the main idea for this fic was to have a go at lightning as a mother figure, with side romance later, but mostly a family fic as lightning learns and adjusts to being a mother. originally, the one who was going to end up taking place as dad was Noctis, but now i'm not too sure, the love interest might change, or there might not be one at all. it depends, i might turn this into a story, but for now, its a thought to put out there lightning as a mother figure.

be prepared, its a long drabble, but, enjoy!

He felt completely out of place here, in the large, circular area of Nautilus Guardian Corps HQ, even more so with a large suitcase at his side, his father's moogle on his head, and the most important picture album clutched tightly in his hands, pressing constantly at his chest. These were his only companions here; the only things he had left. The only things he could bring. Everything else was crisp and scattered ash. Never to be used or touched again.

He gripped the album tighter. Just like them. He could never touch them again.

Trying hard to distract himself, he searched the crowd. Mom often spoke highly of the woman that was supposed to come and get him. How she was one of the greatest women his mother ever knew, even his father spoke with high admiration and respect for this woman, his supposed aunt. If he remembered correctly, he was told that she was a soldier, a fighter.

She was near impossible to find in this heavy mass of white uniforms. And few even considered helping him. Some glanced his way, pity in their eyes, but none came up to offer support or comfort to him. He wanted that comfort, but he also didn't. Pity reminded him gravely of his situation, of what's wrong with his life, and even more, what's missing now. He wanted the comfort that none could give either.

He didn't want to hear someone say that they were in a better place and were just thankful he survived. He didn't want to hear someone saying that they couldn't imagine what he was going through. It just made it worse for him. Painful almost. As sad and scared as he was, he was glad none approached him about it. He didn't want to be approached about it. He just wanted out of here and in bed, believing that when he woke, it was all just a bad dream, and him mom would be up, and he beg her for pancakes, or waffles, and she'd get him cereal instead. Then he would leave with dad to school, an occasional hug, then off he went, and his day would go on with his mom picking him up and his day spent studying and getting his homework done (or sneaking video games). And when mom was done cooking, she'd come and help him with the ones he had trouble with. Then dad would be home, and the day would be like any other day.

And this situation he was in here was just a bad dream. He wouldn't care if he woke up crying, he just wanted to wake up, and bury himself into his mother, listening to her hushed whisper and gentle touch to chase away this awful dream, a dream where it was only him, and this aunt he's only heard of through his mother's fond stories and his own father's admiration.

And his parents gone.

The moogle on his head shifted, burying his head into his messy brown hair quietly as he watched the crowd around them through squinted eyes. He cherished the feel of the moogle nosing his hair, the silent comfort needed. He knows he wouldn't dare breath a word here. Too many people, too many eyes. He himself could relate. Too many people, too many things going on right now.

As if to try and block it out, he pulled his legs up and buried himself into his own curl, his forehead leaning uncomfortably on the album as he waited.

Shadows fell over him as he waited. He could feel the stares of the people as they went, murmuring to one another. He was deaf to them all, and as mute as the moogle on his head. He kept his eyes closed to blind himself from reality.

One shadow that fell over him lasted longer than most. He was almost tempted to look up, especially when he felt the moogle shift on his head, murmuring softly.

"Denzel?" a velvet voice asked, smoother and slightly deeper than his mother's, but still had the odd familiar note. Familiar enough to crack his deaf ears. He jerked up, making the moogle squeal and grumble as it was tossed off his head. Wide eyed, he stared up at a woman that easily stood over his crouch on the bench. "Mom," he breathed wishfully. She looked so much like her. Same lush and soft looking strawberry hair that seem to have its own graceful and beautiful life to it, same heart shaped face, same blue eyes that were dabbed with the colors of gray and green.

But closer details revealed that it wasn't.

Her skin was darker than his mother's, though slightly. Her hair was different in a sense. It lied on the wrong shoulder, and the bangs were wrong. The eyes weren't warm and welcoming, they were cautious and sad. And like every soldier here, she wore a white uniform of the Guardian Corp. unit. And then there was the weapon that was loyally at her side, hanging patiently and ready for use.

This wasn't mom.

She could never be mom.

He looked away from her, biting his lips as he hid his face. His eyes stung and his body trembled, slightly overwhelmed. Why was she so similar? Why was she so different?

Why did they have to go?

He felt the moogle climb onto his shoulder, nuzzling his ear. It did little this time to ease him out of his emotional state.

