(no subject)

[anythingbutblue]

There's no hesitation between remembering everything and stopping in front of Gren's door.

The hesitation comes once she gets there, and for about a solid thirty seconds, she stands there, her eyes determined but her hand not certain it wants to knock.

But then she does it -- loudly -- and that's that.

Comments

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

Sitting up, the lined paper with the musical score half-written on it flutters away from his face, where it's been laying for who knows how long. Certainly since he fell asleep composing it, but he doesn't know how long he's been sleeping. It could be minutes or it could be hours. At this place, it could be days.

There's only one person who ever knocks at his door, though. He hasn't seen Faye since that curious day they had pancakes and shared stories, where he tried in his gentle best way to help her remember who she was.

He failed. But the time they spent wasn't without its sweetness. In fact, there was a lot of sweetness that came out in little subtle ways the whole time they spent together. At least he was a perfect gentleman to her... he hopes. That's what his memory tells him.

Brushing creases away from the front of his shirt, he opens the door and smiles.

"Hi, Faye."

When she left last time -- for the first time ever -- she kissed him, and it was chaste enough. But for someone who's claimed for years that women aren't his style, he sure has been thinking about that a lot.

[anythingbutblue]

When he opens the door and greets her, she looks absolutely stricken.

It's almost as if she didn't expect him to be there, as if now that they're face-to-face she doesn't have the first clue as to what to say or do. There wasn't really a plan in the first place, and she doesn't know what she's doing.

"I... wanted to thank you."

Saying something doesn't make her feel any more certain, and thanking people isn't something she's much in the habit of doing anyway. This thank you is even harder.

"For the... pancakes. And the songs."

She feels like she should say something else, but she's not sure what.

"And you couldn't have seen the butterfly even if you did keep your eyes open."

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

"Faye?"

Standing aside, he ushers her in like he's done any number of times in the past: there's something wrong. Or maybe not something wrong, but something different.

His hair's loose; it hangs down in front of his face and he has to brush it back, brush it away, so he can see her. She's got her makeup on, so that's a good sign... isn't it? Maybe it's just opportunism. Maybe... he has no idea.

"Is everything okay?"

[anythingbutblue]

"Does something have to be wrong for me to come here?"

Nothing's wrong, not really.

"I just remembered."

That's all.

"I thought you should know."

She thought she should thank him.

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

Part of him wants to tell her not to be so difficult, but if she wasn't so difficult, she wouldn't be so Faye. That's always been a little bit of a dilemma, but they're friends and so he accepts the fact that as his friend, she always has been and probably always will be a little on the defensive.

Tugging at her hand, he urges her over to the chair by the bed so she can sit; he takes a seat on the edge of his bed so he can watch her. "To answer your question first, no, something doesn't have to be wrong for you to come here. I always like spending time with you no matter where we are."

If she remembered some or all of it, she should know that... even if she doesn't actually believe it.

"Please, tell me what happened. I want to know."

She really doesn't owe him any thanks at all: he did what any friend would do.

[anythingbutblue]

"There's not a lot to tell. I was downstairs in the bar, saw a plate of cookies out like they were free for anyone to take one, and while I was eating the one I picked up..."

She shrugs.

"I just remembered all of it right there in the bar."

When she puts it that way, it seems so unnecessary to have rushed up here immediately after.

"I'm not crazy," she explains herself needlessly, almost haltingly. "The butterfly was kind of a side effect of the nanobots in my blood."

It's a long story and she's really only told him bits and pieces of what happened with Vincent, but it's enough for him to get it.

"And I meant what I said. When you thanked me."

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

"That you didn't do it for me?" Momentarily lost in thought, he bites his lower lip: it's a bad habit for a sax player and he's had to teach himself over the years not to do it. Is this some kind of test?

Hello, your afterlife is calling. Whether or not you get into heaven or some semblance thereof depends on your response to this statement of Faye's. She's a fairy, after all, and fairies are very powerful beings.

"I know. But I still thought it was okay to thank you. I've... wanted to do that for a long time. Hold you and comfort you."

