So. . . this! It's a missing scene from chapter 18 of Pressure Cooker. I've tried to modify it so that it can be read as a stand alone. Rated for language.

Shinjiro reached his hand across the thin stretch of carpet in search of his friend, and felt a warm empty patch of blanket rub against his hand. Gasping, he sat up and scrambled to the wall connecting his room and Aki's. He gave three muted knocks, a shallow amount of air filling his chest. God, what didn't Aki understand? He didn't have to get up and come to his door and kiss him goodnight, he just had to knock back; he just had to be there.

Panicking, he looked to the numbers on the clock sitting high on his nightstand. Seven minutes, he inhaled stoutly. He'd been asleep for seven minutes, enough time to plunge into a deep dream.

He'd been riding on Castor's back, a carousel of scenes flying past them as they rode furiously through the night. They crashed through the woods behind the old orphanage, past Miki and Aki as they built a snowman, past Arisato even though he tried to chase them down, past Mitsuru as she stumbled over the hem of a kimono much too long for her legs. On they rode, until Sotō-san appeared. She was the headmistress of the orphanage he grew up in, and in his heart Shinjiro had come to think of her as his mother. She had appeared at the edge of a cliff, beckoning Shinjiro and Castor to come closer, a stern smile on her lips. Shinjiro shouted with glee while Castor whinnied happily as they charged on, past Sotō-san and down into the abyss, down into the terrible and beautiful darkness together-

Seven simple minutes.

Shinjiro knocked again, loudly this time.

Silence greeted him once again. Shinjiro exhaled sharply and rolled himself into a tight ball, letting his head come to rest against the wall. He knocked again, knowing Aki was not beside him. His eyes darted back to the clock as another minute rolled over. It didn't matter, it didn't change the seven minutes he'd lost.

Shinjiro looked to the tiny crumpled blanket beside his makeshift bed on the floor and glared at the small group of abandoned dog toys. His eyes moved to the door of his room, left slightly ajar.

That damn dog had one job.

"Can't sleep, Kirijo?"

Shinjiro asked lightly as he threw himself into the chair beside Mitsuru at the control panel. She was hardly surprised at his sudden appearance, after all she had followed the surveillance cameras as they tracked him into the kitchen. After watching Shinjiro mill around for five or so minutes, the cameras then traced his steps into the living room for a solid three minutes before Shinjiro had raced up the stairs to the control room, Mitsuru's current location. She twisted slightly in her chair to study him.

"Can't?" Mitsuru repeated before shaking her head, keeping Shinjiro pinned under gaze. "Rather, I'd prefer not to."

He paused, and then smiled darkly.

"How very professional."

The corners of Mitsuru's mouth twitched slightly up, even as her eyes roved over him. The location and appearance of his injuries had not changed since she saw him three hours ago, but still-

"See something you like?" Shinjiro's voice trickled into her ears as he leaned forward onto the bank of consoles and fixed her with a haggard stare. "Or just wondering if I'm the real deal?"

Mitsuru felt her face flush, but couldn't muster the energy to put Shinjiro back in his place. Quickly looking back to the displays, she shut off of the cameras placed throughout the Iwatodai Dormitory and pulled up the group of cameras over Port Island. One camera outside of Gekkoukan High revealed a lone figure, steadily jogging away at the far end of a track course.

Akihiko.

"The way he runs, you'd never think he'd just survived six hours trapped in a nightmare," Shinjiro muttered, pushing a random button.

Mitsuru slapped Shinjiro's hand away from the console, her eyes still glued to Akihiko. In truth, she'd followed him out of the dorm and to the track an hour ago with the aid of the cameras. Mitsuru had only been able to handle watching him for three laps, the quiet aggravation in her stomach churning faster and faster with each sprint he took. She had finally switched the camera off when Akihiko's expression became one of pain, the pace of his run still steady.

Shinjiro was right. They had just spent six days, or rather, six hours in Tartarus locked in a separate block with a host of deadly mind control shadows and now Akihiko was acting as though it had all been a mere inconvenience to his training regimen.

