Fox and Hound
Chapter Two
Irvine stared blankly at the letter, trying to grasp its contents. Siobhan had left him--that much he understood.
It's not just that we had our first serious fight…
True, but they'd made up--at least Irvine thought they had. Had she been planning this even as she made love with him? As she held him in the afterglow and murmured that she loved him?
…we're just too different…
He'd never thought so. Even before they'd become lovers, Siobhan had seemed to be the missing part of himself. With her, he'd felt like part of a whole--an insider for a change, instead of the odd man out. Irvine had always thought that she'd felt the same. Apparently, he didn't know her as well as he'd thought.
I've lied to you ever since we met…lies of omission…
Evidently, his lover had kept secrets from him. Dark secrets, judging from the fact that she couldn't even tell him in her letter. What could she possibly have done that she couldn't even talk to him about? He would still lover her, no matter what--didn't she know that?
…you'll find out eventually…
The words sent a chill through the sniper. How could he find out what was wrong if she wasn't there to tell him?
Why, Vonnie? Was it because I agreed to take the damned mission? I had to--you don't know what it was like. You've never had to face down one of those bitches--and I hope to Hyne you never do. If I can stop them, I have to--couldn't you understand that?
None of this made any sense. It wasn't like Siobhan to run away from anything. He'd fought by her side for four years, and he'd never seen her back down. Ever. The words of her letter, however, had conveyed a distinct tinge of fear.
Dear gods, darlin, what could've scared you so much that you couldn't even come to me? What are you involved in? Why the fuck couldn't you trust me?
Irvine had gone over and over his lover's letter, but was no closer to understanding why he was now alone.
Because you're a total fucking loser, Kinneas. Maybe Vonnie finally just figured that out.
No one ever had wanted Irvine. His life had been a series of one abandonment after another. First his parents--oh sure, Matron had told him that his parents were dead; killed in the war, but he knew better. They just hadn't wanted him. On his tenth birthday, Matron had given him the "good news" that he was being sent to Galbadia Garden to be trained as a SeeD. She hadn't wanted him either. Happy fucking birthday.
Then there was the Orphanage Gang, his childhood friends. When he met them again at GG, Irvine had been the only one of them to remember the childhood they had shared at Edea's little stone house by the sea. He'd been the one who took the others back into the past, reforging the memories and the bond that the long chain of years had obscured, but not completely swept away. And ultimately, he'd been the one excluded from the charmed circle--always the outsider. Irvine had done his best to fit in, to recapture the childhood closeness, to make them all love him as much as they did each other, but the years of separation in Galbadia had made him a stranger to them.
Sure, they'd needed him during the Sorceress war. But after it was over? They could give a fuck about him. The playful flirtatiousness that used to get a laugh from everyone, relax them and put them at ease suddenly began to piss everyone off. Evidently, his behavior was considered unbecoming to one of the six Saviors of the Planet. It had just been a mask, a way of coping--like Squall's reserve, or Quistis's ice-princess act--but the other's couldn't--or wouldn't--see that. To them, he was just Irvine-the-flirt…male slut. The Garden steed with a free ride for everyone. That was what his "friends" really thought of him.
So…what the hell, he began to play the part in earnest. It was better than being alone. He flirted and fucked his way through a large percentage of BG's female population, and when he was through, he started over again--this time with the men. He loved 'em and left 'em before they had a chance to leave him. Let someone else see how it felt to be abandoned. They wanted him to play the whore? Well, he'd play it--with a vengeance.
Irvine had secretly hoped that his childhood friends would see the despair, pain and loneliness that lay behind his behavior, that they'd try to intervene, show him that they cared about him. They didn't. instead, his former friends now avoided him and gave him icy glares of contempt when they were forced to be in his company. Missions became a form of slow torture.
Finally, it all became too much. One day, Irvine closed out his bank account, packed up his few belongings, and lit out for the territories. On his way out, he placed his medals, his SeeD commission, and some of his more outrageous press clippings into a large envelope, along with a hastily scrawled note.
Fuck it. I can't take this any more. Sorry.
Irvine
Yeah…that had pretty much said it all. Shouldering his gun case and a black leather pack, Irvine had walked out of Garden and never looked back.
