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[anythingbutblue]

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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[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

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.

[anythingbutblue]

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."

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

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.

[anythingbutblue]

"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?"

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

"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."

[anythingbutblue]

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.

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

"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.

[anythingbutblue]

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.

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

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.

[anythingbutblue]

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.

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

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.

[anythingbutblue]

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?"

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

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.

[anythingbutblue]

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?"

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

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.

[anythingbutblue]

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?

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

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.

[anythingbutblue]

No matter how engrossing his story -- her story -- is, eventually her stomach manages to get across the need for her to pick up her fork and knife and dig in, and as she listens and eats, her expression goes from surprised to disbelieving to amused to horrified.

But she eats with an obvious appetite, and when he tells her she calls him Mister Saxophone, she smiles a bit, purely in spite of herself.

Mister Saxophone. She kind of likes that.

"And I'm not convinced I'm not dreaming," she adds firmly, but she pushes her empty plate aside and leans her head on both of her hands, seeming a little bit resigned.

She can't help a slight feeling of wariness. It comes too easily after hearing about how some lawyer supposedly faked his death to leave her all his debts. But what Gren just gave her was quite an elaborate a story for something made up just now on the spur of the moment. And it makes a few of the things she remembers from her dream make sense.

Like her own voice talking about her memory coming back.

And how no good came of it.

"Were you avoiding me? Before you ran into me in the hall?"

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

"No." That's the honest truth. "I've never avoided you." The story he's told her might seem like a giant stinking pile of nonsense, but it isn't; he hasn't lied to her before -- he only didn't tell her he knew Spike was here -- and he's not lying to her now.

He understands the part about it feeling like a dream; he's often felt that way about this place even though he knows it isn't. It's just a different branch of reality, as far as he can tell, where dead or alive doesn't make much difference, and neither does I know you or I don't know you or I've never heard of the world you come from or I can't believe you're from a thousand years before me.

"Time is kind of funny here." That's an understatement. "And there are all sorts of people from... everywhere. Some are alive, some are dead." That admission makes him swallow a little bit harder. "Some don't know what they are. Most don't know why they're here. Some can leave, and some can't. Just like everywhere else, some are happy and some are unhappy. Some like it and some don't."

There isn't a whole lot more he can say about this place.

"But no, I wasn't avoiding you. You're..." A small smile threatens his features; he almost has to laugh. "...one of the only people here who really knows me."

How's that for ironic? The one person who knows his secrets can't remember anything about him.

[anythingbutblue]

"Now hold on a second." Her points her fork at him in a mostly nonthreatening manner. "Some people here are dead?"

Her eyes move away from him, and she looks around the bar, studying a person here and there.

"How is that possible?"

She doesn't think anybody in here looks dead. No gaping wounds, no blood and guts, no barely attached limbs or even deathly pale skin.

Or maybe everybody looks perfect in death here and...

She can't believe she's even thinking about this.

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

Tell her.

No, wait, don't.

You have to tell her.

No. She's got enough to deal with now. Work around it: this is your problem, not hers.

Yeah, but...

If she regains her memory, she'll know. If not, you can tell her a little later.

"You know all this stuff, Faye. You've already made your peace with it. Let's take one thing at a time, okay?"

Lifting his teacup, blowing across it, he pretends he doesn't remember what happened on Callisto. He pretends he doesn't remember coming through the door, collapsing into Julia's arms, feeling the life flow out of him only to be replaced by something even more poignant, even more harsh, even more fierce, even less comprehensible.

"Maybe this is just some sort of waystation for all of us. We ask these questions every day, Faye. Every day. I'm not sure anyone knows how it's possible."

It's a little weak, but at least it's honest.

[anythingbutblue]

She's a little taken aback and more than a little puzzled, and she just watches him for a minute.

"You're protecting me."

A prince has to protect sleeping beauty.

"You don't need to do that. I'm tougher than I look."

Maybe. She's sure she can be if she needs to, though.

She looks down at her plate, putting her fork down beside it. "Some close friend I make now, huh? If I didn't recognize your voice, I'd feel like you're a total stranger."

Why did you come here tonight, Faye?

"If I agreed to go home with you after you stepped in with those thugs after we met at the bar, why wouldn't I stay with you here?"

He won't tell her one thing, but maybe he'll tell her another. And she's at least as curious about understanding herself as she is about the place she's found herself in.

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

"That's... a good question. You have stayed with me here, but just one night." He's very quick to add the rest of the story, though. "We didn't do anything, in case you're wondering."

At least she remembers his voice. That's something. "And you always tell me you're tougher than you look, and I believe you. I just can't help being a little bit protective; it's my nature."

There are things here that will scare her and while it's true she got past them once -- made peace with them, as he said -- he doesn't really want to have to watch her get past anything else again. "See, I've always thought you deserve the very best of everything; the best food, the best wines, the best accommodations, the best company. I'm not always good company for you, Faye. We clash sometimes, but it doesn't keep me from liking you. You've always fascinated me. Believe it or not, you know things about me that almost no one else knows. And please don't say like what? because I'm not going to get into it in public."

None of this is easy to tell her.

"On Callisto when I took you home with me, you really didn't have much of a choice. The town we were in was pretty tough; you were sick and there was nowhere else for you to stay, or at least not safely."

There's so much to tell. How do you recap an entire lifetime in just a few minutes? It can't be done that way.

It just can't.

"Maybe I should play you some music. I wonder if that would help you remember anything." It's the only thing he can think of that might do anything at all. At the very least, it should be... relaxing?

[anythingbutblue]

Faye has to smile. "I always tell you that?"

She's kind of pleased. It has to mean something if that's something she thinks and says often.

At the same time, she's not quite sure what would be so bad about having Gren be protective about her.

If they're on the terms he's saying they are, she's be protective of him just based on what he's told her.

So as interesting as it is that there are things she knows about him that he's made it clear he won't go into in public (and as curious as that makes her), she doesn't immediately ask more questions along those lines.

"I guess you put a lot of trust in me."

But isn't that what friends are supposed to do? She just doesn't know what makes her so trustworthy. Or what makes her so fascinating.

"Do you think it would really help if you played something?"

She's a little skeptical, but it's not as if she knows what else to do.

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

Honestly, he's not sure if it would help or not, But it certainly can't hurt. "I'm a musician. I interpret everything in music, just like my mother the painter interprets everything in color. I can't say for sure that me playing music will jog your memory, but it might at the very least be fun. It might take your mind off... well, everything."

And what if it did help her remember something? It might not lead her to recall a tangible story, but it might bring her a feeling or a sense of self or any number of things.

"I know music makes me feel better. Always. Every time. We could give it a try if you want." Sitting down here must seem awfully strange to her: not knowing where she is, not recognizing anyone and him only by the sound of his voice, not knowing who she is but for the snippet of story he told and the few things she actually remembers.

"What do you think? Are you up for it?" It's actually something he thinks he'd like very much. It can be just like the first time they met, almost.

Almost.