My apologies - there really is no excuse for how long it took me to get this up here. I've had it done for awhile, but the holidays got a little overwhelming, to make an excuse. As always, love to my beta, Eva, who gives me someone to whine to. Also, she corrects my horrendous abuses of innocent commas.

Konitsu

Squall wasn't quite sure why he wasn't carrying his gunblade, or why Zell wasn't wearing his gloves. After all, they'd just repelled an attack on their Garden, so to leave in the first place was bordering on neglect or insanity, much less wandering around weaponless. Still, here they were walking down to Balamb in the misty, humid twilight, unarmed but junctioned, trying to act something less than paranoid. Squall told himself he'd promised Zell they'd check on the town, and tried very hard not to think about the fact that even his beloved Garden felt stifling right now, full of little reminders of mutants, hurt kids, and Rinoa.

Zell had taken a blow to the side that had needed three high level cure spells and some stitching on top of that, and he was walking with his jacket off to lessen the pull of fabric across his wounded ribs. Squall grit his teeth and was almost surprised by his sudden desire to resurrect whatever creature had done that and beat it into a pulp, again. His own wound didn't bother him much, he'd waved away a cure – wanted it to go to someone who needed it more – and the careful stitches and butterfly bandages were nothing he wasn't used to. The worst injury at Garden had been a SeeD's busted ribs, which was pretty damn lucky, considering.

“Man,” Zell said, lifting his shirt up to prod at the bandages. “Ma's gonna flip if she sees this.”

Ma Dincht 'flipping' was an experience Squall was all too familiar with. He'd stayed very, very quiet in a secluded corner the day after they'd come back from a mission that gave Zell a gash across his right bicep that she'd taken considerable objection to. They'd cured most traces of the wound, and it hadn't even scarred, but she'd still been hell's vengeance walking. It was, Squall figured, her way of expressing her worry, since the Dinchts couldn't be depended on to display their emotions in any way that counted as normal. That was one of the things Squall liked about Zell and his mother.

“If you actually keep your shirt down, she might not notice,” Squall pointed out, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

Zell snorted. “She'll notice as soon as she hugs me and I yelp.”

“Squeak,” Squall corrected languidly.

The blond scowled, pulling his shirt back down. “I don't squeak.”

“Yes, you do.” Never in battle, though. Only when you caught him afterward and had to pull the make shift bandages a little tighter around his arm did he actually squeak; it was faintly bizarre.

“Well, if I squeak, then you moan.” Zell paused, flushing. “That didn't sound right, did it?”

Squall coughed, trying to hide his own slight blush by taking sudden notice of the rising moon (though really, living around Irvine so long should have inured him to this). Zell glanced around them, peering into the fog as if he expected Seifer to jump out of the gloom, point and them and start cackling at the sexual innuendo.

“You've been hanging out with Irvine too much,” Squall said, paraphrasing his own thoughts.

“Ya, well...” Zell kicked listlessly at the scruffy grass. “Not like anyone else is around to hang out with. Selphie's always got some activity, and Quistis is teaching, and you -”

“I?” Had Squall's instincts been up to their usual level, he'd have realized he was walking straight into a big emotional time bomb that he really didn't want to be involved in right then. Unfortunately, lack of sleep and a trying day had dulled his 'oh shit, abandon ship' sensors.

“Nothing, man, forget about it.”

Zell had never, ever been a very good liar, and he was also about as subtle as a brick forcefully applied to the back of one's head. Even Squall could figure out when something was upsetting him, and when he was trying to hide it. Squall stopped walking, and Zell's steps puttered out, the blond turning to face him.

“What?” Squall demanded, crossing his arms over his chest and putting on his best Commander Face.

Zell seemed as if he were trying to figure out whether to be deferential or angry, clenching his fists but refusing to maintain eye contact with Squall, instead finding great interest in the grass. “It's not important.”

“Zell.” The 'I am not in the mood for this' tone had been perfected over the years, though he usually only had call to use it on Seifer. Squall had already had his emotions run the wringer today, and whatever Zell wanted to say he had to spit it out now so Squall could tell him he was being an idiot and they could get on with their lives.

Zell snapped his head up, finally meeting Squall's eyes. “I know you're Commander and a lot of shit's going on lately, but you never have time for anybody anymore, if we're not talking 'business'.” He frowned. “Anybody except Rinoa.”

