a bluer sky
-irishais-
Asked myself what it's all for
You know the funny thing about it
I couldn't answer
No I couldn't answer
-the seatbelts, "blue"
1. the trick is to keep breathing
Esthar
He stood at the side of her grave, and thought very hard of a hundred other things as the first shovelful of fresh earth fell, loose and scattered, dark brown against soft yellow-red wood, glossy polished Timber oak that Laguna had chosen. Laguna had chosen everything--the grave site, the coffin, the simple pale blue dress and the preacher who delivered his sermon in a rumbling timbre that reminded Squall of the Ragnarok's engines.
Squall focused on the feel of Quistis next to him, her dress blacks blending into the sea of people and her bright blonde hair the only thing that he could make out, catching glimpses of it out of the corner of his eyes. He grabbed that image and held onto it; blonde wasn't brown earth against Timber oak. Blonde was his steadfast second-in-command, blonde was keeping him grounded.
He clenched his hands and watched as shovelful after shovelful of dirt rained down onto the pale, gleaming coffin until there was nothing left but a growing mound of dirt, rising out of a cleanly dug rectangle and spilling over onto the morning-lit green grass. Something twisted painfully inside him, twanging against nerves and tendons, sharp against his teeth like glass.
This isn't right.
Quistis' hand was on his arm, pulling him gently away from the fading crowds, the fallen dirt. He went, and ignored the cameras that clustered around the gates to the cemetery, sliding into the dark sedan with Quistis close behind him. The seating arrangement put him between her and his father, Laguna worrying the end of his tie as he twisted it between his fingers. Squall bit his tongue against the urge to tell his father to stop it, and tasted coppery blood. He swallowed hard against the taste. The car pulled away from the curb, back into the city proper, toward the presidential palace.
He hoped that no one would say anything. It would be easier.
Unfortunately, as hard as Squall tried to project this thought to the car's occupants, Laguna cleared his throat with a half-warbled gulp, and Squall let loose a preemptive sigh.
"How long are you staying?" Laguna asked, and Squall shrugged a bit, as much as he could trapped between the two of them.
"I have to leave tomorrow. There's an ICGI hearing that I have to be at," he added, when his father opened his mouth again to protest the impending departure. "Garden doesn't run itself."
Laguna nodded, and Squall didn't know whether to be grateful or concerned with the lack of argument.
"I'll keep in touch," he said, hoping to make the sudden attack of a conscience go away. His father brightened slightly, but it wasn't much, and Squall was still trying to figure out why that bothered him as the sedan made its steady trek up the road to the palace.
"You should really think about staying for another few days, at least," Quistis said as she sat on the edge of the bed and tugged off her stockings. She neatly rolled them together, toes first. Squall watched as she got up and crossed the room to tuck the bundle in her suitcase.
The edge of the dresser bit into his hip as he leaned against it and regarded her. "We can't. There's too much to do."
"Squall, your father needs you here. I can go back; I know the contracts as well as you do. BG won't collapse if you're not around for another twenty-four hours." She stopped a few inches from him to look in the mirror over his shoulder, pulling the tortoiseshell clip out of her hair and fluffing out the strands. Squall deliberately didn't move to touch it, and after a minute, Quistis reached forward to pluck an invisible hair off the front of his shirt, smoothing the fabric with a sigh.
"There are empty rooms at Balamb. He can come there."
Laguna would, too, and stroll through the halls, loud and disruptive, telling everyone to call him "Laguna" instead of "President." He'd barge into Squall's office at inappropriate hours, interrupting conference calls and client meetings. He would make outlandish suggestions to take his only son out to dinner at the most lavish and expensive restaurants in the middle of the day. Laguna would be obnoxious, annoying, a constant presence.
Quistis smiled wearily. "You don't mean that."
Squall shrugged. "He can come if he wants to. It's not like he doesn't run his own country or anything." The words were biting, sarcastic, dry. Quistis didn't know how much longer her patience could last.
"He delegates, Squall. You should try it sometime."
Squall narrowed his eyes. "You don't delegate the power over an entire army," he informed her. "I have to meet with Ellone's guard again. There are things to clarify." His grip on the edge of the dresser tightened. "I still--"
Quistis reached down and tugged his wrists with a light, yet firm grip, and Squall relinquished his grip on the dresser before it broke under his grip. He hadn't un-junctioned-- she could clearly see the imprint of the heels of his hands on the top of the dark wood.
