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]

"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.