tampered | Log; Complete

Log; Complete

When; Sunday night (5/4) | 9PM
Rating; PG-13; because everyone knows how Faye's mouth works.
Characters; Gren (

notapreacher) & Faye (

glock30)
Summary; There's a difference between a few nights ago and a few months ago, but who's counting? A log in which Faye is not a lady and Gren is ambiguous as usual.
Log;

She's sitting on one of the low couches in the lobby, staring out at the street lights through the glass doors. Although not everyone in the building smokes, someone or something has thought to provide either side of her little perch with end tables and ash trays, and Faye has pulled one of them over to rest beside her on the cushion, while she smokes through her second cigarette in as many minutes.

It's not that she's early - because she isn't - and it's not that she's prompt - because she rarely ever is - and it's most certainly not because she's always a bundle of odd curiosity when Gren shows up - even though she is. Faye knows that he'll ask pointless questions and play the preacher routine and she'll get annoyed and he'll buy her a drink and that will be that will be that. Even after all this time, it's still weird, and her brain agrees with her as she sharpens her orange cherry on the lip of the ashtray.

There's a lot on her mind, but for once she isn't actively participating in it, crossing one leg over the other, tapping a boot - not white, these are black - against the leg of the sofa. A clock on the wall ticks but not as loudly as the one she's more familiar with, and Faye glances up out of habit, hoping that she'll get the chance to say to him, "You're late."

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He's never been one to be fashionably late, but neither is he the world's most punctual human being. Here, though -- being new but not -- he's on time. The lobby of this building is one place he knows how to get to, although he's been laying low, trying to figure out how things work here. Trying to figure out what here is, and that's still a big question mark in his mind. The one thing he does know about it is that this is, oddly enough, the first time he's felt safe in months. He never should have done that red-eye thing and in retrospect he knows that.

Too late now for regrets, though, and he takes in a guarded breath: that rib seems to be healing way too quickly and thankfully hasn't poked out at him again since the first time. He's had a lot of time for thinking, but his thoughts haven't been making a whole lot of sense.

He kind of is dead, after all.

Maybe.

Sort of.

In a way?

Faye isn't. She's as pretty and as impatient as ever, dressed nothing like she was the last time he saw her (whenever that really was). The only image he has of her is in that tiny little outfit, but she's just as gorgeous in jeans and a dark sweater as she is in yellow polyester and stockings. Either way, he isn't going to try to get her out of her clothes: it's not that kind of a date, and he's not that kind of a man.

It's all casual and comfortable; he leans against the wall like they just saw each other yesterday. In his mind, that's pretty much the truth. "Hi, Faye."

There is something he wants from her, but that will have to happen in due time.

Part of the reason she keeps her eyes on the street and the door is because she's expecting Vicious to stride through it at any moment, sword, gun, grenade, demonic soul, whichever, in hand. Faye knows now that there's something under the surface here - his reaction at the opera house had proved that much - and she doesn't want to end up on the wrong side of his irritable anger again, as interesting as it is.

Faye supposes that's most of the reason that she doesn't automatically hear Gren when he does show up. After all, her reflexes and instincts have gotten better. Her reaction time is a smaller window. That's what living in a place like the City for two years does to a girl in this day and age, but she's hardly complaining. Unfortunately, it hasn't done much for neither her stubbornness nor her patience. Nor her curiosity, for that matter.

But now is hardly the time for deep thinking. Faye is only philosophical when it counts, anyway. Instead, she rolls her head in his direction and quirks an eyebrow. Her cigarette goes the way of the other, ground down into the filter and ashes as she stubs it out. Not immediately getting up, she crosses her arms - one eye is still on the door - and says, "Look what the cat dragged in."

It's good to see him, again, a third time, and she's always been incapable of denying that, but it's a different sort of good. Seeing Spike again, somewhere deep in her mind, is 'good.' So is seeing Jet. So was seeing Julia. So was seeing those whose faces she remembered but would most likely never see again, when the City had allowed it. Seeing Kitty's face again would be 'good.' But it's different for everyone, and Gren's always been different to begin with.

She taps out another cigarette and lights it. "You know, it's rude to keep a girl waiting."

