skeleton keys (FFVIII, various)
title: skeleton keys
fandom: FFVIII
characters: various
notes: scenes from different unfinished FFVIII things.
i. squall/rinoa
"Do you ever have those dreams where you're not sure if you're awake?"
"Lucid dreams?"
"I guess that's what they're called."
"No."
Her fingers, gentle as she taps his arm. "Liar."
"It's the truth."
"I'm so sure."
His pillow is bunched up too tightly against the wall and he shifts it slightly, smelling detergent and that stuff she puts in her hair at night, sweet, almost too-strong flowery stuff.
"I keep having this dream, where we're still trapped back there, in that gray place."
"You weren't there," he reminds her, because she was with the flowers, and he'd shouted at her to turn around, just turn around.
Yes I was, she says, but he has fallen asleep to the scent of conditioner and detergent, and her words go up in smoke.
ii. squall, selphie, irvine, zell
They play "Best Day, Worst Day" the next night, because Selphie has "liberated" a bottle of Hyne's Best vodka from Irvine's secret stash, and while Squall could write her up for it, he doesn't, just cringes as it burns a path down his throat.
"Best day!" Selphie says, pointing at Squall, and he shrugs. It's too personal, he doesn't know why he's agreed to this game.
"Seeing Rinoa the first time at the graduation dance,” he says, because it's the quickest, and the most painless answer, and he'll get to take another shot for having such a shitty story. Self-control is for the losers, Seifer whispers in his ear, and Squall drinks deep.
Seifer's dead, and that's the best loss of control he can think of.
iii. xu
(She keeps her ghosts on a shelf in her closet, there for all the world to see.)
--
"You know what your problem is?" she says, very drunk and slurring her words with it. "Your problem is that you don't give a shit."
The bartender just looks at her in that sympathetic way that they must teach in bartending school, and pulls her glass back gently. "I think you've had enough, miss."
She lunges for the glass; it's still got half of the whiskey she paid for in it, and she'll be damned if he's getting out of here with that much of her money. Even drunk, she puts pressure right on the knuckle of his first finger, and he lets go of the glass before something winds up broken. It's a Garden bar--he's been around long enough to see what a pack of drunken cadets can do, but it's the moody, self-indulgent SeeDs who can be the most trouble. The first thing his boss had ever told him was, "Don't fuck with the mercs."
He watches as the woman drains her whiskey, her hands curled protectively around the cup, her brown hair sliding loose from its half-hearted ponytail and falling over her shoulders in one no-nonsense length. There's no way she can be older than twenty-five, thirty if she's got really good genetics.
She catches him looking at her, and sets down the glass with a hard thud against the bar. "Oh, fuck off," she mutters, and yanks out her wallet, throwing down an array of gil that leaves him with just enough tip to buy a gumball. Asshole, her expression says, and he's not afraid to admit that the feeling is mutual.
iv. cid
Watch now, he tells the children. Watch closely. I won't do it again.
They gather close, bright eyes fixed on his cupped hands. He closes his eyes, and says a word so quietly that a breeze picks it up and takes it away before they can catch it. The fire comes to life in his hands, flickering sparks that gather and weave together until it's as big as an apple. The children stare, delight in their smiles and their eyes. A little brunette girl claps with joy.
He closes his hands on the fire, and it pops out of existence.
Do it again!
And even though he said that he wasn't going to, he can never deny his children anything. Cid puts his hands together, and does it once more.
--
He sits in his chair in the Headmaster's office, and taps his pencil against the regulation recently issued by NORG--"there will be a five-percent increase in NORG's commission from every qualified successful mission performed by all Garden SeeDs."
The paper has been signed, dated, and notarized by three members of the International Council for Garden Institutitions, the minimum number of signatures required to put anything like this into effect. He recognizes the names: Evelyn Habal, from Trabia, Terren Marsh, recently reappointed to the Council after some unpleasantness in Deling, and Headmaster Martine, from Galbadia Garden. Martine's signature was the largest, the "e" falling off the edge of his assigned line. There is one space left, a line under which is neatly typed, “Balamb Garden,” and his pen is too heavy in his hands.
v. squall/rinoa
The world is born in an explosion, and she waits at the heart of it.
--
A fluttering, featherlight heartbeat, straining to be heard through layers of flesh and bone and blood, amplified a hundred times until it fills the room full to bursting.
Rinoa smiles, her hands softly patting the bump of her belly.
He stands in awe and wonder, and the sound wraps around him until he thinks that it will be the only thing he will ever hear.
The nurse offers them a recorded copy, and Squall is quick to slip the sound card into his pocket, not trusting it to the depths of Rinoa's purse.
--
When she slips out of the bedroom late that night, intent on a glass of juice, she catches a glimpse of him through the kitchen window. He is sitting on the porch swing, and that look is on his face again, the one from earlier, wonder and terror fighting for victory on his face. She can just make out headphones against his dark hair, and she has a good idea of what he's listening to.
fandom: FFVIII
characters: various
notes: scenes from different unfinished FFVIII things.
i. squall/rinoa
"Do you ever have those dreams where you're not sure if you're awake?"
