I look up. He's standing there, powerful as a force of nature; a hurricane come to shake up my life again. He looks angry, but he always looked angry when he was worried and I don't suppose that has changed.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing, anyway?"
"Working?" I try, but I don't think it would pacify him at all. Of course, it doesn't. He looks about ready to tip my desk over; papers, cold coffee, yesterday's dinner tray and all. He leans forward, gripping onto the edge of the desk with both hands, his face too close to mine for me to completely push away my feelings for him once more and be comfortable.
"I'll repeat my question, and this time we'll try for a proper answer. What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
"Working," I repeat, more confident, the worried strain to his voice just making me feel more stubborn. What right does he have to come and shake up my world again, just when the pieces are settling from his last blast at it that nearly destroyed me? It's in his nature to love aggravating me, but the worry there means it's not just that this time.
Still. What right does he have to care?
"Leonhart," he growls, "Working does not involve shutting yourself up in the darkest hole Garden has to offer with a mug of stone cold coffee from last week sat next to you. Work does not involve returning your dinner tray untouched. What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Why are you here?"
"Because I fucking want to be here, now answer my question."
"You answer first."
"What are you, a fucking baby? You know why I'm here, because I fucking care about you. Now get up, we're going to get you fed." He grabs my arm, and I almost let him pull me out; as helpless in his anger, the tiniest twig in a cyclone.
I don't like being dragged around though, and my reaction is instantaneous and hopefully painful; a fist in his eye. "Maybe I don't want to eat."
"That's better," he says, oddly pleased, a hand going to the eye that I can tell will be black and swollen in the morning. "Got you to act like a normal human being. Why don't you want to eat?"
"I'm not hungry."
"Shit, Squall, and here I thought I was getting somewhere."
"Why do you care?"
"I thought I'd already told you that, I just do. How about this: you've lost yourself in paperwork and all this irrelevant shit and just like the wonderful saving grace I am, I'm here to help you no matter what shit you pull. Now fucking get up and let's go."
A saving grace, huh? The words don't suit him, but the sentiment - the worried, angry fire in his eyes - does. Why not?
I stood up.