Again, his hands against his knees are the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. "But I didn't want to... oh, I don't know, get you into some situation where you'd be uncomfortable, or ask you to do anything you wouldn't have done in the past or wouldn't do today, or if the situations had been reversed... I don't know. I don't even know what I'm saying."

Helpless: that's how he so often feels around Faye. It's not that he doesn't know what to make of her; he does. It's that he doesn't know what to make of the way she makes him think about himself: about things he thought were cast in stone years ago, right after prison if not while he was on Titan. And so his eyebrows knit together a little bit in self-doubt.

People love to label other people. They love to label themselves. They love to label in terms of sexuality: they're gay or straight or bi or celibate. They're S&M or normal; dominant or submissive. They like to be on top or on the bottom. They're butch or femme. But really... they're all just labels, just artificial ways of describing things that everyone has in common, to varying degrees. Things that are part of everybody's DNA; it's circumstance and conditioning and preference that help people decide whether or not they act on them, that's all.

Psychology insists that there are very few true bisexuals: everyone has a preference one way or another. Maybe it's fitting that his body looks the way it does now, because he's never had a preference one way or the other. He's always liked -- no, loved -- women and men equally.

Apparently, nothing's changed that. Not even what he thinks most days passes for death itself.

[anythingbutblue]

There's a sudden hot flush in her cheeks, and she's quietly -- and very grudgingly -- grateful that his attention is on his hands.

She doesn't think he's quite getting it -- or maybe he is and he's not believing her -- but she's surprised that he's not. Even more surprising to her is the fact that she wants him to get it.

She wishes she could will him -- just this once -- to read her mind, because it'd be so much easier.

Looking toward the ceiling, she takes a breath.

"The important part of that isn't the fact that I didn't do it for you, you know."

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

"I know." He feels like he's repeating himself, but then his eyes dart up to her face and sees that she's a little pink around the cheeks and the important part of that isn't the fact that I didn't do it for you, you know...

Oh.

Oh.

"So... that kiss wasn't for my benefit either, was it." Maybe it was in part; he hates to make any assumptions. Still, his voice is very soft, and his eyes fall again.

This whole thing makes him... shy. How weird: if he's reading this right, he has no idea what he's supposed to do.

It's been years.

[anythingbutblue]

Without dipping her chin back down and straightening her head, her eyes lower and look at him.

"Memories or not, I've never kissed someone just for their benefit."

Or at least not whenever she's had a choice in the matter. That thing with Vincent was all him. She was restrained, for crying out loud.

There's no warning before she stands.

"Well," she goes on as if they haven't been talking about anything the least bit awkward, folding her arms behind her head, "think I'll head out now."

Time for her famous disappearing act.

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

What?

"Wait."

Or... not: he doesn't know what to make of Faye. Standing quickly, he reaches for one of her arms. He's strong; he's got a trained soldier's reflexes. And just once -- just this time -- he's going to do something for himself instead of for everybody else.

Although, he reminds himself, the last time he made a decision like that it got him killed. That can't happen again; he's already dead. Convenient, to be able to use that as an excuse or a reality when he wants to instead of because he has to.

Slowly, as if it's happening in half-speed, he watches himself tuck his fingertips under Faye's chin and tilt her face up so he can look at her.

Now.

Leaning down, he takes his turn and presses a quick kiss to her cheek. He has so many feelings for her -- conflicted though they might be -- but he's not going to force anything on her. At least not a bit more than she's already forced on him.

There's really been nothing forced about it, though. Anyone would have to admit that.

"That one was for me."

[anythingbutblue]

Her eyes are wide.

Only now there's not a thing she can do to make herself move toward the door. It's like her feet have been glued where they are, and she can't help thinking that just as soon as she can make them move, she's getting out of here while she can.

"I guess that's fair play."

She's never been concerned about playing fair, but they're just words. Just something that comes out.

She should go.

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

The smallest laugh he's capable of escapes his lips; his hands fall away from her as he takes a step back.

"Well. No one ever said things are supposed to be fair, did they."

He's all right with this sequence of events. He's still watching her pretty closely. "I'm glad you got your memory back. I thought I was going to have to tell you all about what happened in prison all over again and I really didn't want to have to do that. I thought you'd probably heard enough bizarre stories for one day."