Squall scowled. “Are you pissed at me or are you pissed at Rinoa? Because I told you...”

The blond snorted and saluted, the gesture practically dripping infuriated sarcasm. “I'll make a memo that Squall is now allowed to order us how to feel.”

Squall had almost forgotten that arguing with Zell was like running headlong into a brick wall, over and over again – infuriating, painful, and it got you absolutely nowhere.

“Whatever your problem is,” Squall said, “don't blame it on Rinoa.”

“I'm not blaming it on Rinoa!” Zell exclaimed. “I like Rinoa, the fact that I'm mad at Rinoa right now means fuck all!”

“Well, you shouldn't be mad at her!” The other problem with arguing with Zell was that he, quickly and inevitably, dragged you down to his level, and everything dissolved into incoherency sooner rather than later.

“That's not what this is about!” Zell waved his hands wildly, though what the hell he was attempting to communicate with the gestures was lost on Squall. “This is about you thinking that having a social life beyond your girlfriend -”

“She's not my girlfriend,” Squall muttered, trying to ignore the twinge of pain that sent through him.

“Will give you cancer or something! When was the last time we had a conversation that didn't involve the world ending?”

“Zell, it doesn't matter.”

“Like hell it doesn't!” Zell rolled his eyes. “Damn it, you're such a moody bitch when you're not getting -”

If anyone were to ask Squall later, he would have sworn Zell could have dodged the punch. Zell was, after all, much faster than Squall, but both of them had forgotten over the course of the impromptu argument to remember that Zell was just the slightest bit injured. The punch connected on Zell's jaw and the martial artist reacted as his instincts told him to, but after the kick slammed Squall backwards, Zell fell to the ground clutching his ribs and hacking.

Squall got his wind back fairly quickly, thanks to the healing spells junctioned onto Bahamut, and he practically scrambled over to where Zell sat coughing.

“Well,” Zell commented, “that was dumb.”

“Sorry,” Squall said, wincing at the hoarse pain in Zell's voice.

“Hey, you apologized.” Zell managed a smile. “Considering that's something of a miracle, I'll refrain from exacting my mighty revenge and killing you where you stand.”

Squall helped Zell to his feet, muttering a cure spell as he did so. Zell rewarded his efforts with another smile, this one much less forced.

“I'm sorry too.” He scratched the back of his neck nervously. “I shouldn't have said that, but...it's been a long fucking day.”

And Zell usually had the mental censoring abilities of a six year old on speed anyway. Squall was more than used to Zell putting his foot in his mouth, but today had frayed both their nerves. Hell, acting like an asshole for a minute or two had even been slightly therapeutic, though he wasn't in a mind to have another argument with Zell anytime soon; if he ever threw a punch at the martial artist when he wasn't injured, they'd both be smears on the grass before the fight ended.

“Let's get to Balamb,” Squall said, cutting off the need for anymore awkward apologies.

“Ya. Thanks.”

Zell's mother didn't even try to look like she hadn't been waiting for them. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest, the frown lines on her face more pronounced than usual as they walked toward her.

“I don't suppose,” she said, as soon as they were within earshot, “that anyone is going to give me an explanation?”

Sena Dincht had lost a father and a husband to the military in senseless, brutal wars; she kept their guns and their medals, their pictures nestled in dusty old corners, reproachful eyes watching whoever wandered the floors of the little Dincht house. Still, somehow, she gave her son - who'd she'd chosen out of all the others and raised no matter how much of a hassle his energy made him - up to Squall's keeping. And could Squall even offer her an explanation about what sort of danger Zell was dragged into, simply for being what a SeeD was?

No. It was against regulation, and Commanders had to follow regulation, no matter how heavy the stare of their friend's mother weighed.

Squall shook his head, trying to ignore the expression of resignation on her face.

“It's not too bad, Ma,” Zell lied cheerfully, bouncing on his heels. “Just something civilians can't handle.” He waved a hand. “No training.”

“I'd noticed.” She gestured to the spot where blood had stained the cobblestones. “Old Jerai got himself killed, he refused to come inside. His granddaughter's not taking it very well.”