The woman before him, his aunt, moved. Out of the corner of his watering eye, he saw her reaching out, taking his suite case easily and slipping it to her side. She stood there for a moment in front of him, waiting for him. To do what, he didn't know. From under his own bangs, he saw her reach out, but stopped and dropped her hand at her side, looking a little lost.

"Do you want to visit them?" she asked, her rough voice a little softer.

Silently, he shook his head.

"What do you want?" she probed.

I want my mom and dad.

"I want to go home," he said instead, not uncurling himself yet. But he did look up slightly, watching her.

She saw through him though. He saw it in her eyes. A flicker of recognition, and her own sadness. She settled next to him, a respective distance from him, his suitcase set at her feet. "When you are ready," she told him gently. She didn't elaborate anymore to it. He got the sense that it was for both seeing his old life and leaving for Bodhum. Shakily, he allowed himself a small nod, and unconsciously leaned towards her, the back of his head lightly touching her bare arm.

The warmth of her arm drifted off, encasing him. He allowed himself to scoot a little closer, breathing in her scent. Like his mother, she had that distinct and almost undetectable smell of flowers, and spring. Only his mother also smelled like books, and food. His aunt, she had a salty smell to her, she also smelled like leather and metal. Leaning away, he looked up at her, saying with a light tremble in his voice, "I was told they're happier."

Her face didn't move towards him, but her eyes glanced down at him. Her face hardened into a dark grimace, like she was also told that one too many times as well. As gently as she could, she replied, "No one knows for sure. I wouldn't call them happy though."

He completely leaned onto her then, a weight seemly off his chest. "Thank you," he mumbled. That meant they weren't happy to be apart from him. They weren't happy that he survived alone and by himself, that he was all alone. He didn't want to think that they were like that. They should be sad, maybe even angry that neither of them were with him. How could they be happy knowing he was alone, with this stranger look alike as his new mom.

It was nice hearing from her that his mom and dad were probably not happy. He didn't want them to be happy about this.

He kept clsoe to his aunt, following her through the crowded streets. She kept her hand down and open for him, but he didn't take it, not yet. It meant that this was a reality, that she was his new mom.

She was nothing like his mom though. He didn't want her to be his mom, he wanted to meet her because she was that cool sounding aunt, not his cool and distant mom. He wanted his old mom, who smiled at him and always dragged him into hugs, whether he wanted those hugs or not.

His aunt had yet to hug him, then again, he hadn't really wanted a hug. So with a moogle and album held closely to his chest, his suitcase in her other hand, he settled with just keeping close and trying not to lose her in this crowd. He glanced up at her every now and then, allowing himself to think that the pink locks that hung over her shoulder belonged to his mother instead. It didn't help that his aunt didn't turn around and smile down at him, like his mother used to do.

It didn't help at all that his aunt and mother looked so alike, yet, were so completely different. It was merely another hard and bitter stab at his chest to think of how it came to this. How could they look so alike, yet so different? His mother always had a bright and warm smile on her features, and always ready for contact, with him and dad.

Yet his aunt had to smile, or even touch him.

Truthfully, he wasn't int he mood to be touched. too many people, too many strangers came up and touched him, repeating the same phrase till it turned into a sound in his ears.

I'm sorry.

For what? They didn't kill his parents, they weren't involved at all. They did nothing at all, except mumur that one phrase to him, over and over again. It was just making it worse. They have no idea what he was feeling, they have no right to try and sympathize. Mom always said sorry was said by someone who was at fault. How were all those strangers at fault?

The fire was an accident, a freak accident. No one was around to cause it, as far as he knew, something caught aflame while his parents were asleep, pressed and secured in each others arms. The only thing that was missing was him, pressed in between.

Even with the fire there, he still wanted to be there, feel their larger bodies around him, keeping him safe and secure, even in death. So long as he was with them, he was safe, he could have bare with the pain of getting burned and smothered in smoke. So long as they were close.

He couldn't have been farther though. He was too far now. They were gone, and he had no idea, like any bad, and oblivious son. How could he know? How could he not? He noticed the smoke from the school window, but thought nothing of it. Fires were far from common, but the GC and sometimes PSICOM were always there to calm the crowds and mellow the flames. Lives were always saved.

Why wasn't theirs saved?

