Faye Valentine (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
anythingbutblue) wrote2007-10-27 09:42 pm
anythingbutblue) wrote2007-10-27 09:42 pm
(no subject)
Faye hates losing.
She hates it when the stakes are high, she hates it when the stakes are low, and she hates it even when there really aren't much in the way of stakes at all.
Some of the things she misses most about life out there are the toys she had at her disposal to make sure she didn't lose.
But she knew what she was getting into when she made Gren the proposition, and she knew what she was getting into when he -- almost to her surprise -- gave her a catlike smile and agreed to play with her so long as it wasn't for money.
Gren isn't totally without guile. And it's nothing that shocks her. It's not like he's a different person now than the Gren she knew before. She's seen this side of him -- seductive and playful -- in glimpses before now. In the idle flirtation between reminders that women aren't his style, mostly, and in retrospect, she thinks even on his face for a fleeting moment when she burst in on his shower with her gun drawn back on Callisto, right before he backed her up against the wall and disarmed her more easily than anyone ever had before.
Or has since, for that matter.
She still hates losing.
Even when clothes are the stakes and she's already discovered she likes being naked with her opponent. More than likes it -- not that she's close to admitting that to anyone but herself and sometimes not even going that far -- but kind of craves it like a new addiction.
She was a little unhappy with Gren's refusal to consider her boots two separate articles of clothing and she was miffed when he wouldn't count the headband as one at all, but he was right that she already had more to take off than he did.
Leveling the playing field is just something she's never been too concerned about.
This game, so far, has been pretty good to her even though she had no cards hidden on her, no toys to help her. It's mostly been a test of skill. Mostly, and she's still wearing more than Gren is. Even without cheating, she's still good at what she does. Cheating well requires really knowing your way around a game, after all, and she's a pro.
Losing a few unfortunate hands to Gren doesn't kill her, especially not with the way his big blue eyes seem to try to soak up as much of her as they can, and she wonders when his attention became so important to her but is smart enough not to think out loud about things like that because nothing good could come of it.
He doesn't have much left to lose when she wins the shirt off his back, but when he catches her wrist and suggests she takes it off of him herself, she can feel something a little surprised and a little breathless on her face for a moment before it's taken over by a flirty self-satisfied smile.
And she thinks when she crosses toward him and busies her hands with his shirt that she doesn't mind at all that he seems to have lost interest in the game.
Her headband is the last thing to go.
When he'd told her about her about his friend Charlie who'd died, she hadn't known what to make of it and had hated the sad look in his eyes so much she could hardly sit still.
She wasn't very good at being comforting -- that's not her thing -- but Gren hadn't seemed to mind much.
Two nights ago she stopped by the bar for a scotch and was presented with a note from Spike and had felt so frustrated when she read it that she'd downed her scotch, plunked the glass back down on the bar, and stalked back upstairs to her room without so much as a glance at her tab, nearly running over some guy on her way up.
She'd left the note, folded, on her desk and then went to see if Gren was in his room, but she never brought it up to him. And even though she skillfully evaded any questioning about her mood that night, she didn't evade his arms at all.
If it's becoming habit, she thinks she has worse ones.
One of the things she likes about Gren is that he knows just how attractive he is. He's not cocky about it and it's never a big deal, but he's aware and he's confident. And that makes him even more attractive to her.
She's spent more time with him in private than in public, as if he's a secret just for her and what they're doing together is something she wants to keep to herself, but it's not through purposeful effort.
It's just happened that way.
It doesn't mean she's not happy to see him when she's smoking outside and notices him coming out of the bar. She doesn't know whether he'd known she was out here or not, but she finds herself liking the way the sight of him has her forgetting -- just for a second -- to breathe.
And she makes a point of coaxing it out of her system by the time he's gotten close to her.
No matter what happens, she doesn't think she'll ever be able to look at him quite the same way again.
She hates it when the stakes are high, she hates it when the stakes are low, and she hates it even when there really aren't much in the way of stakes at all.
Some of the things she misses most about life out there are the toys she had at her disposal to make sure she didn't lose.
But she knew what she was getting into when she made Gren the proposition, and she knew what she was getting into when he -- almost to her surprise -- gave her a catlike smile and agreed to play with her so long as it wasn't for money.
Gren isn't totally without guile. And it's nothing that shocks her. It's not like he's a different person now than the Gren she knew before. She's seen this side of him -- seductive and playful -- in glimpses before now. In the idle flirtation between reminders that women aren't his style, mostly, and in retrospect, she thinks even on his face for a fleeting moment when she burst in on his shower with her gun drawn back on Callisto, right before he backed her up against the wall and disarmed her more easily than anyone ever had before.
Or has since, for that matter.
She still hates losing.
Even when clothes are the stakes and she's already discovered she likes being naked with her opponent. More than likes it -- not that she's close to admitting that to anyone but herself and sometimes not even going that far -- but kind of craves it like a new addiction.
She was a little unhappy with Gren's refusal to consider her boots two separate articles of clothing and she was miffed when he wouldn't count the headband as one at all, but he was right that she already had more to take off than he did.