While trapped in Tartarus, the shadows mishapped their memories and forgotten dreams, and at every corner she, Akihiko, and Shinjiro had had to rely on each other as anchors to reality. They had come out alive because of Arisato. He had arrived just before the Dark Hour ended, but his means of saving them from another night were another matter. Arisato had attacked them, without attempt at recourse, and had thrown each and every one of them from a staggering height back into the depths of Tartarus. He'd approached them as an enemy but at the end of the night, he had saved their lives. The situation had left Mitsuru in a rather uneasy state, one which was not eased the idea of sleep.

After so much time in a nightmare, could she trust this reality any more than the one they had just escaped?

Mitsuru looked away from the camera along track as Akihiko rounded his second mile, his expression somewhat clearer.

"You look like shit," Shinjiro rasped, running his hand through his hair.

"It may help to begin your thoughts with 'I feel'," Mitsuru replied stoutly, her eyes now fastened to a screen in the top left hand corner.

"I feel like," Shinjiro began expressively as he leaned back. "If shit took a shower, and then sat down in front of a bunch of monitoring equipment so it could look like something other than shit, it would look a little better than you do right now."

"Thank you for that very colorful description of my current status, Shinjiro," her chin swiveled smoothly to a lower screen in front of him.

"I just compared you to a walking, talking piece of shit and that's your response?"

"Were you expecting something different?" She asked, her voice crackling a bit.

"Definitely not a 'thank you'," he paused. "Unless you've fallen in love with me . . ."

Mitsuru gave him her best attempt at a withering look as she reached over the smattering of buttons on the console and toggled to a camera perched over the Port Island train station.

"You know I feel like that might explain-"

"I assure you," Mitsuru covered her mouth politely as she yawned. "My sanity has not been compromised."

"Is that what I asked?" Shinjiro wondered to himself, clicking his tongue.

"That is precisely what you asked."

"If you're so sane," Shinjiro yawned, putting his head down on folded arms. "Then why are you sitting here reviewing surveillance footage after spending six hours in a house of mirrors?"

Mitsuru pushed a few buttons and pointed to a small screen in the center. The footage revealed a light-stepped Koromaru, exiting Shinjiro's room with an oversized bone in his jaws.

"The same reason you enlisted a canine to act as a sentinel."

"I'm going to kill that furry bastard," he said sleepily.

"-And I imagine, the same reason Akihiko is working on his third mile around the track."

"So here we are," Shinjiro sighed. "Three not crazy people too afraid to fall asleep."

"Here we are," Mitsuru repeated softly as she shut the console off and left them in a dim light. She swiveled her chair to face Shinjiro, her eyes tired.

"What do you need?"

"Sleep," Shinjiro began, rubbing his eyes. "A shower. A stiff drink. And I'd like to sock Aki in the gut for making short work of the three damn rounds of Dia Takeba wasted on his sorry ass," Shinjiro's voice rose slightly, his eyes flitting to a corner then back to the blank bank of consoles.

"I'd also like to have a little chat with Arisato about his rather questionable actions last night. I'd also like to know that sitting here with you is not some kind of hocus pocus bullshit; that if I close my eyes to you looking like shit I'll wake up to the same thing and not some shadow pulling my intestines out-"

"Shinjiro," Mitsuru cut him off by grasping him, firmly, at the shoulder. He looked up and once again appeared trapped under her gaze.

"I need coffee," he said, looking as relieved as Mitsuru suddenly felt.

They stood at the north entrance of the Moonlight Bridge, the only 24/7 coffee shop sandwiched between the edge of the waterfront and the rise of the bridge. Mitsuru's coffee cup sat empty on the balustrade as she looked over the water silently. Beside her, Shinjiro had his back to the water, but she could sense him stealing glances at her from the corner of his eye. She didn't blame him. This was a strange situation, and though it wasn't unheard of for the two of them to associate outside of S.E.E.S., their outing tonight was rather strained given the current uncertainty of their surroundings. Like Mitsuru, Shinjiro was most likely trying to read this scene as reality or illusion.