Why did he not realize that the fire was in his home's area? How could he be so stupid and thoughtless of it? He just stared, empty minded out the window, watching the smoke rise in merging bubbles while the teacher droned on. He didn't think anything of it. Not till school was over, and he waited two hours to see his dad to come pick him up and take him home.

Dad never came.

Mom never came.

Neither of them called.

And even when he called, they didn't answer.

He ran all the way home on that bright sunny day, where they bright blue sky turned golden with promise. He barely noticed the happy glow int he air, too consumed with worry and confusion. Did something happen?

Of course something happened.

A fire happened.

He stopped before his home, finding yellow tape stripped before his house, a now shriveled building, with smoke and steam rising. The bold words of caution set cold claws on his throat, catching and stopping his breath. His heart froze and he went deaf to the world, as he stood, in shock at what was his home.

Nothing else mattered then.

"MOOOM!" he cried, rushing forward, not even bothering to stop the tears that flowed down his cheeks. He didn't see the soldiers rushing forward, grabbing him and keeping him from running into the building. He didn't hear them as they spoke, deaf to them, life his ears was covered by a bubble they couldn't pop.

"DAAAD!" he shouted, squirming even more as he struggled against the arms that held him. Where were they? Where in the house were they? They needed him, he had to get to them.

He needed them.

He had been pulled away from the site, away from his home, and his parents. He was pushed into a GC's car, and taken to their station, where he was questioned by the authorities, and they, in turn contacted his aunt. He woke from his broken stupor when he was sat down on a couch, shivering and choking on his sorrows. The first words he heard was the soft and gentle whisper of his interrogator.

"Their gone."

He has never felt to empty. Especially after hearing those words. After that, the officer that brought him came back, handing him a photo album and what he presumed was a stuffed moogle that some how avoided the damaging flames. He kept them both close. They were all he had left now, of his old home. Though he still had one family member left,she had yet to feel that precious. He looked up at his aunt, fighting another wave of emotions. His aunt. He thought he was going to meet through his parents, not through their death.

Why was he meeting her through their death? Why didn't she come sooner, or why didn't they go over sooner, just so he could finally meet the aunt his mother always whispered to him about, how she greatly admired her and stating that she was one of the strongest people she's ever known.

All the stories and whispers about her, told to him constantly; she felt like a total stranger though. She didn't seem strong, she seemed just as empty and broken as he was. Her face didn't change much, her eyes, they were half lidded and clouded, her lips dipping down slightly in a hidden frown.

She was just like him this this sense. They both lost family; at least he could relate to that.

But he wasn't ready to fill that in, he doubted it could ever be filled in.

He paused, sucking in a surprised breath when he felt the lightest of touch on the fringe that hung over his head. The touch didn't move, merely resting there, making his mind go blank by surprise. He looked up, peeking at her from under his hair.

A slightly sad face looked down at him.

That light touch moved down, grazing his cheeks and he blinked a few times he felt something warm and wet smothering over his skin. He was crying?

Other hand came and smoothed over his other cheek, wiping the tear stains.

"They won't be happy if you cry," she whispered to him.

"What'll make them happy then, he grumbled out at her in weak rebellion. He couldn't bring himself to lean away from her touch. It was as light and as warm as his mother's. Instead, he found himself leaning into it, crumbling as he tried to bury his face into her hands, hiding from her and the world.

"Seeing you get through this," she said simply. "This is merely another struggle in life, get through it, and recover, you'll find yourself stronger than before." He took in a shuddering breath as her words. With one hand clutching his album tightly, the other went to her hands, tugging them close as he buried his face into her palms, hiding as he silently cried.

He was thankful.

When he leaned back, she brought her soaked hands back, rising up as well, towering over him again. He blinked dazedly up at her, distantly noticing that they had gotten some stares, but she hardly seemed bothered, too focused on him.

"Let's go," she said gently, picking up his suitcase and walking ahead. He quickly followed, keeping, just as before, only this time, he reached up and shyly took her hand. She curled her fingers loosely around his smaller, lightly tugging him along. Just like he did with his mother, he allowed himself to get tugged along.

At this point, he was merely ready to sleep.

He had cried his energy and life away, and simply became more broken the longer he thought about his parents, and his new home. They didn't go back to the ruins, he wasn't ready to go see them, if he ever was. He felt it was the same with her. They would go see them, when they were ready.

Only if they ever were.