"I know exactly how that feels."

It's impossible to tell when he's dressed like this that he has any right to the statement he's just made. Also, he's only ever once claimed to be a woman and that was only for the protective purpose of deceiving Vicious on the rooftop. Otherwise, his body is his own business and his own business alone.

And Faye doesn't know any of this unless he's told her before. And that's something he can't remember because as far as he knows he's never been here before, even though everyone tells him he has been.

Twice.

It will all work out. If he was anything like a man of faith any more he'd pray for answers, but he gave up praying a long, long time ago. Now he's just another hard-luck story. Or just another musician. Or just another man destroyed by prison. Just another bounty... with a twist.

"You look nice. Better than I ever looked as a girl." He follows her gaze to the door. "Are you expecting someone else?"

He definitely didn't come prepared for company, and the vaguest realization that this could be some kind of setup passes through his mind: he doesn't even have his gun with him. And he should have brought it just to protect himself from Faye.

Faye has her gun, of course, holstered across her back, around her waist. He might see it through the fabric of her sweater, as she stands, still smoking, but it's not as if she's hiding it. Most people around here carry a weapon of some kind, and if you don't then you're either dead, dying, or dumb. Faye is none of these things, and she doesn't plan on becoming any of them at any point in time.

He's far enough across the room that she actually has to take a few steps in his direction to bring them without conversational distance, so that her voice isn't raised higher than she needs it to be. It's not that she didn't hear what he said, since she obviously has, just that she doesn't feel like communicating like uncivilized people if she can help it. She's a lady. Delicate, refined, all that bullshit.

"No," says Faye, crossing her arms, the cigarette burning. She flicks ashes off onto the floor with her thumb. Oops. "Are you?" Her tone is baiting, and he'll probably find it familiar, but she always lapses back into what she knows when she's dealing with people from home. "And I never saw you in drag, so I wouldn't know."

Maybe it's a little harsh, but Faye's a little harsh. That's what they all tend to like best about her, somehow.

Yesterday she told him to learn to take a joke, and when he's not caught completely off guard he can give as good as he gets. "I never saw you in drag either, so we're even. No, I'm not waiting for anyone else. I hardly know anyone else. And most of the people I do know aren't people I want to see."

Julia hasn't kept him in the dark about who's out there. Now he can put names to faces where he couldn't a few days ago and that's always a good thing. He's so sorry he shot the wrong man.

So sorry.

"You ready?" The question is totally unnecessary since she's already standing. "I don't know the city at all, but I do know my money's no good here." Julia let him in on that little fact as well, and he's not in the mood to go selling his remaining red-eye to the first buyer just to cover the cost of a date. "So I was hoping we could just walk around together."

She might say no. She might say no and head back upstairs. She might say no, tell him she never wants to talk to him again, and stalk out: he has no idea.

"Finish the conversation we never had a chance to finish in my apartment. Unless you already did that with one of my other selves who was here before. I know you don't owe me anything at all, but it would be really nice if we could just walk and talk. And then when I do have money, I'll make it up to you."

Faye doesn't appreciate debt. It's built in to her conscience as much as anything else. Though she'll collect favors and tell friends that they owe her drinks, in reality it sometimes make her skin prick. There's nothing more binding or annoying than being in debt, even if it is just debt for a drink.

She only shrugs and smirks. "You've been here five minutes and you already owe me," she says, thinking that she can roll with the punches as well as her brain can crank them up. "That's a great foot to start off on."

Putting the cigarette out - only half-finished - in the tray, she pulls herself to her full height, which isn't very much but she knows how to tilt her chin and make herself look more imposing than she actually is. Not that she isn't imposing, when she wants to be. Right. Heels help. And she has a lot of those. Faye looks out at the door again and then turns back to face Gren, eyes level. She starts to say something, something scathing maybe, and then stops: there's nothing there.

She possesses the ability to be a Grade A bitch to him, but there's always a part of her that just doesn't feel like doing it, so she doesn't. Instead, she heads for the doors, which aren't automatic but actually have to be leaned on to open. "Pretty cheap date so far," she calls, already making her way outside.

