Hey, y'all! Just got back from a two week vacation that made my mind open up and let the writing flow . . . so I'm working on a lot at the moment.--Many different stories with many different subjects. So, dont worry.

At the moment though, this will probabaly be my only chaptered fic. It's another request, this time from Skywolf666 who asked for it a while back. In Sky's words: "What would happen if Murrue's old boyfriend came back and tried to break Mu and Murrue up?" But, of course, with me writing it, it's always a bit more . . . "twisted" than it should seem. . . . Remember, Sky. If at any point you absolutely despise where this is going, tell me, 'kay? Got that?

This takes place after SEED, in Orb and if Mu didnt die in the previous war. --Sorry if this seems a bit short. More will be up soon, I promise.--

Chapter One

Slowly he opened his eyes, finally aroused from sleep. The surrounding warmth of the comforter was too lulling as he stretched himself as far as he could in bed. Habitually, he held in that moan of release as every muscle of his pleasantly came into position after a long rest.

Lazier than ever, it seemed, Mu didn't want to move, just to go back to sleep in the empty cushion—even though the sun that shown through the window lit up the entire room cheeringly bright.

When the smell of fresh coffee reached his nose . . . his face screwed up. Confused, Mu growled in annoyance as he pulled himself up and across the room. He opened the closed door, the blinding light of morning forcing him to grimace.

Once he could see again, it wasn't difficult to recognize the curvy brunette from his dreams standing before him.

"Murrue?" he grumbled, wiping the sleep from his eyes, yawning the rest of the way. "What are you doing here?"

"This is my house, remember?" She returned lazily, taking a sip of the coffee he'd smelled earlier. Mu ran his hand though his hair at the response, glancing around, not surprised at the different surroundings.

With a shrug he turned back to her.

"I should be the one asking you that question," Murrue continued, harshly, but unable to control her smile. "—except . . . I already know the answer."

"Do you now?" he asked her, coming closer, eyes dancing with his same roguish grin. "Care to share your insight?"

"No," she clipped. "All I need to know is what you want for breakfast."

"Breakfast?—Come back to bed and get some more sleep, Murrue," he huffed, pulling her close to him. "It's too early for breakfast."

"'Too early'?" she giggled as his lips brushed her cheek. "Mu, it's 10 o'clock. It's late. . . ."

"It's Ten?" Mu stumbled, arms falling from her. "—Seriously?"

"Yes.—What—?"

"I'm late!" He practically sprinted back into Murrue's room. Clumsy in his quickness, she could hear every hard plod of his feet though the door was closed.

"Late? Late for what?"

"Work! I have to go in today!" He yelled from inside. Murrue's face screwed up.

"What do you mean, Mu? You told me your vacation started today."

He stepped out for only a moment to answer her—suddenly dressed from the waist up, his hair a mess.

"It does. . . ." He whined. " . . . After work." Mu disappeared once more, causing Murrue's face to fall even farther.

"But I thought we would—"

He stepped from the room again, this time with his shirt pulled on. Slowly he buttoned it, face drawn as he stared somberly at the woman before him.

"But you thought we would be together today since we did so much to make sure we got the same time off—I know. . . . I made a mistake. . . . I'm sorry."

Slower than the other times, Mu turned to pull himself back to her room. When Murrue was alone once more, she quietly whined to herself:

"Do you really have to go in?"

The warmth that had bubbled itself around her heart at the thought of 'him and her' was quickly slipping away to coldness.

Mu came from her room—this time fully clothed. He opened his arms out wide, face darkening as he looked down at his slightly wrinkled outfit.

"Presentable?" He asked, wryly. "I don't have enough time to get home and change. . . ."

Murrue paused to let her eyes drift down the man in his day-old clothes.

"Yes. It's fine," she smiled, but Mu could easily see how half-hearted she was. He trotted across the kitchen towards her. Without permission, he encircled his arms around her from behind and began to softly nuzzle against her neck.

"I'm really sorry. . . ."

"Oh, just go, Mu," she giggled, his thick hair tickling her skin.

The fire beneath him was lit once more, the thick man jumping from his girlfriend and racing to where he'd dropped his shoes. Hopping to get them on, Mu flashed a grin at Murrue.

"Don't worry. I'll make it up to you tonight.—Dinner at my house okay?"

"Really?" She raised an eyebrow at him. "And who's cooking?"

"Um . . ." He forced a laugh as his voice became small. ". . . You?"

No answer was needed—just a glare—before he stood straight and shrunk back.