Now, five years later, here he sat alone. Unwanted. Abandoned once again. Irvine tilted the bottle of whisky up to his lips, taking a long draught of the amber liquid. He didn't even remember coming downstairs and retrieving the bottle--much less, drinking it.
Heh heh…they say blackouts are one of the signs of a serious problem, Kinneas ol' buddy…
Tipping the bottle up once again, the sniper drained it of the remainder of its contents. The only problem he had right now was getting his hands on another bottle of liquid oblivion. Dropping the bottle to the floor, Irvine climbed unsteadily to his feet and, weaving slightly, crossed over to the liquor cabinet.
Damn. No more whisky…just a couple bottles of Vonnie's absinthe.
Shrugging, Irvine snagged the bottles and returned to his chair. Slouching down into the cushions and stretching his long legs out before him, he thumbed the cork out of the first bottle.
Hyne on a pony! How does Vonnie drink this shit?
Siobhan's poison of choice was a sweet, cloying, anise-flavored concoction--quite unlike the sharp liquid fire Irvine preferred. The stuff did have quite a kick to it though. On the end table next to his chair, Irvine found a half-empty packet of Siobhan's spiced cigarettes. He lit one and inhaled the tangy cinnamon and clove flavored smoke. Strangely enough, they complemented the taste of the absinthe pretty well.
Smoking his lover's cigarettes and drinking her favorite liqueur provide the sniper with an odd sort of comfort--it made him feel somehow closer to her, as if she weren't really gone after all. Taking another pull from the bottle, Irvine closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift back to happier times.
******************************************
"Hey cowboy, buy you a drink?"
Irvine looked up to find a red haired woman sitting at his table, smiling mischievously at him.
I know her, was his first thought upon meeting the woman's grey eyes. Irvine immediately pushed the thought away. He had never seen the woman before in his life.
"I can buy my own drinks," he'd growled, dropping his gaze to his glass once more.
It had been about a year since he'd left Garden, and the marksman had stayed on the move, supporting himself as a bounty hunter. He traveled around, sticking mostly to the less-populated areas, ridding them of refugees from the last lunar cry. It paid the bills, and it was work he was good at.
After his departure from Balamb, Irvine had gone through a sea-change, of sorts. However, he hadn't exactly transformed into "something rich and strange." Well…maybe the strange part applied. His former laid-back, happy-go-lucky demeanor was a thing of the past. Now, he presented an aloof, indifferent exterior to the world.
My Squall impression.
The playful flirt was long gone. Although he wasn't exactly indifferent to women, Irvine no longer pursued them with his former enthusiasm. Nowadays, he actually tended to avoid them, fearful of falling back into old habits.
He'd been deliberately rude to the redhead who'd invited herself over, hoping she would get the idea and leave him alone. Evidently, she was a little slow on the uptake because she just sat back in her chair with that coquette-from-hell smile on her face.
I've missed that smile. Again, the nagging feeling that he knew the woman popped up and was quickly pushed away.
"I'd really rather be alone," the marksman said bluntly, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on his glass.
"Then why come here?" she asked, gesturing vaguely at their surroundings. "If you really wanted to avoid people, you could've just bought a bottle and wandered out into the middle of nowhere to drink it. But instead, you come here."
"I just came in to get warm."
"Oh." The woman nodded sagely, adopting a more solemn expression. "My mistake." She sat for a moment, a thoughtful look on her face. After a moment, another smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "It doesn't wash, you know," she chuckled.
She hasn't changed. She never could stand to lose an argument.
Annoyed, Irvine looked up, "What doesn't wash?"
"Your excuse for being here," she explained. "It still doesn't work. You could've gone home--or wherever you're staying--if all you'd wanted to do was get warm. You didn't have to come here." She grinned at the sniper, obviously pleased with herself at having treed him with his own argument.
Irvine stifled the answering grin that pulled at his own lips. Despite the fact that he was beginning to warm to the redhead and her playful teasing, the sniper forced a long-suffering note into his voice. "Is there something you want?" he asked wearily.
His companion's grey eyes flashed with…something other than amusement, and her countenance took on a more serious cast. Stretching out one leather-sheathed hand, her gloved fingertips brushed feather-like against his cheek.
