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(no subject)

There are days when Gren doesn't seem to want to get out of her bed or her room. Or doesn't want her to get out of his.

She still goes when she wants to and doesn't when she doesn't want to. And she expects the same from him.

Whatever they are at the moment, they don't own each other.

Maybe she feels a little possessive sometimes, but that's completely natural when you start hopping in someone's bed on a regular basis.

Right?

Of course it's right. And sometimes you catch yourself tracing the lines of his body with your eyes or reaching out unexpectedly to touch his hair -- there's so much of it -- or wondering exactly how you went from women aren't my style and which one are you to I think you should stay.

One night he went all out. Rose petals and everything. It was so odd. No one does that.

Or at least they never have for her, and he didn't seem to think it was the least bit strange to be doing any of it.

She can't say she complained at the time. There was plenty of reason to keep her mouth shut -- for the most part -- and enjoy herself.

She probably wouldn't complain if it happened again, either, but she doubts she could pretend none of it raises her eyebrows in a you're really serious about doing this? and for me? and for no good reason? kind of way.

He doesn't actually seem to be trying to distract her from painting her nails at all. In fact, he has sheet music in front of him, and he seems like he's content to be sitting there with it.

But he has a tendency to catch her eyes almost every time she finishes a nail and glances over, and she can't shake the feeling that for all her nonchalance and small talk there's something knowing in his eyes.

Well. She's not that easily figured out.

As she makes the final swipe of bright red over the nail of her little finger, she tilts her hand this way and that to examine it. When she's finally satisfied, she carefully picks up her nail polish bottle and puts the cap back on. Once it's put down, she very purposefully drapes her arms on the back of her seat and, leaning back, tilts her head up so she can look straight at the ceiling.

"You look like a cat in a sunbeam over there."

(no subject)

One thing Faye Valentine knows is that she's a hell of a woman. She's heard it said before, and she doesn't really care what the reasons for it have been. She is exactly who she is, and she has no apologies to make to anyone.

Every action, every word, every decision she's ever made has been for herself alone.

When she dabs on the same cinnamon scent that Gren complimented her on the day before, that's solely for herself, too.

It's not her fault she liked the attention. If it gets him to linger over her wrists or bury his nose in the hair behind her ears or seek out the base of her throat with his mouth, it's well worth it.

She could say Gren's the most indulgent lover she's ever had and it would be true, but it's not like he's got much competition in that department. Her first was as old as she was at the time -- seventeen -- and she remembers it being as much of an educational experience as anything else. They were both young and fumbling and tittered with laughter that became more breathy than nervous, and there wasn't much indulgent about it.

She was a different person then.

Witney kissed her a few times, but they only ever did anything really juicy in the occasional daydream. In her mind, he was attentive and sweet and knew exactly how to make her knees weak without ever needing to be told. He never would've lived up to the fantasy.

She was a different person then, too.

About eight months after she left Mars for the first time, about the time she started dressing like she does now, she let herself have more than just an idle thought or two. It wasn't planned, rehearsed, or expected. She wasn't all that attracted to him: his hair was dull brown and long enough to curl under his ears, his nose was a little longer than she liked, his eyebrows were too thick. He beat her at a card game before she was as difficult to beat as she is now -- he cheated, she's sure -- but before she did her famous disappearing act in the dark early hours of the next morning, she found his wallet and helped herself to what she'd lost at cards and then some.

Plus his cigarettes.

She'd just been frustrated. With everything. People complain about going a year or two without sex or relationships, but she'd slept for over fifty.

She was a different person even then, but she was closer to being who she is now.

Gren is definitely the most indulgent.

He's also the nicest to look at, and the mornings she wakes up beside him, especially the mornings she wakes up before him, her eyes tend to roam over every inch of him visible between the sheet that clings jealously and the dark hair that drapes like a curtain.

Until she feels the weight of his eyes, and then she stops as if she'd never started.

Mornings are when she feels the most like being curious, being honest, asking questions. Sometimes she does and sometimes she doesn't, and she's asked a few brazen questions of him before but never what are we doing? or why do you like me so much? or how did we get here? or anything like that.

Besides, she really knows exactly what they're doing -- she likes it, too -- and she knows part of the reason he likes her and she knows -- intimately -- every step that's led them to playing poker for each other's clothes, sharing glasses of champagne, spending nights in each other's rooms.

Sometimes she thinks what she told him about it being inevitable because they're both pretty isn't at all far from the truth.

And she never thinks she minds.

(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.

(no subject)

When movement on the bed wakes her, Faye rolls over onto her stomach and pillows her head on her folded arms. Her eyes open, and she peers quietly over her arm at Gren as he sits up next to her.

It's not his chest, breasts half hidden by the hair that falls over his shoulders, that her eyes are drawn to first. It's not the less hidden distraction between his thighs, either.

It's his face she has to look at.

Those damn blue eyes are even bluer when his hair falls into his face like that -- which is almost all the time -- and it's that long dark hair that draws her eyes next. It practically cries out to be touched and felt, but before now she's always been able to resist it with no trouble.