"Come on," she said, sliding her palms so that they met his. He twined his fingers into hers out of reflex. "You need sleep."
He had half a mind to protest, but Quistis didn't relinquish her grip, and the bed was possibly the most welcoming thing he had seen all day. Squall gave in, laying back against too many decorative pillows, heedless of the fact that he hadn't bothered to change out of most of his dress uniform. She sat next to him, and ran short, neatly-trimmed nails back through his hair. The motion was meant to soothe; despite that, he lay there with his eyes fixed on the rich blue canopy over the bed, Ellone's face playing across the fabric.
This isn't right.
Something in his face must have betrayed him, because Quistis stopped her hand, and slid down on the bed so that her face was near his ear, her arm draping across his chest.
"It's alright," she murmured. Squall simply set his hand on top of hers and closed his eyes against his sister's face.
xx
Deling City, Galbadia
She closed her eyes against cheap neon lights and when she opened them again, the world was pretty much the same. A little more distorted--the street lamp in front of the building had finally given out, and a little louder. A crowd of drunk kids stumbled past, below the view of her window, grossly cheerful with too much cheap liquor and cheaper beer filling their bellies.
Beep.
With one arm flung across her face, at least the lights went mostly away, still playing at the edges of her eyelids, trying to pry apart her lashes with tantalizing bits of blue and purple, a green stripe persistently winking in and out. It had been nearly three weeks. Xu was getting pissed.
Beep.
She had come out here on something that wasn't even technically a mission-- Commander Leonhart had issued the orders himself, pulling an outrageous amount of money from his private account to fund the team he sent into Deling. Quistis had drawn up the contract, and when Xu received her copy, the ink was barely dry on the Garden-notarized seal.
The mission was simple: find the little shits who had killed her commander's sister. It shouldn't have taken three weeks.
Beep.
With a grimace at the sudden, rancid smell that wafted in through three inches of open window, Xu sat up, stretching from side to side in an effort to crack her back. It helped, but only a little, and she turned her attention instead to the open computer on the cheap fiberboard desk. It was a miracle that the thing hadn't fallen apart under the slim laptop's weight-- she was decently sure that there was little more than spit and possibly chewing gum holding that piece of furniture together. Right now, though, the furniture's stability wasn't her concern; Xu sat in the rickety chair and tapped the touch pad, bringing the dark screen back to life. A tiny pop-up window in the corner blinked at her incessantly, and beeped again, begging for her attention. She slid her finger across the pad, and clicked it.
leonhart388: You're ten minutes late with your report. Have you found anything?
Xu's fingers hovered over the keyboard for a minute, her mind running through a myriad of responses, from "It's 0203 in the morning," to "Yes, sir, we've got him and we're teaching him how to play Triple Triad."
The first would probably earn her little more than a "So?" The second...she would probably end up in front of the firing squad. Xu sighed and hit the reply button, tapping out a quick negative. She hit send, and the remote messaging program deactivated itself when her response had been received. Selphie had set up the program-- it used transmitters specially built into Garden-issue computers, and it didn't rely on any sort of network connection. Any authorized personnel could remotely turn the program on and off from their console, regardless of where they were in relation to Garden. Tilmitt had assured them that it was one-hundred-percent secure.
"Turndown service," someone called quietly from outside the door, and Xu whirled in the chair, her gun half-drawn from its holster before she was even aware that she had been doing it.
Irvine Kinneas shouldered his way into the room and Xu relaxed, but only slightly. He was not alone. A second, pitched female voice countered with his, muttering something that Xu couldn't quite make out, and so she kept her hand on the butt of her gun, waiting until Irvine had latched the door shut behind him before she decided to say anything. The newcomer stood sullenly near Irvine's side, refusing to make eye contact with Xu. She looked damn familiar.
"You were supposed to contact me if you found anyone useful," Xu snapped, and Irvine simply rolled his eyes, gesturing toward their "guest."
"I'd say she certainly qualifies as useful." He tapped the girl on the arm, and she turned her face to Xu, neatly curled black locks bouncing with the movement. There was a moment of absolute silence as realization sunk in.
"Hi, Xu," Rinoa Heartilly said, her lips curving themselves into a forced smile. "How've you been?"