"We need to discuss Arisato," the words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop herself. She turned to Shinjiro, who was making a face as he sipped from his cup.

A silence enveloped them before Shinjiro coughed.

"This shit is awful. It's all grinds," he said quietly, reaching into his pocket. He bit into his coffee cup and kept it there as he pulled out two packets of sugar.

Mitsuru spun around and pushed her back to the wall, her eyes never releasing Shinjiro.

"Shinjiro."

He rolled his head over at her and fixed her with a look of utter exasperation as he flicked the sugar packets between his fingers. Mitsuru glared back at him severely, feeling a pang of anxiety when she spotted the black bags under his eyes.

"What, now?" he snapped through the cup gripped between his teeth, gesturing widely. "Here?"

"I'm asking for your opinion. Regarding Arisato . . . after last night," Mitsuru clarified unnecessarily. Shinjiro pulled the cup out of his mouth and ripped the tops off the sugar packets with his teeth, shaking his head in disbelief. After dumping the packets into his cup, he let out a low whistle.

"My opinion."

"Yes."

"You ain't gonna like it."

Mitsuru frowned and crossed her arms at Shinjiro as he smirked over at her, his chin cupped shyly in his free hand. She'd warned him against patronizing her before, and she hardly felt like issuing yet another friendly reminder, especially when he was intentionally goading her.

"Jesus, fine. Just don't give me that look," Shinjiro moaned. He rolled his head around and Mitsuru heard a series of pops as he scrunched his shoulders. The sound caused a shudder to run over her.

"There are two kinds of people in this world, in my opinion," Shinjiro ran his hands over his face as he spoke. "The kind who chase ideals and the kind who follow them."

"Idealists and disciples," Mitsuru simplified. Her eyes grew bleary and she furiously blinked it away.

Shinjiro shook his head, moving the coffee in his hand in a circular motion.

"More like, captains and dogs."

Mitsuru's eyes fell to the ground momentarily, and when she looked back to Shinjiro, his blackened eyes were boring into her.

"Captains aim for perfection, the ideal state of existence. They've got this detached sense of righteousness, you know, that whole cracking a few eggs to make an omelet cliché. They're clever, they're strategists. If your survival is essential to the ideal they're chasing after, then they'll keep you around. If not, they'll throw you into the fire," Shinjiro paused to take a drink of his coffee, certainly ice cold by now, before licking his lips at Mitsuru.

"Know any captains, Mitsuru?"

The implication fell heavy into the space between them.

Mitsuru drew her shoulders back, the air in her chest suddenly expanding into a heavy brick. She was accustomed to his casual insults, she had even grown fond of the banter they shared from to time, but at the end of it all, she respected Shinjiro, just as she respected Akihiko. What had she done to earn such a deep knifed accusation?

"You are . . . referring to me," Mitsuru stated quietly.

"You?" Shinjiro laughed caustically. "No, though you did have me going those first couple of months. No, Mitsuru. I was referring to your grandfather."

Mitsuru stood up sharply, her eyes firing venomously across the darkness to Shinjiro.

"And Arisato?" Mitsuru asked, taking a few short and deliberate steps toward him.

"Professionally?" Shinjiro shrugged, holding his coffee to his chest and seemingly unperturbed by Mitsuru's lethal advance. "I dunno. Only time will tell with Arisato, I guess."

Mitsuru stopped, inches away from Shinjiro, feeling suddenly ill. After all they'd been though, seeing each other's darkest dreams and memories, he was trifling with her emotions. Just like-

She took a long step away from Shinjiro, her arms tightly crossed against her stomach. Mitsuru reached for the stone wall, hoping the surface would assure her that she was not still trapped in that horrid block. She looked back up at Shinjiro, still leaning back against the wall of the bridge but now eyeing her critically.

"Is it cold out here?" he asked, bringing the coffee cup to his lips unblinkingly.