Tiredly, he looked up and over at her, watching her in the small cot room they rented on the ship back to Bodhum. She was slid up against the window, peering out. To anyone on the other side of the cot, they would have thought she was merely thinking, for him though, slid and bunked at the wall under the window as well, he saw that she too was crying. Her face didn't break and crumble like his though. It was still the same, only her eyes were squinted and her lips bitten through clenched teeth. Only a single tear escaped her barricade, and that seemed like the only one she would allow. She closed her eyes tightly, pressing her face into the window and smearing it as if she was trying to rub her own internal sorrow away.

He wished it could work like that. He would've loved to smear his face into something, feeling its comfort, and have all his problems and insecurities disappear.

But it wasn't that easy. Just the thought brought another shudder through his body.

Mutely, he rose, taking the covers with him and got on the opposite cot that she was lounged on. He pressed himself against her, closing his eyes and imagining that it was his mother that he was pressed against. A few minutes later, a shy arm wrapped around him, bringing him close, just like his mother used too whenever he snuck into bed at night. The only thing missing was his own father, who's arm would curl around his mother, and tug both of them close.

Did he have an uncle back in Bodhum?

It was never said.

He shook his head and pressed it against he cot, allowing himself to drift in the warmth and security that encased him.

It didn't matter much now.

Bodhum was a town famous for their fireworks, beach, and tropic area.

It was also the home town where his mother used to live. He struggled to take in all the sights of Bodhum as he held close to his aunt, who didn't own a car like his mother did, but a silver and red hover bike she fondly named Odin. Bodhum was a large and town, almost a city, though not as big as Nautilus. He found that there weren't a lot of hover cars or bikes here in Bodhum, and that most people that were out and about merely walked. And almost all of them were tan, unlike his aunt, who was pale.

Did this mean he would get a tan here too?

He blinked when they slowed and stopped before one of many dome shaped two story houses. He was also happy to find that they were really close to the beach. His aunt parked in front of the building, easing the engine hush. She turned him, asking, "Do you need help getting down?"

"No," he murmured as he slid off, stumbling a bit off the bike. He watched as Lightning easily slid off, grabbed his suitcase, and made her way over to the home. With his album and moogle close to him, he followed eagerly, about to find out what sort of home his mother lived in.

"We have two open bedrooms," she told him as she unlocked it. "Mine old room, and Serah's... you are welcomed to either of them."

Serah, his mother's name. It sounds like its been forever since he heard it. Gulping down the unsteady rise of sorrow, he slipped in, following his aunt into the house. He found the house to be open and roomy, with a hall that lead to the den, but had an open doorway in the side that lead to the kitchen. After a quick peek at the kitchen, he checked the rest of the house. Up on the hall wall, he found many pictures and drawings, most were his mother, with a few of his aunt, completely unaware of the camera focused in on her.

In the den, he found a stair well that lead up to the second story, were most of the bedrooms were. He found the master bedroom where his aunt likely slept in, a large bed more than big enough for two. Then that left the other two rooms. His aunt's old room as a child, and his mother's.

More eager and curious about his mother's, he slipped in, blinking at the modest green room, with a desk, end table by a bed. There were pictures everywhere in his mother's room. Of Lightning, her, his grandparents that were never mentioned, and a blonde man he didn't recognize. He set his moogle on the bed, and the album on the end table, next to a picture of his mother and father when they were younger, the only picture with his father.

When he turned around, he found his aunt standing in the door way, looking a little sad as she stared about the room thoughtfully. Silently, she set his suitcase down, nodding to him as she turned at left. "I'll get dinner ready, Denzel, make yourself at home."

"Can you tell me..." he started, making her pause. He picked up the framed silver photo of both his parents when they were younger.

"Can you tell me you and mom's childhood?"

She looked back at him from over her shoulder, offering a sad, gentle smile. "Sure," she said.

been forever since i watched the walk through for FF13, so i distantly remember lightning's house, sorry if its wrong ^^'

so anyway, a few fact, because i don't see to many stories with Denzel, i made him the son of serah and noel (love that paired, a whole lot more than serah and snow, truthfully, i'm a real snow hater, i think he is one of the worst characters to have ever been made. i'm sorry if anyone is a snow fan out there, but i take great pleasure in seeing him in pain, especially when lightning beats the crap out of him)

i'll probably post another chapter or two about Denzel growing up with Lighting and how they adjust to each other, also, how Denzel meets the rest of lightning's self proclaimed family.

either way, r&r :)