Author's Notes: The first half of this chapter is basically the same as before, with minor storyline edits. The ending is the first half of my original Chapter Four, if that makes any sense. I've finally gotten a better grip on where I want this story to go, so, keeping our fingers crossed, I'll get things rolling. Schedule permitting, of course. Thanks for your patience! Comments are, as always, much appreciated!

A Promise for Christmas
Chapter Three

Squall was already awake and alert by the time his eyes opened early the next morning. He lay motionless for a moment as he took in his surroundings, the room with its classy, dark-colored furniture and blue-toned walls and pale cream carpet turned on its side. He rolled onto his back to stare up at the ceiling through the faint light just beginning to seep through the navy blue curtains drawn across the window. It was quiet in the house, the early morning stillness of a slumbering household hanging in the air, with only the barely perceptible hum of the heater in the background.

His internal clock read barely past six-thirty, and Squall groaned, yanking the blankets over his head as he shifted to bury his face in the pillow in a futile attempt to gain another few minutes of sleep. He barely felt rested, as if he'd woken up from a five-minute nap instead of having slept the entire night. Shopping with Rinoa was more tiring than a three-day battle marathon against Level 100 Ruby Dragons, more exhausting than wrestling unarmed with a Hexadragon. It was, Squall decided as he tossed back the covers and reluctantly swung his legs over the side of the bed, equivalent to tackling Omega Weapon bare-handed.

He was, put plainly, exhausted.

He'd planned on getting some work done the night before after they'd gotten back from downtown, laden with packages and bags and miscellaneous other…things. Rinoa had decided that the General's house didn't look 'festive' enough, so, along with the presents they'd picked up for most of their friends back at Garden, Rinoa had dragged him around to the various boutiques with their Christmas-themed sales for decorations and lights, pine-scented wreaths and garlands, candles that smelled like cinnamon and vanilla. They'd stopped at a restaurant downtown for dinner in-between rounds of shopping. The food had been decent, which had mollified Squall somewhat, but it wasn't good enough for the forty-minute wait they'd been forced to endure in the restaurant before a table opened up for them.

Commander status didn't win him everything.

They'd returned to the General's house around eleven at night; not too late by his standards, but Squall had barely had the energy to exchange pleasantries with Caraway, haul himself and the packages upstairs to Rinoa's room, kiss her good-night, and then stagger into his room and fall into bed. So, here he was, at six-thirty AM, booting up his computer so he could catch up on his work.

It was three days before Christmas, there were what looked like three hundred emails in his in folder, but by Hyne he would not start the day without caffeine.

As he wasn't about to walk down the hall in just the boxers he'd slept in, Squall moved to the dresser to pull out his clothes for the day. And if he was going to dress, he might as well shower first.

It was sort of pathetic, Squall thought as he pulled out the first shirt he grabbed—dark green—before heading towards the bathroom with his clothes over one arm. Here he was, Commander of Balamb Garden, and he was tired after spending an afternoon walking around city streets. How was he supposed to fare against a full-scale onslaught?

"Must be getting old," Squall muttered, and had to shake his head at himself in amusement. He knew there was a vast difference between the energy taxation of shopping versus fighting; in one, there was drudgery and dullness and endless stores that were just 'too adorable' to pass by; in the other there was the rush of adrenaline, the roar of blood in his ears, the undeniable thrill as his life was put on the line, his skills pitted against those of his enemies.

Squall had never considered himself overfond of warfare, though he definitely wasn't one to shirk the battlefield when duty called. Zell, now Zell could spend hours in the Training Center for fun, and Irvine didn't much care for face-to-face, one-on-one combat—he was a sniper by profession and disposition, and would always prefer stealth in combat to all-out full-frontal assaults. It was only too bad he didn't extend that policy of tact to his womanizing habits…

Squall shook his head again and entered the bathroom adjoining the guest bedroom. It was altogether too much space for him, a luxurious little home-spa type setup, and just too elaborate for his simple needs. There was an enormous whirlpool tub with a full control panel to program his desired type of bath massage, should he be so inclined; even the shower was rather extravagant, large enough to comfortably fit three medium-sized people, with shower heads on three walls and at varying levels for maximum skin soakage, Squall supposed. He tried to ignore all the open space around him as he showered, then moved to shave in front of the mirror over the sink—the overlarge sink he thought was large enough to wash babies in.

