Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy. I'm just obsessed with it. For a reason. Guess who the reason is.

General, Meet Dad

"C-vitamins. Drink them, eat them... Stay healthy."

It was in the middle of the night, and she was talking monotonously to keep herself awake more than to keep him awake. Frankly speaking, she had no idea if his infection was serious enough for her to keep him awake at all, but he didn't complain. She was standing in the middle of the room, donning one of her father's white shirts, and black jeans. Actually, she was offering her clothes more thoughts than she should – it looked like she was going to a funeral or some other overly formal thing. On the small stool by Sephiroth's bed was a tall glass of cold juice and a peeled orange. There was even a cup of pine tea, rumored to have even more C-vitamins than orange juice.

The elf-man-whose-costume-was-not-a-costume hadn't changed a bit in hours. His eyes were open and were scrutinizing the roof above him. Though it was dark outside, the spotlights were on, leaving the room bathed in a very faint light. The silver-haired elf-man was ignoring her completely. She felt like she could do absolutely anything she wished without him paying attention.

"You applied antibiotics earlier, right? And about the bandages... They shouldn't be too tight." She had heard her mother say something like that.

"...And don't pick on it or put too much pressure on it. Clean it often." Her muttered words danced through the shadow-like silence and sounded like they were being filtered through water, even to herself, because the words were so quiet.

"And..." Paige sighed, trying to come up with something else to say. She really was trying to keep herself awake, rather than him.

"...Your injuries. They were pretty serious. But what about the infection? Is it really serious too...? What I mean to say is, if it gets more serious, can you at least tell me what to do?" So that she wouldn't have to give a false-sounding explanation if he died and her family found him? Would she have to bury him in the forest, like some criminal? She didn't want the blood of an elf-like man on her hands.

No reply. Only a frown. No wonder. She was boring him.

The next morning she was sitting on the floor in his room, with her back against the door. What else could she do when she wasn't allowed to call the hospital, or even the town's drunken doctor? She could've asked her mother, too, but there was no way Sephiroth would let her. She had a feeling that even if she stole away and hid in the stuffed storage room to call someone, he would hear her voice and magically summon his sword and appear before her as a dark silhouette, which would be the very last thing she would see before a fountain of blood painted the the mess in there.

"I'll make breakfast. There are some things for you here to clean your wounds with."

Paige's hollow voice made her clench her teeth – if her voice sounded like that, her face could hardly look any better. She was dead tired. For now she hoped he would only pay attention to the clean bandages, antibiotics, the hot and sterile water, and the various medicines she had put in a heap on the much-too-annoyingly-small stool by his bedside. He could choose which medicines to use. If he was a general, he ought to know at least some basic stuff that she didn't.

Leaving him to it, she went downstairs and fried eggs, warmed some old scones (one of her many personal favorites) and toasted a few slices of bread. Finally, she prepared juice, water, tea, coffee and milk (an even larger personal favourite) in different glasses and cups. Sephiroth was free to choose. The things he didn't want to eat or drink, she would have. With John Smoth rapping in the background – this time without the radio – she placed everything on a tray and brought it upstairs. All the while, she focused on the glass of milk, feeling her hunger and hearing her stomach scream dissonant songs and melodies of pain, agony and longing. The smell of the warm scones and toast made it no better.

The not-so-harmonic stomach-made tune stopped when she came into his room again.

Though he was obviously finished cleaning the wounds, Sephiroth sat on the edge of the bed, his upper body bare, pale and still injured. He had obviously been up and about moments before, because the wooden Venetian blinds were open, letting in rays of sunlight that enveloped him in a halo of glowing white. An involuntary thought popped into her head: I have an elf in my house. Either that, or an actor. A very dangerous-looking elf-actor-man who could easily have been confused with a woman, if it hadn't been for those blasted muscles. Perhaps this really was one of those hidden-camera things.

"Eat some of this and leave the rest. I'll find you some clean clothes."

And where in this house, exactly, will I find clothes for a tall elf-man whose muscles are that... pronounced?

All right, first off, she did have some black workout pants that her uncle had given her some time ago... Being a farmer, her uncle had some muscles. He had bought some pants that he didn't like, and then he had given it to her on her birthday. On her, the baggy pants became even baggier, and she recalled that on one particularly windy day, she had walked about feeling like a human balloon, without exaggerating. Those pants, Puma pants, were sure to fit Sephiroth. Pants aside, what shirt would she bring him? She had major difficulties picturing him in other clothes than that coat of his. Which would be best; a white wife-beater singlet or a short-armed shirt? Or a t-shirt? For her (or for her eyes and her unhealthy elf-adoring imagination's) sake, the two latter would be best, but a shirt wouldn't match those sporty pants too well. Probably.

