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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.

Comments

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

That's an odd question but it fills him with an unexpected amount of satisfaction; he's not sure quite why. The laugh that escapes is little but honest.

"I don't know. You've never sung for me."

It would be nice, he thinks, if she would. And though this march upstairs is just like their earlier one only in reverse, Faye seems a little more comfortable in her own skin now. Maybe it's the food that helped or maybe it's his stories. Maybe she's just getting used to things. Whatever it is, he's glad for her.

"Why do you ask?"

[anythingbutblue]

"Oh." Almost shy, she doesn't quite look at him at first, instead focusing on the doors to either side of them. "No reason."

But she keeps the small smile on her face.

"Somebody told me that once, I think."

She glances at her room as they pass, then gives Gren a sideways look. "Which number is yours?"

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

"Number 44."

He used to be in the room right next Faye, but that's not important right now. "Just down the hall and to the left."

It's like she's a toddler and he's got her by the hand, explaining everything along the way. It isn't that he has any frame of reference for doing that. He has no children of his own and now, of course, that's out of the question. His life turned left when it should have gone straight -- no pun intended -- and changed his reality forever.

There's no self-pity involved, only circumstance.

"And your room is #36." As they pass by it, he nods to the door. "But you knew that."

It's not a test any more than his next question. "Do you remember anything else about someone telling you you sing off-key?" He digs the room key out of his pocket, fits it into the lock and opens the door.

[anythingbutblue]

She nods.

Her room number is something she did notice, if briefly, before he ran into her.

It still seems strange to her that they're only a few doors away from each other and they're supposedly such good friends but they've managed to avoid each other -- unintentionally or not -- for weeks or a month.

"No, not really. I..."

Her face screws up in concentration when she thinks about it, and she ends up shaking her head.

"I don't know. But I don't think he thought I was much of a storyteller either."

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

"More's the pity." His eyes light up just a little bit. "I think you're a really good storyteller." The story about the lawyer kept him interested the whole time; that's one of the few actual story-stories she's told him.

But she tells tales in other ways, Faye does, and even now -- without her memories -- she's still doing it. There are hints, promises, untold worlds in her eyes and smile. Anyone who doesn't see that is a fool.

"You going to come in? If I'd known I was going to have company, I would have cleaned up a little."

It's a joke: he hopes she can tell. His room isn't spotless, but it's tidy.

[anythingbutblue]

When she catches him not looking at her, she grins at the compliment.

And if he notices it before it fades from her face, it's okay with her, but she takes the opportunity to look away from him so she won't know.

As she steps inside, her eyes sweep the room with interest. It's not significantly different from the room she woke up in, but they're not entirely the same.

Different colors, slightly different arrangement. But this room smells different, feels different. If she walked into his bathroom, she knows she wouldn't find the nearly countless colorful bottles and jars and tubes of makeup and cremes and masks and scrubs and soaps that she found in her own.

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

Once they're inside and the door is closed, he watches her carefully... but only for a minute. He doesn't want her to feel like she's under a microscope and besides, he didn't invite her here to scrutinize her. He invited her here so he could play music for her.

A little private concert's never done her any harm before. Usually the music is his choice; he's the one playing, after all, but this time he thinks he'll do something different.

"Make yourself comfortable. Bed, chair, standing: whatever works for you." Kneeling beside his sax case, he starts to assemble the instrument. A stray beam of light filters in through the window, glinting off the brass keys, sending a shadow of red onto the velvet as it hits the sole vial of red-eye.

He pretends not to notice that, opting instead to just put the sax together, take out a reed, and moisten it before he sets it into place on the mouthpiece.

"I always say the first song gets to be ladies' choice. Do you have any requests?" If she remembers any song names at all, that might be a positive sign. But while he does believe in the power of music, he has no expectations at all about how this will go.

[anythingbutblue]

Taking a seat on the very edge of the bed, she gives him a skeptical look and then smiles slowly.

"I don't know if I can remember anything to request."

Some help she is. This can't be the first time he's played for her personally, though. If they've been here over a year, they've had plenty of opportunities for it.

"But we've done this before, right? Play something you know I like."

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

That's something he can do. In fact, he plays the first song he remembers ever playing with her in mind: it's Julia's song. The one from the music box. He's played it so many times over the years he's surprised it hasn't worn away the surface on the saxophone's keys... but he takes good care of the instrument.

When he plays, his eyes close -- as if he could force them to stay open -- and he lets the music carry him. Today, it takes him back to the smoky confines of the Rester House and its tiny stage. His fellow musicians. The patrons. The bartender, a genuinely nice man who always did his best to keep the creeps away.