She led the boys inside her small, clean home without saying anything further, letting them make of the death what they would. Squall was bending down to unlace his boots (no shoes in the house, he'd learned that rule quickly) when Ma Dincht swept forward and hugged her son with all the abrupt gracefulness Squall was used to seeing out of Zell. The martial artist did his best not to show how much it hurt him, very admirably not squeaking. Another cure spell was easy enough for Squall to summon to his fingertips, and the whisper of magic was too slight for the woman to notice, but it eased Zell's pain enough for him to quickly return the embrace.

This house, through the crisis with the Sorceress and afterward, had become the only place where Squall could feel like a teenager. At Garden he was Commander, responsible and strong, even with Rinoa he was Knight. Ma Dincht didn't allow anyone in her house to be anything they weren't, and Squall wasn't anything more than a socially awkward eighteen year old to her keen eye. Sometimes he liked it, sometimes it made him unspeakably uncomfortable; some of the others, like Irvine, would live here if they could. Squall had no idea what Zell felt when he came home, and if there were changes in the blond's manner they were only the deceptions he always made to keep his mother happy and relatively unworried.

Ma Dincht pushed them down into chairs at the kitchen table with unbending authority, telling Squall to take off his coat and peering at Zell suspiciously, obviously not entirely fooled by the cure spell Squall had cast.

“You boys just sit there,” she said, “I've had water on for coffee.”

Damn, but did coffee sound really good right then. Squall couldn't remember the last time he'd had caffeine, or eaten, really. Probably yesterday – or maybe even the day before – because he could remember Rinoa saying something disapproving and disgusted as he found a can of whipped cream in the minifridge and ate it straight. He'd paid her nagging no never mind at the time; he had things to do, the whipped cream was the only unexpired thing in the room, and he didn't have time to find anything to eat it on; if he did he'd have gotten a real breakfast. Now, he'd give anything to hear her sleepy commentary on his less than stellar eating habits.

Squall tipped his head back and sighed. Damn it, this was eating away at him too much.

“Hey, you okay?” Zell asked.

Squall just looked at him, trying to convey in silence exactly how much he didn't want to talk about what he was thinking. Zell, for once in his life, got the hint, and returned to trying to look as if he were in perfect health.

The coffee was good, no cream and lots of sugar just how Squall liked it – though he could see across the table that Zell was actually drinking hot chocolate – and accompanied by a tray of tuna sandwiches and cookies. Squall had never tasted anything so good in his life. Junctioned strength and SeeD resilience could only go so far, and two days of forgetting about food had Squall eating faster than was strictly politely. Oddly enough, Zell ate slower when he was truly hungry, as if he were trying to savor everything, even tuna fish; his pace was leisurely today, and Squall wondered how long it had been since even Zell had a free moment in the chaos to go to the cafeteria.

Ma Dincht walked up to the table and planted her hands on her hips, all authority. “Take off your shirt.”

Squall coughed a little into his coffee mug, startled for a moment into thinking she was talking to him, but Zell was peeling his black top off almost sheepishly, exposing the bandages wrapped around his ribs and already stained with blood. Unconsciously, Squall's hand raised to his neck to press against his own wound, drawing some bizarre grounding from the sharp sting of pain.

Not every wound could be fixed with a cure spell, especially if nobody got there fast enough when a fighter lay passed out and bleeding. Zell had a fairly new scar above his heart, a jagged line from serrated claws; a trophy of their last mission, when keeping Irvine's eye firmly in his head and fully functioning had been more of a priority than Zell's wound, and then Selphie had almost needed a finger reattached. That had been the mission from hell, but luckily Ma Dincht didn't comment on the scar in favor of frowning sternly at the bandages, as if they were somehow at fault.

“Broken?” She asked, and Squall knew she was asking in the past tense. No way Zell would be here if they were still broken.

Zell shrugged. “No. Cracked. They're fine now, Ma, I swear. The monsters we were fighting, Quistis thinks they had something in their claws that makes it harder for the gashes to heal or something. But she packed me full of Esuna and it should start clotting soon.” He smiled, teeth flashing in the desperately hopeful curve of his mouth. “Don't worry about it.”

“It hurts,” she said.

Her son shifted uncomfortably. “Well, ya. But I've had bruised ribs before, and it's just a scratch.”

There was some little part of Squall, the bit that was the cold, authoritative Commander through and through, that wanted to catalog Zell's wounds for his mother. Bruised ribs, diagonal gash six inches long, too much bleeding; lowered reflexes, lower pain threshold, waning strength. Slightly unbalanced Commander keeps pumping him full of cure spells, which is bound to send him loopy eventually.