"Hey!" He glowered, fearfully putting up his hands. "Remember the last time I tried? I seem to recall a certain black smoke . . . and an airing out of your house that took days.—You don't want me to have to go through that, do you?"

Murrue narrowed her eyes darkly before retuning to her coffee. Mu swallowed in the silence—it was always worse than anything. But then they both began to laugh together, as if nothing had been said—the two never able to hold it in for long.

Mu, shoes completely on, playfully made his way over to Murrue once more and leaned in for his good-bye kiss but was stopped in his endeavor. He began to pout at his punishment as Murrue's stern voice filled the kitchen.

"Part of me wants you to burn your house, Mu. Then, maybe, you might learn a little more every-day responsibility—like . . . not being late for example."

"Gah!" Mu remembered—and was almost out the door in a flash. That is, before swinging around to get his kiss once denied. With a winning wink, he finally left, leaving Murrue behind in a frozen blush.

---

The door of Murrue's house closed behind him, and outside, alone on the porch, Mu chuckled at his morning performance. Slowly stepping down to make his way to the street, he paused in his tracks.

Deep inside the pocket of his coat, Mu's hard fingers softly traced the small, velvet box hidden there. He shook at his head, face twisted up in playful wonder.

"When will I ever . . . ?"

--------------------

Back inside her house, Murrue was caught gently smiling. Her eyes danced over the small blue ring of keys—his. He had forgotten them in his hurry, and it wasn't even the first (or even the second) time.

Mu was Mu—and it seemed like he would never change.

She could wait until the next day, when he really was on vacation, to do all the things she'd wanted to do with him for a while. Holding back a blushing sigh, Murrue's eyes drifted out the window of her small home. It was impossible to believe—how short a time of peace she'd had with him, yet how long it had felt already. . . .

The phone rang, but its shrill call came several times before Murrue even made the steps towards it. Picking it up, Murrue was still smiling.

"Hello?" she answered, that smile shining through in her voice.

"Murrue?" The voice on the other end was quiet and weathered, but young. The voice had a certain strength that oddly seeped through every wavering word. While it contained a smile as well, it was airy and pressed, a certain coldness yet warmth that fended off all other emotion.

Murrue felt her whole body quiver at that voice: that terrible, kind, loving song. The hold in her knees threatened to break just as the strong hold she had on her eyes.

"Murrue? You there?" The voice ventured again. There was a pause long enough for Murrue's stifled breath to be heard.

"Murrue . . ." the voice coaxed, holding back a small laugh at her silence. "Please say something. I need to hear your voice." It faltered, weakening—Murrue's heart weakened with it. "You have no idea . . . how much . . . I need . . . to hear your voice."

She weakly fixed her grip, hand shaking in the fumbling. There was no doubt he could hear her breathing then.

"Murrue . . . I know you're listening. . . . I need to speak to you. You and I both know this sort of thing can't just be discussed over the phone." The voice swallowed. "It has to be in person. I need to see you, Murrue. . . ."

"—No."

She had finally found the voice her breaths had been searching for. But this voice . . . was not one of a former captain . . . it was weak and shaking.

"No," she muttered again, slightly stronger.

"What . . . ? Murrue—"

"There's no way," she breathed. ". . . There's no way . . . this could be you." She swallowed, gathering even more strength to add to her tone as the beginnings of tears started to silently flow. "I'm sorry. . . . I'm sorry."

Murrue could hear the beginnings of the man's retort, but she let the receiver drop all the same.

"There's no way. . . ." She muttered again, but the words stabbed at her. Even though 'there was no way' . . . Murrue could never not recognize that voice—never not know that voice with every bit of her being.

Her forgetting was the real 'no way'.

Unable to hold onto her strength any longer, Murrue collapsed into the couch as she bit back a cry at the pain.

--------------------

"Girlfriend?"

The man tore himself away from the flowers to stare up at the taller man beside him. Wearing a knowing grin, Mu looked over at who was staring back. He could just make out the man's amber eyes upon him, for it was a bit hard to see out from behind his own wind-tossed blond. Smoothly Mu pushed his hair back and smiled again.

It was funny to Mu . . . how easy it was to read the stranger's eyes—and how awkward they seemed, staring back.

"You . . . could say that," the man finally sighed, sticking his hands in his pockets. Mu leaned forward, head cocked a bit, as if trying to see into the man's face again, obviously waiting for more.

The man faltered for more satisfying words. "We . . . had a fight . . ."