"I've been looking for you for…a long time," she said quietly. "I'd almost given up--"
Irvine jerked his head away from the woman's hand, as if her were afraid of being struck.
Sorry darlin, this déjà vu shit is just freaking me out a little too much.
"I asked you to leave me be," he growled. "Don't make me tell you."
The stranger gazed sadly at Irvine and sighed heavily. "It wasn't supposed to be like this," she said cryptically. "Somebody somewhere fucked up royally." Rising from her chair, she once again trapped Irvine's gaze with her own. "Well, I tried, Cowboy--I guess everything's more screwed up than I thought. I'll leave you now."
Suddenly, her good-humored grin was firmly back in place. "But you're gonna miss me when I'm gone!" was her parting comment.
The sharpshooter forced himself not to watch the woman as she walked away.
Okay…what the fuck was THAT all about?
Irvine spent an uncomfortable night freezing his ass off in an attic room of the tavern that had been the scene of his close encounter of the seriously freaky kind.
MAYBE YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN NICER TO THE REDHEAD, Diablos chuckled. SHE COULD HAVE KEPT YOU WARM.
Ignoring the Guardian, Irvine gathered his gear together and prepared to depart. He was heading to Bamburra, one of the little Trabian hill towns. They'd been overrun by monsters lately, and had put out a general call for bounty hunters to assist in clearing the area. The rewards were generous by small town standards, but not large enough to draw the better hunters from the more lucrative gigs. Less competition for Irvine, and more gil to boot.
As Irvine emerged out into the tavern's yard, the sharp winter wind cut through even his thick sheepskin coat. Turning his fleece collar up to protect his already sore throat, the gunman strode across the yard to the stables. Chocobos were better at negotiating the steep mountain trails than even the best ATV, so he'd arranged to hire one the previous evening. Only a Mesmerize was more surefooted--and even Irvine wasn't crazy enough to try believe he could make a mount out of one of those horses from hell.
After stowing his gear in the panniers and strapping his gun case to the back of the saddle. Irvine gave the weight distribution a final check before swinging stiffly into the saddle.
What kind of idiot decides to travel through the Trabian highlands in midwinter?
ONLY YOU, O WISE ONE, Cerberus 3 chortled.
HE COULD HAVE BEEN ALL COZY WITH THAT REDHEAD, Diablos said in a long-suffering voice. SHE LOOKED LIKE SHE HAD MORE SENSE THAN TO FREEZE HER ASS OFF IN A DRAFTY ATTIC ROOM.
IF SHE WAS THAT SMART, THEN WHAT WOULD SHE WANT WITH KINNEAS? Cerberus 2 inquired.
MAYBE SHE LIKES 'EM BIG AND STUPID? Cerberus 1 suggested.
Will you guys shut up about the redhead, already? Irvine groused mentally. Reining the chocobo around sharply, the marksman dug his heels into his mount with enough force to elicit a startled Warrk! from the bird. Irvine steered his mount out of the stable yard, the laughter of his GFs ringing in his head.
For about the twenty-seventh time that day, Irvine entertained the thought that he just wasn't a cold-weather sort of guy. After a couple of hours out on the trail, the marksman's condition had worsened from just a sore throat to a butt-kicker class cold--that was now possibly well on its way to becoming pneumonia. He'd tried casting Esuna on himself, but with only limited success. Cold germs were apparently hardy little bastards--and resourceful. Feeling more miserable by the second, the gunman leaned forward, resting his head against his mount's feathered neck and let his eyes slide closed.
Suddenly, the chocobo gave a startled squawk, and Irvine found himself flying through the air, the recipient of a blow fierce enough to shatter bone. The sniper hit the frozen ground and sucked in a sharp hiss of breath as he landed on his broken arm.
What the fuck WAS that?
It took a moment for Irvine's blurred vision--he'd apparently suffered a blow to the head as well--to clear enough to make sense of the scene before him.
His chocobo lay on the snow about thirty meters away, its neck twisted at an unnatural angle, obviously broken. Just beyond his dead mount, a snow lion raged. About halfway between Irvine and the dead chocobo lay his gun case, torn from its lashings by the same blow that had killed the bird and sent the gunman flying.