Squall snorted, but the Dinchts ignored him in favor of their staring match.

It was the mother who relented. “I'm going to check on Jerai's girl,” she told them, “I want you to finish eating and get some sleep. You both look like hell warmed over.”

Zell pulled his shirt back on. “Yes, Ma.”

Squall just nodded his assent.

“Miss Trepe?”

Quistis started in surprised, and realized that she'd been blocking the hallway. How long she'd been standing there she didn't know, but she'd been spaced out for at least five minutes, by her estimation. Her mind didn't usually wander off, but that day had just hit her like a sack of bricks all of a sudden. She turned to find Valentine frowning at her, but the expression seemed somehow more worried than disapproving.

Wings, stretching above them like the monster was trying to blot out the sky. Teeth and claws and power compacted, something not human, something just not right, and it turned into Vincent Valentine.

It took Quistis a moment to speak, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. “Mr. Valentine,” she managed finally, forcing the words out through the nervous instinct to back away slowly and draw her weapon.

Not human, not human not human not human.

“I told you to call me Vincent.” His tone was perfectly neutral, careful and steady in a way that spoke of practice at it.

He's a good man and he's a monster chased themselves around Quistis's head, tinged with the background music of Chaos's eerie laughter. It would have been easier to take, perhaps, if Chaos was all there was to Valentine – they dealt with the Guardian Forces after all, let them live in their heads. But a GF was a GF and a man was a man, and there was something animal about Diablos and Ifrit and Chaos that didn't belong in any human soul.

Then again, he had friends, a lover. Quistis had even liked him, in that naïve time between talking and battle, before she'd seen what prowled behind unnatural red eyes. There had to be something there worth liking, worth caring about, something human that wouldn't scare her half to death. Irrational fear, however, would always be irrational fear.

Vincent's frown, by this time, had wandered into 'disapproving' at Quistis's silence. She wondered if he could guess her thoughts, if he resented her for them.

“I'm sorry,” she said, trying to pretend he was a student who had stepped out of bounds, or an enemy that was staring her down; those she could face with her equilibrium safely intact.

“You can take your hand off your weapon,” he said, and Quistis realized with a start that she'd settled her fingers around the handle of her whip. “I'm not going to rip out your heart and eat it.” He paused, eyed her thoughtfully. “Today.”

He swept off down the hallway, gliding past her with an elegance that was even more disconcerting than Cloud's. At least Cloud was simply, unavoidably superhuman – Vincent Valentine was ethereal, otherworldly...and Quistis was having a very hard time convince herself that he'd been joking.

Sarcasm as a defense mechanism, she reminded herself sternly. You've seen it before, you've used it before. Quistis stared after him, the edges of his cloak fluttering like broken bat wings. Is it any surprise that his defense mechanism is a little morbid?

She wasn't in any condition to deal with this right now, in any case. Trying to deal with logical reactions verses emotional ones was hard enough on a good day, without everyone so high strung from attacks and injuries. It would be easier to avoid Valentine for now, and ask questions once she'd calmed down a little. If she calmed down a little.

“I wonder if Nida needs someone to take the night watch,” she wondered aloud, and then made for the bridge.

There was something wrong with Vincent. Okay, there was pretty much always something wrong with Vincent, but today Cid was fairly sure the problem was more specific than the usual angst and irritation. He was taking a shower, which wouldn't have been an issue if Vincent took showers at night; he hated going to bed with wet hair, and avoided it at all costs. Considering he wasn't covered with blood tonight and the medical staff of Garden had cleaned up his wound, Vincent was in the shower because he wanted to beat the living hell out of someone and was channeling his frustrations or some psychological bullshit like that.

Somebody was probably going to have to replace gouged shower tiles.

Cid sighed and lit another cigarette. He'd known this was going to happen, after Vincent had flipped out. Hell, they'd been uncomfortable with Vincent the first time he'd changed – a man pops out of a coffin spouting cryptic shit and then turns purple and scaly? It was bound to screw with anybody's head. How could he fault a bunch of kids for being freaked?