Of course, that's not the only reason he's glad she got her memory back. It's only one of many, and he tells her that, too, before steering the subject in a little different direction. "When it did come back, did you remember what you were doing when it disappeared this time? What caused your amnesia?" Unable to help himself, he reaches over and brushes the hair back from her face: once an addict always an addict, no matter how long it's been since you kicked the habit, and he's addicted to contact.

There are far worse things to crave than human touch.

[anythingbutblue]

"I could've taken it."

She straightens a little when he steps back, and when he starts talking about her memory again, she doesn't know whether to be disappointed or relieved.

"Nothing was wrong with me before I woke up the other day." She shrugs, looking sideways, away from him. "I didn't do anything out of the ordinary."

Not even swiping that apple was really unusual. And it was just an apple.

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

"I was just curious, that's all."

It was worth a shot. He has the sneaking suspicion she wouldn't tell him even if she knew what caused it; Faye likes to have her secrets and that's certainly her prerogative. She can do whatever she wants, whenever she wants, however she wants.

There's only one thing she can't do and that's toy with him; he won't stand for it.

"And I know: you're tougher than you look, right?" Still, he never said there was anything wrong with her or that she'd done anything out of the ordinary. Defensive, he reminds himself. It's all self-protection and he knows it.

Maybe some day she'll tell him what she's so afraid of. He has his guesses, but he'd never impose his perspective on her. The only way he'd do that is if she wanted him to, and he knows her well enough to know she'll never allow that to happen, so it's a moot point. But what would happen, he wonders, if he literally turned her world inside out? Would he lose her friendship? Gain so much more? There's only one way to find out.

"Do you... want to stay for a little while?" There are no offers to serenade her with a private concert today; that belongs to the other day for now. At least he thinks it should: he's not really sure.

He's so out of practice. They say that once people learn certain things -- riding a bike, for instance -- they never forget how; it can be years and years and the moment you get back on a bicycle it's like you never stopped riding. Relationships have never been easy like that for him. He's not smooth; he gets invested in them too quickly, too easily; he's always been unlucky with them. What are the odds of this time being different?

Probably not very good.

[anythingbutblue]

She stands there for a second, feeling like this is it. This is a fight-or-flight moment for her, and suddenly she feels so laid bare that she can only think of one other time when she felt more vulnerable.

Just one. And look at what came of that.

Other than a quick flicker of helplessness in her eyes, she refuses to show how she feels.

She almost tells him she can't, that she has something to do, and the lie would come so easily.

"I could stay."

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

Studies over the years have shown that human beings remember things best if they're in sequences of three or four or seven: the old earth-style phone numbers, for instance, or famous tag lines like I'll be back or we'll always have Paris or you talkin' to me? or Bond, James Bond. Then there are the more complex sets of words like I love you and I hate you and what are you doing? that can make peoples' hearts race and their throats dry and their eyes widen.

Ever since he got to this place for the last time, he's been looking at himself as different. Honestly, that started before he got here: years before, actually. But he's been assuming dead, or at least altered. And while it's true that he's different -- all the things he's noticed still hold: everything is far more vibrant; his pulse is weak; he doesn't eat very much; he sleeps a lot more than he used to; things taste different; he feels different -- there are some things that haven't changed at all.

Faye's simple little I could stay reminds him of that acutely right now. For the first time in ages he can feel this little flutter of something in his chest. He may have no fear of death, but he's so scared of messing things up with her.

Reaching for her hand, he sits her back down on the chair, so many thoughts wanting out all at once that they're like a blur. One of the least expected things rises to the top of the heap and spills out.

"So you remember we said we'd leave together when we go, right? Even though there are no guarantees what will happen?"

Right now, he craves something besides touch: he craves order. He wants to organize things, put them in line.

Just in case.

[anythingbutblue]

"Yeah."

There's no hint of the uncertainty of just a moment ago in her face now. There's only wariness, but she doesn't take back her hand.

"It's kind of useless to think about right now since I can't see a way out, though."

If they're going to talk about things there are no guarantees about, how about she gets him to promise he won't drop dead the second he leaves.