Always.

The ends of his hair touch this curve in his lower back that nearly makes her heart speed up all by itself, and why is it that she never notices just how long his arms and legs are when he's wearing clothes?

It's a second or two before she realizes he's started looking back at her, and as though there's been nothing to see all along, she smiles with every ounce of feigned innocence that she can muster and lets her head sink into the pillow of her arms enough that her eyes are just barely visible over them.

Well, he can hardly blame her.

(no subject)

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.

(no subject)

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.

(no subject)

Faye's not sure what it is that keeps her up at night, but her mind starts wandering every time she tries to get to sleep.

She's been here six months now, and it's almost harder to sleep now than it was when she first got here. And back then, she even spent a few nights in one of those uncomfortable booths downstairs.

Someone really should tell the management just how uncomfortable those things are.

When she crawls onto her bed in the dark of night -- sometimes not even bothering to get under the sheets -- she can close her eyes and see all kinds of things she'd rather not.

And sometimes even when she keeps them open.

(A bandaged Spike asking if she'd go to his rescue if his little meeting with that creepy assassin guy was the one he wasn't going to come back from.)

(The stony face and narrowed eyes of Jet as he grips the collar of her shirt and says Spike was nothing but trouble and he doesn't give a damn.)

(That barely noticeable difference in the color of Spike's eyes, his face just a breath away from hers.)

(Spike again, his back to her, walking away despite everything.)

(Spike's lanky figure folded onto a bar stool, his back toward her again, the first time she saw him here.)

(Gren, his dark hair framing his face, his teary eyes so blue she can hardly stand it.)

(Gren's hands holding that old photograph of Vicious that he found in his saxophone case.)

(The door disappearing as suddenly as it had appeared right after Spike walked through it with Beth.)

(Gren and Spike sitting at the bar on either side of an obviously pregnant Beth.)

She rolls onto her side, dark hair falling into her face and veiling her still-open eyes.

Faye doesn't know what it is that's keeping her up at night. All she knows is it has nothing to do with any of the men in her life.

(no subject)

It's cold outside.

Really cold.

But Faye's never let the cold stop her before. She gets a coat (her coat, which she asked the bar for) out of her closet and pulls it on, then her gloves, and doesn't bother to bundle up more warmly than that.

She steps out into the hallway, closing the door behind her. The door automatically locks as it closes, and she does a double take when she spots a familiar figure out of the corner of her eye. She stops in surprise and stands with her back against the door, almost like she's been somehow caught in the act.

"It's you." She reaches in her pocket for her gloves. "What are you doing around here?"

(no subject)

Faye can't put her finger on exactly how many days it's been since she found this place.

Or exactly how many nights she's stubbornly slept in a booth.

Or exactly how many times she's glanced toward where she thinks the door should be.

It was the idea of a nice hot shower that finally made her cave in and get a key to a room, and that was one of the longest showers she's ever taken.

(And she likes her showers long.)

The water never got cold. Not like on the Bebop.

She may have come in just for the shower, but what she stayed in the room for was the bed. Telling herself she'd just try it out, she ended up sleeping for hours and hours.

Most of her "vacations" aren't this comfortable.

(no subject)

She can't stay out here crying in the corridor, and she doesn't know whether Jet's staying in the main cabin for his own macho male pride or for her sake.

But she hopes it's for his.

Soon enough she's moving, walking. She doesn't want to face Jet. And she definitely doesn't want to face Spike if he changes his mind and flies back and comes sauntering in.

(He won't.)

Wiping one eye with the heel of her palm, she turns dazedly into the bathroom. Once inside, she shuts the door behind her and finally puts the gun down and splashes water over her face in an effort to wash away tears and the last few minutes and the conversation she just had with Spike and the horrible feeling in her stomach.

Her face in her hands, she tries to think.

She and Jet aren't unaccustomed to this kind of thing. Spike goes off alone against bad odds all the time.

The lunkhead.

The time he flew to Space Land she managed to wait until after she'd filed her nails before she flew after him, despite that introspective fatalistic crap he'd pulled with her.

(And he should've been that fatalistic about it after he had to be bandaged up like a mummy the first time he ran into that guy).

She hates that he told her about his eye.

He's going off to die.

He never said anything to her about his past before.

He's gotten himself into bad situations before. He's like those old kids' toys that wobble when you hit them and always pop back up to annoy you.

The truth is she's had a bad feeling about all this since the minute Julia mentioned Spike's name to her.

And now Julia's dead. She'd been in the corridor while Jet and Spike were talking long enough to hear that.

He still left.

He's throwing his life away.

They can't just sit here this time. They can't let him do something this stupid.

The Red Tail isn't in any condition to fly, but what about Jet's ship? She could take it out even if he won't.

Abruptly, she turns off the water in the sink, hurriedly dries her face with a towel, and grabs her gun again.

If Jet doesn't want to let her take his ship, she'll just have to borrow his key.