i.

monochrome blues

It was just a dream, Faye thinks. Just a hazy fever dream.

In the darkness of one room, nothing retains its colors; everything's in washed-out blues and indigos, flickering yellow bleeps, and cold shadows against the pale skin of her fingers, and yet it's all warm and humid, heady with the dizzying scent of burn-out cigarettes and something dark and bittersweet like bourbon. It's on her tongue, the bourbon, the burning—almost like ember, the searing throes of it from the kiss of another, whoever, whatever. Just a dream.

Her mind's in a hot-wired stupor, eyes indecisive; there's no stark metal from a ship, no leather couch and no rattling plugs and pipes on the walls—just a room, midnight shadows draped in sinful satin, and all this soft supple blue on a desk, on an old piano, on these sheets that can never be called home, and she's a little lost over all. Her memories are a blur, always been, but she doesn't really want to wake up yet and there's a blot surfacing from the smoke in her eyes. A color, a shape—a figure that's so terribly familiar, next to her. And then there's a gentle hand on her hair.

Faye reaches for a crooked cigarette from a nearby ashtray and places it between her lips before he could attempt to kiss her. She smirks a little. He smiles, half amused, half knowing—all-knowing, as if there's nothing to hide from him.

Faye feels a bit drunk from that smile; there's the bourbon, the vodka, and it must've sounded sappy as hell, but she really is, like finding something so genuine underneath the gutter. But she wouldn't even care to admit it, not to him, not even to herself. However he must have known already; he's sharp like that, sharp as whip and clever with a smile. Charmingly gullible too, for falling for her. Its affections like his that can make any man stupid—but somehow, he's not.

And she's still wondering: "what's your name?"

His brow arches in disbelief. "How drunk are you?" he asks this musing aloud, but it's the subtler tones of concern that's got her attention. "You said you can take a few more drinks."

Faye shrugs unabashedly, just when she takes a slow drag of her cigarette. "Humor me," she says, the taste of harsh tobacco sobering her musings. Coping, he'd sometimes like to call it, because nights in Callisto are cold and pensive and everyone craves for the burn that's nearly impossible to have. For awhile, she realizes he doesn't have a hearth—who does nowadays?—just a grumbling heater, thick wool blankets, and the warmth of vodka from the seam of his mouth.

There's a flash of hot-white tracks, the guttural roar of a speeding car echoing distantly—faintly, like a hiss, and it's gripping his stare to the window, the only one he ever has, all barred and drawn by musty curtains. Right now, he's a vision in ultramarine, striped in white, and it's like gazing in a dream; pretty, silvery, and impermanent. Can anyone blame her if she gives in to the unacknowledged whim to clutch him by the wrist and cuff him down, just before he disappears?

Her hand traces his jaw, ruminating if it's all just a hoax and gossamer, because her life's been nothing but that: unreal. Faye might as well be drifting too, something ethereal like nicotine smoke, slipping and sighing, in and out, but she doesn't want him to be like that—and that, maybe, this time, he's real, and he's here with her, so achingly soft from the pads of her fingers. She leans forward, pushing out the hair from his brows. So he has blue eyes. Gorgeous blue eyes.

Oh, she remembers this: this sweet angle, this closeness, this scent—all him, if only there's a name to pin it with. Just a name to stick on her tongue. "Humor me," she murmurs, forgetting her cigarette, lips locking, mingling, as with words unspoken. Stay with me.

"Faye," it's the very the rhythm of it that makes it intimate, slow and smooth-sounding. He might as well make it into a song. Some personal tune to play for a night. He's a little breathless as she is, a little feverish from her hands wound behind his neck. "How about," a small lilt curls the corner of his mouth, "I help you remember instead?" such a tease; not even sparing a clue, a syllable, or a sound about his name.

There's no use acting coy. They're already blatantly sprawled on his bed, flushed and anticipating. "And how do you intend to do that?"

"Trust me."

