sorrydontsuitme | (no subject)

(no subject)

Take me out to the ball game,
Take me out with the crowd.
Buy me some peanuts and cracker jack,
I don't care if I never get back,
Let me root, root, root for the home team,
If they don't win it's a shame.
For it's one, two, three strikes, you're out,
At the old ball game.

Back when he was a little kid, he played in a peewee league. He always liked that: the uniforms, swingin' the bat, hitting the ball as far as little arms could make it go. That was fun, and he ain't no slouch when it comes to bein' in shape -- better now he ain't smoking no more -- but he's pretty damn far from a pro athlete. Don't mean he can't admire it. So when Freckles said hey, Sawyer, how about a baseball game? he didn't even have to think twice.

Home team's called the Tokyo Tarantulas, and they're playin' the Earth-based Blue Sox. Don't even matter he ain't got a team to root for. As him and Freckles -- Freckles Loress, while they're here on Mars, to match her passport -- file into the stadium, he takes a deep breath of nighttime Martian air.

There's somethin' about a ball park. It's the way it looks and the way it smells. It's the arc of the lights, the hum of the crowd. People eatin' hot dogs and drinkin' beer, and guys working their way through the stadium selling all that stuff that's awful for you but you can't do without. Freckles had a lot of luck at that casino the first night, and maybe he'll have his turn at it tomorrow night but here in Halley Stadium ("Home of the Galaxy-Famous Tarantulas"), he's just a guy taking his woman to see the major-league baseball. It's warm and bright and the company's good and the beer's cold, and he hands her one as they sit about a third of the way back on the first base line -- good seats, good view -- and as soon as that hot dog guy comes around he's buyin' two with the works. And hell, if he had one he'd have brought a mitt.

Fly balls. Got to go for 'em. Got to love those souvenirs that come with near-death experiences attached.

"You good, Freckles? Want anything?" Got to also love those open-ended questions.

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He dimples up like it's his job and he's a pro, and she grins back at him.

"Very nice." Reaching for the bill of the cap, she tugs it down over his eyes. The ends of his hair wildly stick out from under the cap, almost as if in protest.

...It's kind of cute.

"Yeah, thought I'd get a shirt."

Something simple like his cap. While he was picking his out, she had her eye on blue one with nothing but the team name across the chest. Moving back over to pick it up, she takes it and holds it up in front of her.

She's definitely not going to ask if he thinks it makes her look overdressed.

"I'll take it," she tells the patient guy behind the table, and she whips out her money card.

Beneath his breath, he starts to hum a little tune. It's Hank Williams, Hey, Good Lookin', and he does it almost automatically. When she picks up the shirt and holds it up, he can't help but have a private little moment of pure appreciation. It's way better watching her contemplate getting dressed here than it was in the bear cages. It ain't quite as good as if they were in the room they're sharing, even with no guarantees, but the anticipation of it all's kind of titillating, and his imagination's no slouch. It works great.

He hums that damn song the whole time she pays, not even really knowing he's avoiding thinking about the fact she's paying. He ain't even that much of a macho kind of guy, or at least he doesn't think so. If he was, he'd be comin' to all those ladies' rescue for real. Not just for pretend. But he's too good at what he does to give it up, even though he's pretty much made the decision he ain't gonna do it to Freckles no more.

That's something he keeps to himself. Some things a man just doesn't talk about. Once she buys her shirt, he nods. "That's gonna look good on you, Freckles." These ball game souvenirs are really the only things they've bought for themselves besides museum brochures and the inevitable food and drink. This whole baseball thing's been a lot of fun.

And the night ain't even old yet.

"Where to now, Freckles?" They had their hot dogs and brew, but it don't mean they can't hit the town or enjoy some music in the lounge at their hotel or -- a man can think big -- have a real fun time together in their room. Idly, his arm goes around her shoulder. He knows what he'd like.

"Where to?" she repeats, musing.

They've got no plans for the rest of the night, nothing to force them anywhere at a certain time.

Even if he doesn't want to, she could grab a drink herself and make her way back to the hotel at her own pace, but his arm's found its way over her shoulders and she doesn't mind it so much.