Curling her lip in distaste, she hunted down the biggest t-shirt she could find, a red one with an arrow target on the chest, then found the black Puma pants and some white socks. Embarrassed, but highly insistent on not showing it, she also picked one of her dad's left-behind boxers (holding it between her index finger and her thumb as if it were one of her brother's sweaty, week-old socks of doom). Then she put it on the floor in front of Sephiroth's door and knocked.

After that, she left to find some food for herself.

The rest of the day was spent watching comedies on the film channels on TV, during which Paige had to stifle and hold back her laughter and keep a straight face all the time. Why did she have to do that? Because she didn't want to awaken suspicion or lose the little respect she had (hopefully) gained from Sephiroth the Serious. The elf-man was in his room, resting. Overestimating the infection was better than underestimating it, in case it truly showed out to be worse than they presumed at first. After keeping him awake all night (which she was getting second thoughts about – it was embarrassing, and only made her flustered when she thought about it), she had settled in the black sofa in the otherwise light living room. In front of her on the table, she had lots of milky food: cereals, milk, chocolate milk and rosehip tea (with milk). And scones with jam. In the background, John Smoth occasionally complained about the film, only to stop abruptly and repeat some of the better one-liners.

Outside, the sun was bright and scorching enough to put an iceberg on fire and reduce it to a black soot spot in a matter of seconds (or so she felt), so she wasn't planning to go outside any time soon. Not even to that blasted river that had put her in this mess. This was, after all, supposed to be her holiday. She had chosen to stay here in the cabin when the rest of her family left to visit their grandparents, so that she could work and earn some money. And on one of the first days she actually had off, she had found General Elf. Even if she decided to leave, she wouldn't dare to speak about Sephiroth to anybody.

She needed to be honest with herself: who with a decent head on their shoulders would believe her if she started talking (no matter how reasonable she tried to sound) about a silver-haired general with a huge sword? In the town she lived, people would discard everything as a lie, but they'd still go and tell each other about it and discuss it – because they all loved rumors and gossip with a passion. In fact, she had spotted old ladies peeking out of their windows on a few occasions – their heads hidden in between the flower vases in their windows. It wouldn't come as a surprise if one of them decided to buy a camouflage helmet for that particular activity.

"Ah. And that would be the reason behind your anemia?"

The statement caught her off guard and she struggled to keep her face as calm as possible – which probably made her look lethargic or tired anyway. Then she turned to the man. Standing by the door, which was situated in the middle between the living room and the kitchen part of the room, he looked down on her with a look of triumph, or something like it. He wore a very faint smirk and satisfied eyes. As for his clothes, he had actually chosen to wear the black Puma pants and the red t-shirt. It wasn't like he had a choice, though.

"What?" What was he talking about?

"Milk. If you consume too much of it, it lowers your hemoglobine level."

Looking at him while feigning laziness, she replied in an even voice:

"I know that. My body lacks iron, and since I'm a milk-aholic, which keeps iron away, I'm anemic." His smirk grew at that, turning almost sinister, which made her avert her eyes to the comedy she was watching. It wasn't nearly as funny now. The hero was in a forest, training all alone – his moves truly impressive and complicated – then he stumbled over a cliff and rolled down. And the slope wasn't small either: it only stopped after a full minute of rolling, falling, bumping into things, and "auff"-ing.

Why was Sephiroth smirking so smugly?

"But it doesn't bother me. It's not like I'm gonna die. Besides, I have medicines that help." Why did she have to prove herself?

The hero in the movie struggled to his feet and seemingly forgot about his fall, because he suggested something to himself about earning some money so he could save his uncle's life so that the two of them could fight a real, honest fight again.

When Paige turned, Sephiroth wasn't there any longer.

That night Paige chose to have some sleep, which she really needed after the previous night. She didn't wake up before noon. Shocked when she realized, she jumped out of bed and got some clothes on, then hurried downstairs to make food, half expecting the older man to sit in the sofa and watch the news. The elf-man-who-was-no-elf was not there, though, so after readying some breakfast that was hopefully healthy enough for a general to eat, she hurried upstairs. While balancing the food tray in one hand, she used the other to knock on his door. She waited for some seconds, then knocked again, muttering a warning before she opened the door slowly.

The air in the room was not pungent, but not that fresh either, and Sephiroth was still asleep. At first she worried that something was wrong. Then she realized that he, too, had been awake the night before this night, so of course he had been tired enough to fall asleep tonight. She relaxed a little, but silently hoped he would be able to wake up again.