Easily. Really fucking easily. This was Vincent, and Cid had never been in the habit of letting his lovers take flak from idiots...or smart people, or anybody. Vincent could turn into a damned dancing purple hippopotamus and it wouldn't be any of their business, or any of their right to piss him off. Somebody had stared at him in fear, probably, backed away from him, made a quick note of all the exists, their eyes darting even if they didn't notice it. Somebody here had treated him like an enemy, and as much as it made Vincent angry, it pissed Cid the fuck off, too.

All emotions aside, it wasn't good that the SeeDs weren't keen on trusting either Cloud or Vincent, now. They needed all the trust they could get, and Cid's experiences in the air force had quickly taught him that it wasn't the enemies you had to worry about, it was the assholes behind your own lines.

“Not our lines, though,” he grumbled. “Theirs, and we're the damned intruders here.”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Damn, but he was getting too damn old for this shit. Maybe thirty-two wasn't old in the real world, but he was surrounded by teenagers and lunatics all damn day, and Cloud and Tifa weren't much better than either of those categories. He loved those kids to death, really he did, but sometimes they drove him up the god damned wall. Cloud had the company of the voices in his head, and some days Cid wanted to have Shera take Tifa quietly to the side to explain how to stop wanting what you can't have.

“Too fucking old.”

“If you're too old, what does that make me?” Vincent asked from the bathroom doorway, though Cid hadn't even noticed the water shutting off.

“That doesn't count,” Cid said, “and you know it.”

Vincent shrugged and returned to towel drying his hair with a little too much force, looking more frazzled than Cid was used to seeing him. Probably nobody else would notice (Cloud, maybe), but Vincent's movements were too jerky, the lines that had just began creasing around his eyes folded a little too deep with his frown. And, well...

“Vin,” Cid said, quite calmly, “those are my pants.”

Looking down at the three or so inches of heel that were revealed by the sweat pants and the too loose waist with something resembling surprise, Vincent just shrugged. “Maybe if you'd clean up every once in awhile, I'd be able to find my own pants.”

“We're not staying here, there's no damn reason to clean up.”

Vincent glared. “Maybe so I can find my pants.”

“Who needs pants anyway?”

“I can't imagine they'd be anymore shocked than they are already, even if I did walk around without pants,” Vincent muttered, dropping the towel to the floor (Cid made a mental note to bring that up if Vincent started harping about cleanliness again) to finger comb his hair.

“Which one of them was it?” Cid asked, trying to look as un-homicidal as possible.

“Quistis,” Vincent replied, frowning at a knot in his hair to avoid meeting Cid's eyes.

Cid winced. Quistis had been friendly with them, and for as little as a few chats counted, her judgment still probably hurt more than, say, Leonhart's. Stupid girl.

“I'll-”

Vincent cut him off. “Nothing. You won't be doing anything. You won't threaten her, or growl at her, or look at her funny or try to blow her up.”

Cid crossed his arms over his chest indignantly. “I've never tried to blow anyone up,” he objected.

“Highwind, you carried around dynamite for half of our journey, and were severely disappointed when you ran out.”

If there was one thing good for distracting Vincent from his angst, it was pointless sarcastic banter. There was something about playing with words that he just couldn't resist, and though Cid's sarcasm had grown a little rusty over the years, he was improving.

“There's a difference,” he said, “between being prepared and blowing people up.”

Vincent sighed and rolled his eyes. “In any case – you'll leave her be. I'll have enough problems without you charging to my rescue.”

“Rescue?” Cid asked. “Who said anything about rescue? I'm allowed to be pissed off on my own time. Just because it happens to coincide with her being a bitch to you means absolutely nothing.”

“Your hero complex is showing,” Vincent drawled.

“I don't have a damned hero complex. Tifa might. I have a grumpy old man complex – means I have the right to blow up whoever pisses me off.”

“Did you make that up all by yourself?” Vincent drawled sarcastically, and then abruptly steered the conversation back onto the more serious topic. “I'm serious, Cid, leave her be. She has a right to be frightened of what I am.”

“Fine,” Cid growled. “But anyone sets you to brooding and I have the right to rip some new assholes.”

“I don't brood.”

The statement was so patently false that it bordered on the ridiculous, and Vincent had to know it. Cid tried very, very hard not to laugh, but his efforts failed miserably and Vincent scooped the wet towel back up off the floor to fling it in Cid's face. The pilot had no choice but to retaliate, and a short scuffle later Vincent was perched triumphantly on the desk chair, his feet on Cid's chest as the older man lay on the floor looking not at all apologetic.

