no more counting dollars; we'll be counting stars

[attitude]

Gambling is, in some ways, the perfect pastime for a pessimist. Faye goes in with every expectation that she'll lose whatever money she invests, but feels just enough thrill over the odds that watching a horse race still makes her heart leap. It's the one thing that Jet could never understand — Faye swindles to earn money.

She gambles for the thrill.

But the best thing about being a pessimist is, inevitably, when things go Faye's way. And today, she's all smiles as she clutches the winning ticket to her chest, weaving through the crowd and grinning more broadly with every disappointed expression she encounters, the click of her boots light as she rushes over to collect her earnings.

"I'll take the winnings in cash, please," she says to the bookie, who rolls his eyes in response. "Oh, don't judge. You'd be excited over winning yourself a shopping spree, too."

"Half."

Faye arches a brow. "Excuse me?"

"Half," the bookie repeats, scrolling through his computer screen. "Someone else made the same bet, so you'll be splitting the winnings with them."

"Are you kidding me?" Faye asks incredulously, nose wrinkling. "I made sure that I picked a bet well against the odds; what moron would take those same odds?"

Comments

[concluded]

"This moron," comes a voice from behind the woman, a little too chipper to be entirely in earnest. House clops and lmps his way quickly up to the bursar's window the bookie is standinding behind, waving the ticket and pushing in beside her obnoxiously.

"After all. Winning's no fun if it's a sure thing. What's the point in gambling away your money if it's not for entertainment? Only an idiot does it to actually make a profit."

[attitude]

It's the cane that throws her off, and has Faye stepping back when nudged, though her expression is still barely a shade softer than murderous. Strangely, the fact that this man's view on risk is practically the same as her own only manages to infuriate Faye more, lips pressing thin before she nudges herself back into place, making sure to take up half of the window.

"I don't need an old man to tell me how to have fun," mutters Faye, who places her arm directly between him and the bookie. "You like gambling? I'll play you for your half."

[concluded]

"Old?" House demands, bepre relaxing his expression again with a shrug. Yeah, okay, he's officially old now. He can collect social security and join the AARP. He eyes her critically, but with growing interest.

The bookie stares impatiently between the both of them.

"Oh, what?" House asks him, before getting back to business. "Dragon lady is trying to make a deal. When you say play me for my half, what kind of game are we talking about here?" He can spare the cash. But only if he gets something more interesting for it.

[attitude]

"Graying. Bald spot. Old," Faye replies, ticking each point off on her fingers with no small amount of smugness. It's not that she actually minds the age, nor that she has anything against a receding hairline. Jet was worse off in all of those areas by far, and came across as nearly twice his age sometimes, but she still adored him in her way. But getting a rise out of someone she doesn't even know, that's amusing in its own right.

Pressing her knuckles against her temple, Faye looks the man up and down, the anklet on her boot shifting. "Craps," she decides, arching a brow. "Or poker, if you have the time to spare."

[concluded]

As she ennumerates the things that make House old, he simply stands, leaning on his cane, with eyes narrowed in effusive boredom. He's heard it before. From younger, prettier women ... though not many prettier.

Her jewelry jangles, and House raises an eyebrow.

"I hate craps. Poker is only interesting if there are four or more players. What if I said motorcycle race?"

[attitude]

She can't contain her glee at the suggestion, expression immediately lighting up; after all, he made it, so he can't go back on it. "I'd say that you have a death wish," she replies, smug as she stretches, arms reaching towards the sky and wrists rolling to relax the tension in her hands. "What, you see a young Asian woman in heels and assume she can't drive?"

Leaning in closer to the bookie, Faye traces her fingers over the counter. "Make sure no one touches that money; I'll be back for it," she says with a smirk, then gesturing for the man to follow her, a keyring now spinning around the base of her index finger. "When you're at the horse races, how else do you secure yourself a good parking space?"

[concluded]

House gives the bookie a glance that's more warning than apology. He hadn't expected the race to be now, but he hadn't been fucking around and he meant to offer the challenge and make good on it. So now worked.

He moves as quickly as he can to where his own restored bike is parked, annoyed that he can't keep up with a woman in heels. His own motorcycle is parked in a handicapped spot.