Who knows what's going to happen if they ever get to leave, together or otherwise, and while she agreed to this arrangement, she doesn't automatically expect the best.

It's just that she's not exactly the delicate type.

And honestly, she's pretty sure he wants to get out of this place and stretch his legs as much as she does.

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

That's true, and right now leaving is pretty much the last thing he wants to do. One thing at a time, and if he were any good at gambling he'd guess that Faye's thinking the same thing. But he's a lousy gambler, and while he's not afraid of taking changes, that doesn't mean he's stupid.

Faye's one of a very small handful of people who knows about him. She knows about what happened; she knows about Vicious; she knows about his body; she knows about his preferences... or at least his alleged preferences. This situation is almost laughable. In fact, were he to look down on it from above, knowing what he knows, he'd probably be rolling on the floor in side-splitting laughter.

He's not above laughing at himself when the situation warrants that, either. But Faye's hand is still in his and she shows no sign of wanting to move it. That's nice. On Callisto, there was something, but he had a lot of other things on his mind. He wonders if she understands now why he said women aren't his style.

But they used to be.

It's hard for him to imagine a woman wanting to sleep with him with his body looking like it does. Then again, who's he to make that kind of judgment call? It's the same in reverse: why would a man want to sleep with another man who wears a B-cup? These are questions he's asked himself countless times over the years and sometimes they make him almost tragically sad. Other times the questions and the potential answers he comes up with amuse him no end.

Laugh or cry? I'm both at once, and I'm neither one. He's said that before, yet neither half of that statement is strictly true. He's not a hermaphrodite; he doesn't have female reproductive organs. He's just a man who likes men and women equally who happens to have a body that's the end result of untested drugs. If that doesn't bother Faye, it surely doesn't bother him.

All this thinking makes him laugh. In fact, he laughs out loud.

He laughs so hard it makes him cry, and he's still laughing as he wipes a tear of mirth out of the corner of his eye.

"Faye, Faye. What are we doing?"

[anythingbutblue]

At first she's surprised by his laughter. Then she's a little bit irritated by it: is he laughing at her? At himself? At the situation?

Because the situation is ridiculous. That she can agree with.

Eventually, in spite of herself, she starts to smile faintly, almost wryly, and when he asks her what they're doing, she gives him a shrug that has a hint of carelessness but is really anything but.

"If you have to ask that, we're probably doing something wrong." She still hasn't shaken the feeling of being completely ready to get up and make an exit if she feels she needs to, but even despite that, she smiles at him. Just barely. "But I'm not much for overanalyzing."

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

He... is. He's been overanalyzing for years and years. In the dark of night, after the set's ended and he's back in his crappy apartment at the Orlando, there's little else to do but overanalyze.

"Good thing opposites attract."

Ever since he met Faye, he's been attracted to her. She asked him why he brought her back to his place in Blue Crow and he never really answered. There's a simple truth, though: he wanted to. He looked, he liked what he saw, and... had he known she knew Vicious, he wouldn't have done anything differently except maybe explain it first so she wouldn't have had to shoot at him. And then he wouldn't have had to cuff her and leave her there while he went to finish things with Vicious.

But that's only speculation. He still always liked her; nothing's changed that. Again, he reaches for her hand but this time, he directs it very lightly to his chest: it's time to take a leap of faith.

"If you can deal with this..." He drags her hand lower, to his waist, and lower still. "...and this together, so can I." Letting go of her hand, he rests his own hands on either side of her face more gently than he's ever touched anyone before.

He feels incredibly naked.

Leaning forward, he presses a tentative kiss to her lips. He's always wanted to do that.

[anythingbutblue]

Her eyes widen, eyebrows knitting together again, and she only watches -- almost looking as if she doesn't comprehend -- as he moves her hand along his body. And when he moves in to kiss her, her expression stays just as perplexed for the space of a heartbeat.

As acutely aware of every little detail as she feels, she also somehow feels... detached. Shocked. As if she's not responsible for herself.

It's not the first time she's felt that way, but Gren probably holds the record for the number of times he's made her feel like this.