"General," she said, sure his eyes would open. When he did nothing, she placed the tray on the writing desk (which didn't have a chair in front of it, unless one chose to move the small stool by the bedside over to it) and walked closer. Perhaps, like the first time they met, he would wake up when she touched him.

But she wasn't really too eager to do that again. Personal space issues or not.

Moving closer, she saw his eyes stir slightly under their lids. Even like this, his hair looked like usual, and yet there were no signs of chemicals, be it hair wax, hair gel or spray. Her thoughts flickered to his sword, which she had hidden well, but soon she narrowed her eyes. While sleeping, he looked... looked...

Paige felt the corners of her mouth turn down as her brain tried churning out flattering words that would sting her own pride and only boost his.

Yet, there was no denying it: He looked stunning, awesome, handsome, even hawt, if she were to judge by the standards set by girls in average. He had muscles, so he was sure to be strong, and the structure of his face was good enough to make her flinch mentally. Also, he was tall, but most importantly of all: he was unreachable. Untouchable. Just as out-of-reach as a fictional character, if not more. Good thing the man was so rude, or she would either have been unable to keep her eyes off him, or she would escape him as if he were the embodiment of death. After all, if a man like Sephiroth suddenly turned kind and polite, he was obviously too good to be true. So if he was evil, he had better stay that way.

Too bad she had always had a thing for antagonists.

Paige looked at Sephiroth for a long time, conflicting thoughts fighting a small battle in her mind. After half a minute she mentally slapped herself. All those thoughts vanished, however, when she noticed the tiny globules of perspiration on his face. He was sweating. Hesitant at first, she slowly moved a hand and held it right above his forehead to see if she could feel heat coming from it. There was no way she could find his true temperature like that, though.

"You. Awaken from thy slumber," she ordered boldly (at least in her own ears), her archaic words loud in the small white and wooden room. Those were the same words she had used the first time she found him. This time he didn't react either, apart from his eyes: though still hidden by his lids, they stirred and moved faster.

Deciding that – if the infection had worsened – it was smarter to wake him up by touching him than it was to leave him asleep, she tardily lowered her hand and placed it on his head.

The burning sensation under her palm was – unfathomably fast – replaced with the sounds and feel of shifting wind and fabric, and her back and her head hit the off-white wall with two simultaneous thuds, then something she soon identified as a strong forearm held her upper body in place. His elbow kept one of her shoulders still, and the hand of the same arm locked her opposite shoulder. His knees pushed against hers and his left hand was groping the air behind him as if in search for something. Somehow, she doubted she would have been in one piece if his sword were nearby. Yet, it was his face that made her cower as much as she did. A threatening shadow was cast on him by the sunlight that penetrated the wooden window blinds, and, without humor, he looked down at her with sinister, positively evil eyes. He was threatening her without words in a way that made her eyes widen more than she thought was possible. Even after seeing it was her, he made no signs of intending to withdraw.

"Hey, stop, you needn't-" she started, but then he only moved his right forearm up until it pushed against her neck.

She had no chance of winning against him if she tried taking him on.

"You..." he muttered, his voice darker and colder and more menacing than she had ever heard him before, and a tremor ran through her body as she waited for him to realize who she was. If the fever he had was making him hallucinate, she most likely appeared like somebody else to him.

"I'm Paige!" she almost snarled, though because she was afraid, it sounded more like a whimper.

And then he couldn't support himself any longer and his knees failed him. Insistent to stay on his feet, he took hold of Paige's shoulders and leaned against her, his head over one of her shoulders.

Personal space invasion.

Realizing that if she pushed him off too fast, worse things could happen, she slowly (or not really slowly, but not too fast, either) moved him away and tried to make him sit down on his bed. He willingly moved and sat down, but Paige ended up on her knees in front of him when he refused to let go of her shoulders. His jade eyes, despite the intensity and rage they conveyed, were focusing on something far away – something she had no chance of seeing.

"Now, let go," she commanded, super flustered. She tried her best to feign calmness despite her shaky voice, though. To her, her heartbeat sounded like that of a terrified rabbit.

"Eat your food." Her voice was only a whisper.

...No matter how ill he was, she wouldn't stay by his bed and watch over him if there was a chance he'd do things like this again.

After the small 'incident', Paige decided to place one of the kitchen stools right outside Sephiroth's door. On it, she left his dinner (and later his supper), because she didn't want to go back in there again. Instead she resolved to knock on the door and scurry away before he could open it. In his state, the chances of him coming downstairs weren't that big. In the end, she ended up watching a bunch of action comedies to make herself feel better – but also, she admitted, to find out what the heroes did about the antagonists in tricky situations such as hers. Needless to say, she found nothing that could be of help.

