's the sudden sound of metal crunching and breaking apart, and the window cracks instantly.

She can hear a woman's scream and she knows it's not hers, but in the blackness that follows, she hears others' voices as well as her own.

The prince has to protect sleeping beauty. Twenty-one. Shoot them before they shoot you. My dog thinks you smell like money. You're trembling. You sing off-key. Evens. You're sure? Take care, Faye. She's got some kind of hold on Spike. Your story needs editing. I don't remember her. The most beautiful butterflies imaginable. Why, I'm just a gun-toting weathergirl. Smoke smoke, Faye-Faye! Puff puff, Faye-Faye! Maybe this is the one, the one I won't come back from. Yes, he was nothing but trouble, and I don't give a damn. If you see Spike... tell him I'll be waiting there. He'll know what it means. My memory... finally came back. But no good came of it. I'm not going there to die. I'm going to find out if I'm really alive. Why do you have to be such a trial? Do I look dead to you? Faye, why did you come here tonight?

In the dim morning light, her eyes open and all she's left with is the dream.

And the vague feeling that she's slept too long and missed something important.

Faye.

That's her.

Or at least she's pretty sure it's her, and as damn disorienting as it felt to wake up and know how to get up and put one foot in front of the other and to open her mouth and rattle off a choice word or two at the initial feeling of helplessness, to know what things are but not why she owns them, she feels the name is the one thing she can latch onto right now.

If there's a last name, she's not sure what it is. But she knows a couple of things by the time she's been awake for an hour: there's not a scratch on her, her clothes she found near the bed don't leave much to the imagination, and the pockets are full of things: a handgun, a nail file, a tiny bottle of perfume, cigarettes and a lighter, a tube of lipstick, a playing card (the ace of hearts), a credit card of some kind, and a gold-and-silver coin.

Putting the clothes on should, she insists to herself, make her feel more like Faye.

But she doesn't quite get it.

When she finally leaves her room, spurred on by a growling stomach, she doesn't walk as if uncomfortable in her own skin -- minimal as the outfit is, it fits her perfectly and does look good -- but she feels she's lacking the... certainty necessary to be who she is.

She hasn't even put on any of the make-up she found.

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It's been a long time since he was awake. In fact, when he woke up this morning he was surprised he wasn't dead forever: that classical definition of dead where everything just stops: breathing, blood flowing, consciousness, awareness, all just... nonexistent. Or maybe it hasn't been a long time since he was awake; maybe his mind is just playing tricks on him. It likes to do that. It likes to say ha ha, you're dead... aren't you? If he didn't remember dying and the way it felt before being dead, he might not be so sure about things.

This way of living (he guesses that's the only thing to call it) feels like a test. It also feels like a test he's not so sure he can pass, but maybe he's not supposed to be able to pass it. Maybe this is purgatory: a permanent state of not knowing permanent status. Or then again, maybe none of it matters.

Still, it's the first time in a long, long time he's ventured out of his room toward anywhere public at all. For some reason, a cup of tea and some pancakes sound really good. Putting his hand into his pocket, he realizes he's just about out of money.

Maybe bar will let him eat anyway; it's not like he can go out and earn more money and come back in and pay it all off. There's still one vial of red-eye hidden away in his sax case; he might be able to use that as currency. Or maybe being out of money means it's time for him to leave, finally, but he promised Faye he wouldn't go without her. He made a pact, and unlike some people, he keeps his promises.

He's so deep in thought about it all that he almost mows Faye over as she walks toward him.

Faye.

Out of all the people here, she means the most to him. But there's something different about her today and as he rests his hands on her shoulders and looks down into her face, he realizes what it is: she's not wearing any makeup. He's never seen her without makeup before. That's cause for concern.

"Faye? Are you okay?"

Surprised and off-balance, she looks up into one of the single most attractive faces she's ever...

Well, she's pretty sure she hasn't seen many more attractive than this one. She's willing to call it a hunch.

The best part is that his voice is familiar and he's calling her Faye.

Catching herself with her own hand on his arm, she blinks at him. "Huh? Yeah. I'm fine."

Her eyebrows knit a little, and she lets go of his arm but doesn't stop looking into his face, wracking her brain for clues.

Take care, Faye.

"Just hungry."

She should remember him. She knows it.

"You want some free food?" When he laughs, his whole face lights up: he knows her propensity for free stuff. "I was just going to go downstairs for some pancakes. You want to come with me?"