Mitsuru looked down at her hand as it trembled against the wall. She quickly refolded her arms, and forced her feet to stop their retreat. When had she let her guard down? When had she allowed herself such stupidity? It didn't matter now; all that mattered was facing him. She was only as vulnerable as she perceived herself to be, and Shinjiro was only as strong as her thoughts made him. Real or unreal, it didn't matter. She could steel herself against anything or anyone.

"No, Shinjiro," she whispered incredulously. "I'm angry."

"Told you that you wouldn't like it," he said simply, his eyes calmly waving back at her.

"Do not toy with me," Mitsuru spat, gathering the courage to advance toward him again. Shinjiro stood up quickly, coffee in hand, and met Mitsuru halfway into her advance with one long stride.

"I wouldn't do that," the softness in his voice blanketed the anger in hers.

"Your expertise in derision is typically a source of pride for you, Shinjiro," Mitsuru retorted sharply, tilting her head back so he could clearly see the fury she felt behind her eyes. "Particularly when it comes to me."

"That's not what I'm talking about," he replied patiently. "We don't fuck with our own, Mitsuru."

His words caused the blood in her veins to boil, though she did not understand why.

"We?" she repeated, numbly.

"You, me, Aki," Shinjiro elaborated slowly, but not condescendingly. "We may play too rough with each other on occasion, and by accident in Aki's case, but we were all dealt shitty cards at some point, so we don't-"

"Don't you dare," Mitsuru snapped immediately, feeling something hot welling behind her eyes. "Do not frame me as an object of pity."

Shinjiro dipped his head toward her.

"You were a child soldier."

"I had a duty to my family-" Mitsuru reflexively stepped back, and bit her lip furiously as Shinjiro filled in the gap quickly. If she turned to run it would only validate his accusation.

"You were a God damn kid," Shinjiro said scornfully, dousing the ground with his cold coffee before shaking the cup emphatically. "And you wanted to help. Worked out great for your granddad, didn't it?"

He had no right to say those things. He had no right to talk about that man, not now, not ever. She had to say these things, she had to defend herself against these ridiculous labels he was putting on her, but Mitsuru faltered. Lacking an elegant rebuttal, Mitsuru only gnawed at the inside of her mouth for a moment before stating for a second time:

"I am not a victim, Shinjiro," she said, her voice on the edge of breaking.

Shinjiro cocked his head at her.

"Sure about that?"

She raised her hand to slap him across the face when he caught her by the wrist.

"Just like that," Shinjiro laughed mirthlessly. "Now, this time like you mean it."

Mitsuru's ears were filled with a dull buzz as she twisted her foot and planted her unrestrained fist against Shinjiro's nose. She heard a snap, and Shinjiro doubled back, his face buried in the crook of his elbow. Mitsuru hissed in pain as she examined her fingers briefly before clutching her bruised hand to her chest, the tears of rage behind her eyes trickling out as tears of pain.

Shinjiro lifted his head and released a victorious snort. Mitsuru watched him with wide eyes as he approached her, nose and mouth drenched in red. He stopped in front of her and gave her a short, measuring glance before he locked his long arms around her in a stifling embrace.

Mitsuru couldn't be certain if she would die from lack of oxygen or from shame. She'd just lost control and hit a friend.

"Shinjiro-"

"Your hand's gotta hurt like hell, but that doesn't excuse your shitty hug."

"I don't know what came over me, I-"

"We were dealt some shitty cards, don't kid yourself," Shinjiro said again. "But unlike the captains, we chose to survive. Dogs, Mitsuru."

"Attack dogs," Mitsuru said bitterly into his chest. "Thoughtless beasts that live, breed, and die by the whims and wishes of a master-"

"Guard dogs, stupid," Shinjiro rasped, tightening his impossibly strong hold around her as he spoke. "Captains come and go, you know? We're red in tooth in claw because we still have something on the line. We're loyal to that and to each other. You heard my professional opinion about Arisato, but among the three of us? The kid's got a world of pain coming to him and he knows it."

He shifted suddenly and Mitsuru realized he was averting his bloodied nose to his own shoulder.

"He was fucked the second he decided to push you off that cliff, and he knows it."