He lifts his eyes to her. "Looks like we have more in common than I thought. Lucky you." The deadpan of his voice makes it clear that he isn't exactly complimenting her, but it's certainly not phrased like an insult, either. "There's a pretty straight stretch of highway that runs along the beaches. But we might have to swear at some idiot pedestrians."

[attitude]

She doesn't slow her pace, even though she notices his limp, the uneven gait that has him struggling to keep up. The thing is, slowing down would be toeing a line, she thinks. Maybe he doesn't want the sympathy. Maybe it'd ring too much like pity for his taste. Better to err on the side of being a bitch than to ruin someone's pride, even if Faye still thinks that pride isn't worth its weight in salt.

But she does stop by what must be his bike, parked in a handicapped spot, leaning against it briefly and patting the seat.

"At least with a bike like this one, as long as you handle it right, yelling at pedestrians should be enough. I like it. You've got decent taste." Pushing herself off, she walks towards where her own bike is parked, a small little red thing a few spaces down. "I think the bigger question is who the police would let off easy, an old man or a pretty girl?"

Grinning, she swings her leg over her bike, not quite reckless enough to forego the helmet.

[concluded]

"I've got taste," he corrects, revealing his opinion about the general public. Generic people. Living generic lives, doing generic things, that other generic people tell them they should want. Boring.

He watches her find her own bike as he carefully slips his bad leg over his own motorcycle first, sliding the cane into the holder modified for it. He'd had the money, once, to have practically anything he wanted. It had never made him any happier than his Darrow paycheck did, but at least it made things easier.

He feels no shame in lettig his stare grow a little heated.

"The police aren't going to let me off," he says, dismissing her charms, "because I'm an asshole."

[attitude]

Strapping her helmet on and tightening the straps, Faye looks on curiously as the man situates himself on the bike with a marginal amount of difficulty. It's a strange sight, seeing someone hop on a bike who doesn't exactly have the best use of his legs — it almost makes her wonder if he's ever crashed before. Or if there'd be a higher likelihood of him doing so than the average biker.

Then again, he did place a high bet on ridiculously low odds. Maybe that's just the way he lives.

Catching his stare, Faye revs her bike, then drives over to stop next to the man. And if she's a little more on display than usual, it's just pulling strings before the race.

"The police aren't going to let you off," she says, softening her tone, batting the eyelashes once, a taste of what she's offered officers many a time, "because you don't hide it."

God, now that she says it, Faye notices how refreshing it is. No blasé, unaffected air. No aged, genuine concern. Just a self-centered man who likes to play games.

"Crescent Street for the finish line," she suggests with a tilt of her head.

[concluded]

House snorts, fastening his own helmet, black with flames like a bad bowling shirt, and starting his own bike. He lifts his voice over the sound of engines, even more full of gravel in his shouting tones.

"And here I was thinking," he says, in sarcastic tones, "That they weren't going to let me off because of all of those unpaid parking tickets. If I'd have known all along it was as easy as pretending to not be an asshole! Gosh!"

"Fine," he adds, pulling out to the starting line, and next to her, sneaking another peek at the way her short shorts ride up her hips from the leaning position the bike puts her in, and the way her shirt does little to control what's in it. "That's a nice angle for you."

[attitude]

Try an unpaid parking ticket for fifty years spent at a cryogenic freeze center, Faye thinks, grinning lightly to herself as she pulls up to the edge of the garage, eyes trained to her left side. Even if none of that matters here, there's just enough superstition lingering in the corners of her mind that she keeps her mouth shut on the topic. The past has a habit of turning up when it's the least expected.

Flipping the shield of her helmet up enough to expose her eyes from behind its reflective surface, Faye pouts with an amused arch of her brow. "Every angle is a nice angle for me," she says, scoffing, before snapping the shield back down and taking off, dropped low to the handlebars as she lets out a loud whoop and a laugh.

"Catch me if you can!"

[concluded]

He nerly peels out as he makes off after her second's head-start, front wheel lifting enough to make him start out wobbly, and with a strong curse dropped out of his mouth. God damnit.

He pushes forward, staring down the length of the beachside road with focused attention. He pulls ahead, but only for a second, before needing to swerve dangerously close to her to avoid a pothole. At the speed they're going, hitting it could be a wipeout House doesn't have the time to heal from.