She does understand. She understands as well as she possibly can and better than almost anybody. She's seen him naked, and she's heard his story. When he says he can deal with it if she can, she can only think that she's never even thought of it in those terms.

It's not that she's sweet or enlightened or selfless or just generally kind-hearted and thoughtful. She's just as superficial as anyone else, and at times, she enjoys the hell out of it.

She's not attracted to breasts -- she's got her own, thanks -- but she's attracted to Gren. And barring the initial shock and confusion when she saw him in the shower, she can't remember ever not feeling that way when he's been around.

(Despite her best efforts.)

It's a good thing that Gren's body is nothing she considers herself ashamed of, because after that one endless moment of unresponsiveness, her hand -- as if it has a mind of its own -- bunches in the collar of his shirt and uses it to pull him closer.

She's used to barreling into things and worrying -- as little as possible -- about the consequences afterward, but if he's going to kiss her... well, he better kiss her.

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

It's been so long.

In the space of a heartbeat, everything changes: his thoughts are such a blur of but and what? and if and should and maybe and stop and go but he can't even spare a moment to listen to them now. As soon as her hands tighten on his shirt and she pulls him closer, his mind both goes blank and becomes very, very focused: it's been so long.

He's literally starved for this. Male or female: it doesn't matter. All that matters is the soul, the person, and it's him and it's Faye and this kiss, this contact, this touch, this moment.

It's been so long.

Romantically speaking, he's never been particularly aggressive; more often than not, he's followed instead of lead the charge. But when she pulls him toward her, he forgets about all that, about roles, about who's supposed to do what. It doesn't matter. His fingers curl around the back of her neck, thread through her hair, and he meets that insistence of hers with an equal amount of his own.

(It's been so long.)

He can feel his whole body waking up, like it's been dreaming for a year and a half and now there's suddenly sunshine in the room. Dead or not dead: those are just more labels and he'll defy any label anyone puts on him now, ever, any more. Her lips are so soft; she tastes like cookies and cigarettes and music.

She is music.

[anythingbutblue]

Now that's what I'm talking about.

He kisses like it's an indulgence, like it's a vice he's just remembered he has, and she likes it.

She knows he's been lonely. He's been lonely since he got here. Since before he got here if his answer about why he took her back to his apartment on Callisto is any indication.

It's possible he'd kiss like this almost no matter who was sitting here in her position right now, but that possibility doesn't bother her because apparently no one else has gotten this close in all this time and she remembers feeling so sly and intrigued just last time she was in this room, telling him and you like me when asked what she remembered.

The hand clutching his shirt uncurls and flattens and pushes him back a little, maybe a few inches away, a kind of I-can't-believe-I'm-kissing-you-and-I-can't-believe-you're-kissing-me bafflement mixing with just let me take one breath reluctance on her face.

(He wasn't kidding a while back when he called himself the prettiest guy in the bar.)

"If I'd known how you kiss, I wouldn't have waited so long."

It's a bold lie -- one she knows he'll see through -- but it's like honey on her tongue and there's not a drop of purposeful deviousness behind it. There's only the flirting she's still not sure she really should be doing.

But not even knowing better has stopped her from doing things before.

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

There's a moment where he doesn't want to back off, but people need to breathe and this gives him the opportunity to drink in the expression on Faye's face. It's... a little perplexed and a little sweet and a lot smug and really pretty seductive. And her eyes -- they're beautiful, like pools of liquid emerald with onyx cores -- and he always knew she had lovely eyes but right now they look so alive.

And then she flatters him shamelessly, and it makes him smile... but softly.

"Then don't wait so long before the next kiss." He's pretty good at offering suggestions and advice; this is no different. But it's got a slightly different tinge to it: they've crossed a bridge to an intimacy they didn't share before and there's no going back.

He doesn't want to go back. Reaching for her hands, he gives them a little squeeze, lets out a satisfied sound and a sigh, then sits back.

"I'm glad you didn't leave."

If there were stars out there in the sky, he would hold her in his arms and look up at them with her. But as it is, he's fascinated enough to just watch her right here in the comfort and safety of his room through what feel like brand-new eyes.

