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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]

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.

[anythingbutblue]

It's perfect.

Or maybe it's not, but if so, she can't tell at all. His fingers never stumble once, and while she doesn't know enough about the instrument or the song to know if he hits any wrong notes, there's nothing that jars her out of her semi-reverie as she watches him play.

And he wrote it for her.

It seems like a big deal. And maybe it's not to him, but it's more than enough to make an impression on her.

When he's done playing and opens his eyes again, she gives him a smile that has a hint of shyness in it. "What's it called?"

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

She's so pretty.

"I never really named it. What do you think we should call it? I had an idea, but I'm not sure it works just right, so I'm open to suggestions."

That's actually a really good idea, he realizes in retrospect. If she doesn't regain her memories, this will be a good one for her. A building block, maybe, or some kind of foundation for creating new memories. And if her memory does return, this song might be a good bridge between then and now.

He knows he's going to have to tell her he's dead. It's just that he doesn't want to right now: fair or not, he's savoring feeling something like normal. But he won't wait too long; he doesn't want her to feel like he's taken advantage of her memory loss in the least.

There's so much, though. An awful lot at once.

[anythingbutblue]

At first she's at a complete and utter loss.

She doesn't have the first idea of what to suggest. She hardly knows herself, and she's not going to tell him hey, how about My Dog Thinks You Smell Like Money or even Shoot Them Before They Shoot You.

After a minute, she discreetly reaches into the leg of her shorts and, almost as if by magic, pulls out a playing card which she holds between them for their mutual inspection.

"You could name it Ace of Hearts."

She shrugs. It might actually sound a little sappy to her if she didn't know she's had the card hidden under her shorts. With that in mind, well, it seems to work on a different level. She definitely gets the impression she's not just lucky at cards.

Or maybe this is her lucky card.

She just doesn't know.

"Otherwise you might just have to go with Gun-Toting Weathergirl."

She'd love to remember the story behind that memory.

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

A smile spreads across his face; it doesn't take too long to light up his eyes, his mouth. "Ace of Hearts. Gun-Toting Weathergirl. I like them both."

They're way better than Forbidden Faye.

"Since you have the card handy, that seems like fate to me. Ace of Hearts it is." She has to be remembering little snippets of things, at the very least, to come up with titles like that. Setting down the saxophone next to the bed, he turns to Faye and her coy smile and the playing card she holds out for him almost demurely.

He studies her eyes: they're big and beautiful and close to innocent. If his life had gone differently...

No point in mourning what he can't have.

And though he hates to ask her this question yet again, he's going to anyway. "Are you... doing okay?"

[anythingbutblue]

"I'm doing better than I could be."

It's an honest answer.

And she can probably thank him for helping her along to this point, but... something holds her back.

"Really." Still smiling some, she pushes herself up into a sitting position. "Don't be so concerned."

There are a few things -- well, more than a few things, really -- that she doesn't quite get. Like why she and the saxophone player here are so off-limits. It just puzzles her completely.

"This probably isn't how you wanted to spend your day."

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

Of course he's going to be concerned: she's his friend, and things aren't right for her and he wants to see it made better. He can't help it: it's the way he's wired.

"I can't think of any better way to spend my day, actually. I've missed you." It's time to tell her, and he knows it. "Last time we talked, we agreed to leave together if you ever could see the door. There are two problems with that, though. The first is that you can't see the door, so you can't go... and I'm not going without you."

Pausing, he takes a deep, deep breath. "The second thing is... remember how I told you not all the people here are alive?"

There might be a little change to his expression there, although he tries hard to keep looking neutral, even as he realizes he'd better reassure her as quickly as possible here. "I'm not talking about you, just so you know."

That statement's as good as an admission all by itself.

Please don't be afraid of me for being dead. That's his biggest fear right now, and he doesn't fear very much.

[anythingbutblue]

Every last trace of the smile fades from her face, and slowly -- too slowly, almost as if he's not speaking her first language and she's not getting every word -- she turns to meet his eyes.

Oh.

Of course he wasn't trying to tell her she was dead. That would be insane, and...

Oh.

"You're... not."

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

"I'm... different."

He's been different for a long, long time: this is just one more division away from normalcy, really. "Not that there's that much difference to speak of."

That's a feeble way of trying to smooth things over, if they even need to be finessed. There isn't any other way around things, though. "See, Faye, here's the thing: you knew me before, when I was out there. And I still feel a lot the same. There are only a few little differences. Like this."

Reaching for her hand, he presses her fingertips to his wrist. "See? There's a pulse. It's just weak. I still breathe and sleep and walk around and dream. I'm warm: I'm warm all the time. We've gone for walks by the lake in the middle of winter and I don't need a jacket. I don't eat or drink as much as I used to, but as you can see, I've still maintained my prefect figure." Laughing, he lets go of her hands. "I still have a sense of humor. I can't figure it out. If it's really death, it's not what I thought it would be."

The other thing is that he still has emotions, and just as his sense of sight and touch and smell and hearing and taste are enhanced by whatever state of being he's in, his emotions are just that much keener now too.

"I still feel everything. So don't let it fool you: all the ancient philosophies teach that death is a transition, a change. It's never an ending, and if I am dead, I can't say I've lost any awareness or any sense of self. At least I'm not a zombie or something."

Maybe if he just keeps talking, she'll forget about this little portion of the conversation but still, he had to tell her. He had to. Otherwise, he would be taking advantage of her memory loss and he promised he wasn't going to do that, and for Faye, he keeps his word.

[anythingbutblue]

Words just don't come out at first.

Why is he telling her this?

Different doesn't mean dead by stretch of her weary imagination.

He doesn't feel dead. She can see him breathing, and like he said, that's a pulse beneath her fingers. And he's warm and he laughs and plays the saxophone and looks at her with eyes that aren't dead.

Looking almost reproachful, she leaves her fingers there against his wrist. "So what makes you think you're probably not alive?"

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

"I... remember dying? At least that's what I thought was happening at the time."

Breathe in: breathe out. It works. He can feel the air filling his lungs; he can feel it leaving. "Maybe I'm wrong, though. You know our minds like to play tricks on us." Even without memories, she has to know that. "I have a theory about it, though. Do you want to hear it?"

It's not something he's going to inflict on her if she's uninterested. And right now, it's hard to tell exactly how she's feeling. The good thing is she hasn't moved her hand away, so she's not immediately disgusted.

In fact, that's a very good thing.