[attitude]

The swerve doesn't stop her. Why should it, after all? And it's not even a question of how much it's worth preserving her life and well-being in the city — there's no death wish that weighs her shoulders down — but instead, a result of the focused confidence that she has in her own ability to make it out of a closing door, unharmed and intact.

That second's distraction is all she needs to pull ahead, zooming past with a sharp hum.

Enough that she casts a look back, some instinct that she can't put her finger on. Maybe she's checking to see if he's okay.

Maybe she's wondering why it's always the suicidal ones that catch her attention.

[concluded]

She looks back when she should be looking forward, to the goal she's about to cross. She looks back, and it stains House's memory. He pulls forward a second after she does, skidding across the finish line and swinging his bike around to drag the wheels to a stop along with the brakes. He whips his helmet off when his inertia stops, slamming it into the ground a second later, like it's a football he's just run a touchdown on. He's lost.

But he's not angry.

He's just more awake than he's been in weeks, and House keeps the bike clutched between his knees, his hands on the handlebars holding it steady, as he lets his heavy breaths rock his body back and forth.

"You cheated," he says, as if he doesn't blame her. If he'd wanted a fair match, he'd have found some referees. He'd been looking for an excuse, even though he didn't need one.

[attitude]

It's only after crossing the finish line that her nerves start to settle. But where normally there would be an unparalleled high, Faye only feels her hands trembling and suddenly sapped of their strength, the beat of her heart not quite aligned with the passing seconds, and when she takes her helmet off all that she sees around her is blinding sunlight rather than billowing dust.

"And you could've gotten me killed," she retorts, confusion masking itself as anger in her veins, and she throws her weight easily off of the bike, kicking the stand into position. "What the hell was that, huh?" Had he swerved in the other direction, it wouldn't have cost as much — a vehicle could withstand the impact, a civilian off on the beach could dive away with those precious extra couple of seconds.

He turned towards her.

"I can't tell if you're a worse driver than I thought, or a psychopathic genius," she says, stepping forward anyway, heels grinding into the asphalt.

It's all tremors, though.

[concluded]

"What do you have," House throws back at her, voice instantly raised to shouting. He leans forward on his bike, to close just that much more space between them. "To be so unhappy about? You won. You got the money. You're alive. So why are you bitching at me?"

[attitude]

She's taken aback for half a second at the volume of his voice, raised more than most of the people she's ever interacted with. Generally, she's the loud one. The only one who cares enough to raise her voice. But she doesn't back down now, face flushing in indignation, because of course — of course he, like everyone else who's ever come across her, takes one look at her and assumes they know everything.

Why else would anyone paint a caricature of themselves? Shorts too short for the quickly dropping temperature, midriff left startlingly bare. If people are going to make assumptions, at least let them be predictable.

"Screw the money, you can have it," she says, waving a hand dismissively in the general direction of the races. "And if you want your pride, well, you know I cheated. You're really going to tell me that you don't see the difference between a game and risking someone's life?"

She takes another look at him, eyes dropping down and raising back up in an instant, gaze hard. "Or is that how little yours means to you?"

[concluded]

"I don't want the money," House shouts again, but the fire flees his face and body a moment later, replaced by a calculating chill. His attentions are not focused outward, but inward. She's wrong. She doesn't know him, and she's wrong about him, and he can prove she's wrong.

"Don't come off at me like I'm some kind of Nietzsche wannabe," he says, voice all tumbling gravel. "People who really want to kill themselves," he says, "Just kill themselves." And House would rather be seen as someone making a reckless cry for assistance than somebody who fails, even if that failure is in choosing when he wants to die.

"It was a race. I was thinking that I'd like to win it, and also, you cheated."

[attitude]

"People who want to kill themselves sometimes wait for an opportune moment," Faye says, the words tumbling out of her lips before she can stop herself. Her stomach twists soon after, face paling even though she continues to stand her ground. It was just a race. And he was just some guy who underestimated her ability to handle a bike.

She presses her lips together, gaze locked on his eyes as she takes a deep, measured breath.

"Fine. I cheated. You win by default," she declares, tugging on the straps of her helmet, loosening them enough for her to be able to put it back on. "Consider the good look you got at me your prize."