Leveling the playing field is just something she's never been too concerned about.
This game, so far, has been pretty good to her even though she had no cards hidden on her, no toys to help her. It's mostly been a test of skill. Mostly, and she's still wearing more than Gren is. Even without cheating, she's still good at what she does. Cheating well requires really knowing your way around a game, after all, and she's a pro.
Losing a few unfortunate hands to Gren doesn't kill her, especially not with the way his big blue eyes seem to try to soak up as much of her as they can, and she wonders when his attention became so important to her but is smart enough not to think out loud about things like that because nothing good could come of it.
He doesn't have much left to lose when she wins the shirt off his back, but when he catches her wrist and suggests she takes it off of him herself, she can feel something a little surprised and a little breathless on her face for a moment before it's taken over by a flirty self-satisfied smile.
And she thinks when she crosses toward him and busies her hands with his shirt that she doesn't mind at all that he seems to have lost interest in the game.
Her headband is the last thing to go.
When he'd told her about her about his friend Charlie who'd died, she hadn't known what to make of it and had hated the sad look in his eyes so much she could hardly sit still.
She wasn't very good at being comforting -- that's not her thing -- but Gren hadn't seemed to mind much.
Two nights ago she stopped by the bar for a scotch and was presented with a note from Spike and had felt so frustrated when she read it that she'd downed her scotch, plunked the glass back down on the bar, and stalked back upstairs to her room without so much as a glance at her tab, nearly running over some guy on her way up.
She'd left the note, folded, on her desk and then went to see if Gren was in his room, but she never brought it up to him. And even though she skillfully evaded any questioning about her mood that night, she didn't evade his arms at all.
If it's becoming habit, she thinks she has worse ones.
One of the things she likes about Gren is that he knows just how attractive he is. He's not cocky about it and it's never a big deal, but he's aware and he's confident. And that makes him even more attractive to her.
She's spent more time with him in private than in public, as if he's a secret just for her and what they're doing together is something she wants to keep to herself, but it's not through purposeful effort.
It's just happened that way.
It doesn't mean she's not happy to see him when she's smoking outside and notices him coming out of the bar. She doesn't know whether he'd known she was out here or not, but she finds herself liking the way the sight of him has her forgetting -- just for a second -- to breathe.
And she makes a point of coaxing it out of her system by the time he's gotten close to her.
No matter what happens, she doesn't think she'll ever be able to look at him quite the same way again.
no subject
Just like the food will be when they get it, and he's looking forward to it. He even likes her impatience in calling over a rat so she can order her beef tenderloin medallions with Béarnaise sauce and an appetizer of assorted patés. It seems like the evening's theme is French; he follows suit and can't think of anything he'd like more than this. The words I'll have what she's having for an entree fall lightly from his tongue, making their way over to the rat for his or her understanding and acknowledgment. And as the rat's about to move away, he asks for one more thing.
"And another bottle of champagne."
Why not? He's going to make sure this evening is as close to perfect as he can. If there's anyone at this place who both demands and deserves perfection, it's Faye, and he's honored to provide it for her.
no subject
"I'm not complaining, but aren't you the man who told me not too long ago that he didn't have much money?"
The smile hasn't left her face.
"Or have you decided there's no point in worrying about that?"
She would have. It's just like when she was awakened from cryo and didn't remember anything and couldn't possibly have been expected to pay so many millions of dollars to cover the bill: nobody here can expect her to pay to live here when she never even asked to.
She's been stuck here for two years.
And despite the lack of big men coming after her and wanting money from her, it's only been recently that she's started enjoying it.
If they're getting another bottle of champagne, she might as well help herself to some of what's left in the first bottle. As she reaches for it, her eyes hardly leave Gren's.
no subject
"I decided no matter what it costs, you're worth it." That might seem a little naïve, but it's the truth: there's nothing she can demand of him -- nothing he can offer -- that doesn't leave him feeling like it's absolutely worth whatever price he has to pay. Even back on Callisto when she overheard Vicious's message and came at him with her gun literally drawn, that was okay. That too was a price he was willing to pay, and it seems to have worked out to both his relief and his advantage even if reaping the rewards took a really long time. If he were a mathematician he might devise a formula having to do with benefits garnered versus time accrued and spent, but he could care less about that kind of thing. Money's always flowed right through his fingers, burned the proverbial hole in his pocket. Why should it be any different now?
Even if Vicious had given him the equivalent of
W225,000,000 in Titan opal, he would have frittered his cut away. Once his bounty expired, he'd have blown it all going back to Titan for purely sentimental reasons. It isn't like there was anything there for him.But there is here, and part of him just couldn't be more delighted. So before Faye can take up the champagne bottle it's in his hands and he's tippling the rest of it into her glass. Even if she drinks the entirety of the next bottle he's ordered too, she'll still beat his pants off at poker.
In fact, he's counting on it.
no subject
...but she doesn't.
If he hadn't just told her, she wouldn't be able to imagine anyone telling her something like that.
Much less someone like Gren, the saxophone-playing ex-soldier bounty head from Callisto who told her on their very first meeting that women weren't his style and later both saved her from from thugs and handcuffed her and left her in his apartment while he went off to...