Last time she walked anywhere with his arm around her like this was after he woke up in the hatch after fighting off infection from that gunshot wound. She'd been so glad he was okay -- conscious and sarcastic and calling her Freckles -- that she knows she kept grinning at him the whole time, but that was months before anything happened between them.

Anything but a kiss.

The bag holding her new t-shirt swings in one hand, and the opposite hand flattens against the small of his back. "You feel like getting a drink somewhere?"

That's something he doesn't even have to think twice about. "Hell yes, Freckles." They can be a happy little baseball-fan duo and go to the sports bar down the street with the sad Tarantulas fans, or they could go someplace more quiet and discreet, or they could pick something up to go in that drinking's-allowed-on-the-streets district of Tokyo away from the arts center. Makes him wonder how come there ain't no Mars-New Orleans, but maybe the water table ain't low enough.

Or maybe there ain't enough ghosts and voodoo. Maybe someone ought to open up a voodoo shop. He could do it. He could convince anyone they need spells and candles and potions and voodoo dolls, that they need spiritual guidance or readings or chicken feet or whatever all those things are. Only problem with it is it would keep him in one place too long, and that ain't something he's interested in doing. Not unless it's for a big payoff on a real well-planned long con. And hell if he knows if he gets to stay here in 2074 long enough to do something like that.

If he did, he'd try to make Freckles his partner-in-crime. She'd be so damn good at it. They could con their way through the galaxy together, one planet or moon or asteroid at a time. But that little fantasy both proves how little he's changed and also that it's best saved for another day.

"I saw this little place on the way back to the hotel. It's called Sphinx Bar. Egypt-themed. Maybe Anubis greets you at the door; I ain't got no idea but we could find out." Or maybe they got a knock-you-out drink called Eye of Ra. It could be fun, seein' as how most of the stuff here in Mars-Tokyo has some element of interaction to it. At least in the tourist areas.

She's pretty sure she got a glimpse of the sign for it on their walk to the stadium before the game.

"Works for me."

Most of the post-game crowd'll probably be going to places a little closer, but it's a pretty short walk there.

Lifting her hand, palm up, bag looped around her wrist, she looks to the sky. "You feel that?"

She could swear she just got rained on.

She pats the top of her head and rakes her fingers through her hair; her other hand falls away from his back but doesn't go far, finger hooking through a belt loop on his jeans.

"Nice timing."

She's not really sure what the rules of climate control are, but she guesses there's a good chance rain after the game is no coincidence. Fortunately, she likes the rain.

"Maybe they only do it when the home team loses." At the Outpost it's predictable most days: four o'clock you could count on drizzle. It doesn't ever get perceptibly colder or nothin', maybe because they're on such a small pebble out there in space. But this is a whole planet and he could tell as the shuttle got near to the red surface that there's little pockets of atmosphere. Little clouds over specific areas. Of course, he remembers from when he was a good kid and still went to school that Mars has some of its own atmosphere so they don't need to have complete domes like they do in other places, but they sure as hell found some way to concentrate the air so breathin' ain't even as hard as it is back home up in some mountain city.

Or so he's heard; he never did go to Denver.

"Lucky I got me a baseball cap. Keep the rain out of my face." All Freckles has is him and a plastic bag. "Do my best to keep you dry, sweetheart." The bar ain't that far a walk and they could make it there real quick if they want, but why rush the moment? He doesn't hold her like this -- and she doesn't hold him in turn, he could feel her hand on his back -- every day, and he wants it to last.

They got the biggest damn case of don't-show-it he's ever known, and he ain't sure if it's because she doesn't know what she wants or because she does.

The streets empty a little with the rain, and that makes it easy to duck from awning to awning till they get to that Sphinx Bar, all gold and Ankh symbols and pyramids on the outside. When they step in, he ain't expecting to be greeted by no bewigged slave girl with snake necklaces, but damn, the place is opulent.

"Looks like the inside of a pyramid, don't it." The walls are all fake carved limestone with hieroglyphs and the ceiling arches up to a point, and the lights are recessed into the walls and flicker like lanterns or candles, and hell if he don't feel like he's on that Indiana Jones ride at Disneyland. At least now he knows how come this town doesn't need a damn Voodoo shop.

Hell, even the music is soft and middle-eastern-sounding. It's all kinda soft and seductive, and he likes it.