Really, she was just some kind of hostage.

She had been demoted to a housemaid. In her own house. Snarling soundlessly, she grabbed her straight, bob-cut forelocks and twirled them around her fingers in frustration. The light brown, gray-ish (frankly, sickly-looking was a far more accurate description of her hair color) locks resisted the pull. For the first time in a while, she really wanted to leave the house.

And so went the next couple of days. Sephiroth pretty much stayed in the guest room, save for when he relieved himself or took a shower. Paige left food and medical supplies (supplies were running low fast) at his door on the kitchen stool. The only times they spoke were when she informed him that she was leaving for the grocery store. He only let her leave after making sure she carried no such thing as a cellphone. In addition he made sure to hint that not everything would be fine with the house – or John Smoth, for that matter – if Paige spoke with others about him. But as things were, he had to trust her, because they needed food and she needed to get some new bandages and medicines for him. Since her neighbours knew she was home alone, and since she bought more food than what was strictly necessary, she said it was because she was saving some food for when her family came to visit. Before that, though...

The arrival of Paige's father was running close.

There was no avoiding it; she had to talk with Sephiroth about it and convince him not to to anything reckless.

So she knocked on the guest room door to get it over with.

"Excuse me... I'm coming in..." she warned, then opened the door warily, ready to shut it in a hurry if he happened to stand right inside, ready to loom above her with his sinister aura to scare her all the way to Mexico. She felt a need to hide how wary she was of him, so she feigned a languid, placid look of tiredness before she entered, succeeding only because she filled her mind with depressing thoughts. And her guard was up, even though that wouldn't help a whole lot.

"I need to talk with you about something," she said before she actually looked at him. When she did, however, she saw him leaning against the wall behind his bed. One arm was resting on his knee. Sephiroth looked at her as if contemplating something. From where she stood in the open door she couldn't really see if he still had a fever or not. His face had hardly changed from the first time she had seen him. As he made no signs of intending to move, she continued:

"I figured you'd want to know that my father's visiting tomorrow. Not the others, only my dad."

The space between his brows narrowed, and she redoubled her feigned look of boredom. Even if it meant looking sickly.

"...I see." His reply was silent and almost – but only almost – tired. Staying in this room, unable to move about too much, must have made him weary in the end. Fighting his infection with huge wounds like his could fatigue anyone.

"I can come up with a story to convince him he can't tell anybody about you. He's not the kind of person to throw people out. Or if you want to, you can hide when he's here," she offered lethargically. He frowned at the last thing she said.

"There is no need. Describe his personality, and I shall take care of him."

Take care of him. How comforting to have a malicious, silver-haired, super-tall, elf-like, enormous-sword-wielding general say that he'd take care of her father.

"He's a noble, kind and gentle man, even if he tends to go hysteric when really tiny, bad things happen," she said, deadpan. He blinked.
"Wait. He... He's also tall and skinny, and he has really round eyes and wears glasses. He likes structure and order and makes sure we do our homework."

"His occupation?" What was this? An interrogation? Was elf-man-Sephiroth actually a psychiatrist?

"Priest. And ranger." At her reply, he raised an eyebrow in amusement and smirked. Despite her feigned boredom in the entire situation, her heart was – again – pouncing about like a terrified bunny.

"You may not kill my dad." While speaking, she did not watch him. When he said and did nothing, she chose – for her own well-being – to believe he accepted her wish. Stepping out of the room, she gestured at the kitchen stool right outside the guest room.

"I made you dinner. And... Well. There's something there for you to keep your mind occupied. Use it if you want to. If you don't, then leave it on the stool and I'll take it away." She had to force herself to speak those words.

On the kitchen stool was a dinner tray, and on the tray, next to the dinner (she had gone through the effort of making tacos, since it was Saturday) was a small Rubik's Cube. The puzzle cube was larger than the last one she had let him try. Whereas the old one had 3x3 squares on each side, this one had 4x4 squares on each side. And if he managed that one easily as well, she had a few with even more squares. They had all arrived in the mail a little earlier. Somehow, even though she was pretty sure he would solve the 4x4 puzzle easily, a mischievous and gleeful smirk broke through her languid mask when she thought of the massively intriguing 7x7 square puzzle cube she had in store for him later. Hopefully that thing would churn his braincells somewhat and lessen his supernatural and superhuman intelligence and appearance and pride and whatnot.

For now, though, in case Sephiroth couldn't come up with a story that her father would believe, she needed to make something up on her own. Something credible.

R.R.

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