Following her outside -- she moves like she's in a hurry and annoyed already -- he catches her arm. "Faye. I owed you before I even got here."

That's the simple truth the way he sees it: he left her in a bad bind and he's not happy he did it. Handcuffed, on his bed... apparently someone found her, or she found someone. He didn't disconnect the phone; he didn't take her stuff; he didn't even lock his front door.

He didn't want her to get hurt. All he wanted was not to get shot at any more. It's all so fresh and clear; he's been reliving the past few days over and over and over since they happened, and a little -- no, a big -- part of him wants to say fuck you to death for being so uncooperative. If it was all over then there would be the equivalent of radio silence. No static in his brain, no endless review of the last hours of his life.

"I'm sorry I left you the way I did. I know it's old news for you and I might even have apologized for it before, I don't know. But I had to say it now."

Faye raises an eyebrow when he catches her by the elbow and turns to look at him over her shoulder. The angle's awkward, but she manages - she's resilient like that - and she narrows her eyes in a way that isn't one hundred percent unpleasant but sure as hell probably isn't the same brand of Faye that he might remember.

Two years is a long time.

Apologies have always caught her off guard, however, and she has to stop herself from making a face that isn't completely indifferent or twisted with a I-knew-you-were-going-to-say-that expression. Still, she wrenches her arm out of his grip, because she's capable of standing on her own and she doesn't need him grabbing her to catch her attention. She'll give her attention when and if it's deserved, when and if she feels like it.

"That'd go down a hell of a lot better with a vodka and cranberry, you know." Faye brushes her hair back from the nape of her neck, an old habit, and has the air of a woman who's moved on from past misdeeds or has never really cared about them to begin with. For her sake, it's a good thing she's a great liar. But other than that comment, she has no idea what else to say. It's a problem she's run into with him sometimes, and the worst part about it is that it's never uncomfortable silence.

Why is all her luck so completely rotten?

"I'll add that to the list of things I owe you."

There's no easy comfort to be had here, that's certain. All he can do is fall into step beside her, match her strides by shortening his own, and wait.

A heartbeat, which he supposes he still has. Two heartbeats. Three, and then the silence gets to be too loud and he wishes he had his sax with him to fill the void but he doesn't. Words will have to do.

"What was I like? When I was here before?"

It's as good a place to start as any.

Faye snorts, but it's in good humor. She rolls her eyes, too, but she's smiling - smiling as well as she can, all things considered. Her hands are in her pockets and her boot heels are loud against the pavement as she says, "Just as annoying as ever." Coming from her it's a compliment, and she's sure that he understands her enough to catch that.

But then there's the resentment. He'd left, twice, just like so many other people. It was one of those nails that had driven her this far. Emotional attachment was stupid. Comrades, friends, lovers: as much as she wanted to get rid of them, she was just as attracted to them as he was. Maybe not so much the word as the sentiment, but that attraction had only ever fucked with her head. Spike, here for the second time. Frederick, back and forth, she counted it as three times now. Kitty, gone for the second and likely dead or dying elsewhere. Jet, how many times now? There were others, she was sure. Even Vicious was on his second run. Faye seemed to be the only one who was constant.

How exciting.

"We were friends, I guess," she says, remembering that he'd asked that the night before. "You cooked me food. That's enough for a lifetime of loyalty in my book." She twists her mouth to suggest that she isn't serious. Or is she? No, she's not.

But maybe...

"If I cooked you food, does that mean I had my own apartment?"

That's something.

"And a job?"

What he really needs are for the puzzle pieces to click tidily into place. He's not as good an actor as he is a musician, but he's a consummate performer. Maybe he can step back into the role that...

...no.

No. He has to start from the beginning, do it all over again. He's tired of living a lie; he doesn't want to have to do it again. Even if living is the wrong term for what he's doing now.

But when he turns back to face Faye, his expression goes from surprised to a little bit sly. "How was my cooking?"

His own apartment? He'd mooched off her for a while, but it wasn't as if she'd minded completely. But that was Back Then, back when her apartment had been hers and filled with far too many people in too small of a spot - Edward, Ein, Daisy, herself, Cassidy at times, sometimes Kitty. Now it's empty. Maybe she should consider getting a hamster.

