Disclaimer: Of course I don't FF9. I occasionally do wish that it was my brainchild and my heart, but I'd probably have made a mess of it.
A/N: This is an AU fic set post-game, timeline wise (although my idea of 'post-game' is obviously quite warped here). One day (I say this often, don't I?) I might write more one-shots set in the same universe. Because of the nature of the fic, I was - and still am - worried about how OOC this might end up. This is as much a writing exercise in dialogue as anything else. As always, comments and criticisms are very much welcome and appreciated!
Freya spares a glance away from the neat line of empty glasses only to see the end of a swishing golden tail turning the corner from the open doorway of the Doom Pub, and its owner briskly zooming in on her with narrowed eyes.
"Zidane," She slurs, mock saluting him with a half-empty glass of brandy. "What're you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be in bed?"
He slides into the slightly damp but vacant seat beside hers, wrinkling his nose as the odour of vomit wafts to his nose. Noticing his discomfort, Freya waves her hand inarticulately at the neat line of glasses in front of him. "Lightweight," She says without preamble.
Zidane stares at her incredulously, after taking a few seconds to make the connection between the pungent odour of vomit and the set of uncleared glasses on the bar in front of him. "You drank someone under the table?"
"Who d'you think I am?" She replies, clearly amused. "It's not like we haven't gone drinking together before."
"More curious at the time," He shoots back. Dagger is going to kill him when she smells the vomit on his trousers which, for once, isn't his fault. "That clock says that it's ten to midnight. Usually you're only this drunk at three in the morning."
"Thieves' slang again," She corrects, more out of habit than anything else. "And who're you to judge me on the time? I remember that time when you became horrendously inebriated at some post-performance party by ten and had to be driven back by Blank. Who, by the way, hasn't forgiven you for making him abandon Ruby at the party. I heard."
"Shuddup," He bites back, still a little stunned at her ability to coherently string together polysyllabic words even as drunk as she is, then waves at the bartender. Bobo nods and walks to the back; Zidane has been a regular customer long enough for his drinking preferences to be memorized. "Anyway, I'm here to haul your ass back to my flat 'cause Dagger's worried about you."
"So says the one ordering a drink for himself." Freya leans back into the uncomfortably low backrest and tips the rest of her brandy generously down her throat. Zidane blinks, momentarily distracted as he notices the people around them practically gawking at her. "'Sides," She continues, dragging Zidane's attention back to her, "aren't you and Dagger supposed to be spending the night together? Shouldn't you two be getting it on just about now?" She smirks at Zidane's gobsmacked expression, which morphs into an inordinate grin when she sees the bartender walking over with Zidane's drink.
Realizing that Freya is preparing to order her next drink, Zidane gallantly decides to intervene. "She's had enough," He says firmly to Bobo, whom, judging by the look of awe on his face, has become Freya's newest fan.
"Say that to yourself," Freya replies, snatching up the glass of beer meant for Zidane.
Zidane's face twists into what can only be called a pout as he snatches his glass back, but not before Freya gulps down a large portion of it. "You should see how you look in the mirror now. And like I said, Dagger's worried 'bout you." He squirms in his seat; Freya has never ever seen him be still, except that one time many months ago, and that isn't a memory she'd like to revisit anytime soon. "And so am I. Definitely."
Freya rolls her eyes. "Are you trying to have an honest conversation with me in a bar, you thug?"
"Well, you're drunk," He says. "What better time? A thief knows when to choose his moments."
Freya rolls her eyes at his self-proclaimed profession. The only things she's witnessed him steal since he got back are the hearts of his ladyfriends, and even then he isn't quite as much of a stud ever since he got back – although that could partly be attributed to his fear of incurring his girlfriend's wrath more than anything. Her attention is diverted, though, as she spots a couple walk out of the bar, hand in hand. The lady in the skintight black dress and four-inch velvet heels laughs coquettishly at a joke her male companion makes as she leans into his shoulder. And the anger that Freya has, up until now, literally drowned beneath drink rises back up to the surface.
Zidane, pausing to look at what caught Freya's attention, takes in the couple and the long, toned legs of the lady. He whistles. "Well, that's why we're worried, Freya."
Freya spares him a withering glance. "I'm straight," she says, correctly guessing what he was looking at.
He cocks a grin, but replies seriously. "Look, Freya, stop being obtuse, won't you?"
She doesn't even bother smothering her snort. "Obtuse. Obtuse? Hanging around Dagger these last few months must have made for some obvious increments in vocabulary."
If Zidane's twitchy fingers around his glass are any indication to go by, he is perfectly happy to drag her out of the bar bodily right now just to stop her from talking. Instead, he does what no man – or woman – should do when faced with an obviously drunk person – attempt to be reasonable. Or in his case, to give perfectly (in his opinion) valid explanations.
"You're pining, Freya. Over a guy you just dumped. A guy you chased across literally half the world barely a year ago. Who wouldn't be worried?"
She laughs cruelly. "So says the guy who disappeared for a good year and a half and didn't even try to phone back to the girl he fancied. Or his other friends, for that matter. And what about his family?"