If she turns him down, it's a sure sign something's wrong. It's strange, but she looks just like a little girl right now. Usually she doesn't let herself look so vulnerable, but right now that's written all over her face. Of course, he could just be reading more into things than is really there.

That wouldn't be a very big stretch of the imagination. He offers her his arm: she does take it about half the time, and this might be one of those lucky days.

"I've missed you."

That's certainly no lie.

She gives him a small smile. "I think I'd like some pancakes."

When it comes right down to it, she doesn't know exactly where she's going anyway, so if he wants to buy her food or knows where to find food, she should really go along, taking his arm and discreetly letting him lead the way.

Then he says he missed her, and she can't help but look at him, at once pleased and insatiably curious. "You did?"

She's barely taken her eyes off him, but no amount of scrutiny seems to be helping her place him or giving her even the slightest hint.

All she can remember is his voice.

"How long has it been?"

For a moment, his brows knit together in concentration: time hasn't had a whole lot of meaning to him since he died. "I'm... not sure. A few weeks? A month, maybe? I haven't been the most sociable person here lately." Then again, when has he been? "I hardly even play any more."

Tired: he's just tired. But not in the classical sense: this is more an innate weariness that comes from the soul instead of the body.

"And you of all people know what that means." Steering her toward the stairs, he shrugs a little but keeps on going. "I guess it's just been a creative ebb, you know? Being stuck in this place isn't the most inspirational thing some days."

"Oh."

She momentarily looks a little disappointed, finally looking away from him, but it clears up quickly enough. She just doesn't imagine two people who have the potential to run into each other in a hallway can be all that close if they haven't seen each other in a few weeks or a month.

"Oh, I do." She nods firmly, even a little solemnly, not wanting to admit she doesn't have the first idea of what he hardly plays these days and what that means at all.

"If you've missed me," she can't keep herself from asking, her face as expressionless as she can make it, "why haven't you been sociable with me?"

It... seems like a fair question to her, at least. Maybe it'll clear a few things up.

"Well..." They're on the landing; he stops and studies her. "Things were a little... uncomfortable last time." That's putting it mildly; he was about as confused that night as he's ever been, and he's had moments of great confusion in his lifetime. Deathtime. No, he's going to stick with lifetime; it's a more positive spin on things.

"I did apologize. For asking you to stay with me, I mean. I shouldn't have done that. We both know that's not the way things are supposed to go with me."

One of these days he'll learn to keep his mouth shut around Faye but obviously, this isn't the day. "Although we did promise to leave together if you ever found that you could. You're not going to go back on that, are you?"

The very idea makes him restless and unhappy in so many nebulous, unquantifiable ways.

So much for clearing things up. Her mouth forms a mildly disapproving diagonal line.

"So we're friends." She looks right at him for a second, almost as if inviting any necessary correction, but she doesn't wait for him to say anything. "And I should probably be mad at you."

Maybe she's seeing someone else.

Maybe she's not seeing anyone and he just offended her sensibilities. That would be a pity.

It almost sounds like she might've laid down some ground rules or something before, but... she thinks there are probably much worse things he could do than just invite her to stay with him. She's not getting the whole story, and she probably won't now for one reason or another.

They're clearly going downstairs, so she slowly starts down.

"You make it sound like this is some terrible place we can't get away from."

His eyebrows rise as far as they can go and his mouth drops open. "You can see it? The door, I mean?"

Either that, or something is horribly, horribly wrong with her. Holding her at arm's length he studies her: one eye, then the other, the lips he's never seen without berry red covering them.

"You're not sleepwalking, are you?" That's what it seems like all of a sudden. And here he is babbling on about things, so happy to see her again after what happened. He wasn't sure she was even going to talk to him again.

Her eyebrows knit in confusion again at his reaction, and she half-turns to look back toward where they came from. "Well, I've seen a couple of doors."

She's completely puzzled.

"But..." She only looks at him again out of the corner of her eye. "Something tells me that's not what you mean, is it."

Struggling against rising frustration, she puts her hands on her hips. "If I'm sleepwalking, this is a really stupid dream."

She's... not all right.

"Faye? What happened?" Now he's very concerned: this isn't like her at all. "Did you fall? Hit your head?" Reaching over, he rests two fingers on the pulse point on her wrist. There's a brief moment of not-quite-jealousy over how strong and vibrant hers is compared to his

(dead)

but that's not important right now. He just wants to know if she's doing okay. "Do I need to get you to one of the doctors?" He's not sure he knows any. Yuna can do a little bit of healing work, but maybe what she does can't apply here. Still, there has to be something he can do: he might be dead, but he's not helpless. He's never been helpless.