[concluded]

"I already took advantage of my opportune moment," he says, squinting and cagey. He can't drop his eyes; they stay connected to hers from across the short distance, deep green against rheumy blue. He feels old, and a little foolish, and he resents her for it.

"For almost a thousand dollars, I'm going to need more than a good look," he says. "You're giving those away for free. A kiss and we'll call it even."

[attitude]

Her eyes narrow, suddenly and abruptly lost, with a trickle running down her spine like so much ice water. That's right. Sometimes it's easy to forget that there are a few ghosts in this city beyond those she knows, that a stopped heart can easily be brought to beat again in Darrow.

Maybe that's why she reaches out, hand closing around his jacket until it spills from her hands like wrapping paper. It's an awkward fit, with him on his bike and her practically leaning against it to get close enough, bridging the gap with a slight hop. The hand in his shirt shakes from the effort, and her free arm snakes easily around his neck as she leans in, soft lips pressed against a rougher pair.

She doesn't realize how closely she's pressed until she feels his shadow rough against her skin, then releases his shirt to run the side of her palm along the line of his jaw.

[concluded]

He kisses with his eyes closed. He always has. Nothing else, just that, as if the seeing would make the other senses weaker. Feeling a woman's lips, smelling a woman's hair. He knows just from the touch of their lips that she's what he thought she is. She doesn't kiss like a hooker. She kisses like a girl.

It's one of the better ones he's ever had, and when he pulls away, his eyes are soft and blank with thought, roaming over her not to take her in, but because it isn't the world around him that he is focused on.

"And what would I have to do to convince you to do that again?" he asks, knowing he shouldn't. He isn't relationship material. He's barely friendship material. He's the kind of material that should, by all rights, be locked in a cage at this very minute.

[attitude]

He's the one to pull away first. Maybe it's as simple as needing air, or space, or maybe he didn't actually expect for her to take him up on the offer. She could have slapped him; the thought certainly crossed her mind. Instead, her cheeks burn as soon as she feels him shifting away, and it's not anything obvious like age or lack of knowing that causes it. It's just getting left behind, even in that half a second.

When he speaks, she looks up, seeing now all the little details she didn't bother making note of earlier. Blue eyes, remarkably clear and expressive without obvious intent, framed by a furrow at the start of either brow. Not smile lines, that's for certain.

"You're insane," she says, lifting her chin, but she doesn't move from her spot on his bike, heel gripping against the road. Swallowing thickly, her cheeks still flushed and overly warm, Faye runs a hand through her hair, tucking it behind an ear. "You want another kiss, you have to tell me why."

[concluded]

"Yeah," he agrees, face still serious, though his tone has brightened to something resembling irony. "But I did my time in the white room already, and they don't want me back either."

He leans forward again, nearly until their foreheads brush, and breathes her in. The street around them might s well not exist, and the few gawkers, they can go straight to hell.

It's a long moment before he finally gives her the answer she wants. He doesn't care whether or not it's satisfying. It's true. There's no reason to lie. "Because I've been here for months and the only people I ever talk to are contemptuous morons that I hate. Because I'm lonely. Because you were willing to give me the first one after what I did to you."

[attitude]

"You're a force," observes Faye, stating what feels obvious by now. He's all around her, crowding or sheltering, she can't tell the difference, even if the latter doesn't feel like it fits. Her hands linger still by his shirt, tracing a wrinkle through the leather until she meets the zipper by the side, nail tapping its way down the teeth without pulling it open. "Of course they wouldn't want you back."

She drops her hands then, one resting gently on top of his thigh as she tilts her head, chasing after the vague, intangible warmth of his breath. Closing her eyes to make the pattern easier to follow.

What does it say about her that she kissed him after what he did? Maybe he'd have a better idea than she does right now. Her hand raises, thumb brushing against the subtle hollow of his cheek and up over the bone.

"One more condition," she says, the tip of her nose bumping against his own. "My apartment's a block away."

[concluded]

"Good," he says, eyes half-hooded but sharp as ever as he studies the smooth lines of her face, unmarked by age. She's not quite old enough yet, to wear her troubles on her skin, like House.

"I'm shit for long walks." It's as much a joke as it is serious, and he reaches to lift her hand off his thigh, running fingers over the back of it, feeling the bones and tendons, delicate and alive. Her hand had wandered low enough.