[anythingbutblue]

Something about his answer makes the whole expanse of skin visible between her shirt and shorts tighten involuntarily, and she gives him a look that's as openly wondering as it is subtly admiring.

"I won't."

That's practically a challenge, and she doesn't think she'll have a big problem with meeting it.

When he sits back, still watching her, she's almost not sure what to do with herself. Her hands are free, her lips are free, her mind has no choice but to race.

The only thing to do when faced with a situation like this is return the favor -- if that's what you want to call it -- and watch as intently as you're being watched.

It's not something she minds doing. He's as pretty as he always is -- something she's never acknowledged out loud -- and his eyes shine, his hair swings into his face, his hands have this grace that if not innate was learned a long time ago.

He might not realize just how close she's been to leaving since she arrived. It's been like walking a tightrope: more than the slightest waver could've sent her off at any time.

"They say there's a first for everything."

Itching for something to do, her hands go for her cigarettes.

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

Again, a tiny laugh escapes: Faye's always been really good at keeping him guessing as to what she'd do or when she'd do it. Even on Callisto, when he wasn't sure what he was doing at first -- maybe she reminded him a little of Julia, being only the second woman he'd seen in Blue Crow his whole three years there, even though she and Julia were really different -- she kept him wondering. How did she know Vicious, what did he mean to her, how were they involved, what was going on, and then there's the one question he's never put to her: why did she try to shoot him?

This hardly seems like the right moment to get into that, though. He can ask her some other time: if there's one thing he knows about Faye, it's that she has her reasons. Sometimes he thinks they're probably a little skewed, but everyone's entitled to that.

If they were back on Callisto now he'd offer her a drink. Maybe she could use one; he's not sure. But they're not on Callisto. They're here, and there are only so many places they can go. He's not even sure he wants to move right now. Leaning back, he gives her a little smile.

"First for everything. I guess you could say that." His heart's racing -- or at least the equivalent of racing: beating harder than it has since he found himself here -- but he doesn't let that show. There's a subtle art to relationships and involvement and he wonders: does this one kiss signal more to follow? How much more? When? Where?

All he's said he wants for the longest time -- revenge against and answers from Vicious aside -- is to be loved. He wants to be loved for who he is inside, not for what he looks like outside. Tonight, Faye's given him the tiniest taste of that and like the addict he is, he wants his next fix and he wants it now.

At least he has the good sense for now not to push her into anything. She'll let him know when she's ready for more. All he has to do is get better at reading the signals.

"Do you want anything?" It's a good, open-ended question; he lets it stand.

[anythingbutblue]

That's a question she could take anywhere, and she'd bet a million woolongs on the fact that it was deliberate on his part.

And she kind of likes that, too.

She smiles, a little amused. "Where do I start?"

There's a lot she wants, and that's far from being all flirtation.

But it takes two seconds to light the cigarette between her lips, and rather than sit back once she's tucked her lighter away, she sits forward.

"I want you to admit that you like me without tacking on anything about how I'm the person you're closest to or saying something very flattering but very neutral about how anybody would have to be blind not to notice my body."

Her voice is silky and her eyes are shrewd, but it all comes out impulsively.

"Don't worry. I'm not expecting any declarations of love. But after hearing for so long that women aren't your style, Mister Saxophone, I wouldn't mind hearing that I'm at least an exception to the rule."

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

His eyes light up at that challenge: it's one he can meet. There's no reason to rush to meet this head-on, like some kind of car crash, though. He'll take his time with it and he does, opting not to lean forward to be just that much closer. Instead, he takes a moment to study her, a grin flirting with the edges of his lips; he pushes back his long hair, looks down at his hands, smooths out a crease on the thigh of his pants, taps a finger to his lips.

Only then does he look back up to meet her eyes through that haze of smoke that clings to her like a protective lover. "I like you, Faye." She's not just an exception to his rule; she's an exception to every rule.

He could tell her he's had dreams about her body or that he's fantasized about her lips, but she doesn't want anything tacked on so he doesn't tack anything on.

"I like you very, very much. How's that?" His finger snakes over to trace her thigh up and down, resting it finally on her knee. "And sometime I'll tell you exactly why I told you women aren't my style that night in Blue Crow. But not right now."