"Lucid dreams?"
"I guess that's what they're called."
"No."
Her fingers, gentle as she taps his arm. "Liar."
"It's the truth."
"I'm so sure."
His pillow is bunched up too tightly against the wall and he shifts it slightly, smelling detergent and that stuff she puts in her hair at night, sweet, almost too-strong flowery stuff.
"I keep having this dream, where we're still trapped back there, in that gray place."
"You weren't there," he reminds her, because she was with the flowers, and he'd shouted at her to turn around, just turn around.
Yes I was, she says, but he has fallen asleep to the scent of conditioner and detergent, and her words go up in smoke.
ii. squall, selphie, irvine, zell
They play "Best Day, Worst Day" the next night, because Selphie has "liberated" a bottle of Hyne's Best vodka from Irvine's secret stash, and while Squall could write her up for it, he doesn't, just cringes as it burns a path down his throat.
"Best day!" Selphie says, pointing at Squall, and he shrugs. It's too personal, he doesn't know why he's agreed to this game.
"Seeing Rinoa the first time at the graduation dance,” he says, because it's the quickest, and the most painless answer, and he'll get to take another shot for having such a shitty story. Self-control is for the losers, Seifer whispers in his ear, and Squall drinks deep.
Seifer's dead, and that's the best loss of control he can think of.
iii. xu
(She keeps her ghosts on a shelf in her closet, there for all the world to see.)
--
"You know what your problem is?" she says, very drunk and slurring her words with it. "Your problem is that you don't give a shit."
The bartender just looks at her in that sympathetic way that they must teach in bartending school, and pulls her glass back gently. "I think you've had enough, miss."
She lunges for the glass; it's still got half of the whiskey she paid for in it, and she'll be damned if he's getting out of here with that much of her money. Even drunk, she puts pressure right on the knuckle of his first finger, and he lets go of the glass before something winds up broken. It's a Garden bar--he's been around long enough to see what a pack of drunken cadets can do, but it's the moody, self-indulgent SeeDs who can be the most trouble. The first thing his boss had ever told him was, "Don't fuck with the mercs."
He watches as the woman drains her whiskey, her hands curled protectively around the cup, her brown hair sliding loose from its half-hearted ponytail and falling over her shoulders in one no-nonsense length. There's no way she can be older than twenty-five, thirty if she's got really good genetics.
She catches him looking at her, and sets down the glass with a hard thud against the bar. "Oh, fuck off," she mutters, and yanks out her wallet, throwing down an array of gil that leaves him with just enough tip to buy a gumball. Asshole, her expression says, and he's not afraid to admit that the feeling is mutual.
iv. cid
Watch now, he tells the children. Watch closely. I won't do it again.
They gather close, bright eyes fixed on his cupped hands. He closes his eyes, and says a word so quietly that a breeze picks it up and takes it away before they can catch it. The fire comes to life in his hands, flickering sparks that gather and weave together until it's as big as an apple. The children stare, delight in their smiles and their eyes. A little brunette girl claps with joy.
He closes his hands on the fire, and it pops out of existence.
Do it again!
And even though he said that he wasn't going to, he can never deny his children anything. Cid puts his hands together, and does it once more.
--
He sits in his chair in the Headmaster's office, and taps his pencil against the regulation recently issued by NORG--"there will be a five-percent increase in NORG's commission from every qualified successful mission performed by all Garden SeeDs."
The paper has been signed, dated, and notarized by three members of the International Council for Garden Institutitions, the minimum number of signatures required to put anything like this into effect. He recognizes the names: Evelyn Habal, from Trabia, Terren Marsh, recently reappointed to the Council after some unpleasantness in Deling, and Headmaster Martine, from Galbadia Garden. Martine's signature was the largest, the "e" falling off the edge of his assigned line. There is one space left, a line under which is neatly typed, “Balamb Garden,” and his pen is too heavy in his hands.
v. squall/rinoa
The world is born in an explosion, and she waits at the heart of it.
--
A fluttering, featherlight heartbeat, straining to be heard through layers of flesh and bone and blood, amplified a hundred times until it fills the room full to bursting.
Rinoa smiles, her hands softly patting the bump of her belly.
He stands in awe and wonder, and the sound wraps around him until he thinks that it will be the only thing he will ever hear.
The nurse offers them a recorded copy, and Squall is quick to slip the sound card into his pocket, not trusting it to the depths of Rinoa's purse.
--
When she slips out of the bedroom late that night, intent on a glass of juice, she catches a glimpse of him through the kitchen window. He is sitting on the porch swing, and that look is on his face again, the one from earlier, wonder and terror fighting for victory on his face. She can just make out headphones against his dark hair, and she has a good idea of what he's listening to.