(die)
meet Vicious.
She knows he was close to Julia, even though she knows they weren't close in the way that she's been with him the past few weeks. She knows there have been times that there was nothing she could've done to be comforting to him even if that was something she was any good at.
She knows there have been times when just his presence has been electric, even before she got temporary amnesia. He has that pull: it's magnetic, and she's lucky she's not such easy prey because she'd be missing on being wined and dined like this.
As she takes her glass in hand, she leans on the table, her chin in her hand.
"Oh, really?"
no subject
"Yes, really." He hasn't stopped looking into her eyes since he sat back down: only long enough to pour her some champagne. He never honestly expected to get such a thrill out of staring into anyone's eyes ever again and while that's as much a cliché as anything, he finds he doesn't mind in the least. "You're one of the smartest women I've ever met. You can more than hold your own in a fight. You're a really good shot. And on top of that, you're beautiful and you share my bed. So yes, Faye, you're so worth it."
She's worth all of it and more. There's something about her countenance that keeps bringing the word empress to mind, and if he knew more of his Earth history he might be able to tell which empress she reminds him of. But for the moment, that feel of authority and royalty suffices, and he feels like the luckiest man ever to kneel at a woman's side.
They're stuck here and he knows it: she can't see the door to leave and he doesn't want to leave, not knowing what will happen if he does. In the meantime, it's his humble and serious intention to make the time they have together the very best days of both their lives. He knows he really doesn't have that kind of power, but even people who are probably dead deserve to dream.
no subject
(She's starting to think he gets a real kick out of coaxing her until, like a suspicious cat, she's willing to go from keeping her distance and watching him carefully to stepping right up with a territorial air and settling in his lap.)
For a second, she just looks at him with both eyebrows raised in mild skepticism, but... that doesn't last.
She feels her expression -- almost completely involuntarily -- soften from skeptical to coy.
"You're a hell of a flatterer, Mister Saxophone." She doesn't even spare a glance for the rat approaching them. "But don't worry. I like it."
He wears it well.
no subject
It's curiously satisfying to him that when he has the internal conversation that asks what he would change, if anything, about the situation, he simply shakes his head and smiles quietly. Yes, he could wish that he didn't... die, or that Faye wasn't stuck here, or that he'd never been given drugs in prison, never tried to get revenge on Vicious. But all that's pointless: the things that happened happened and changing any one of those elements might mean he and Faye wouldn't have this opportunity now. It's just something he's not willing to give up under any circumstance.
Not until the day she tells him it's either time for her to go or time to leave. They have an agreement to go together and right now, she's the only person with whom he'd willingly walk into the unknown.
Right now there's dinner, and he's suddenly hungry, though not necessarily for the fancy French food in front of them. He'll eat it, though, because watching Faye eat it will be a treat all by itself.
Lifting his glass to hers, he offers a toast. "Here's to the loveliest woman in the universe. And just so there's no doubt in your mind, yes, I'm really hitting on you."
His laugh rings out like a melody.
no subject
And she likes that, too. Not only does she like it even more than she's willing to acknowledge, but she likes it more than she would've expected possible two years ago.
Or a year ago.
Or even about a month or so ago, really.
Dinner is all about two things she's very good at: eating her fill while she can and a little good old-fashioned seduction.
But not just on her part, and maybe that's something else that surprises her. Not that someone else would want to seduce her, but that someone who wants to is so good at it.
Intentional or unintentional, almost everything Gren does is watched with an eager, almost idle interest. She likes the way he holds himself, the quiet confidence not even prison or a changed body seems to have been able to take out of him, the little bit of hair that pretty much stays in front of his face, the anything-but-innocent smiles he gives her.
Most of the champagne is gone by the time dinner is done, and normally she would probably sit back, satiated, with a smile on her face and her hand flattened against her bare belly. Tonight, though, she sits forward, her hand tucked under her chin again, her attention all Gren's.
"If I recall correctly, there's a card game in your future."
no subject
There will be some back-and-forth: he'll win a hand or two; she'll win an equal or greater number of hands. And then the stakes will get higher, because there won't be so very many clothes left. After all, he only wears what any man wears while Faye's outfit is full of hidden items. Even though he's undressed her countless times, he's never stopped to actually count the number of items that compose her outfit. She wears more than he does, despite the fact that more of her shows when she's wearing it.
Who could help but notice that?
And then, when he's just about to lose, he'll insist that she be the one to help him out of his last item of clothing and then... then the dance will begin. Slowly at first, because that's how the best dances always start, and then it will pick up speed and intensity until the time for idle conversation is a thing of the past and the only sounds that matter are the small involuntary ones and the beating of their hearts and the percussion of their bodies' rhythms.
That's how he suspects things will go from here.
Reaching across the table, he covers her arm with his hand.
"I can hardly wait."
Later, he'll be hard-pressed to recall getting up out of the booth and moving toward the door. But the one thing he'll never, ever forget is the gleam of anticipation in Faye's huge green eyes and the way it makes him weak in the knees.