Behemoth babies.

His footsteps were muffled in the thick carpet of the hallway, and Squall paused only briefly before Rinoa's door before passing without knocking to see if she was up. If left to her own personal preferences, Squall wouldn't see her before noontime, though he was pretty sure he'd be waking her up sometime before them—if she was tired, he would have an easier time convincing her not to make him go shopping again that afternoon as was her original plan.

Rinoa had taken him on a quick tour of the house before they had left the house the day before, and Squall identified the various doorways as he passed down the upstairs hallway on his way to the staircase. The General had repeated before he crashed for the night that he shouldn't feel any inhibitions about making himself right at home.

And what was home, Squall thought as he made his way down the downstairs hall to the kitchen, without coffee?

He paused in the entryway to the kitchen, momentarily distracted by the scent of a newly brewed pot of coffee and the sight of the man sitting at the kitchen table, newspaper in hand. It took him a moment to realize that it was General Caraway, an oversized mug steaming at his elbow.

"Good morning, Commander." General Caraway set down the newspaper on the table in front of him as Squall took another few steps into the room.

"Good morning, General." Squall reached up to push his hand through his hair, feeling rather unkempt beside the General, impeccable as always despite the early hour. There was an awkward pause, and Squall tried desperately not to shift his weight from foot to foot like a new SeeD facing inspection.

Caraway lifted one eyebrow. "Polite conversation isn't your strong point, is it."

Squall shook his head, torn between relief that the general had understood his silence for what it was and embarrassment that his social skills were so lacking as to insult the former head of the Galbadian army. "No, sir."

A faint smile ghosted around Caraway's mouth, smoothing the stern lines of his face, as he leaned back in his chair in a posture of a man completely at ease. "You don't have to look so apologetic. I'm the same way. My wife…" Caraway trailed off, then shrugged a little as he finished his sentence. "My wife always said she was going to teach me the virtues of small talk. Well, that's no matter. Help yourself to some coffee. There are bagels and cereal, if you feel like eating, or eggs in the refrigerator if you like to cook."

"Cooking wouldn't be a strong point of mine, either," Squall said. "But I would like some coffee, thank you." He moved to the counter where the coffee pot sat on its base, warming, then hesitated before reaching for the handle. He turned back to where Caraway sat and, before he could convince himself to keep his mouth shut, blurted, "You don't know why we're here, do you." Squall voiced his comment with the same intonation the General had used in his earlier observation, ending it as a statement instead of a question.

A faint gleam of interest crossed through Caraway's eyes as he looked at Squall in assessment. "No, I don't. I do know that Rinoa just said she thought it would be nice if we spent some time together and asked if she could come by, which was surprising—to say the least—as our relationship isn't what one could consider 'close'. I'd assume that you're here to keep my daughter company on the trip and to act as moral support, as it were. As she said yesterday that she's technically on your payroll, I presume that you are no longer under her employ."

Squall had to smile at that as he shook his head. "Our contract formally expired with Timber's independence four years ago. I came because Rinoa can be rather…insistent." She'd threatened to keep him bedridden with Pain spells and other annoying ailments resembling the effects of a Marlboro's Bad Breath attack, which had been persuasive enough; it had been too much fun at Rinoa's expense to tell her that she hadn't needed to resort to such dire threats and that he would have willingly accompanied her, had she only given him the time to actually answer her invitation.

He shrugged, focusing on the conversation at hand. "Rinoa should be the one to tell you why she wanted to come. I have some work to catch up on upstairs—" only partly the truth; he'd gotten a good part of it done already "—so maybe it would be a good time for Rinoa to talk with you."

Caraway smiled wryly, his voice dry as he said, "If Rinoa's sleeping habits haven't changed much since she was younger and still lived here, you'd be at your computer all day to give her time to wake up and for us to talk. But I thank you for your offer."