She pats her damp hair, and grinning (probably like a tourist), she looks around them. "This is great."

The carved walls and flickering lighting really set a mood. She can't say she expected the inside of this place to live up to the theme so well, but she's glad it does. She's never been to a bar with more atmosphere.

She almost feels like she could find snakes slithering in the darkest corners of the room.

"You want to sit at the bar?"

The black-bobbed woman tending the bar isn't otherwise dressed like some Egyptian queen, but she does have curved bracelets snaking around her upper arms.

"Or were you hoping for a table?"

She doesn't mind either.

"Hell, baby, I was hopin' for buried treasure." He gestures widely to the bar, pulls out a stool for her first 'cause all southern perverts are secret gentlemen, then sits by her side. At least at this place they don't have to worry about gettin' raw seafood and drinks laced with mangoes and papayas. The bartender does give them a bowl of hot roasted chick peas, salted and spiced, and those are real nice.

And a bar menu, where they got things like Riddle Me This (looks like he was wrong about the mango juice, but that's got it blended with pomegranate and Jack Daniels on ice) and Serpentine Bliss (Curacao and bitters over lemonade) and Cleopatra's Revenge (ouzo and cranberry juice served neat). All with the theme names; he hands it over to Freckles so she could have a look-see.

"I don't know about this fou-fou stuff. What do you recommend?" The bartender, whose name tag reads Hathor but that's about as real a name as Sawyer, nods and her kohl-lined eyes crinkle into a smile. "For you, sir, I recommend the Blue Nile. A blend of the most exquisite liqueurs done up in a robust fiery drink bowl that will have you seeing King Tut everywhere you go."

He laughs at that, pretty hardy, and orders up a scotch on the rocks instead.

"How's about you, Freckles? What can I do you for?"

"I was planning on asking for an Imperial," she starts, glancing first at Sawyer and then looking toward the bartender with a smile, "but I think the menu's sold me on the Serpentine Bliss."

She can get all the Imperials she wants back on Outpost 12. In a place like this, she can't see a reason not to get one of their themed drinks.

Sawyer's drink is served first, and while her own drink is mixed, she puts the bar menu down in front of her and rests her arms on the bar's edge.

"How's that scotch?"

"Almost as smooth as you, Freckles." He raises it to her, takes the smallest of sips. Scotch has got to be savored and that's all there is to it. This is better than the little bottles they had when they played I Never back on the island and it's better than the scotch they can get at the lounge back on the Outpost. For all he knows it's the same damn brand, but it tastes better surrounded by hieroglyphs and Hathor and the ingredients of a Serpentine Bliss. Hathor there sets down the drink in front of Freckles -- it's served in a fake gold goblet -- and nods to the both of them.

"It's your first time at the Sphinx?"

"Yeah." He lifts his puny-by-comparison glass to the goblet but with a drink like that you don't say drink up. You just sip 'em, and he'll be glad to watch her do that. "By way of the asteroids."

"Ah." Nodding knowingly, she busies herself for a moment, then comes up with two small, tall, narrow glasses filled with some sort of orange-pink something. "Then here, on the house. You both need to sample Ra's Ambrosia. There's a reason it's called the nectar of the gods." She gives a little curtsy and he'll give Cleopatra here this much: she does a butt-kicking job of stayin' in character. She does it real nice, and he's sure her tips are just as nice as her acting job.

It's definitely something he appreciates and always has.

"Well, thank you kindly, Goddess of Love." All skepticism, he picks up that skinny little glass, lifts it to his lips, and takes a little sip.

Damn, baby: she was right. "This stuff kicks ass. I don't know what the hell's in it, but it's good."

Hathor takes a bow before moving down the bar to see to the next set of customers. When she does that, he turns to Freckles. "All righty then. I ain't never drinkin' nothin' but Ra's Ambrosia from now on. You got to try it, Nefertiti."

"Then I guess you better get the recipe from Hathor so we can give it to the robots back at the hotel lounge."

The idea makes her grin, but she raises her own glass and tries it for herself.

He wasn't exaggerating. She'd thought her Serpentine Bliss was good, but this is a step up.

She raises her eyebrows and nods her approval, then tips her glass to watch the contents swirl. "Looks like a sunset in a glass."