"No, it means my stove actually got turned on once and a while," she says, digging her cigarettes out of her pocket again with limited finesse. She taps one out and sticks it between her lips before holding the red carton out to him. There's a red lighter in her pocket that she'll offer, too, after she's done with it herself. "You played at Lux once - it's a jazz place - but I don't know if you could consider it a job. If you're interested in playing there again, I can talk to this kid I know. He's pretty good on the trumpet. Plays there are lot."

She lights up with her Zippo and looks around. They're making their way toward the Square, at a leisurely pace. No rush. No fuss. Even if she keeps her eyes open, aware. Gren's comment - question, really - causes her to look over and up at him, though, and she narrows her eyes, challenged. "Well, it didn't kill me," she replies, and that's compliment enough coming from her. "Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying you should quit your day job, but if I'm still alive then it couldn't be all bad, could it?"

Now that makes him smile. He's cooked for himself for years and hasn't killed anyone yet with it, not that there have been very many guests to cook for. A fellow musician every once in a blue moon and considering Callisto is the moon he ought to use a different phrase. Julia, a few times, back when she was there. Otherwise, it's been pretty lonely at the Orlando.

And he won't ever see it again.

He waves off her cigarette offer, though. "I haven't smoked since prison." That lovely and luxurious two-month trip away from Pluto on the escape ship put a swift end to that habit and he's glad, although now that he's dead he could probably start again without consequence.

It's just he's not really convinced he's dead. He's having a really hard time wrapping his thoughts around that one. When he was little he learned that death meant either ascension of getting thrown straight to Hell, which is where he probably ought to be and maybe that's exactly what this place is... but he doesn't buy the party line about that stuff any more.

But the business about the jazz club catches his interest: this isn't the first time he's heard about it. "I'm supposed to stop into Lux and talk to... Ishiah? And someone named Greed is putting together a house band for a new club, but I'm not sure he's looking for a jazz musician. I mean, I can play anything, but you know where my heart lies."

Or maybe she doesn't. He doesn't know her nearly as well as she knows him, and that's more than a little unnerving.

Faye balks at him turning down a cigarette. Not because it surprises her, but only because they come from a world where everyone smokes, and even most of the people that she knows here smoke. It just seems natural by now but hey, if that's his cup of coffee, she won't fault him for it. More for her. "Suit yourself," she says, still stuck on the word 'prison.' She wants to ask more but doesn't. What she knows is enough. It's not like Gren knows about her past.

They turn a corner, and the bright lights of the City Overground, the Square, are a pleasant and familiar sight. Faye adjusts her sweater, feels her gun catch a little on the fabric, and then says to him, the conversation flowing far too freely to be at all right, "Ishiah?" She shakes her head. "Don't know him, but if he runs Lux and Blue works for him, then he can't be all bad." If she's being honest, she knows a lot of people in the City, and when people slip under her radar it's a strange sensation, especially when those people are interested in Gren, in whatever way.

She's a little protective of those she knows from her own world, so fucking sue her.

Fayee doesn't go to Lux often, but she thinks that if Gren played there she might. And she knows it would be better for him than working for Greed. Considering Greed's attitude toward most things and a few things he'd said to her before about Gren, Lux would be a better alternative. Vicious might look there, but it's not like Gren can stay under his radar forever. If he's even still under it. Faye sincerely doubts it.

Pulling at a frayed thread on the cuff of her top, Faye goes on, around the filter of her cigarette. "If you can find something to do here that you enjoy, things aren't so bad. It makes the time past faster, at least, and being around people gets rid of the ticking."

There's a small cafe just a few feet away, and she's craving an Irish coffee and maybe something to eat. Maybe, if he behaves, she'll get him something, too. She just wants to sit down. All this walking around is making it more difficult for her to concentrate. Or maybe it's just the situation making it difficult in itself.

"I didn't know what it was at first. The ticking. I thought... well, I thought I was just going crazy all over again."

That's not quite how his descent into it happened on Pluto, but it's close enough. He told her a little about it -- what happened in military prison -- but not everything. It still gives him nightmares: that and Titan. Perfect recipe for post-traumatic stress disorder. He's never told anyone the whole story and he doubts he ever will.

