A/N: A Selphie/Irvine character study that demanded to be written. Don't own, don't sue.

The Little Things


She always shakes the salt three times onto her eggs, and you realize you might know more about her than you do about yourself.

You memorize her routine--shower, an hour styling her hair, fifteen minutes flipping through television channels at six in the morning before class. You know exactly how she takes her coffee--three sugars, one creamer, occasionally a cinnamon stick if she's feeling indulgent. She hates it when you don't rinse out the sink after you've shaved, and she'll throw away your shaving cream if you leave it sitting on the porcelain for more than a day. ("It makes rings," she says with a grimace.) She'll pick at her cuticles if she's nervous. She can talk on and on about something as inconsequential as a robin she saw in the Quad.

You know what she looks like in bed, mussed and skin gleaming in the faint moonlight, breathy and dazed because you already know the half a dozen spots that make her moan. You know her scars--one from a bullet grazing her hip, one from where Squall accidentally nicked her shoulder in a sparring match, and she knows yours. ("Too many to count," she'll murmur and trace the big one across your stomach with a fingernail covered in chipped blue polish.)

She'll flick through a dozen radio stations before she even leaves her parking space, because she can't drive without the right music. She knows your brand of smokes even though you try to hide it from her. ("I got your little cancer sticks," she'll announce, and toss you the pack of Malboros even though you haven't realized you're out.) Your "Galbadia Garden" sweatshirt has been in her closet for months, and you're not going to get it back because she wants something that reminds her of you when she's out on missions.

"Hand me a napkin?"


She hates to do laundry, and so you've learned that even though you dump all of your clothes in one load, she'll get kind of angry if her red bra ends up washed with her white skirt. ("This is not supposed to be pink.")

"Want the paper?"


It strikes you suddenly, as she hands you the News and Sports sections, keeping Style and the Balamb Weekender for herself, that even though you know everything about her, even though your days have turned to almost mundane commentary about the littlest things in an effort for conversation, you wouldn't trade this for anything, even the exploits of your bachelor days.

"You're quiet."

"Sorry. Just thinking."

She smiles around the edges of her mug. "How grown up of you."

And you think that yeah, it kind of is. Maybe you have matured a little--you're getting older, anyway. It's a scary thought, growing up, but you think that if she understands, if she's willing to stick by you, it wouldn't be so bad.