It also seems to her that it's the kind of drink that could really sneak up on you. It's really good. Definitely worth the bartender's hype, and she sure knew it.

"Couldn't play I Never with this stuff. You'd make yourself drink just for the fun of it."

"Drinkin' to lose ain't something I'm keen to start, Freckles." But for the ambrosia, he might be willing to give it a go, even though he's pretty damn sure old Hathor there ain't about to give up the recipe. If she did, wouldn't no one come back to this place and give her tips.

Course, odds are they ain't gonna be back this way neither.

His eyes follow the swirl of the liquid in her glass. "You know, I've seen my share of tequila sunrises before but this one's even prettier." He takes that skinny glass between thumb and forefinger and examines it like it's some damn lab specimen. Then, discerning drinker that he ain't, he takes another sip like he could parse what's in it single-handedly. "Pomegranate. Mango." He knows that last flavor real well, and can't nothing mask it. "Something else. Maybe we could bribe her into telling us. Or else we'll just have to become regulars."

Speak of the devil, here's their own personal bartender, back to gloat with that so, was I right? look on her face. "What do our esteemed guests think of the concoction?" She sure does look all kinds of amused.

"It ain't bad." Grinning pretty for her, he sets the glass down and opens his mouth to ask but she cuts him off.

"Before you ask, no, the recipe is heavily guarded. It's our house specialty, and competition in Tokyo is fierce. So very sorry."

Well. So much for that. She sets out a fresh bowl of hot roasted chick peas and removes the one that's grown cold.

Damn, she's good. "So if it's your house specialty, how come you're givin' it away?" That's the question just begging to be asked.

For a moment she pauses, as if considering her answer carefully. But then she leans forward, her ornate earrings and necklace gleaming in the candle-like light. Her voice is low and confidential and she speaks to both of them. "I'm a Blue Sox fan. Don't tell."

Leanin' back again, he laughs real hearty. "Don't worry, little miss. Your secret's safe." On their side of the bar, he reaches for Freckles' hand and gives it a squeeze.

She laughs out loud, right into her glass, only looking down in mild surprise when his hand covers hers.

It's not the first time he's grabbed her hand and squeezed it; that's happened once before, and it threw her a little off her guard then, too.

As Hathor moves down the bar again, she takes the opportunity to swivel on her bar stool and turn toward him again, a grin still on her face. She only draws her hand away so she can tug at his new cap again. "Looks like this thing has paid for itself."

"You made a good investment, Freckles. Who'd have thought we'd get all this out of a baseball cap." That practically deserves a toast of ambrosia; he lifts his glass to hers and tips it back.

There needs to be more of this stuff in these glasses, or else they need to be served in bigger glasses. But he bets they pack one damn punch after another and he ain't sure what kind of alcohol's in 'em, but whatever it is, it's potent. So potent that he's got to follow that gulp with a handful of garbanzo beans.

Those are real good too. The salt on those is almost a perfect contrast to the sweetness of the drink, and damn if it don't all make his boring old scotch pale in comparison.

"Wonder if they have any hands-on Egypt exhibits at this place. It almost looks like it could have some secret Pharaoh's Theme Park in the back."

Now wouldn't that just be a kick. For a little while he wondered how come, if they were recreating cities from Earth on Mars, they didn't have not only New Orleans but Las Vegas. At least he knows the answer to that last one. The whole damn planet is like Las Vegas.

Whole damn place.

"In the back? Nah. They probably just have some ancient tomb with a curse on it."

She keeps grinning even with her lips pressed against the rim of her glass, and she swallows down the last of her ambrosia. She stands any time soon, and she may just feel it.

Moving the empty glass toward the inner edge of the bar, she picks up her Serpentine Bliss and snags a few chick peas. "Or maybe a little gold idol you can steal if you're not worried about giant boulders."

"I'm good, so long as there ain't no snakes." Snakes, why'd it have to be snakes. Yeah, he could get all Indiana Jones about it all he wants, but it strikes him in that moment that he ain't never seen a snake on their island.

How weird is that? Don't snakes and jungles go together like con-men and cards, or like dogs and fleas?