"You're not just joking, are you?" It's his last hope before he starts to actually panic.

"No, I'm fine."

She feels great except for the minor detail of not remembering who the hell she is.

But his fingers on her wrist and all the concern on his face are really just unnecessary, and she folds her arms.

She doesn't even know his name.

"I just... don't remember everything I think I should, okay?"

"Okay."

It's anything but okay, though; he keeps heading downstairs because they're almost there and no matter what, he's going to get her the pancakes she wants. Especially if she's in trouble, which she is. Pushing open the door, he moves her quickly to a quiet booth in the corner.

"Let me ask you something, Faye: do you remember me?" He nods for her to sit, then slides into the booth across the way from her. "Or where we are?"

This could be... tough. Still, he studies her face with abiding curiosity. "Before you answer, let me tell you this: I promise I won't ever take unfair advantage of any situation with you. I never have and I never will."

With slightly widened eyes, she pretty much stares at him across the table.

"Of course I remember you."

She's no less insistent sitting down than she was standing up, but then there's a hesitation and she realizes this is where she should be able to continue with I'd never forget YOU and follow it up by proving she knows exactly what his name is.

But she can't.

"I remember your voice," she eventually offers, very reluctantly.

He might be Spike. That's one of the only names she remembers.

"My voice." There's a pause where he tries to decide what to tell her next, as if this is some sort of stubborn guessing game: it isn't. "I'm Gren," he tells her so very softly. "Grencia Mars Elijah Guo Eckener. We met on Callisto. I play saxophone."

It doesn't surprise him in the least when he finds himself swallowing back a lump in his throat; he almost covers his mouth with his hand but he hasn't done that in a long time.

He's about to ask her what she does remember when a rat comes by to take their order. "Do you still want pancakes?"

The next question is can you see the door? But first things first: he promised her food.

The near pout on her face eases into a small smile. "Yeah, don't you? Nothing's wrong with my stomach--"

She trails off when her eyes fall on the rat, and she rises halfway out of her seat, giving the room -- it's bar -- the closer look around that she didn't bother with when they first came in.

"Or maybe we could go somewhere that isn't overrun with rats."

Gren doesn't seem the least bit upset by having one come right up to their booth, and she eyes him incredulously.

He can't help but laugh: there is nowhere else to go. But he stifles it quickly.

She really doesn't remember.

He orders pancakes for both of them, and tea, and turns back to Faye as the rat moves off: he's not going to try explaining how the bar works yet, or even where they are. There are things he needs to find out first.

"Faye, what do you remember?" He almost wants to tell her this isn't the first time she's lost her memory; he remembers her story about that man named Witney only too well.

One step at a time.

Well, this is a dream. It has to be. There's just no other explanation, and while the rat moves away from them, she warily sits back down, a little bit of defiance in her eyes.

"My name is Faye. I'm very confident, I smoke, I know a guy named Spike, I like my lipstick red, I play cards, I carry a gun, and..."

She smiles with just a hint of slyness. "You like me."

If he presses her about any of those facts, she'll probably have to end up admitting they're all just conclusions she's drawn so far. But she's not going to if she doesn't have to.

That makes him smile, just a little bit. "Of course I like you. You're my best friend." Just to get that out on the table; in case she's reaching for answers -- he thinks she is -- there shouldn't be any doubt about where the two of them stand. After all, he promised not to take advantage of anything.

And he could be a little cruel, play a little game, test her by saying something about oh, Spike with the blonde hair or yeah, you remember your nickname for me, don't you? He won't do that.

"You're right. Your name is Faye. Faye Valentine. You smoke Marsboros, or whatever you can get your hands on. The guy named Spike is one of your bounty hunting partners; he's here or at least he used to be, but I haven't seen him in a really long time. Tell me one more thing: what do you see when you look over to that side of the bar? Against the wall, right in the middle?"

There's a door; a picture of the lake outside hangs above it. He can see it; she hasn't been able to before.

He's been very careful not to let her face the viewing window. One step at a time.

The edge of slyness in her smile softens into quickly hidden shyness.

"I am?"

That kind of like wasn't what she meant, and she's not convinced his answer is all there is to it since he mentioned asking her to stay with him and how that's apparently not how things are supposed to go with him. Whatever that means.

But the idea still intrigues her.

"How long have we been friends?" she asks, even as she turns her head to look at the other side of the bar.

He's getting at something, but she's not sure what.

"A couple of people talking, another rat. There's a picture high on the wall. It looks like a lake." Puzzled, she turns back to him. "Is it supposed to mean something?"