There's that flicker in his eyes, but its hideous shadow lies atop hers. Nothing hopeful or beautiful like that—it's only an innate reaction, past inclinations and intuitions that's left her the worst kind of cynic in the latter half of the decade. Her lips twist wryly. "You sure you can ask for something like that," a tentative drawl, razor-sharp to the ear, but really, it's porcelain, and at some point, it's meant to shatter, "from me?"

Hovering above her, he doesn't wince. So easy to embrace everything, that's always been him; Faye doesn't get it, though perhaps she can love him for that, love him to the moon, just for being the one odd thing that she can never be. "Why not," he shrugs, tilting his head. "I do."

You shouldn't. Faye kisses him anyway, thinking she's got him fooled. But, to be honest, aren't they all fools?

Her fingers are grappling on his broad shoulders, on the silky fabric of his shirt—all this time, he's still dressed? That doesn't hinder her, when she snakes her hand from the inviting dip of his collar and unbuttons. He stops her there, with a hand curled around her wrist. It's a delicate hold, despite the rough calluses on his palms.

Her brows furrow. "You know it doesn't bother me," the abnormal appendages on his chest, his womanly body; she's seen it before, disturbed her before. Faye doesn't care what deformities he has. She wants to touch him. "You don't have to hide."

Her response is met with anxious silence, and his mouth only lowers to her knuckles for an apologetic peck. "Another time, I promise," he whispers gently. She hates him for being like that, too selfishly giving. "This is just for you," he kisses her finger, lips lingering, "let me surprise you."

Faye sighs under her breath, quirking slyly one side of her mouth. "What haven't you done that I don't know?"

He only smiles.

It's a slow dance. Even though Faye believes that the metaphor is overused to the point of frustration, it's quite fitting this time, especially when it starts with the grace of his hand, the movement unhurried and effortless as it slides down, down deep between her legs. She gasps at the heat, the hot tongue that sweeps at her mouth, failing to sigh when she's smothered, moaning, melting seamlessly, from his fingertips, from the dark hair damply sticking against his neck, threaded through by her clenched hands; grasping at the ends, grazing winding roads at the length of his spine, because she's lost in between a delirious high and the sinking depths of his eyes.

Distractedly, it's like staring at an ocean—from some rare crevice in the universe, where the light's filtering through deep waters, and it's a world of wistful caresses and wide embraces that's enough to leave you yearning to drown. Drowning, flailing, utterly breathless beneath an almost-bliss, because he's the one all over her, ebbing away with lips trailing on the skin of her throat, the valley between her breasts, her navel—her hips, rolling in the rhythm of please, go on and on and oh.

Here she is, contemplating if this is how he serenades her. Legs propped on his shoulders, thighs pressed on his cheeks, his lips smoldering against her very molten core. He must be grinning, with a drawn breath and a languid lick that makes her whole body shudder and ache and catch on fire.

And Faye's panting out a laugh—or a sob, because in the midst of all this, she's searching for a name; something to sink into and latch on from the roof of her mouth. But deep down, she knows she's holding it in too, bitterly tasting the ashes from her teeth, because of how it simply equates to complications and debts in-between.

Names mean forever. A memento to cling onto, a tether that's smugly knows how it's bound her there in place because the memory's going to last for years, brand on her soul maybe, like a blue requiem—a strange lilting tune, from her ear, her lips. Nothing cures stubborn sentiment.

Then the tide comes, finally, finally—though everything else is filmed over, all shades of deep-sea blue and pale glimpses and . . . a ghost of a smile. Where is he? It stirs her from her chest and Faye damns how her arms are as heavy as lead and how she's going blind, nearly blacking out, because despite it all, she's still desperate to hang onto some unsung past, to pine for those arms around her while she's asleep, because he's fading out, leaving first thing in the morning with all the somber finality in his eyes. Stay. Dammit, just stay.

His voice is softer now, barely a whisper.

"Go on. Say it."

Faye wakes up alone. There's a name on her mouth, but it's still just a dream.

A/N: I adore this anime to death! It broke me into pieces, you see, and I'm in need of an outlet. So, anyone in for a crack ship?

Disclaimer: I do not own Cowboy Bebop.