Julia sitting on the corner bar stool, looking like a million Woolongs, like a breath of fresh air even while the smoke clung to her face.

The scene in his mind shimmers and shifts: he's still at the Rester House but now it's Faye sitting on that same corner stool, smoking moodily, sneezing occasionally, drinking rapidly.

As the song wends in and out and makes its way to the finish, his eyes open into slits. Playing this song almost puts him into a trance, and it's a moment or two before he's fully aware of his present surroundings again.

[anythingbutblue]

Her train of thought starts at I don't know this song and winds through maybe I do know this song before it gets to well, I should know this song.

But she can't place it. She can't think of the name.

Her eyes narrow as she listens, and eventually she lets herself fall back, her short hair fanning around her head, and narrows her eyes intently at the ceiling.

There should be some memory this can jog, some tiny little recollection, and just as she's starting to feel frustrated again and even resigned, she sees this fluttering little shard of amber in the corner of her eye. Turning her head to get a better look, she then catches sight of it -- is it a butterfly? -- near the ceiling, and she turns back again, her hand reaching out for it.

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

By the time his eyes are open again, all he sees is Faye lying back on the bed. It reminds him of the way he left her in his apartment in Blue Crow, except her hands aren't cuffed behind her back right now. That's something he still feels a little bit badly about, but in his defense, she was shooting at him.

Quietly, gently, he moves to sit next to her. With the saxophone in one hand, he reaches out with the other, brushing back a strand of her hair from where it's caught in the crease of her eyelid.

"Are you okay?"

[anythingbutblue]

Opening her hand proves she didn't catch the butterfly, and she focuses her eyes on Gren instead, the tips of her fingers touching the shortest ends of his hair.

He looks concerned, and she wishes she could just tell him to stop and actually have it work.

She's pretty sure it won't.

Her hand lowers again, fingers curling. "Did you see it?"

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

"See what?"

But he shakes his head quickly. "My eyes were closed. They always are when I play."

Her hand was so close to his face for a minute that he could feel the warmth of her skin; when he speaks, his voice is very soft. His eyes trail to the tips of her fingers: perfect ovals dipped in berry red paint, as always.

"What did you see?"

[anythingbutblue]

"A butterfly."

The most beautiful butterflies imaginable.

"The prettiest one I've ever seen."

Her eyes stray from his face again, searching the room, but she doesn't find what she's looking for.

"If we're still, maybe it'll come back."

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

"Maybe you have to be lying down to see it."

He's not coming on to her. Really, or at least he doesn't think he is; she confuses him and always has. Memory loss or not, that doesn't change the fact that he still knows everything he knew when he woke up this morning.

"Or maybe it needs the music."

The fact that he's never once seen a butterfly of any sort even once in his year and a half here doesn't stop him from thinking it's possible. After all, he's... dead, and he's still here: why not a butterfly? Especially the prettiest one she's ever seen?

They can have both. "Move over a little, Faye. I promise, I'm not going to do anything but play the sax lying down. Maybe I'll get to see the butterfly that way too." The weight of the whole situation fatigues him, but it's got to be nothing in comparison to what she's going through.

[anythingbutblue]

"You know I'm tougher than I look," she answers without much reproach, willingly scooting over a bit to make room for him to take up some space beside her. "I'm not worried about anything."

She won't go so far as to say that maybe the butterfly needs the music to help it muster up the courage to make an appearance, but that wouldn't really be the strangest thing she's heard so far today.

"I don't guess you know what kind of music butterflies like."

She's only half joking.

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

"I might." Before he lifts the sax to his mouth, he spares her a grin. The piece he picks is a pretty lovely Charlie Parker song called Just Friends; it's fitting in so many ways.

Again, he can't resist letting his eyes close as he plays. The only other time he's ever played lying down was when he was all alone: there's a little bit of self-consciousness that goes along with doing this with an audience. Especially since the audience is Faye, not that it ought to make a difference.

But about halfway into the song he loosens up, resting the heel of one foot on the bent-back toes of the other, and just lets the music flow.

Open your eyes, a little voice tells him, and look for butterflies. He does, but only for a few fleeting seconds: the lure of the music and the eyes-shut old habit takes over and before he knows it, the song's finished, its last note dying away into the room's closed air. He peers out through barely-open lids, but there's not a butterfly in sight.

Unless, of course, Faye counts as one. After all, fairies have wings too.

[anythingbutblue]

When the song ends, she glances over in time to notice his eyes open just a crack.

"I didn't see it. Did you?" Not if his eyes were closed, he didn't. "I don't see it anywhere."