What can he do, tell her she's trapped here because she can't see the door? Shaking his head, he shrugs mildly. "No. It's not supposed to mean anything; don't worry about it."

It's only a little lie. "And as far as how long we've been friends... that's a little bit complicated." He really hates to do this to her, but...

"Faye, this is going to sound completely crazy, but I promised I wouldn't take advantage of anything. I have to tell you where we are, and you're going to think I'm lying but I'm not." Where's the right place to begin?

At the beginning, of course.

"We met... oh, probably about two years ago in a little bar on Callisto called the Rester House. It's where I play. We met there, and then... well, then we didn't see each other for a few months: five or six. But we met up again here. About a year and a half ago. And here is..."

The end of the universe sounds so dire: isn't the universe infinite? How can it have a beginning and an end?

"...here is an asteroid. A very small asteroid, very very far from home. In fact, we can't get back home."

Oh yeah, and I'm 99% sure I'm dead.

"Does any of this sound familiar?" He's beginning to suspect amnesia of some unknown cause: it's time to guide her through this very, very carefully. Hopefully, that's the right choice and honestly, it's the only choice he's got.

He looks awfully earnest, and she's not sure what to think about it.

Except that his eyes are pretty.

Taking a long moment to try to think it over, she eventually shakes her head slightly. "...No."

She gives the wall across the bar an expectant look, but she's not sure what he wanted her to notice over there and it's not as if the wall can do anything to let her know.

Or maybe it can if this is some dream. Gren just asked a rat for some pancakes and tea, after all, and they appear to be living above a bar on an asteroid. It's all pretty surreal.

"What do you mean we can't get back home?"

He has to tell her. "Over there, on that wall?" Pointing to the other side of the bar, he continues. "There's a door. That door is the only way out, the way back home. I can see it, but you can't. You've been stuck at this place ever since you got here, Faye, and it probably annoys you more than anything else. Except for your partner, Spike, but that's a whole different story and I can't really tell you why he bothers you the way he does; I don't know him very well."

Sure, he can guess, but he doesn't really want to and he won't inflict what's probably his own skewed perspective onto her.

"You don't really remember much of anything, do you." It isn't exactly a question; it's more a confirmation of what he's been suspecting.

"How much do you want me to tell you?" Movement from the corner of his eye tells him the food is here; he takes one plate from the tray and sets it in front of Faye; the other one goes to him. He lets the rat take care of the place settings, though; unwrapping his silverware from inside the rolled-up napkin, he spreads butter over his pancakes and throws on a dollop of syrup.

The whole time, he watches Faye so very carefully. It must be awful not to know what's going on, and he really doesn't want to be the one to tell her that this isn't the first time she's lost her memory.

Blankly, her eyes a little wide and jaw a little slack, she watches the rat put down their food, watches Gren spread the butter on his pancakes, then looks up and stares intently at the wall where he says a door should be.

After a minute, she looks right at Gren again. "You're kidding me, right?"

If he is, he's good. The smooth shiny hair, the big blue eyes, the reluctantly earnest expression he's been giving her: she could almost believe every word out of his mouth.

"You're not?"

Lowering her head, she looks down at her own pancakes.

(Her stomach rumbles a reminder of how hungry she was when she left her room.)

"How much do I want to know?" she mutters, then raises her chin again. "You better tell me everything."

How else is she supposed to know what to do with herself?

There's no preamble, no apology: he launches right into it from the starting we're at the end of the universe to how they met on Callisto to how he left her there, to how he got here. He tells her about their first meeting here, and about the things they've done together or not, and about Julia. He tells her about Spike and about Beth and about their baby. He even tells her -- in halting detail, from memory -- the story she told him about waking up from cryofreeze after fifty-four years, and the way her lawyer took advantage of her.

In between bites of pancakes, he takes his moments to glance up and study her face for a reaction.

"This... has to be really overwhelming. I'm sorry. I wish there was more I could do."

There are two things he doesn't tell her. The first is about Vicious. That's too messy; it leaves him too raw, too exposed. The second is the whole oh, by the way? I'm dead now thing. At the moment, he can't see a single reason for upsetting her with either of those bits of information. As he stops for a sip of tea, his eyes move to her face. She looks different without makeup: less glamorous but certainly no less beautiful.

She really is a spectacular woman.

"Oh, and you always call me Mister Saxophone." It's a detail he really likes; it would be sad if they missed that one. "And I call you my fairy." Those two things, he thinks, are important for her to know.