Squall tilted his head slightly to one side. "I'll have Rinoa up and out in twenty minutes, sir." Nonchalantly, lifted the pot and poured steaming, fragrant coffee into one of the thick white mugs on the counter beside the pot and lifted it to Caraway in a half-salute. "I'll just go tell her there's coffee brewing, then I'll get out of the way."

Caraway was laughing at the ingenuity of Squall's plan as the Commander left the kitchen and headed up the stairs.

Rinoa held out for five long, groaning minutes, cursing the fact that Squall had the ability to convert oxygen to carbon dioxide—and therefore the ability to torment her awake at ungodly hours of the morning. But she finally had to give in to temptation, throwing back the covers to shock herself awake as the relatively cooler temperatures of the room covered his skin with goosebumps. There was nothing she wanted more than to pull the blankets back over her, cocoon herself back in the warmth of her down comforter and bury her head beneath the pillow.

The man was a sadist. They'd traveled from Garden to Deling City, then spent the entire afternoon shopping. And he'd come in to her room to taunt her with coffee before the noon hour.

She was going to strangle him.

Strangling him, Rinoa decided as she grabbed for the thick robe tossed over the chair nearby, required that she be up. And if she was going to be up, anyway, she might as well have some coffee.

Good thinking, Rinoa, she congratulated herself as she stumbled sleepily to the bathroom to pull herself together. Caffeine would give her an edge, too, and give her a better chance of actually getting her hands around Squall's neck before he had the time to dodge or counterattack. The man didn't get to be Commander by letting his skills get rusty and allowing his girlfriend slip in under his guard. She definitely needed that caffeine if she was going to get her hands on Squall.

Rinoa brushed her hair and blinked blearily at her reflection in the mirror before wandering back to the closet to root up a truly ancient pair of sweatpants and a woolen turtleneck sweater in bright cranberry red. If she had to be up this early, she might as well try to look cheery. She'd decided to forgo trying to put on makeup until she could see clearly enough to ensure she wasn't going to stab herself in the eye with the mascara brush or do something outrageous like apply lipstick to her cheeks. She hesitated a moment longer in front of the floor-length mirror hanging on the door of her closet, frowning at the sight of the raggedy gray sweatpants. Years of living under the constant shadow of her father's disapproval nearly had her changing into something less informal, but she curbed the instinct and moved boldly to the door.

She was here to make amends for the rift she'd—they'd—let grow between them with the passing years. She wasn't going to fall back into the pattern of subservience that had dominated her younger childhood days.

Still, it was almost frighteningly easy to remember how her life had been up until her rebellious teenage years. With the objectivity and the distance only time could afford, Rinoa found herself sometimes almost missing the safety, the security of those days when her every activity had been regulated, every minute of her life monitored, when her friends regularly underwent a rigorous screening process and freedom was…nonexistent.

She wouldn't give up the life she had now for anything, though. The occasional danger, the life at Garden, the loneliness that sometimes wormed its way between the long hours of work and the constant stress of worrying about Squall…As long as there was Squall, she'd gladly relive the misery of her childhood and her teenage years to be with him.

Rinoa yawned as she reached the foot of the stairs and turned for the kitchen. Those thoughts were too deep and too serious for the early hour. Close as she and Squall were, they were nowhere near what she truly longed for—permanence, stability. Security. Constance.

Marriage.

"Ooookay, definitely too early for that," Rinoa muttered, "in more ways than one." She rubbed her hands over her face as she stepped into the kitchen, expecting to see Squall at the kitchen table, indulging in a second mug of coffee and waiting for her to join him before they started their day. He would probably try to weasel his way out of going shopping with her again, and, actually, she didn't mind letting him think he won that argument. She was still pretty tired from yesterday, herself.

Instead she paused in the doorway and frowned at the vaguely familiar figure seated at the table, newspaper in front of him, mug of coffee by his left hand. He was sitting so she could see his profile, and in the strong light of day that shone through the window over the sink, the facial features themselves were cast, on the close side, in shadow. Rinoa didn't realize she was frowning at him, puzzled, her brain trying to slog its way into the process of recognition, until he spoke.