A wall of soybean pudding rose up from the ground and stretched magnificently to the ceiling of the small but cluttered corner store.

Hōshi Takahanada propped her hands on her hips as she beamed up at her work. With her husband still out with a broken foot, it had been up to Hōshi and three of her best clerks to construct the formidable structure of gelatinous overstock. At last, after two days, a foundation sturdy enough to withstand the weight of the product had been laid and now, in the early hours of the morning, Hōshi had crowned her gem with a single container of pudding.

She sniffed triumphantly.

To think, her clerks had begged her to return home and finish the work later. The night shift was no place for a woman in her late sixties, they had claimed. Hōshi had chased down many a shoplifter in her day, and even though the baseball bat she held behind the register was nearly as tall as she was, she could still swing true.

"I beg your pardon."

Her gloating thoughts were quietly interrupted by someone politely clearing their throat. Hōshi turned around to meet a tall, regally dressed young lady. Her brilliant red hair was pulled into a neat bun and her button up shirt and skirt were free of creases. Hōshi noticed the girl's elegant face was drawn taut and pale, the unmistakable streaks of dried tears staining the skin under her eyes.

"Greetings!" Hōshi boomed. "May I interest you in some soybean pudding? 75% off!"

The girl shook her head softly.

"Could you please direct me to the . . ." the girl took a deep breath, her eyes watering. "Feminine hygiene products?"

"Oh," Hōshi couldn't help but cover her mouth, sympathy rushing to her heart. Mercy, a girl her age receiving her first monthly visitor? Absolutely unheard of!

The young shopper averted her eyes, a few tears slipping over her blushing cheekbones.

"Oh, dear, of course," Hōshi gushed, quickly approaching the girl and taking her by the arm. "Don't you worry, we'll get you nice and settled."

"It's not for me," the girl stammered. "I-It's for a . . . friend."

"Ah. Well. Let's see if we can find the right brand for her. Now is she the type that would prefer feminine napkins or tampons?" Hōshi asked softly, craning her neck up at the girl as they stood before a modest display of menstrual products.

"Tampons," she responded immediately, looking very pale.

"Well, now, let's see here: This one says maximum absorbency," Hōshi enunciated crisply, adjusting the spectacles on her nose and holding the box at an angle to the light. "And look! There's a lovely floral design on the box."

The girl said nothing in response, but Hōshi could sense her shaking as she took in the rather overwhelming options before her. Hōshi was rather proud of that, the rival corner market on the street over had a infamously sparse selection of feminine products.

"You - I, rather, she mustn't be shy," Hōshi began robustly, patting the girl on the arm. "It's a natural part of being a lady after all. Now, it's very important that it fit her proportions properly. Is she a smaller girl? Or perhaps a bit larger?"

"The smallest size is likely to be the most effective," the girl responded hastily.

"Well, there are those little miniature tampons," Hōshi said, tilting her head and pointing to a shelf two good heads taller than herself. "They're meant for younger girls, on those light flow days. They aren't any bigger than a bullet, at least if I had seen a bullet I wouldn't imagine-"

"Yes," the girl agreed tersely. "That will do nicely."

"Good, good. Now, I used to be as tall as you my dear, but this damn osteoporosis," she gave an aggravated sigh. "Could you-"

"I- oh! Oh of course, I beg your pardon, how rude of me-" the girl flushed as she reached up and pulled one of the boxes down from the shelf.

Hōshi marched the girl to the register and chirped about how the joys of womanhood were nothing to fear as she tossed the tampons and a few complimentary containers of soybean pudding into a nondescript brown bag. The girl shed a few more tears and tried to hide wiping them away as she looked over the neat arrangement of chocolate bars stacked in front of the register.

"You'll need these, the pudding's very messy!" Hōshi said enthusiastically, snatching a box of tissues beside the register and throwing it into the bag.

"Thank you. You are very kind," the girl murmured softly. As her fragile customer placed a few bills on the counter, Hōshi gasped tenderly.

"You poor thing! What on earth did you do to your hand?"