Too fucking far away, he thought. I couldn't drag my ass that far if the entire BG cheerleading squad was waiting there. Have to go with magic.
The snowlion was rapidly closing the distance between itself and the wounded marksman. Desperately, Irvine accessed the area of his consciousness where the Guardians resided.
Cerberus! Any time would be good!
I COME! Came the hell-hound's reply.
Irvine slipped into the state of unawareness that always occurred with the manifestation of a GF. When awareness returned, Irvine allowed himself the luxury of a single Curaga spell before immediately summoning Diablos.
Again, Irvine faded into the area between as Diablos manifested and attacked. When the sniper phased back into reality, the snow lion was almost upon him. From somewhere, he found strength enough to cast three firaga spells, which slowed the immense beast, but didn't stop it entirely. Spent, Irvine rolled wearily onto his back and waited for the monster to finish him off.
Bye guys…Cerb…Diablos…hope your next host isn't such a fuck up.
Irvine felt a wave of heat rush over him. Startled, he opened his eyes in time to see…something…huge and red fly over him. Light footsteps pounded past him to the right.
With his good arm, the marksman rolled himself over onto his stomach, nearly passing out from pain when he jarred his shattered arm. Fighting back a wave of pain-induced nausea, Irvine raised his head to see why he wasn't dead yet.
An extremely pissed-off looking red dragon was spewing flames at the snow lion. Next to the dragon a figure stood with both arms extended. The left hand pumped out firaga spells at an alarming rate. The right appeared to be firing flaming bolts from a crossbow strapped to the forearm. Overcome by the sudden assault, the snow lion roared its agony before collapsing and exploding into flame.
Fuck me with a crowbar, Irvine thought, laughing giddily, how the hell can anyone use that many attacks at once? A moment later, his head dropped heavily onto the snow as he slipped into unconsciousness.
Irvine awoke, wrapped in warmth and softness.
"Welcome back, Cowboy," a cultured alto voice said from somewhere outside his field of vision. "Lucky for you I know a little healing," the voice continued, "or you'd be nothing but a sticky spot out on the Bika snowfields."
Irvine tried to sit up in order to get a better look, both at his surroundings and his unknown hostess, but a gloved hand pressed firmly against his chest, forcing him back down onto the pillows of the bed on which he was reclining. Turning his head, Irvine followed the line of the restraining arm upward to meet the concerned gaze of the red haired woman from the tavern.
Hyne…why am I not surprised?
The woman introduced herself as Siobhan O'Hara. According to her, she too made her living as a bounty hunter and had been on her way to the same hunt as Irvine when she'd heard the roaring of the snow lion and had gone to lend a hand, if needed. It had been. After destroying the creature, she had retrieved his gun case and had brought the unconscious sniper back to her house which was only a few kilometers away.
How the hell did she get me back here by herself? he wondered.
While he'd been out of it, she'd brought in a real healing specialist to set his arm.
In the middle of the woman's explanation, Irvine erupted into a barrage of sneezes.
"Why do I still have this damn cold?" he asked when he finally recovered.
Siobhan shrugged. "I tried Esunas AND Curas," she stated. "Maybe there really isn't a cure for the common cold."
Irvine's cold kept him confined to bed for five more days. During that time, he tried to find out more about his hostess--particularly how she was able to summon, cast spells, and attack physically all at the same time. She always evaded his questions, however, either dismissing what he'd seen as a fever-induced delusion, or distracting him with numerous games of Triple Triad--at which she cheated shamelessly.
When the marksman had recovered enough to travel, he restocked the supplies that had been lost and set off again for Bamburra--only this time, he wasn't alone.
****************************************
They'd been together ever since. First as business partners, then friends, and finally, as lovers.
Until now, Irvine thought morosely, draining the last of the absinthe left in the first bottle. As he uncorked the second bottle, Irvine had a vague idea that he had forgotten something he was supposed to do--something important. He briefly tried to focus his thoughts enough to remember what it was--only to decide it wasn't as important as taking another pull from the bottle.
A few minutes later, the bottle slipped from the sniper's slack fingers, falling to the floor with a soft thud and spilling its contents out onto the carpet.