The island, though, is kind of the last place he wants to be thinkin' about now. No, right now he grins at Freckles and leans a little closer and talks like it's somethin' so confidential the FBI or the ISSP or whoever it is around here is gonna come get 'em for it. "Damn, Freckles, we're on Mars. Too bad there ain't no one to gloat to. At least no one here who'd give a damn, and no one back there who'd believe us."

It really is pretty amazing, though. Any and all of it. For the longest time when they first got to the asteroid, he kept expectin' some damn Other or other to jump out from behind the trees and say only kidding. Then again, when 815 first crashed on Hellhole Island he felt pretty much the same way.

She grins, almost playful. "Tough guys always hate snakes."

Maybe she never really thought of him in the same breath as Indiana Jones before now, but she has to concede that they're both tough guys.

Sawyer did dig a bullet out of his arm with his bare hands.

When he leans a little closer, like he's got some juicy secret, she tilts her head just so to invite him to tell her and then smiles into her glass between sips. If there's any subtle way they could gloat about this to people back on the island, she bets Sawyer could figure it out.

"I thought it was some kind of trick when we first got here."

She was even wary enough not to stay in a room that had her real name attached, and he went along with it. Even though he knew exactly what had her so on edge about it.

Lifting her hand, she pokes one finger at the ends of his hair. "Think your hair's looking a little less sun-bleached lately."

And she thinks they're both probably looking less tanned. If they go back one day -- if she goes back one day -- maybe the thing to do is spend some time at the nearest beach first.

"Guess we're just gonna have to take in a couple day games when we go see the Blue Sox play on their home turf." Wouldn't it be just his luck if they managed to make it all the way to Earth and got stuck on the same island there? Damn, that's a harsh thought, so he keeps it to himself. "If it's one of them open-air stadiums."

Hopefully it's one of those parts of the planet that ain't under constant bombardment from meteors.

"And if that don't work, I hear Venus is nice and hot as long as you stay on the sunny side of the planet." For the first time in a long damn time, he feels like the world's his oyster. Mississippi-fried or served up cold in the shell, it don't matter. He catches that finger of hers and for just a second twists his hair around it.

You like?

Then he takes off the Blue Sox cap, runs his hand through his hair, and sets the cap on her head at a nice jaunty angle.

"Blue looks good on you, Freckles. Always thought so." Better still if he gets to take it off her with his own hands. Right about now he's thinkin' two things. The first is about ordering another pair of those Ambrosias, and the second is all about gettin' back to their room. Hell, it's their last night in the historic city of Mars-Tokyo and the Blue Sox won. They ought to celebrate one way or another.

It's kind of sweet of him to say that.

Her eyes flick from his face to her drink and back, but she laughs at the same time.

"You don't look half bad in it yourself."

Any blue is good, but if he asked she'd have to say she prefers him in a more electric shade of blue. Like the shirt he was wearing the day he had her read his letter. She had her mind on other things at the time -- like the fact that it felt like his gaze was boring into her and his tone was dangerous enough to straighten her spine and steel herself -- but to this day she can remember the color making his eyes stand out.

(She was right about him that day.)

She angles her glass -- the fake goblet -- toward him. "You want a taste of Serpentine Bliss before it's all gone?"

Serpentine Bliss. "Ain't that what Eve said to Adam back there in paradise?" Laughing, he takes that goblet out of her hand and tastes the drink. It's good. Not as good as the ambrosia, but it's good anyhow. With a dimpled one-sided grin he hands that big old goblet back to her and because he can and because it'll take her by surprise and because this Sphinx bar is one of the fanciest damn bars he's ever been in, and because they went to see the baseball together and because she bought him the hat perched right on her head, he leans forward and kisses her real pretty, real sweet, right on the lips.

Hathor chooses that moment to show up again. "Ah. Ra's Ambrosia is the drink of new lovers, did I mention that?" She raises one perfectly tweezed eyebrow, gives them an I-told-you-so look, and gestures her equally perfectly-manicured hand at their empty Ambrosia glasses. "Refills?"

Even a con-man knows there's such a thing as too much of a good thing. Leaning back in his seat, he pats his tummy. "Not for me. You, Marianne?" That name almost makes him laugh but hell, it's just one more nickname for Freckles. Sassafras. Cupcake. Pippi Longstocking. Boar Expert. Puddin'. Belle of the Ball.