“That was so fucking mature.”

“Turks learn to use all weapons at their disposal in a time of combat,” Vincent said, sounding like he was quoting something he'd heard far too many times. “Including towels.” He shifted his foot so that his toes were pressing slightly on Cid's throat, a weird gesture that would have been a threat to anyone else. “Promise me you won't say anything to Quistis. Chaos is a monster, and it's not her fault she's scared.”

Cid wanted to argue, really he did, but sometimes arguing just wasn't the answer (it had taken him awhile and a few bruises to learn that special lesson). “Damn it,” he grumbled. “Fine.”

“Promise.”

Shit. Vincent knew him all too well.

“I swear on my mother's grave,” he intoned solemnly.

Vincent glared. “Highwind, you never knew your mother, much less if she's dead or not.”

“She could be.” Cid pointedly ignored his partner's exasperated eyeroll. “And if she's not, I swear on her eventual grave.”

“I'm holding you to that.”

Cid held up his arms, obviously asking for a hand up off the floor. Vincent removed his feet from Cid's chest and stood up to grasp the pilot's hands, and was rewarded for his courtesy when Cid yanked him to the floor.

If Cid couldn't go out and yell at Quistis, the least he could do was distract Vincent from the nightmares he knew would be coming.

When living in Shinra barracks, the main forms of entertainment usually came in the form of copious amounts of alcohol or smacking a tennis ball against the wall until you were too damn tired to do it anymore. Allowances hadn't been high enough to allow anything else, though Cloud had once thought that if he'd had any friends other than Zack, he might be introduced to such acts as 'talking' and 'card games'. No, it had been the tennis ball for him, and he'd found the smooth throw-catch-throw action soothing after a time, normal and steady. He was always good enough to catch a tennis ball, no matter what he failed at.

Now, forever and a day away from the Shinra barracks, Cloud found himself wishing for a tennis ball to throw against the shiny steel walls of the SeeD dorm.

Who am I? Even for Cloud it was too simple a question to frame what was going on. He was Cloud Strife, Zack Charon, whoever he was he still shouldn't be kissing villainy. There had to be a rule against that somewhere. It was in the handbook – 'So, you want to save the world. Stop macking on evil, dipshit!'

The hypothetical handbook sounded surprisingly like Yuffie.

Cloud slammed his head back against the wall as an impromptu substitute for the tennis ball, and found it only slightly less gratifying. He had to clear his head, had to stop thinking like a love sick teenager and start thinking like...

Like what? A hero? Cloud snorted.

So, 'love sick teenager' and 'slightly deluded twenty something' were all he had to work with in the personality department. There had to be something there he could use, or he wouldn't have been able to defeat Sephiroth in the first place. But this wasn't defeating him, this was something so much more difficult. Of course, the hardest step of the process might just be convincing everyone else how insane Cloud wasn't for thinking up the whole damn thing.

He'd convinced Leonhart to hold a meeting tomorrow, after the commander got back from checking on the loyal villagers, or what have you. That was a step, a good step; if he could get them to listen to him, maybe the SeeDs at least would agree to go along with it. Tifa's trust he had, implicitly, and she'd support him if only to show that she didn't think he was absolutely off his fucking rocker. Cid and Vincent would be the problem, too bizarrely paternal to let Cloud put himself in danger in the name of a whole mess of maybes. Luckily, he only had to convince one of them, and they'd do the work on the other for him.

This was all getting a little too convoluted.

Why couldn't this problem be limited to Jenova? Or, at least, why couldn't she have dragged someone like Hojo along for the ride? Cloud would have no problems with blowing that skeeze bag to hell and back again, and it'd probably be stress relief for all of them. No, this was Sephiroth, and Cloud's memories were, more and more, marking him as human. Sarcastic, stand offish, and easily irritated, yes, but also protective, and intelligent, and clever.

At what point did you justify murder?

Not to instigate or anything, Zack said, and I do like Seph almost as much as you do, but he did try to blow up the planet. It kind of sucked.

Cloud shook his head. “Jenova did that. It's not...I don't know anymore.”

Sleep on it.

It was a better idea than anything else Cloud had right now.

Zell's bedroom floor had always been surprisingly comfortable, especially when Ma Dincht threw enough blankets at the guest to make a good mattress on the floor. Still, despite blankets and a comfortable floor and complete exhaustion, Squall couldn't sleep. He'd tried so hard not to get attached to Rinoa, or even the idea of Rinoa, but sleeping by himself seemed strangely empty now.