Or maybe he has. Maybe whatever version of him was here before told everyone everything: he doesn't know and he has to stop thinking about that or it'll really and truly drive him crazy. But he does take note of Faye's implicit approval of Lux and silence on the subject of Greed. Still, he'll make his own determination about the best place to play... and he will play. He's been playing saxophone since he was eight years old and he's not going to let a little thing like death get in his way.

They near a cafe; her eyes move to it. This isn't the first time he's wished he had more to offer Faye and it's not the first time he's been stuck realizing he doesn't. Maybe one day that will change.

If he'd only ask, Faye could at least reassure him that she doesn't know anything more than what he's told her. But he's not asking, and so Faye isn't bringing it up. She does give him a Look when he mentions going crazy again - and it's one of her specialties, since it's not one she regularly employs. "When I got here at first," she says, and she hasn't told anyone this, "I was convinced I'd gone completely mental. I spent a week and a half holed up in my old apartment, trying to figure out how the hell I'd managed to get this lost."

She doesn't speak about Spike or what had happened some months before she'd shown up in the City, mainly because it would explain her paranoia at being lost in a strange, new place as just that: paranoia. And fear. And Faye Valentine is not afraid.

The cafe's outdoors, so they can sit wherever they want so long as the table's not occupied. Even though he's been here before and they've had conversations over food, sitting in chairs, behaving like normal people not about to shoot the other, sitting down across from him at a cafe is still surreal. Sometimes the City catches up with her that way.

She puts her cigarette out on the ground, under her boot heel, and continues from before. "You get used to it. This place, not the ticking. The ticking's always annoying, but... it's not completely terrible here." The look she gives him is one that suggests it's not so completely terrible now, now that she has someone she can trust, for the most part. As long as he doesn't walk away again, he'll stay on her list of People Who Aren't Completely Worthless.

"I need to get an apartment." His tone is low and confidential as he pulls a chair out for her, then moves to sit on the other side of the table. "I can't stay where I am forever." That's his own limit he's putting on things, not Julia's, but he would never take advantage of her for too long.

Just until he gets on his feet again, gets over the shock of things.

"But I already know it's not completely terrible here. They have fairies."

If he has to live on the streets he will: he's already dead, so Vicious can't kill him again. He can probably make his life pretty miserable, but that's pretty much the status quo and he doesn't expect less. Inevitably, they'll run into each other here, even though he knows Julia's being very protective of him.

So is Faye, or at least he thinks she is. She's a hard one to read.

Faye sits down automatically and doesn't immediately acknowledge what he's done. She's been treated nicely before and with Gren it's so automatic that it's almost reflexive. When the waitress comes by, she orders a sandwich and her Irish coffee - because she's hungry as hell despite it being past nine. She looks at him expectantly, waiting for him to get something, too.

"There's plenty of apartments," she says, a beat later. "Each building, somehow, has an infinite number. It's not like you'll have a problem finding one or anything and -"

Fairies again. At this point, she's going to start cursing her mother for ever naming her Faye. But she can roll with that punch. "Fairies aren't the only thing they've got around here."

"I've heard that, too." He waves off the waitress -- he doesn't have any money and he has no expectation that Faye should even think about buying him anything, considering the way he left her the last time he saw her -- and leans back carefully in his chair. His hair, loose and long, gets caught up by a little breeze and he pushes it back and away.

He's very good at sitting just the right way; it keeps his body hidden enough so he doesn't raise any eyebrows from passers-by for anything other than his charming good looks. Sometimes he knows his looks attract more attention than they should but he's a performer; he gets used to it and knows how to deal with it.

"So how are the landlords?" If there are infinite apartments in each building (and that makes no sense at all), whoever runs them probably rakes in a small fortune in rent. He was lucky in Blue Crow; he could afford his place on a musician's wages. Here, he's not so sure.

It's all new and he feels like a wide-eyed kid thrown in with the wolves and vultures (and fairies). Figuratively speaking, of course.

