The sun had not yet risen, and the deep dark of predawn settled over him like a still blanket. He was accustomed to waking before the sun – at school it was a necessity to get to class early, in the barracks a mere time of solitude before the bustle of camp. At home, it was an eerie point of the day. His eyes adjusted quickly to the dark, and he blinked, calmingly gazing over at the woman that slept on beside him.

Her breath was soft and gentle, regular. Her skin, normally fine and pale, shone a sickly green in the light of the alarm clock. She curled away from him and towards her pillow, her dark hair falling over her face.

He watched her sleep for some time, thinking, before he rose from his bed and slipped into a pair of house slippers that she kept in an immaculate shelf. The house was far from sterile – she was a storm, mess followed in her wake. The shelf was not kept clean by her; it was far from her nature to clean anything.

Squall stepped onto the hardwood deck that overlooked the pier. His gaze turned to where the Garden floated gently, casually close by, and he sighed softly.

It had been five years since the Sorceresses, five years since he had met Rinoa. After the situation, he had married her; it was expected, after all, and taken up residence near the Garden.

After the Sorceresses a string of wars followed – the Galbadian War, the War of the Singed Earth, the Balamb War. The most shocking war was the most recent, prompted by the Ifrit Massacre in Trabia. Almost nine hundred civilians died in an attack staged by the government; one hundred and eleven of those Seed scouts, all under twelve years of age. The war ended when the government claimed a leftist shock group misunderstood directives and advanced, but that was after almost a year and a half of fighting.

Since the end of the war Squall had returned home to Rinoa, where she waited, her exuberant nature careless of his quiet discomfort. His promotion was imminent, and she could sense it, almost. He didn't like her constant goading, her happiness. It was as if, for her, the war was only a legend of far away.

Somewhere out in the streets of Balamb, a dog barked, and Squall rubbed his scar unconsciously as below him in the backyard Angelo responded angrily. He had always disliked that dog – it was loud, obnoxious and badly trained, but he couldn't convince Rinoa to get rid of the damned thing. It was a topic that always led to a fight – Rinoa would cry, and yell, and pout, and Squall would sit silently and brood, finally letting a brisk "Whatever" escape. At that point Rinoa would smile and wrap her arms around Squall's neck as though the word meant he would let the dog stay, and kiss him on the face.

It had been five years of arguments, of Rinoa and her way, of mess and disorder and chaos. She was sunny and happy all the time, oblivious to reality as war unfolded around her. In the first few years it had been almost a relief to come home to her – to a new project, to a new celebration or party. It was as though in his home the world around them ceased to matter, the wars ceased to exist.

However, things had become different lately, and it didn't escape Squall's vigilance. He sat on the deck as the sun crested over the horizon behind him (Rinoa hated morning sun, dismissing it as too weak, and insisted of a view of the sunset) and colored the sky a delicate shade of dusky blue. He stood as he saw the fisher boats pulling back in with the morning catch and padded into the house, stripping of his boxers and slippers and stepping into the shower. His musculature was a bit more developed, his shoulders a tad bit broader than before. He rubbed his shoulder and the thick scar tissue that was there from where someone had fired a bullet into his back, and stretched leisurely under the frigid water.

It had been early in their marriage that Rinoa had tried to step into the shower with Squall, but it had stopped quickly when she discovered that he preferred freezing water and refused to turn up the heat. He told her that at the Garden priority showers were determined by age and rank, and that he had grown up with freezing water. He preferred it to the hot showers that Rinoa luxuriated in, and she said she understood, but her smile had faltered. It had not been the first or last time that had happened.

By the time that Squall finished his morning shower, Rinoa was half awake, shuffling slowly to the kitchen. Squall knew how she hated getting up early, and he spoke softly to her, "Go back to bed, Rinoa."

"No, no…I'm gonna make omelets. You want an omelet? I'll make you a mushroom-onion one, if you want. Or maybe anchovy, I got some really good anchovies at the market yesterday…" Her voice trailed off into a yawn as she stepped towards him and kissed him on the cheek. She heard Angelo barking outside and whining and she commented, "Be a doll, let Angelo in…you know how he hates waiting…" she continued to shuffle down the stairs and towards the kitchen.

Squall frowned and repeated, "Go back to bed, Rinoa. I was going out to have breakfast anyhow."

The words clung in the air as Rinoa stopped in midstep. "What? Why? I'm a perfectly good cook, Squall. I make good omelets. You used to love them, remember?" She turned to look up at him, her mussed hair falling over her face.

Squall shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He sensed that if he didn't let her have her way, she would burst into tears and lock herself in her study. While he had a breakfast meeting he wasn't willing to endure the emotional agony of trying to explain to Rinoa that he really didn't feel like eating an omelet, or in fact, letting the dog in. He sighed and dried his hair, wandering off as he said softly, "Whatever."

Rinoa continued her downward march and as Squall got dressed in a pair of jeans and a white shirt he heard the commotion of pots and pans shifting downstairs. At some point she must have cut herself because there was a yelp of pain and several expletives. Squall hurried down the stairs in time to find Rinoa nursing a sliced finger under running water. She looked up at him and asked again, "Will you please let Angelo in, before he has a fit out there?"

Squall sighed and let the dog in; the animal cavorted at Squall's feet for a while before running to Rinoa and barking like mad. She only laughed and applied a band-aid to her finger, then plating up Squall's omelet and serving it. "Ta-da! See, it'll taste good. Mushroom, onion and anchovy, practically a pizza omelet!"

Squall poked at the omelet and wondered what had happened to his life for it to spiral down from First-Class Seed to Eater of Rinoa's Omelets and Letter in of the Barking Mop Masquerading as a Dog.