Kate.

She's about to point out that she's a lot more clothed than Eve when he leans in and helps himself to a kiss.

(It's just as well that the words never got a chance to leave her mouth.)

A little self-conscious, she slips her hand between her hair and the back of her neck. "Think I'm good to go, James."

She aims a little smile at Hathor. "But thanks."

A swallow or two is all that's left in the goblet, and she goes ahead and drains it before she turns to Sawyer again.

"You paying for yours, and I'm paying for mine?"

It's not the first time she's thought their bartender must be a hit with the crowds, and she thinks it despite the fact that she doubts she and Sawyer are a lot like the average couple she's used to getting in here.

That doesn't keep her from kind of liking that he kissed her, even though they were caught in the act.

"Nah. I got it." It ain't as much for Freckles' sake or for the bartender's sake as it is for his own. Pride's a hard thing to shake, and he's got his in spades. Handing over his card, he nods to Hathor. He'll leave her a tip in cash, 'cause that's the way he does things.

And he does, and when his card's tucked away again and they stand he takes Freckles by the hand, tugging that cap down over her forehead. "Carry your bag for you?"

They're just a couple blocks from the hotel and his hopes are still high for havin' a little grown-up fun tonight, but he ain't gonna push it. Que sera sera and all that Doris Day stuff. He didn't rush things with her on the island and he didn't rush 'em with her on the asteroid, and he ain't gonna rush 'em with her on Mars. Sure, it's maddening as hell, but it's worth it.

She's worth it.

"Something got you feeling chivalrous?"

On their way through the door, she doesn't hand him her bag -- she's got it -- but she does grin at him.

She's not sure if what's kicking in is the southern gentleman side of him that he's always told her he has or if it's it's just the side of him that'd like to seduce her.

Maybe it's a combination of the two.

Diane once told her that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. At the time, five years old and matter-of-fact, she'd said she didn't want to catch any flies, but taken as it's meant, it's definitely true.

He didn't manage to scare her off even when he was all gruff sarcasm and not-so-idle threats and blatant come-ons, but it can't be said that he's not much easier to get along with now. She waits until they're not blocking the bar's entrance and then tugs him toward her by the hand, rising on the balls of her feet to steal a kiss of her own.

He's not the only one who can play at that game.

Maybe that Hathor chick was right. Maybe ambrosia is the drink for new lovers. Whatever it is he'll take it. This is as much contact as they've had the whole trip, and he likes it. Even though he's never been the standin'-around-makin'-out type don't mean he doesn't enjoy it a lot.

Of course he does, and he can't help but feel a little bit smug when she helps herself to that kiss. There's no keeping score; he still ain't makin' assumptions about later. But if mood's everything -- just ask a boar to come in the room if you want to kill the mood, especially if the pig's carrying a personal grudge -- then they're on their way to a whole night filled with good moods.

When that kiss is over, he folds his hand over hers. Sometimes her hands feel tiny and other times they feel strong and capable. But he's noticed that either way, they always feel right, not that the two of 'em spend a whole lot of time hand-holding. If he could, he just might, or else he'd be holding onto other parts of her. That thought makes him grin.

"Hey. Freckles." She's awful cute right now. "This has been fun. Not just the ball game and the fancy drinks. The whole trip." Truth to tell, he wasn't sure how well the two of 'em would travel together. It's one thing to sleep with a woman (or to have sex with her and watch her go off to sleep in her own place). It's another to be with her all the time. Only other woman he got on this well with was Cass.

Hopefully this won't end up with him in jail again.

It's not raining anymore, but there's still that wet feeling hanging in the air, not to mention the occasional puddle under their feet.

"What, you weren't expecting to have fun?"

She's teasing, but she wasn't really sure what to expect out of the two of them on a trip to Mars together. She's still not really sure, in fact, but she's been stuck on an island with him and that makes taking a few days to go to Mars together seems perfectly doable. Her own bed is something she never would've given up, but the question she hasn't exactly been able to acknowledge is whether or not sharing a single hotel room for the duration is something they can pull off.

It's worked pretty well so far... except having him stripped down to his boxers and sleeping about six feet away from her at night is something she has trouble ignoring.

There's no doubt in her mind that he knows it.