attitude | hey hurry up, lately it's been hard enough

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eames

hey hurry up, lately it's been hard enough

Swindling people wasn't always about the money. Of course, the money was a good touch, and the reason why Faye took to it so much back home, racking up woolong until she could take herself on long, regular shopping sprees. More often than not, though, it was the thrill of being a cheat, with the risk of being caught on her shoulders at every turn. Trying to move that magnetic anklet on her leg just right, trying for nonchalant, so people wouldn't notice the soft thud of dice against the table as they came down in her favor. Not everything she did was cheating, of course. She knew full well that the best swindling happened when it was only an occasional thing, racking up enough truth to make people just slightly too wary to start pointing fingers. She was skilled in these sorts of games, had learned about probability long ago, to the point where even in an honest game of poker, she swept the table more often than not.

So even though all they had to gamble for on the island were mangoes and bananas, she still desperately wanted to cheat some people out of their hard-earned efforts, just to see how they'd react, and if the people on the island were half as naive as they proclaimed to be.

When a man stepped into the room, tall and handsome, a shade of a smile in his eye, Faye laid out a spread of cards that she'd managed to find in the rec room, looking at him invitingly.

"Wanna play?"

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A compliment. She supposes that there was a bit of a compliment in her words, true enough, and she's glad for the fact that Eames seems to have pointed out the only part of it that Faye really thinks of as such. The rest of it, his being unwilling to submit to the orders of others, his being charming, his being unpredictable, they're far from things that Faye acknowledges as being good on face. Instead, those are all traits that she finds herself drawn to, for better or (usually) for worse. Faye's told a number of people through the years, that she's descended from the Romany people, and while that's certainly a lie in the practical sense, she chose that identity for a reason. Always running, dreaming, painting the world in her own colors, the sound of that romantic sort of life is better to Faye than almost anything else. That it's gotten her into plenty of trouble, too, is something she doesn't think too deeply about.

She pushes a few more markers over on the table. "Take the compliments where you can find them," she grins, "I don't hand them out often."

Especially not when legitimate, as far as Faye's concerned, only reflects how things look on paper. No one's all that square. Everyone lies, everyone's a hypocrite, and all to varying degrees. This man in front of her is certainly no exception to that.

"Does that make it a big deal to be getting one now, then, or would that just be grasping at straws?" Eames asks, though there's nothing really sincere about the question. He's never beens someone who's needed validation, more than confident in himself and his abilities; here, he's mostly just playing a game, seeing what she'll tell him, how much he can get her to loosen up. She doesn't seem too high-strung, but it's a key element of his job, getting people comfortable when they might not otherwise be, insinuating himself enough to find out what others might not be able to in a short amount of time. That isn't precisely the aim here, of course — she isn't a mark, and he doesn't have any information about her to play off beforehand, something he's usually privy to — but the principle in the matter remains. "I'll give enough of them to make up for it either way."

"Grasping just a little," Faye replies, that shade of a smile on her face, one which doesn't really mind playing along, but certainly doesn't plan on making it easy for Eames, or at least no easier than it has to be. For now, there's no reason to answer with anything but the truth, which is that he's made an impression, but not one clearly enough that Faye finds herself able to cater her reactions in any meaningful way. He's this relatively pleasant presence in her life right now, one with wit and a warm voice, but who she'll assume fits all of the standard descriptors she holds for men. Babies. Cowards. Some part of them always is.

After the full spread of five is laid out, she holds her two cards higher up, peeking at him over the edge of them both. "I'll turn a lot of those compliments right back, you know. They say a lady should accept flattery with grace, but I like breaking out of the mold."

"There's something to be said for it," Eames says with a shrug, lips pursed thoughtfully. He's always seen himself as falling somewhere in the middle: about as far from high-strung as it's possible to get, wanting to make a name for himself (in such circles where a name would be known) and try something new, but knowing limits and keeping to them all the same. It's a fact he thinks surprises most people, but he's not sitting here for psychoanalysis. "Don't know what fun there'd be in being ladylike, anyway. So go ahead and refute them if you like, but know that I don't say anything I don't mean."

Ladylike's fun, Faye wants to say. She's had quite a few larks with that persona, anyway, the part of her perfectly able to laugh politely, to giggle, to show off her considerable bosom and wrap it all in lace and frills. But she knows that Eames isn't referring to anything half as obvious. Instead, he's talking about propriety. About conforming to the majority, and what they would demand of her. And in that, he's right. She doesn't gain from following the herd, she doesn't gain from being quiet and proper. Faye's only gotten anywhere by going out, guns ablazing.

