anythingbutblue | (no subject)

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..."

It's good.

It's also kind of bad.

In a way it's sensory overload: he's warm and smells good, and his hair falls against her bare arm and he's careful even now.

It feels dangerous, and she's about as in favor of that as she is eager to avoid it. This isn't the kind of thing they usually do, he says, and that both intrigues her -- why don't they? She's obviously not seeing anyone, and he's both difficult for her to take her eyes off of and seems to think the world of her -- and makes her nervous. If she liked him -- and she's not sure why she wouldn't -- they wouldn't be in a position where they didn't usually do things like this.

And if she doesn't like him, well, there must be some reason.

Because she's pretty sure she likes him right now, and if that's the case, does how she felt before matter?

No.

Maybe.

Probably not?

One of the moments she'd agreed to definitely passes before she's finishing answering.

"Fine."

It's been such a long time.

He's not exactly romantic material and hasn't been for years. Then again, his whole life, he's been one of those annoyingly touchy-feely people: hugs, holding hands, being close, bumping shoulders with people. It wasn't until Titan and prison that he steered himself away from that, sadly and to his immense unhappiness.

It's been so long since he had someone in his arms.

This is as far as it can go, for so many reasons he doesn't even want to start counting them. The natural recourse would be to turn, press a kiss to the side of her face or the top of her head, and get even closer. But he won't do that.

He can't do that.

He's not even sure what he's feeling here: it's been so long since he felt anything at all. It's an awkward moment -- one of his most awkward, he thinks -- but he doesn't want to give it up, not yet.

Breathe, breathe, breathe. Lungs still work. Dead people don't breathe. They don't feel their hearts beating... especially not just that little bit faster when they hold someone in their arms. They don't get so awfully conflicted with self-analysis. In this moment, he decides he's not dead. It doesn't matter what his memories tell him: Faye's proof positive that memory is as fleeting as anything else.

"Good. All I want is for you to feel safe."

Maybe that's not all he wants, but it's all he'll own up to in this moment... except for one small admission.

"I'm usually a much bigger flirt with you."

Abruptly, she laughs. Just a little.

"You're going easy on me because I don't remember anything?"

It's either very sweet or very stupid, but for the time being, she feels inclined to like it either way.

"I know you've heard this before, but I really am tougher than I look."

In no great hurry, she extracts herself from his arms.

That makes him laugh a little; he's both relieved and saddened when she moves away. "I'm going easy on you because you're my friend and I have the utmost respect for you, and I don't want to take advantage of you. And I could, right now, just like I could have on Callisto, but I didn't do it then and I won't do it now."

Part of it is, laughably enough, that he has high moral standards. The other part is this: he really doesn't want to give Faye any cause to be angry with him. They're best friends -- or at least she's his best friend -- and he knows how that can get messy if other things are added to the mix.

"And I know you're tougher than you look, but still, Sleeping Beauty. I'm not a bad person." His smile is only a little bit tinged with regret. "But I will say this: that was nice. Thank you."

A prince has to protect sleeping beauty.

Puzzled, she raises an eyebrow.

Why did you come here tonight, Faye?

"I didn't do it for you."

So there's no reason for him to thank her, is there?

Suddenly feeling a little uncertain and not wanting to show it, she stands up and takes a step toward the door.

He knows that.

"I did it for you."

Faye is still Faye: she gives him some shred, some tiny indication of interest, and then takes two steps back. In that way it's good to see that some things never change.

Standing, he moves past her to open the door: he's not going to keep her here against her will and amnesia or not, she's still got free will. It takes an awful lot for him to hold someone prisoner, given his past. And he's already done that to Faye once, on Callisto. He won't ever do it again.

"You know where to find me: if I'm not here, I'm downstairs. If you need anything -- anything at all, any time at all -- please, let me help you, Miss Tougher-Than-I-Look. You're my fairy, after all."

She's his friend, and... he loves her.

"Take care, Faye."

Taken aback, she doesn't say anything initially.

She just steps right up to the open door, and after an obvious hesitation, she -- without touching him otherwise -- rises onto the balls of her feet and, stretching her neck and lifting her chin, presses a quick tiny kiss against the side of his face.

Her eyes stay lowered when she backs away, and it's not until she's through the doorway that she looks back at Gren.

"I'll find you when I need you, Mister Saxophone."

He'll be waiting. Once she turns to go, he rests his hand over his heart and watches as she makes her way with the utmost uncertain certainty he's ever seen back down the hall to her room.

Finally, when she's out of sight, he closes the door and moves his hand from his chest to the spot on his face where he can still feel her kiss. It feels like a very, very long time later that he moves over and retrieves his saxophone from where he dumped it so unceremoniously on the floor.

It's his other best friend; good thing he doesn't have to choose between the two of them. He lifts the sax to his mouth and plays his heart out.