It is a low blow, and even through her drunken stupor she notices the sudden spark of anger and torment reflected in her friend's blue eyes and the way his grip around his glass tightens, his tail momentarily still. But she is bitter and tired and she wants Zidane to leave her alone – just this once, just tonight – and so she doesn't take back her words. "Helping to bridge the gap between Terra and Gaia after the war? Lofty words, Tribal, coming from a guy who didn't even have the balls to – "
"It was a fucking riot out there in Terra, Freya, and I didn't even know if I'd even make it out of there alive. You know that. How could I even promise Dagger that – " He ducks his head as he notices the interested gazes of several patrons who are no doubt eavesdropping on their conversation. Without realizing, both of them have been arguing with their voices raised for awhile.
Freya, who sees him fight to tamp down his unruly emotions at her mention of Terra and that sickening series of events that had happened in that barren wasteland, deflates more out of shame than anything else. That lifeless, broken smile that has reappeared on his face is one she swore she never wanted to see again, ever since their motley group of friends had fished him out from the bowels of the fortress of a dictator.
"Look," she slurs unhappily, "'m sorry, I didn't mean to talk about Terra –"
"Good," he responds nastily, then shakes his head, his tail thumping on the ground more viciously than usual. "Nah, it's okay," he offers by way of what she recognizes as apology, "It's all in the past. I shouldn't be yelling at you, not when you can't even look me straight in the face because, what, you and Fratley are having issues?"
"Issues? I dumped him, Zidane, we don't have issues anymore." She laughs jerkily, a tinge of hysteria noticeable in her voice. "We never did, anyway."
Zidane's face abruptly becomes carefully neutral and understanding, a laudable skill honed from years in acting in theatrical productions in Lindblum's finest theatre houses. "I am a professional liar, Freya. I definitely know a lie when I see one, alright?"
Grimacing, she sighs and slumps into her seat, knowing that despite his momentary outburst of anger moments ago, Zidane is prepared to wait all night for an explanation for standing him and Dagger up for dinner at his dinky new flat off the Theater District. She dimly register that her fingers are trembling, the eruption of noise behind her, the sad gaze that Zidane levels on her, and, abruptly, everything spills. "There weren't issues, Zidane. But he… He doesn't love me. I don't know, I loved – love – him so fucking much but now, now he's just a shell of his former self and he's trying so hard to do the right thing but everything's changed and he's just… it's not love to him, y'know?" Wearily, she paws blindly for Zidane's almost-empty glass, which he grudgingly slides towards her. "It's not love."
She feels Zidane's fingers curling over her wrist, one by one. It is as much comfort as she is willing to take, proud as she undoubtedly is, and she is grateful. "He looked happy enough, when we went on that double date soon after I… got back. You looked happy enough."
"I thought I was, oh Zidane, I thought I was. After we got – not you – back from the war, we talked about our relationship and everything seemed to be alright for awhile. But then… the things he did, how he would talk of buying a house and raising children… he was mechanically going about it, making plans… Like doing all these little things would help him remember, remember me, the way we did all those years ago before he left on that fucking volunteering trip to what, expand his worldview, before he got into that accident and –" She breaks off. "I didn't mean to stand you up for dinner. I just – suddenly – couldn't."
Zidane nods sympathetically. "You couldn't face seeing me and Dagger together, could you?"
"I know that it's silly." But she sighs in silent relief when she feels his hand, warm and secure, sliding up to grasp her hand, tightly clenched on the tabletop.
"It isn't," He quietly replies.
She is dimly aware of Zidane's clumsy hug around her shaking shoulders as she slumps, weeping uncontrollably, face-forward into the bartop; of the aghast expression on Zidane's face on seeing the bill she racked up in the three hours she spent here; of him carefully leading to the exit of the bar, his thick navy-blue jacket wrapped around her shoulders and pressing a wad of tissue into her palm. But she only looks up when the scent of smoke and waste hits her. Nausea forces her legs to give way, and she sinks into the hard concrete of the pavement.
"Feeling better?" Zidane asks, scratching his head self-consciously after helping her to sit down next to a rubbish bin in what she recognizes as the alley behind the pub. It is a gesture so familiar from days long gone that she almost smiles in spite of herself.
"God, I really missed you, Zidane," She replies absently, and promptly turns her head to throw up on the ground.
As the fit of vomiting passes, she grimaces at the taste of bile at the back of her throat and the hovering figure of Zidane looming over her, a hand covering his mouth to block out the smell of vomit for the second time tonight. "Stop being a m-motherhen, Zidane, I've gott'n a hangover 'fore." She shivers, unexpectedly cold even with Zidane's jacket wrapped snugly around her.
"Tell that to me again if you can even stand on your own," Zidane retorts. "Especially when you just threw up over my shoes. Dagger's gonna have a fit when she sees this and," he groans melodramatically, "I didn't even have a proper glass of whiskey."
She leans back into the mercifully solid brick wall that Zidane has propped her up against. "I won' shirk my responsib'lity in tellin' her I'm at fault."
He grins wryly, leaning over to help her stand, even if slightly unsteadily. And as he hails an automobile taxi to drive them back to his flat, where Dagger is no doubt waiting up with a hangover remedy in hand and an understanding smile; as she leans sleepily and unembarrassedly on his shoulder on the ride back home, she thinks that she hears him quietly tell her that he had missed her too.
fin.