Weakness he could scarcely afford, especially since he needed the damned rest.

At least Zell seemed to be having no such problems. The blond lay curled up on his good side, sleeping as he always had in a small, tight ball. Squall didn't know if it was an instinctual measure of protection, or something brought on by a childhood fear of Seifer killing him in his sleep. There was never any telling these things, with Zell.

But even as Squall started to grumpily envy Zell for his ability to fall asleep, the blond shifted slightly.

“Hey, Squall,” he said softly, low enough that he wouldn't wake up Squall if the commander were, in fact, sleeping. “You awake?”

Squall could quite easily ignore him, close his eyes and pretend, but for some reason he didn't want to. “Yes.”

“You...okay?” It was at least the fifth time that day Zell had asked.

“Yes.” Squall rolled his eyes. “I am functioning perfectly, and I think I would have noticed if I'd gained any debilitating physical deformities in the past three hours.”

Zell rolled over and stretched out on his back so that he could turn his head and look at Squall. “Not what I mean.”

Squall raised a hand to his face, pressing his fingers against his forehead as he sighed. “Zell,” he said, slowly. “I'm okay, or I will be.”

“She shouldn't have done that.” Squall, though he couldn't make out Zell's features perfectly in the dark, could imagine the indignant glare. “It's not fair to you!”

“Life usually isn't,” Squall said.

“Sometimes, baby, I worry about you.”

His answer was a soft, disbelieving snort. A few minutes of confused, thick silence drifted through the room, as if Zell couldn't figure out whether to shut up and go to sleep or continue pressing Squall's emotional buttons.

“Okay, I'm not fine,” Squall admitted. “But it doesn't matter. We've got better things to worry about than whether or not Rinoa loves me anymore.” It was a challenge to keep his voice steady, but he managed.

Zell reached down and found Squall's shoulder, squeezed it reassuringly. “Shit's going to work out, I know it.”

Who was Squall to break the one bubble of hope and optimism Zell had left? “It always does.”

Quistis needed to talk to somebody, and while Irvine wasn't her first choice, everyone else was currently preoccupied or gone from Garden completely. Besides, Irvine could be a great help when he put his mind to it and stopped being aggravating, so it was no big hardship to knock briskly on the door to his room. Unfortunately, Irvine had not deigned to put a shirt on or tie his hair back, so his freshly awake appearance didn't really set the mood for serious discussion.

“Quisty?” He muttered, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Usually he only called her by the old nickname when he wanted to aggravate her, but coming from a dream-addled mind, it simply sounded affectionate and a little confused.

“It's 0800, Irvine,” she said, “why aren't you awake yet?” And how the hell could he sleep in the first place, considering all that had happened? Quistis had spent a restless night, pacing and thinking in between quick cat naps.

“I'm talking to you, aren't I?” He managed a sleepy smirk. “That means I'm awake. What brings you to my humble abode?”

Quistis sighed, shifted, tried not to think too hard about the weakness this was going to show. “I need to talk.”

Irvine rubbed the side of his head, mussing his hair further, and looked vaguely understanding. “Come on. I think I've got some of that Timber Cola you like so much in the minifridge.”

Really, the sight of Selphie sprawled out in Irvine's bed - taking up way too much space, wearing one of his t-shirts, and snoring fit to wake the dead - shouldn't have been a surprise. Still, Quistis was slightly startled, but that surprise cooled quickly into amusement.

“Where do you two find the time?” She asked.

“Oh, everywhere,” Irvine said with a delighted smirk as he pulled open the minifridge, pushing aside a few bottles of beer and the over-sugared drinks Selphie favored before he found a can of Timber Cola and tossed it to Quistis. He walked over and nudged the sleeping Selphie with his hand that wasn't holding one of the bottles of beer. “Innit that right, Selph?”

“Library closet,” Selphie muttered, and then rolled over, making her opinion of Irvine interrupting her sleep well known.

Irvine cracked open his bottle of beer and took a seat on the edge of the bed, gesturing for Quistis to take the desk chair. She gingerly brushed aside a pair of jeans and hung Irvine's coat on the back of the chair before she sat down and opened her cola, suddenly at a loss for what to say. She'd never been very good at this discussing emotions thing, though she was better at it than Squall (as if that were an achievement). She always ended up teasing or saying something sarcastic to cover what she really meant, or just grinding to a screeching, confused halt.