Faye taps her foot against one of the table's legs as she shrugs, when he orders nothing. She's not prone to fidgeting but, sometimes, when her mind is going a million miles a minute, she falls back on these bad habits because they're involuntary.

"You mean the deities?" she asks, with a bitter humor. Faye doesn't know who the hell she pays, really. She just leaves her check in the lobby, the designated location, and that's that. Around here, you can't afford to think too much or you might actually start losing your mind. "They curse us on a regular basis, what do you think?"

Her coffee - well, it's not really coffee - and sandwich arrive and she wastes no time digging in. She's always had a healthy appetite.

"Deities?"

He hopes she's joking about landlords thinking they're gods: he's met a lot of slumlords, but not a single one of them ever thought that highly of themselves.

It's probably stupidly inconvenient of him not to know all the details, but he and Julia only had time for so much, and it isn't like you can fit all the details of a place into a couple of sittings anyway.

"What kinds of curses? Julia only told me about one. Something to do with the Titanic."

He's not sure whether he ought to be laughing or crying, so he does neither. It's enough to just hold it together for the duration while Faye really enjoys her food. In a way it's too bad he couldn't have cooked for her tonight.

Maybe they'll have the chance some other time. As far as he's concerned, this is only the second time they've even met. That might be a curse all by itself.

She nods and starts to speak around a bite of turkey and bacon but then actually stops herself and swallows before she talks. "Yeah, deities." Faye gives him a look like she thinks he might be out of his mind. The deities are common knowledge around here, mostly because of how profoundly annoying they are. Before she speaks again, she takes a drink. "There are six deities who run this place. They're a pain in the ass but they don't meddle all that much. Unless you want them to."

One of them could make a deal, get his life back, get anyone's life back, if the price is right. Faye doesn't mention that, though. There's nothing in her that even wants to bring it up right now.

At the mention of curses - and especially that one - Faye blanches a bit. For a moment, she doesn't think she's going to be able to continue eating, but then she realizes that she's eating food and she loves food. She takes another bite. "Most of the curses are just generally annoying. Sometimes you get turned into animals or you can only speak in song lyrics." And no one wants to hear Faye have to sing all day.

For a moment, she looks at her sandwich, thinking. "Some of them are even stupider, though." Faye doesn't know how to explain things like that, like the Ghost Curse or the time all the metaphorical blood on her hands had been real. It's almost impossible to put it into words, and she hopes that he'll understand.

Leaning forward, he gives her a little smile. "I don't know if they could be stupider. You've never heard me try to sing."

Or maybe she has -- he doesn't know -- but he's going with the only things he does know. He's really not happy about being at such a disadvantage here: what kinds of things did he tell her before? What does she know? What experiences did they share?

"Were you and I ever cursed together? Before, I mean. The other me?"

The only way to find out is to ask the questions, as stupid -- to use Faye's term -- as they might be. He doesn't mind looking like an idiot if he gets the answers he wants, and he reminds himself that one of the reasons he asked Faye out was to get information. He didn't spend the whole war on Titan being bossed around; the powers that be clearly thought he was autonomous enough to have actually been the spy they were looking for. Maybe he knows a few things about gathering information. It's not his specialty and never was, but he'll take whatever tidbits he can get.

For now. Once he's established, the balance might shift a little bit.

(The other reason he asked her out is because... he likes her.)

She's hardly intimidated, and maybe she isn't supposed to be but Faye takes everything as a challenge. She always has and she always would. "Stick around for a while and I might not have a choice," says Faye, tipping her chin down before she takes another drink.

His next question catches her off-guard even though she knows he can't mean it in the way she's interpreted it. Faye puts her glass down situates herself, crossing one long leg over the other again, so a new boot can tap against the leg. "Not that I remember," she says, glancing at him sidelong before she turns to look out at the street.

"I could never tell if you were cursed or not," she admits, which is the truth, in a way, because she can never tell much about Gren: cursed, joking, serious. She doesn't know him well enough to be able to read these things about him, especially over a network like the City's. There's things about him that she does know, more than most people, but that hardly makes up for everything else. "You never stopped being a pain in the ass mystery. Tall, dark, and handsome got old years ago, you know."