"If you don't say anything you don't mean," she breathes, tilting her cards over until they're face up, showing a straight, "then you're a rare breed indeed, Eames. I won't promise you the same."

"Ah — perhaps I should amend that statement," Eames says after a moment, brows furrowing slightly. "When it comes to compliments, I don't offer ones I don't mean." He won't admit to his job, of course, but lying about lying strikes him as a particular brand of disingenuous that he sees no reason to stoop to. That he can lie and do so well is a point of pride for him; it only stands to reason that his ability to do so be something he addresses in truth. Laying out his own cards, three of a kind, he tilts his head to the side, a concession of defeat. "As for the rest, well, you said it best yourself."

He's smarter than most of the bounty heads she trails after. That much is immediately, and almost painfully clear. Faye supposes that she isn't really in the business for the puzzles, that intellectual stimulation isn't something she's ever expected to get from her job. What she needs, and what makes it ideal for her, is the combination of money and adrenaline, being able to pull in an income for essentially getting to fly her ship about and shoot a hell of a lot of guns. But there are definitely times when she wishes that her bounties had a bit more sense. They don't have to be genius chessmasters, she doesn't need (nor does she particularly enjoy) puzzles, but just someone who has the brain and the cunning to keep up with her. She needs that.

Maybe there are a lot of reasons to be glad forthis man being around, after all.

"So, since I won," she says slowly, her voice steeped with amusement. "Dinner sometime?"

Whatever approximation of flirting may or may not have been going on, the question comes as a surprise, and Eames smiles both for that fact alone and for what she's asking. It takes a lot to catch him off guard, with as good as he's become at reading people, and this isn't that, but it reads as something of a challenge, and a comfortable one at that. She's not quite predictable, and he likes that, craves some sort of change of pace when it's so often so dull around here. He'd walked over for finding her attractive — and, well, for the cards — but he's sticking around now for an entirely different reason.

"Dinner sometime it is," he says, genuinely pleased. "If that's the price of losing, I can't say I mind it much at all."

She's not a romantic. She can't be, anymore. She doesn't expect that any dinner will lead to a meaningful connection on this island, not when most of the people there are made of smiles, when they feel like they're hidden behind a wall that Faye can't cross. Or maybe one that she just doesn't dare cross. But what she's been craving on the island is definitely company, company of a predictable sort, the way that the crew of Bebop became in time. She hasn't found that yet, just interesting people with pasts as shadowed as her own, and although the conversation is pleasant with Eames, in the meantime he's still part of that number. Maybe it'll change.

"Neither of us were paying that much attention to the game. I was mostly using it as a fallback, in case you turned out to be dull company," she smiles, brushing her fingers down a cheek. "Next time, the stakes will be higher."

Eames has long been a gambling man, and not only where cards and dice and money are concerned. He knows how to fold, of course, when to call it quits, but here and now, there's no risk to require it, none that he can see. She's beautiful, she's intriguing, and what's more, she's fun, something he can always go with more of. (There's plenty to be had with Emma, of course, but he's never been a one-woman man, and wouldn't expect her to count on as much.) The mention of stakes only emphasizes that, makes him all the more inclined to agree to her offer.

"I think I'm up for the challenge," he says, not quite managing thoughtful (he isn't invested enough in seeming as such to care if he's convincing). "You've any preference on when?"

Thank goodness, a voice says in the back of her mind. The one that's always been floundering, ever since she woke up in the hospital those couple of years ago, disoriented, blank. Ever since then, it's always been a matter of finding something to do, something to fill her days, almost like she's frantically trying to write back on blank pages of a book, all in the hopes of making herself more of a person. That part of Faye is deeply buried, though, doesn't show on her face as she just smiles, smiles as if this is just an everyday thing. Which it is.

Or was. There aren't really enough people on the island to keep that rate up.

"Friday," she decides. "Some Friday. Eventually, it won't matter, Monday or Wednesday or any other, but Fridays still have their charm right now, while I'm still new."

"Some Friday it is," Eames says, grin turning just the slightest bit amused at her explanation for having chosen that particular day of the week. It isn't as if it makes any difference to him, one serving just as well as another; if Friday's what she wants, though, Friday's what she gets. Even the jukebox seems to be in accordance, playing quietly enough that he can just barely make out the lyrics: it's Friday, Friday, gotta get down on Friday. He pulls a face, and jabs a thumb in its direction. It beats Edith Piaf, but relevance aside, sounds fairly awful. "I think this thing agrees, though I wish it would get some bloody taste."

Used to white noise in the background, used to announcements and regulations pouring out of speakers in dozens of languages whenever her ship zooms toward the earth, Faye doesn't even realize what the jukebox is playing until Eames points it out. She strains to listen, leaning curiously in its direction, gradually putting the lyrics together in her head and laughing, incredulously.