She was currently going for the 'screeching, confused halt' option.

Instead she looked at Irvine, hair long and tousled, exposed torso already sporting more than one nasty looking scar, nothing like the sly little boy who used to follow her around asking question after question. She wondered if he still had nightmares that woke him up screaming, if he didn't cry loud (not like Zell) but found little corners to curl up in where no one could find him, or if he'd grown out of all that. Quistis still couldn't remember leaving him behind.

And damn, now he was doing slightly questionable things with Selphie, and they could both kill a man without even blinking. Of course, Quistis could, too. All of them could. What the hell had time done to them?

“Quistis, you okay?” Irvine asked, shattering her reverie.

“Of course, I'm fine.” She paused, sighed. “Relatively. Should you be drinking that this early in the morning?”

“First you're harping on me because I'm not awake and now I can't have a beer?” He asked, tone soft enough that she knew he was joking.

“You don't usually drink,” she pointed out. “Well, you do, but...”

Most of the time he made an occasion of it, delighted in gathering up Quistis and Zell and making it a night on the town. Honestly, it had become something of a tradition between the three of them, when one or another was upset or too stressed out. Selphie was adamant about her alcohol-free ways and they respected that, they'd have to be insane to invite Squall, and it just seemed strange to include Rinoa, somehow. It worked out well, especially since it was, more often than not, Irvine having Selphie problems or Zell having Squall problems (no matter how many times she told the boy to 'stop having a crush on our straight, attached leader'...) that spurred the little sessions.

Irvine shrugged. “Special occasion. I'm surprised you don't want one.”

Quistis made a face. “You know I don't like beer.”

“Ya.” Irvine nodded. “But I don't really, either. Easiest alcoholic thing to get around here, though.”

Only Zell had ever developed a taste for beer, though he insisted on stealing the tacky little umbrellas from Quistis's drinks to stick in his pints.

“Drive into a tree and kill yourself,” Selphie muttered.

Irvine turned his head to stick his tongue out at her, though she couldn't see it, and then turned his attention back to Quistis. “So, why are you really here at eight in the morning? I know it wasn't to write me up for having beer.”

“You're not even supposed to have the fridge,” she reminded him. “And as for why I'm here, it's just...everything's been a little hectic lately.”

“I hadn't noticed,” Irvine drawled.

“How are you holding up?” Displacing her anxiety onto someone else always seemed to work, too.

“Well, beyond the fact that complete psychopath seems hell bent on conquering the world or whatever?” He smiled. “I'm pretty good. I mean, Strife creeps me the fuck out and I've had at least three occasions of babbling like a lunatic, but it's all good.”

“Strife creeps you out?” She asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Sure,” he said. “I mean, Valentine gave me the creeping willies when he first got here, but he's not so bad, and Highwind and Lockheart are about as normal as you're going to find in this place. The whole 'crazy guy mind control' thing, though? That and Squall keeps giving me orders to escort him around, and I think Strife wants to rip off my arms and beat me to death with them as punishment for me being assigned babysitter duty. And he could, too.”

“But Vincent you're okay with?”

Irvine sighed and leaned forward, one hand propping up his chin as he rested his elbows on his knees, the other lazily dangling the beer bottle, brown glass catching the golden morning sunlight and throwing weird patterns onto the wall. “Quistis, we've seen some strange shit. Sure, the thing with Valentine was kinda freakish, but it didn't even blip on the 'oh my god, what the fuck'-o-meter, not after seeing time folded in on itself and Squall falling in love with someone who likes pink.”

Quistis smiled at the joke, amused despite herself. “As strange, perhaps, as you making a commitment?” She nodded toward Selphie.

“Ouch. Touche.” He took a swig of beer. “Ya, as strange as that, too. Things change, people change. People change into huge ass monsters with wings, GF's eat away your memories to make room for their wings.”

“Very poetic, Irvine.”

“Ya, well, great sex does that to me,” he declared, and then laughed at the face Quistis made.

“Great sex my ass,” Selphie added in, sounding slightly more awake and very wicked. “The girl needs to orgasm too, Irvine.”

Irvine choked on the next mouthful of beer, and Quistis suspected that she came very close to dieing of laughter.