"Ahh, got it!" There was silence for a moment, he watching as the blond bent forward to check out one of the colorful bouquets. Standing up, Mu ran a hand through his hair. "Well, it happens to the best of us, eh?"

"I—I guess so." The stranger turned away. "It's more than that though. . . . Flowers wont work at all, but . . ." His face screwed up at the thought.

"You feel obligated," Mu cut in, voice dark with understanding. "Oh, we all have those days. Nothing you can really do about it.—So . . . Tell me about her."

"What?" The man's attention suddenly caught on Mu's casual directness—and that left him gaping. Mu just grinned at the attention.

"Flowers don't work, yet we still feel the need to spend our money on 'em," he chided. "—But that's no reason to not choose the best ones for her, eh? Tell me about her," Mu offered to the man. "An' I'll help you pick one out.—I've got a knack for these things, you know."

"Why would you go out of your way to . . . ?"

"Hm?" Mu raised an eyebrow and paused, thinking the answer himself. His eyes flashed down to his coat pocket, where his fingers were fumbling around. He took the box out, flicked it open, then snapped it shut in a matter of movements. Looking back up to the man before him, Mu grinned. ". . . I'm in a good mood today."

Even though it were only for a moment, John saw the small flash of the box and the diamond inside. He grinned back, knowing exactly what made this stranger so bouncy.

"Name's John Anthony," he grinned, extending his hand friendlily—which Mu shook, quite forcibly.

"Is it really?—Well, John, if you'll excuse me, we should probably get started on picking this bouquet of yours . . . since I should really be getting to work," Mu winked, hands full. "—Which is where she thinks I am. Understand?"

All the man could do was nod at this still unnamed, still un-categorizable, still grinning, blond stranger.

The two grown men stood in the Flower Shop talking as the minutes rolled by. Mostly John talked of his nameless love while Mu listened intently, laughing and grinning, as he walked around the store with its singular flowers and its bunches of bouquets. Finally, Mu stopped him, holding up his hand with a grin.

"How about blue . . . ?" He wondered aloud, fingers touching at his chin. As the man looked on, Mu reached out, running his touch along a tall blossom he didn't know the name for. Oddly it seemed to match his eyes in color.

"For your sweetheart? Blue? Like this one?"

Mu thought again and ventured cautiously. "To me, nice-looking blue flowers are a rarity, but they seem like they'd fit her—at least . . . from what you've told me." Mu broke out into a couple deep chuckles. "So, now, tell me, how wrong am I? Completely?—or indescribably?"

John stared on, amber eyes wide and looking back, dawning rising in his younger-than-true face.

"No . . . you're right," he muttered moving closer to grasp the plant. "I never made the connection before, but . . . blue is the perfect color for her. . . . It makes a ot of sense actually.—Thanks so much."

Mu grinned. The smile on the stranger's face . . .

Ahh, young love. . . .—Wait—He is . . . younger than me . . . right? Mu faltered—blinking—stunned.

That grinning voice of John's pulled him back to reality: "Your bouquet is nice too, though." Mu followed the man's gaze caught to the flowers in his hand. "Roses . . ." he muttered.

Mu chuckled, hand running through his hair.

"Yeah. . . . May be a bit old fashioned, but . . . They're still perfect."

Mu did not grin at the thought, but smiled that warm sigh of his.

John, eyes catching on the emotion, flicked his attention back to his own pile silently, and then crinkled his face over his own assortment.

"Too bad blue roses are only in dreams. . . ."

"Oh, really?" Mu laughed, finally walking up to the counter, other man beside. "I didn't know that.—Learn something new everyday, it seems."

The younger man glanced back to the roses in Mu's thick hands.

"What about you?—Girlfriend?" He asked, eyes glinting slyly.

Mu grinned, but as his eyes fell upon the red bouquet, his look softened into that warm smile once more.

"Yes."

Curiosity pricked at the change, the man moved closer.

"Sorry present?"

"Not today," Mu chuckled, handing the money over the counter to pay. John's face screwed up in thought.

"So . . . birthday?"

"Nope.—That's next month."

"Then . . . what . . . ?"

"You don't need a special occasion to love someone." The man's breath caught as he shrunk beneath Mu's hard stare.

But then, Mu erupted into laughter, hand rubbing the back of his neck, embarrassed. "Sorry," he grinned sheepishly, staring at Johm's face. "—I meant 'You don't need a special occasion to show your love for someone'! Hah. It came out wrong . . . Sorry."

But then Mu shrugged, turning to leave.

"Though . . . both could work, eh?"