Her tone is still playful, but she's half-serious. Sort of.

"I can't help what I am."

The smile on his face is such a convenient mask: if he's a mystery to her, well... he should be. He doesn't give much away and just because Faye got into a confessional mood with him and it was contagious, that doesn't mean it's going to be like that every time they talk.

They say being mysterious is a woman's prerogative, so he figures he's earned the right to be as mysterious as he wants half the time. The other time he can be a regulation open-book stupid lumbering man with all the usual functioning parts.

All he really wants, though, is the right to keep his secrets to himself. It really shouldn't be that much to ask for.

"How's your dinner?"

Faye snorts, rolling her eyes and leaning back in her seat. She's nearly done with her sandwich and her fingers are itching for another cigarette. So maybe she has a problem with nicotine, it's hard to say. "What, annoying?" she asks in response to his statement, looking at him through narrowed eyes. "Most people can't. Don't beat yourself up too much."

It still disturbs her that she feels so at ease with him. It's different than any of her other comrades or any of the other people she's ever felt close to. She knows she could sit down and explain to Gren the entirety of her history and it wouldn't feel like any big thing. That doesn't mean she will, ever, but the fact remains.

There isn't much left on the plate - some of the bread's crust and the main components of the meat and cheese and lettuce and tomato - so she just slides the plate across the table and says, "See for yourself." Maybe it's a dare. Maybe the sandwich tastes like shit and she was only eating it because she was hungry. Maybe she's being generous. She has to get karma points somehow.

Usually he doesn't dine on other peoples' leftovers but he's never been dead before. Maybe this is how dead people get treated. But he takes the remnant of sandwich into his hands, eats it -- it's not bad, it's not great -- and shrugs.

"I don't think I'm all that annoying. That other me must have rubbed you the wrong way."

Maybe this date was a mistake. Maybe he ought to stop calling it a date and just go back to gathering information.

Maybe he ought to go back to Julia's.

Or maybe he ought to go find Vicious.

"I think I'll get a job."

That's a better option. Then he'll have enough money to buy her that vodka and cranberry he owes her.

Well if he's going to pony up those sorts of reactions then she's just not going to show any generosity at all in the future. (This is bullshit. And she knows it. But that doesn't mean she has to admit it either aloud or to herself.) Faye reaches across the table to drag the plate back her way, but she doesn't finish what he left of the sandwich. She just tucks into her drink.

Faye wants to make a comment about how no one rubbed anyone in anyway, but that might be in bad taste and she doesn't know if she'll be able to keep a straight face while saying it. So she lets it lie and says instead, "Wouldn't you like to know?"

For a moment she looks beyond his shoulder, scanning the crowd. Maybe she can read his mind, who knows? But she keeps her lookout for someone as brief as possible before looking back Gren's way again. And then she does laugh. He says it so simply. "What, do you want a cookie for that decision?" Faye leans forward again, over the table, braced against her folded arms.

"No."

She already accused him once of always leaving. Maybe that's something his other self or selves here did too, but he thinks it probably is time to go now. "I'm sorry if my dying is an inconvenience for you, Faye. If you have any expectations of me, maybe you'd better tell me what they are because I don't know what you want and right now I'm too tired to guess."

The night should have gone differently, but so should the end of his life.

He's dead.

Dead.

That reality is just beginning to sink in, and it almost demands a little bit of personal space.

She starts a little and raises an eyebrow as she leans back in her chair. Because something that he said does catch with her, the bit about dying. Everyone she's ever cared about has been dead or dying. It's a serious drawback, but Faye can hardly help it: she has a thing for dead guys. When she puts it that way, however, it doesn't sound nearly as funny as it does outside of her head.

Did he actually think that she was being serious?

Faye frowns and then she pulls herself together with a scowl. She doesn't ever expect anything from anyone - except for when she does - because she's always, always disappointed. Always. "I don't," she says, simply, matter of fact, finishing her coffee. She doesn't want to act this way around Gren, but it's a defense mechanism, and she'll employ it even if it fails her.

She pushes her chair back but doesn't stand yet, under the guise of fishing out her cigarettes.

"If you don't have any expectations, Faye, stop acting like you do."