Right now he's impatient for her to finish that cigarette. He's ready for everything coming between them to be out of the way so there are no distractions, no security blankets, no easy outs.

He wants what's next.

[anythingbutblue]

When his fingertip meets her stockinged leg, she can't fight the compulsion to watch it until it comes to a stop at her knee.

This isn't like any flirtation she's ever had. Some of the differences are more obvious than others, but how often has she been on the verge of whatever the hell this is with someone she's known for this long? And who she's been attracted to -- despite everything -- for so damn long? How often does she get something like this that's unrehearsed and unplanned and unprofessional and reciprocated with time for it to actually go somewhere?

Almost never.

It puts her in a strange situation. There's a desire to fall into the coyly seductive role that she's embraced for years, enjoying it at least as much as she's bemoaned it, and there's the desire to act purely on gut instincts.

And if they could, those gut instincts would have her grabbing Gren and running from him at the same time.

"And a couple of other nights here, too?" The night she met him wasn't the only time he made that claim to her, but what she does do is smile and answer his question, pleased and barely trying to hide it. "I think that'll do."

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

With Faye he often feels like they take a step forward together only to find themselves right back where they started, if not having lost ground. But he's tired of that: this door is open and his foot's firmly planted to keep it from closing unexpectedly.

This turn of events is really pleasing. Mind racing, he thinks to all the possibilities that can spring from this, including where they go next and how they go about it. He starts visualizing things and then... these four little words creep into the back of his consciousness and they're so soft he almost doesn't hear them at first, but they get louder and louder until he just can't ignore them any more, and the words go like this: what am I doing?

For so long, he's been... well... celibate and he's been that way by choice because of all the things that happened to him in prison. The last person he had the misfortune to fall for was Vicious, and look how well that one went. Before that, it was this guy on Mars, a fellow musician, and to get away from that relationship, he went all the way to Titan. The one before that was a man, and the one before that, too, and... it's hard to remember the last time he was involved with a woman. It was certainly a long time ago -- years and years, eight or nine or more. What if he can't do this the right way? What if she loses interest? What if he can't...

His hand still rests on her knee; looking down at it, he simply stops. He stops and looks up into Faye's face. There's no desire to interrogate her or extract promises that aren't ready to be made. But even though life isn't fair, he thinks asking his next question certainly is.

"How about you, Faye? Can you do the same thing: admit you like me without going back into that shell you like to carry around with you?" He'd really like to know.

[anythingbutblue]

She doesn't like it much when the tables have been turned, and it's obvious in the set of her jaw, the evasiveness of her eyes, the way her lips purse slightly.

But she didn't invite anything with an open-ended question like he did, and funnily enough, it's the shell part that bothers her the most for the moment.

Getting up, she walks over to the window and opens it about halfway. She's never seen Gren smoke and his room certainly doesn't have the ash trays hers does, so she'll just tap ash outside.

"You make it sound like I can make any guarantees."

She's never been able to make many of those.

The memory of how much she didn't want him to be dead and how desperate she felt to understand what was going on between them when she didn't remember anything is painfully vivid in her mind.

With one hand on the window frame, she languidly holds her cigarette out of the window, giving it a tap against the ledge. "I can admit it."

She just can't look back at him yet, and... maybe that's the answer he's looking for right there.

She should probably steel herself.

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

There's a saying about actions speaking louder than words and he's always believed that's true... some of the time. There are other times when words mean exactly what they're supposed to mean. He's known Faye a long time, like she's quick to point out, but that's not why he likes her. It only enhances what he feels for her since every time he's looked at her or talked to her or spent time with her he's had to acknowledge that little something welling up inside. Women aren't my style is self-defense, pure and simple, just like Faye's suit of armor becomes evident in her words, in the twist of her lips and the evasiveness of her eyes.

Right now he's going to go with her words: he'll take her admission at face value, mostly because he likes to think she's not going to lie to him. She has no reason to lie: this is equally risky for both of them. With that in mind he stands and joins her at the window, rests a hand gently on the back of her neck in that way hesitant not-quite-lovers have.