"Well, that's one way to learn the days of the week," she shakes her head with a sigh. "But hey, at least it's better than heavy metal."

"Nearly anything is better than heavy metal, darling," Eames points out, head tilting to the side, though it's an agreement more than anything else. Of course, the jukebox is better than almost anything at finding the world's worst music, surely for the sake of tormenting them all, but this still ranks fairly high on the scale, as far as he's concerned. It should hardly even qualify as music, and the lyrics make it even worse. "'Tomorrow is Saturday and Sunday comes afterwards.' Talk about stating the obvious."

At this point, Faye is growing increasingly baffled by the jukebox than anything else. She's been around bad music before. She's been around a complete lack of music, more difficult than most people would think to deal with. But this goes beyond that, goes to truly trying to understand what might have possessed anyone to pour away the money that clearly went into recording such a single. If anything, she feels sorry for the poor girl who's been thrown into the project, probably no one bright enough to turn down those lyrics, too blinded by the thought of fame.

Then again, infamy has its own draw.

She purses her lips, tilts her head. "Maybe it's one of those made-for-TV singles to help kids learn their days of the week," she suggests with a shrug. "Or rich parents trying to appease a starstruck kid."

"I'd hope the former, if anything," Eames says with a shrug, finding himself increasingly amused by the song as it plays on, wretched though it is. One leg crossing over the other, ankle resting on opposite knee, he lets his foot bounce slightly in time to it, a gesture that he would only describe as ironic. There's nothing about this that merits it, though he's beginning to suspect that he'll wind up humming it for the rest of the day, which would just be bloody fantastic. "Might be forgivable that way. Otherwise, it has nothing going for it."

Faye's grin widens, a bit more wicked, enjoying the man's wry humor. Maybe it's obvious that there are layers to him, that what she's seeing on the surface can't be all that there is to this man. Almost all intelligent people have layers. One for sense. One for emotion. One for the deeper skeins of thought that wrap around one another like a spider's web. She doesn't have to hide herself around him, because she knows that he can hold his own, and to Faye that's nothing but a comfort.

"Aw, don't you think that it's cute? Parents going all out for their kids. Think of it as a sign of devotion. Just lacking in sense," she grins, before leaning back. "We could always run off to the Winchester. Get a drink."

"Oh, it would be precious, if we didn't all have to suffer through the result," Eames says, smiling in return as he does. Truly, it isn't quite so awful as he makes it out to be, but once the point has been made, he doesn't want to relent on it, either, continuing only for its sake. Of course, what she says after, that is a much more interesting turn of conversation. "A drink, though, sounds wonderful, if you care to head out now."

"I guess that means you don't have kids of your own. Seems to be the very definition of being a parent, making everyone else suffer through the result. You get those who praise their kids to no end, then you get the ones who bitch and think it's supposed to be as easy as a Do-It-Yourself kit," Faye grins, picking herself up and gathering the cards, slipping the deck into her back pocket, stretching her arms out.

"Let's head out, then. Where the magic of the island can't grate on our nerves."

"Even if I'd wanted them, I couldn't have had them," Eames explains as he stands, wry for the very idea of him as a parent. Some people are meant for it; he isn't. "Too much traveling for work. Besides, I'm sure you've guessed by now that I'm not the settling down type." It's more credit than he usually gives someone so quickly, but then, that's been the nature of this whole exchange. Gesturing back at the jukebox as he heads towards the door, he shrugs. "If this is the result, I can't say I mind, either."

Couldn't have had them is a phrase that means something else to Faye. A physical impossibility. The way that Earth's population continues to climb, after all, is proof enough to Faye that people have children even in the most impossible of situations, even if it leaves the parents stranded and strapped for cash. But some people can't actually conceive. There are times when Faye wonders if she's in their number. She brushes away the thought.

Right now, even if it's true, it'd be convenient more than anything else.

"Well, I'm not the settling type either," she says at last, nothing more than the slight pause being out of the ordinary as she smiles. "And I still think you're a flatterer, but sometimes I can deal with that. Come on. Let's get shots."

"Well, it's like I said, darling," Eames replies, head tilting to the side. While he makes note of the pause, he doesn't think much of it; there are any number of things it could mean, including nothing, and that's what he's inclined to think of it at the moment. Even if they've both been playing, in a sense, that isn't the point here, and from the sound of things, he'll have plenty of time to study her further, find out what makes her tick. "That's just something you'll have to get used to. Shots sounds perfect."

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hey hurry up, lately it's been hard enough

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