She may not stand but he does and it's not to reach over and light her cigarette. This is like Callisto all over again. The only difference here is that she's shooting at him with words instead of bullets.

It doesn't feel any better, but he ought to know better than to expect that things can ever change.

"But look on the bright side. I'm not handcuffing you to my bed this time before I go." As he turns to leave, he lets out a heavy, dead sigh.

Welcome to the City.

She gets up as soon as he does, dropping a few of the colorful coins on the table as an afterthought. This isn't how she wanted things to progress or end, but Faye isn't really in the market for knowing how men will react to her comments these days. Feeling tired, she doesn't even light her cigarette, just shoves it back into the box with little finesse and then worms her way out between the chair and the table, bumping the latter with her hip as she passes it. Faye's already on her way out without a goodbye - it's a habit she'd gotten into on the ship, but one she hasn't really had to employ around the City - her boots clicking again, when she realizes that they're going back to the same building.

She's not going to walk five steps ahead of him and have to know that he's there, and she's not going to go stay with someone else in an effort to look less like an idiot. Because she's not an idiot, and she's too proud for this shit.

And then she remembers Vicious, and she practically kicking herself in the face for all the trouble she's putting herself through for this guy. Fucking Gren and his fucking attitude and her fucking inability to move beyond her shit.

Faye 'tsks' to herself and then turns, leaning all her weight to one side, jutting her hip, crossing her arms. What's she supposed to say? Well, jokes always went over well. "Don't worry, I've got cuffs in my kitchen drawer."

It's her way of saying 'you're walking back with me, no questions allowed, move it.'

It isn't like he has anywhere else to go, anything else to see, anything else to do: hands stuffed into his trouser pockets, he shrugs and falls silently into step beside her. When they're about halfway back, he glances over at her.

"I hope you have the key to go with them."

"Somewhere," she points out, but she doesn't look up at him this time, just keeps her gaze set on the direction that they came from. There's a weird tension in her shoulders now, and she doesn't even try to shrug it off. Sometimes tension is necessary in a situation, in order to prove a point.

Not that she is, really.

"Make sure you don't lose them, Faye. I'm pretty good at getting people out of some jams but not others. I'm terrible at picking locks."

And playing poker, and getting revenge. But he won't be telling her any of those things any time soon. No, he knows now that he made an error. He misjudged Faye just as much as she misjudged him: he might look like the same person but he isn't. She's had two years of experience at this place and he's brand new.

Expecting her to be the same was a mistake, but it's one he won't make again... or with anybody else.

Not even Vicious.

But he can still be a gentleman; he opens the door for her when they get back to the apartment building and lets her in first. Whether she appreciates it or not, he'll never stop treating her like a lady.

It's something she does appreciate, by degrees. Even though it's not the first time she's been shown an action like that - as she'd thought earlier - that doesn't change the sentiment. Deep down, somewhere, underneath the hot pants and all her insisting that she is a lady, she actually could be one, the kind that doesn't mind the good sort of attention instead of the bad.

But that's not who she is right now. Right now she's just Faye. And he's opening the door for her and she's going to walk through it like she doesn't give a damn. Which she does. Flawlessly.

"Lucky for you," she says, as she passes by him, "I'm pretty damn good at picking locks." It's the truth, at least. She could pick handcuffs all day long, ditto for door locks. The only thing that gives her a hard time is her boss's filing cabinet. "So the next time you think about trying anything... don't."

His answering laugh is a little half-hearted, but it's there nonetheless. "Thanks for the date... fairy."

She hasn't even sneezed once. As she moves in the direction of her apartment, he turns and heads back toward Julia's. Hopefully he won't be disturbing anything being in this early, but she's not his mom. There wasn't even a curfew or anything.

"Take care, Faye."

She doesn't say 'likewise' or 'you, too' or even laugh. She doesn't even wave. Faye just turns and heads down the hallway on the opposite side of the building, moving toward her apartment.

When she gets to her door, she doesn't waste time in unlocking it and she doesn't look back over her shoulder. She just lets herself inside and shuts the door behind her before switching on the main light in the living room.

Well. That was brilliant.

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