With a slight wave to the man behind him, Mu was quickly lost in the midday-morning crowds.

--------------------

After going back home to change (since he was still in the clothes of the day before), Mu walked into work, still carrying his bouquet. It didn't matter that he was supposed to be on vacation—he had to be in his little military office just in-case Murrue unexpectedly called.

He took off his work jacket and threw it on the coat-stand before continuing on.

He jiggled the handle, screwing his face at how it was locked. Mu always forgot to lock the door—so it annoyed him when others did it for him. Thinking back on it, his house was open when he got there—and when he left, he still never bothered to turn the key. . . . Another one of those 'everyday responsibilities' Murrue spoke about.

Setting the roses gently aside, Mu began to turn-out his pockets in search, but never found the keys—just his wallet.

Before he could 'worry' over the misplacement of them, Mu recalled setting them on the counter in Murrue's place, then quickly forgetting them for certain reasons.

He needed to get the keys to get into 'work', but, to get them, he had to go Murrue's . . .

"Well, that worked out perfectly, hm?" He chimed to himself, easily happy at the circumstances. Grinning broadly, Mu carefully picked up his bouquet once more and walked out—following the well-known path back to Murrue's place.

He didn't even bother to pick up his jacket.

--------------------

John peered down at the slip of paper in his hand, eyes strained as he glared at his writing. Usually he was impeccably neat, but in his haste, he didn't uphold to his standard when writing down the address. . . . And now he had to pay for it.

"Five or Nine . . . five or nine . . ." He kept muttering, becoming increasingly more annoyed with each revolution. "Which is it?—House Forty-Five or House Forty-Nine?" He spat, down to his last straw, his eyes scanning the tiny houses of the street.

"I'm here," he growled. "It's taken me way too long to get here." He clenched a fist around his bouquet. "I am not waiting any longer.—Come on!" he finally shouted—his voice echoing in its aggravation.

As if to answer his query, that's when she appeared . . . startled by the sound . . . standing up at another house alone the way. It was a bit too far to see her face, but he knew that body.

"Ah!"

John sprinted the lengths of the houses to land himself gracefully before the woman waiting there.

". . . I've found you," he breathed, unable to hold back a warm smile of remembrance.

---

Murrue sat herself down outside on her porch and had been sitting there for a while. The occasional cold wind did wonders for her racing mind.

She pulled her coat tighter around her as a particularly hard one blew.

Then she heard something that pulled her from her reverie—though she couldn't place exactly what it was. The shock though, pulled Murrue Ramius to stand.

Then she saw him—that man. He was so far off down the street, but she could feel their eyes meet for a moment before he suddenly began running towards her. Everything within her told her to get away—to get off the porch and go inside.

But her legs wouldn't move.

"There's no way," she repeated once more beneath her breath, trembling as the figure ran and became clearer. "Please. . . . Let there be no way. . . ."

He came and stopped and stood before her. He panted slightly, and the bundle of blue flowers easily shed petals beneath his grip . . . but he was still tall and thin and his chestnut hair still stayed close enough to his scalp as to not hide his still handsome face . . .

"Still" . . .

Slowly trembling, Murrue's hand came up to curl thinly about her mouth to hide her gasps. The hot tears that leisurely traveled from her amber eyes warmed her cheeks with their touch.

His returning, breathless grin could bring tears, too, to those amber eyes of his, but he held them back.

Everything seemed to shatter as Murrue's hand clasped tighter about it—that rose coffin that they shared.

". . . I've found you," he breathed. "It's been two years, but I finally found you again, Murrue."

"John . . ."

A/N: A few words.

So, how do you like John? So far, at least . . . This first chapter was extremely difficult to do, since I had to have almost every other aspect of 'John' and his development laid out first before I could even write his introduction correctly. The absolute hardest thing about John is that he is an established character (as 'Him') but we dont know anything about him. One may think it would be easier to write him than other already-there characters (like Kira or Natarle, etc.), but . . . since John is utterly made-up, he was harder--especially for a person like me. I wanted John to be a guy we could see ourselves root for . . . if we only knew of Him and Murrue--and Mu didnt really exist. . . . I wanted him to be likable to a certain extent . . . since it was a man Murrue was in love with afterall, even if before Mu. In the end, I dont know if I'll be able to acheive that to the point that I wanted . . . Hm. But, all this may very well change, too . . .

(PS--The name John is a reference to 'John Doe'--the name given to an unidentified male body (. . . because I couldnt think of a workable name . . .))