"You're the second person this morning to look at me as if I don't belong in my own kitchen," the general commented lightly, and lifted one eyebrow. "Good morning, daughter."

Rinoa blinked. Was I really frowning? She must have been, and she tried to wipe that expression off her face to replace it with something…well, something less unfriendly. "Good morning…" There was an awkward stumble as she realized she'd left the phrase extended, her mouth moving in automatic response before her brain could catch up. There was another moment before she managed to finish the sentence. "…Dad."

He didn't comment on her faux pas, merely indicated the coffee pot warming on the counter with the slightest inclinations of his head. "There's enough for at least another two cups in there; help yourself."

Rinoa noticed that there was one mug, plain white ceramic, sitting on the counter. It matched the one Caraway now lifted to his lips, and probably was the same as the one Squall had been carrying when he—despicable sadist—had woken her up earlier. Caraway believed in order, and in unison. There would be no mismatched dishes in his house.

That wasn't strictly a fair judgment, and rather than dwell on the thought, Rinoa moved to pour herself a cup of the coffee. She knew her father liked it strong; she could tell that from the scent alone as it curled through the air, warm and tantalizing. It was just as well; that's the way she liked it, too. The general, however, took his with no sugar and no cream—probably, Rinoa thought with what might have been a hint of amusement, because it would impinge his masculinity—and that she couldn't do.

"You wouldn't happen to have cream and sugar?" If things were the way they had been when she'd been growing up, the sugar would have been kept in an air-tight container in the cupboards above the counter beside the stove. The cook liked having it within easy reach when she was baking pies or cookies or other goodies for a particular little girl with a penchant for sweets. There had been cream for baking, as well, but Rinoa didn't feel quite comfortable enough to just help herself.

To her surprise, her father rose from the table and opened a cupboard, different than the one she'd have thought, and produced a small ceramic figurine, dwarfed in his wide palm, and pulled a spoon out of a drawer before setting both on the counter beside Rinoa. He moved around her to open the door of the refrigerator, ostensibly to pull out the cream.

Rinoa was glad that he had his back to her and couldn't see her expression. She was staring at the little sugar dish, probably open-mouthed, she knew, but she couldn't help it.

The thing was absolutely outright hideous, but that wasn't the point. It was supposed to be a cat, but the head, detachable to allow for entry into the empty middle cavity and the sugar there stored, was lopsided. One ear was drastically larger than the other, the smaller of the two resembling a pancake fallen across the forehead rather than the pointy ear generally associated with a cat's ear. Its face was painted on crookedly, and its expression was decidedly dim-witted.

Even the body wasn't immune from the work of the small, childish hands that had crafted it, and was misshapen and lumpy, the glaze unevenly applied over the small, squat base. Rinoa remembered clearly making the little cat sugar bowl, her mother by her side, her graceful, long-fingered hands guiding Rinoa's over the clay to mold and shape, giving the unrecognizable lump form and shape. Together they'd glazed it, painted on the face, signed the bottom with the date and their initials, along with the words—To Daddy.

It had been his Christmas gift, from her, so many years ago. It had been the last Christmas gift she'd given him.

That following May, her mother had died. After that, they stopped celebrating Christmas.

"…You kept this thing?" Her voice was strangled, strained, and Rinoa turned to face him. Even through the shock, layering shock over shock, she noticed that her father—her father—was blushing.

It was faint, so faint it was barely there, but there was a hint of color over his perfectly tanned cheeks.

But his voice was as emotionless and controlled as ever, his eyes cool and controlled as he set the container of half-and-half on the counter beside Rinoa's hand. "I did."

Shaken, Rinoa leaned one hip against the counter, cradling the cat in both hands. "Why?"

There was a pause, and Rinoa had the feeling her father was weighing his words. Finally he let out a sigh—a small sound, but a testament of human weakness she never thought she'd hear from him. "Contrary to what you might believe, Rinoa, I do have emotions. I do not allow myself to often be swayed by them. And this gift was all I had left to remind me of the family I lost." His steel gray lifted to Rinoa's, and there was as much confession in those depths as in his words.

"Reminding me of what I lost—my wife and my daughter both."

1.13.08