She's a little disappointed, but she doesn't let it show much. A butterfly like that one shouldn't be able to stay hidden long.

With a small smile, she reaches over and presses one of the saxophone's keys now that it won't interrupt his playing.

"Maybe I'm losing my mind." While she doesn't sound worked up about it, she also doesn't sound like she's totally dismissing the possibility. "Almost all of the memories are gone, so I guess I'm halfway there."

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

Setting the sax down against his chest, one hand wrapped around it protectively, he laughs. "I've always thought sanity was one of the more overrated commodities in this world of ours."

He knows from first-hand experience what it's like to feel insane; it happened to him the moment he was arrested for being a traitor. Being in prison knowing full well he was innocent only made it worse, but even through everything that happened there, none of it really compares to that first shock of disbelief when he stepped off the shuttle to find himself surrounded by the military police.

That was all pretty insane.

"You know what, though? You're already halfway there to building a whole new set of memories. Maybe if you look at it that way, it won't feel so bleak. You got through it once already and came out as strong and vibrant and beautiful as anyone I've ever met. I don't have the slightest bit of doubt that you can do it again if that's what needs to happen."

There are enough saxophone keys there so that Faye can satisfy her curiosity and press them all she wants. Maybe he ought to tell her that she can press his buttons any time. It might make her laugh.

[anythingbutblue]

For a moment she just looks at him with this half-startled I want to believe every word you say expression on her face, but then she can't help the uncertainty covers it.

"For all we know, that's the same kind of thing my lawyer told me."

But that doesn't mean she doesn't like those words coming out of Gren's mouth, and she hurries to add, "Not that I'm comparing you."

Not that she knows enough to.

She moves toward him until her shoulder touches his, then stops and looks back up to the ceiling again. "What's my favorite thing to do?"

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

He's a little bit shocked by being compared to her fraud of a lawyer, but he understands it's not the end of the world: if she really did remember, she wouldn't be saying that kind of thing. She knows him better than that.

And then she goes ahead and asks him a question that doesn't even give him pause; he doesn't have to stop and think about the answer because it presents itself to him so immediately. It's just a question of phrasing.

"Your favorite thing? That's easy. Win at cards." Not cheat at cards, although saying that did cross his mind. "You're a really lucky poker and blackjack player. I haven't ever won against you."

They've really only played sparingly because his pockets aren't that deep. He can't afford to play against her any more. Unlike Faye, he's never been the least bit lucky at any type of gambling.

[anythingbutblue]

"I'm that good, huh?"

Very pleased, she smiles to herself. She almost asks him if she's a sore loser since he said her favorite thing is winning at cards, but if he's never won against her he probably doesn't know.

The smile lingers on her face, though, and she glances quickly at Gren.

"What about you? What's your favorite thing to do? Besides play that saxophone, I mean."

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

"You're that good."

She's making him smile: memories or not, this is still the same Faye and he, for one, takes great comfort in that knowledge. Her question's almost endearing, too.

"My favorite thing in the whole world is playing this saxophone. But if I have to pick a second, it's probably writing music. I wrote you a song, you know. Or maybe you don't. I wrote it for you here." He's pretty sure he thought of calling it Forbidden Faye, but he's not so sure he ever told her that, or ever really firmed up the title in his mind.

"Do you want to hear it now?" He actually has it committed to memory: he's had a lot of time and not very much to do at this place... and it is a very nice song. She liked it the last time he played it for her, anyway.

[anythingbutblue]

"You wrote a song for me?"

Turning her head to fully face him again, she lets out a very genuine little laugh. If she didn't have a grin on her face, she'd be looking at him as if his question's the silliest she's ever heard.

Or at least the silliest she's heard today.

"Yeah, I want to hear it now."

He couldn't tell her something like that and then expect her not to be curious enough to want to hear it.

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

"Okay."

There wasn't much chance he was going to say no to this or he wouldn't have offered; he sits up, props some pillows against the headboard, and leans back.

"I can't promise you any butterflies. I can't even promise a moth. I really can't promise I'll be able to keep my eyes open... but I can promise that this is the song I wrote for you." Without any further introduction, he launches into the song and it's a little slow and a little saucy and it reminds him of everything Faye is, from the turned-down tops of her little white boots to the look of longing she sometimes gets in her eyes, but only when she thinks nobody's watching. It meanders around a little, this song for Faye, but it sounds really nice on the tenor sax. The instrument's a little more sultry than your standard-issue alto sax; he's always liked the depth it can invoke when it's played well. These things were built for jazz music.

This isn't the first time he's given Faye a private concert. He'd do it every day if she wanted.