"That better be candy," Shinjiro mumbled as Mitsuru dropped a brown paper sack in front of him. He sat on the edge of a picnic table they'd found just behind Naganaki Shrine, watching a pool of blood gathering on the surface between his legs. It was covered in graffiti and probably other invisible disgusting things, but it was secluded and bathed in the light of a streetlamp.

"Tilt your head back," Mitsuru answered as she carefully pulled out a cardboard box and removed one of delicately wrapped tubes.

Shinjiro took in a deep breath, the metallic taste of blood tingeing his lips.

"No," Shinjiro closed his eyes. "A million fucking times, no."

"Tilt your head back," Mitsuru repeated, her voice low.

"No means no, Kirijo."

"I wasn't asking, Shinjiro," Mitsuru said silkily, the shadows under her eyes giving her the appearance of a sleep deprived swan. "Now, tip your head back. Or shall I tip it back myself?"

Shinjiro met her gaze and felt the blood on his skin turn cold.

"Make it quick, will ya?" he yielded, angling his head with a sigh. The moment he'd finished his sentence, Shinjiro felt Mitsuru firmly plant her hand at the base of his neck and shove a small plug up his left nostril. He emitted a strangled cry and a louder, more outraged shout as Mitsuru unceremoniously pushed another petite tampon into his other nostril.

He spluttered righteously as Mitsuru pulled his head back and mopped up the remaining blood with a pile of tissues.

"You biolated me," Shinjiro drawled stuffily, strings dangling from his nose.

"You're welcome," Mitsuru deadpanned in response, wadding up the bloody napkins and tampon wrappers. Shinjiro kept quiet as he watched her discard the used items into the brown paper bag. She took a seat beside him atop of the picnic table and wrapped her arms around her waist before before cinching back into a tall refined posture.

"I dink you broke by dose. Ugh," Shinjiro muttered. "How's da hand, Rocky?"

"I fail to see the charm of Akihiko's chosen sport, quite frankly," Mitsuru said, gently placing the box of unused tissues between them. "My fencing coach will not be pleased."

Shinjiro suddenly felt the wind knocked out of him. Fuck Mitsuru's fencing coach, when Aki got wind of whose face had nearly broken Mitsuru's hand-

"Ah, fuck bee," Shinjiro moaned miserably.

"Try not to speak," Mitsuru said wearily.

Shinjiro turned to her, another congested quip about to leap from his tongue when saw Mitsuru drag the heel of her hand to her eyes. Panicking, Shinjiro cleared his throat and spat out a lingering wad of blood, his gaze aimed forward.

Back on the bridge, Mitsuru had given the not so subtle impression that she suspected Shinjiro of being a duplicitous illusion. Right now, he found himself suspecting her of the same. He could handle a crying girl, he could even handle Aki if he cried, but no way, no fucking way could this be reality if Mitsuru Kirijo was weeping beside him. If a few tears got out because she was livid, or if she got stuck through the gut with a sword, that was different. Before their ordeal in the tower, he hadn't seen her cry for anything else.

Shinjiro heard a soft hiccup.

Obviously, their exchange had left her in a bad way. Did that mean he owed her an apology? Hell no. All he'd done was point out the simple truth. The hell they had escaped had been proof of their utter lack of control over anything but themselves. What she and Aki didn't realize was that shit just happened sometimes. It didn't mean anyone was weak, it just meant that in order to survive, in order to protect their teammates, they had to let go of their pride and submit-

Something clicked.

"You can't control eberything, you dough," Shinjiro said wryly, turning to Mitsuru. "I bean, just look at me. All I wanted was coffee and dow just add a few more wings and strings and then I'll be Queen Absorbency."

Mitsuru sniffled, her eyes narrowing into a classic schoolmarm glare. He spotted the flicker of a smile growing on her lips, even as a tear raced down the side of her face. Instinctively, Shinjiro grabbed the box of tissues and nudged it against her shoulder.

"Thank you," Mitsuru swallowed, dotting her eyes.

"Don't bention it."

"Never," Mitsuru said quickly.

Their eyes met briefly before they matched each other in light laughter.