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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

[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.

[anythingbutblue]

"But what happened? Did I know about it? Why did it make you think you were dying?"

Now she retracts her hand, and once it's not on his wrist, it's almost as if she doesn't know what to do with it.

She doesn't think he's dead.

Look at him. He can't possibly be, and she kind of resents the idea.

She's only a few steps away from coming across as petulant -- just from the pure frustration of not understanding -- when she nods in answer to his question. "What's your theory?"

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

"Why? Because I was bleeding internally. I'd been in a fight -- so to speak -- and my ship got shot down and I crashed. I was coughing up blood. And then I found myself here, and..."

He remembers it: collapsing, Julia running over, the way things went hazy, the way they went almost black... and then how everything came back with such beauty and vibrancy he thought he was dreaming. Because she asked, he tells all of this to Faye.

"My theory is that this... place, this asteroid, this bar, this setting, is some sort of way-station between things. Maybe it's between life and death; maybe it's between death and rebirth; maybe it's a place that negates the whole concept of alive or dead. All I know is here, I feel good. Restless sometimes, but not dead. Never devoid of consciousness or desire or want or need. So I think it's a place offset in time, wedged between things. Between realities, maybe... does that make any sense?"

What he doesn't tell her is that he's been looking -- hoping -- dreaming -- for someone to come along who'll help him test his theories. He'd love it to be Faye, but he'll never, ever ask.

[anythingbutblue]

"No," she finally answers, a little regretful.

But it's not just his theory that doesn't make sense. Taken by himself, Gren makes a certain amount of sense. Maybe if she could remember the history he says she has with this place, she'd think it's a reasonable theory.

But she doesn't remember it.

"None of this does, though."

Slowly, almost grudgingly, she moves over, swings her legs over the side of the bed, and sits there with her fingers curling over the edge.

"What's your theory about why I can't remember anything?"

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

"I don't know." He's no scientist and certainly no doctor; there could be any number of reasons. "Maybe you just woke up with it. Maybe it's a recurrence of what happened last time. Maybe it's congenital. Maybe it's some sort of illness or infection. For all I know, it could be something you ate or drank, some drug you took. You might have hit your head on something and don't remember it. They're all good theories, but... they're just speculation."

That, he reminds himself, is what theories are: science's first stab at anything at all. People aren't usually content with the unknown; they like to have their questions answered.

"Do you want me to help you find a doctor?" There have to be some here; one shouldn't be that hard to find. "Or... tell you more stories, things I know about you? Or even just sit here together?"

For this, he'd even play a game of poker.

"Play cards? Listen to more music?" Find out if I'm actually dead? "Try to find that partner of yours?"

Then again, she might not want to do anything. She might just want to be alone.

[anythingbutblue]

"No doctors."

Not if she can avoid it.

No cards. He'd have to teach her how to play.

No music. She doesn't want him to feel obligated to play a full concert for her. He's already played three songs.

No finding her partner. It sounds like he has his hands full already, and if he's one of the other guys she remembers the voices of, she doesn't think he'd be too thrilled to be presented with her, amnesiac or not.

She just sits there. "I don't know what I want to do."

Except remember.

It's not the most helpful answer, but it's the most honest one.

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

No doctors: fair enough; it's something he's said himself for years.

"Faye?"

One hand moves to her shoulder; it rests there hesitantly.

"Do you want me to just... hold you?" She'll either say yes or no. Either answer is fair. All he wants is for her to feel some tiny bit of comfort... just a little bit. He won't hold her tight and he won't hold her too closely.

One revelation per hour is more than enough.

[anythingbutblue]

She may not be sure of much, but one thing she's positive of is that there should be no doubt as to whether you're dead or alive. Gren shouldn't have to feel that way.

It doesn't make any sense.

Maybe, just maybe, when she wakes up again, she really will discover this is all a weird dream.

When she looks back at Gren, her eyes are a little skeptical. "Is that... the kind of thing we're okay with?"

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

Well...

On the one hand, he promised not to take advantage of her amnesia. On the other hand, this is something he wants to do: acutely, inexplicably, even though women aren't his style.

There's just something about Faye: he wants to protect her, knowing full well she doesn't need his protection at all. She's one of the most self-sufficient people he's ever met -- male or female -- and if she does regain her memory, he doesn't want her to be angry at him for this.

"I don't know. Let me put it this way." His words are careful, precise, cautious. "It's not the kind of thing we usually do. But there's no reason it shouldn't be all right. I promised you I wouldn't try anything, and I won't. But if you think it would be a comfort, I'm offering."

He's so baffled by her. Even when she's got her memory, she still confuses him so much. In a lot of ways, she's very much like him: both feminine and masculine, soft and hard, straightforward and deceptive.

[anythingbutblue]

In spite of herself, she pretty much falters into a very small smile.

"You're good."

She doesn't have all of her memories -- or even most of them -- but that doesn't mean she was born yesterday, and it seems to her like he's being very careful with her.

"Maybe for a minute or two. If I'm not okay with it, I don't know it yet, do I?"

Her hand rises to cover his and tug it so his arm curves around her.

After the minute or two, she'll go.

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

This... should be a beautiful moment: he's never made any secret of his attraction to Faye, but he's never really acted on it either. While it's true she did stay here one night, that's... just what it is: he was in a pretty low place and it was nice of her to agree. They didn't so much as hold each others' hands that night, though.

If he wants to be analytical, this could be an interesting opportunity to know what Faye would do if she didn't really know details about his past. But he's not that cold and he's not that calculating. He'd never take advantage of her.

Still, as he puts his arm around her and leans against her body, he can't help but feel a tiny bit guilty, like he's not being fair. Even though she's agreed to this -- even though he's been very careful, very cautious -- he still feels a little... strange and asks himself if he'd feel the same way if she had her memories. It's a question he can't answer, because that's not the way things have gone.

What he does know is this: for a long time now, he's longed for contact. Longed for it, craved it, dreamed about it, wished for it, mourned the lack of it. Right now, it's all he can do not to break down completely. Instead, he forces composure.

"How's this?" His voice is barely a whisper.

[anythingbutblue]

"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."