"Nothing comes with guarantees." He remembers Vicious's words: there is nothing to believe in; there is no need to believe. How wrong he was, and how sad. While he believes his own words -- that there are no guarantees -- he still can't help being hopeful. Through everything, he's remained an optimist. Even when life's kicked him and beat him and left him bloodied and bruised, naked and dying, he's still been optimistic. I want to go to Titan. He's always been attuned to the beauty in life; if he really is dead -- if he really did die before he got here -- then his last words were so beautiful.

Maybe that's what's set the stage for this next part of his... life, his journey, his set of experiences. Maybe that's why for him everything here is almost painfully lovely. The maybes don't matter now, though: gently, he turns Faye away from the window and toward him, and puts both arms around her and holds her.

He just holds her.

[anythingbutblue]

She nearly drops her cigarette in surprise, and when both of his arms go around her, her eyebrows knit together fiercely.

She wants to ask him why he thinks he knows her that well and why he seems to see right through her.

And why she can never quite figure him out.

When her surprise wears off, she reaches back and flings her cigarette out through the window, then cautiously wraps one arm after the other around his neck.

After a moment or two she steps back, as uncertain about what to do with him as ever. Not that she intends to let him know that.

"I should go."

It almost doesn't sound like herself talking.

"But I could come back tomorrow." She smiles slightly. "If that's the kind of thing you might be interested in."

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

"I think you should stay." His arms fall reluctantly, his eyes never leaving her face. "But if you want to go, you should, and if you do, then you should definitely come back tomorrow."

He's torn: they could take this so slowly, or they could move ahead quickly. That, of course, makes the assumption that they both want the same thing and it's probably too early for him to have any expectations at all.

Still, a big part of him really wants Faye to stay right where she is. If she's not ready for that, though...

Yes, no. Push, hold back. Embrace, let go. Both, neither. Gay, straight.

Bi.

Too many labels.

Do you mind if I kiss you goodbye?

He doesn't ask: he just does it. For once, he simply does exactly what he wants without questioning it.

[anythingbutblue]

She doesn't know how he can say such simple, matter-of-fact things and throw her so off balance.

But then he kisses her, no less indulgently than the first time, and she has to remind herself that the plan was to leave and come back later.

And then force herself to step back, a demure little smile on her lips, and open the door to let herself out.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Mister Saxophone." She's still smiling, barely peeking back inside the door. "Try to stay out of trouble in the meantime."

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

"It's what I do best."

That's a bald-faced lie and they both know it, but it makes him smile; he hangs by the door as she makes her way through.

"Take care, Faye." It's his standard goodbye to her and he watches her with the utmost fondness as she makes her way down the hall. This is... by far his best night at this place, and his best night in general in a long, long time. Unexpected, but really nice.

He knows full well as he moves back into the room and closes the door that he's going to have a hard time falling asleep tonight, but that's all right. He actually feels alive: perfectly, unquestioningly alive.

[anythingbutblue]

Her boot heels click against the floor, and she makes it about two-thirds of the way down the hall to her room before she wonders when the hell she started playing it safe.

I think you should stay.

It's been a long time since she was careful and a long time since she was delicate.

Sometimes you just have to take what you want and take care of the fallout -- if there is any -- after.

(Or even better, let someone else take care of it.)

The click of her heels is faster on the way back to Gren's room, and not bothering to knock, she just goes ahead and lets herself back in.

[bothbutneither.livejournal.com]

Now that's unexpected.

This time when the door closes they're both on the same side: he likes it much better that way. Moving toward Faye, heart pounding with anticipation, he takes her hand in his. There's a time for words, but... this isn't it.

No. This is a time to pull out all the clichés: dim the lights, let the breeze flutter the curtains, trace her lips with his fingertip, kiss her eyelids one at a time, let the whole thing feel like a glamorous, languorous slow dance. It's been a long time and he wants to get things right.

And if he runs into something along the way where he's out of practice -- a little rusty -- maybe she'll help him out. After all, this is for both of them. Eyes soft and huge and liquid, he both can and can't believe this is happening.

But he's really glad it is.