---Disclaimer: I gotta stop being so nice and giving you all disclaimers .
. . but here. *chucks a box of disclaimers into the crowd* Knock yourselves
out. (Most of them read: this is for fun and entertainment, to honor the
game that is Kingdom Hearts, so don't sue, because all I've got is thirteen
dollars, not counting the twenty-one that's set to the side for my Two
Towers DVD.)
---Author's Note: Thank you DarkKairi1! You're review made me feel oh-so- special ^^ Stupid FF.net won't let me read the second one, so I can't thank (or destroy) the second reviewer - yet. *evil laughter* Oh, and I had to change Yuffie's age - I don't think a sixteen-year-old would be living with a twenty-five-year old as little more than acquaintances in Manhattan, and if I put her in high school, it makes her sound immature. So she's a freshman in college. I considered every option, and it just wouldn't work any other way. Sorry.
----~----
"I'm taking Aerith out to a club tonight. You want to come?"
"What? Pinkie?"
"Who's Pinkie?"
Squall put a hand over his face to cover the smile that threatened to break loose. He was leaning heavily on his miniscule desk, as opposed to Cloud's behemoth one - the monolith piece of furniture threatened to take over one whole wall of the enormous New York University classrooms, although most of the students preferred to think of them as auditoriums, as they could honestly be - although the real auditorium was more than thrice this size. Row upon row of empty seats greeted the already-tired eyes of both Cloud and his intern like manna from heaven; they didn't have another class for the next ten minutes, which they considered a lifetime.
"Pinkie, Aerith - doesn't she work with Yuffie?" Squall asked distractedly, waving his hand to brush off the subject. However, the professor stuck to it, leaning across his desk to fix his intent blue stare upon the novice seated uncomfortably next to him.
"Okay, spill it - how do you know Aerith? C'mon, I want every last detail - she's MINE, Leonhart!" Cloud growled menacingly, beginning to rise slowly, as if to draw every last particle of fear out of his coworker's mind. Squall merely rolled his eyes, leaning back in the cheap swivel chair the university had provided and propping his feet up over the worn blotter on the desk.
"Listen, she's all yours - I'm not into those 'pretty-in-pink' types. I just know her because Yuffie made me swear on penalty of death that I would escort her to that little shack they work in for a week to make sure that no one in the rather . . . unhealthy neighborhood would bother her. She calls me 'macho' and says I would 'scare half of them away if I so much as looked at them.' I was forced into meeting Aerith one day while I was waiting for Yuffie to finish changing," the brunette explained, scrubbing a hand through his bristly locks.
Cloud sunk into the chair again, but not without shooting Squall a look of warning before completely letting down his guard. Finally, he slammed his forehead onto the desk, pounding acidly with his fist over the dark wood.
"I really like her, Squall, and she seems to genuinely tolerate me, which is saying a lot - you know it. But . . ." The blonde man's would-be lengthy interlude was suddenly silenced as a roar greeted the two men from outside of the frosted-glass window that was placed so appropriately into the door: the faces of uncountable students, features distorted in the way the glass was made. Squall suppressed a shudder and finished the last of his once- replenished latte (he had managed to make it all the way down to the nearest Starbucks and back in under four minutes, what Cloud considered a new record) before taking a deep breath, cleansing himself briefly of any hate or strong feeling towards these uncultured adolescents, and stood, looking like the responsible twenty-five year old he was. Skipping a grade had really paid off in the end.
"Prepare for the onslaught," Cloud said seriously, walking around to his mammoth desk to the door with a grave face. "If we don't make it out of this alive . . . I'll make sure my insurance company pays for your funeral, too."
"Thanks. It's good to know I've got friends in this world," Squall said sarcastically, hoping it wouldn't come to that. As Cloud's hand closed around the brass knob, his intern advised, "Brace yourself." Cloud nodded and saluted the brunette, and Squall returned the gesture - of respect, of determination to face these rowdy sophomores, and of the will to survive long enough to have a third cup of Starbucks that day.
----~----
Yuffie Kisaragi flopped down on the cold, hard subway seat, a Styrofoam cup of chai tea in one hand and her keys in the other. Work had been, like always, frustrating and annoying - a student at Brooklyn College during the school hours (a trek in itself; she was drained every time she managed to make it from Manhattan to Brooklyn and back), and then teaching those brats that flooded out of the infinite public schools the fine art of karate. Although it barely managed to sustain her half of the rent, she enjoyed what she did, if merely for the sake that she had a rather lengthy list of friends and enjoyed being barefooted and kicking at nothing. Those stupid kids could be overlooked - it was her passion for the martial arts that drove her to endure their whines about the required uniform, the mats being too slippery, or some other unimportant complaint.
Yet now . . . she was free. Free of screaming ten-year-olds, writing record- breaking essays in terms of length, and wearing apparel that she not only despised, but all-out loathed. Even Aerith, who worked the financial part of the martial arts program, had to admit that the uniforms could do with a little revising.
"So just order up some new ones! Everyone agrees," she had stated sourly not two weeks ago, pacing across the woman's tiny office.
"Sorry, Yuffie, but it's just not in the budget. We can barely afford to keep this place going as it is; new robes are just out of the question," the pink-clad woman had explained gently, holding a fax in one hand and twirling her thick, light brown braid in the other.
The eighteen-year-old groaned at the mere memory of that frustrating afternoon. One session had been particularly adamant, and she had resorted to physical violence when a thirteen-year-old said he could 'bowl her over with a feather.' Of course, she had proven him wrong; however, the next day his mother called to confirm that Tidus would no longer be attending Yuffie's sessions, and would be with the -other- instructor, a one Riku . . . something or other. She wasn't sure she had ever really HEARD his last name, although it hardly seemed to matter.
As the subway pulled to a screeching halt, Yuffie bounded up and out of her uncomfortable seat and weaved her way through the throngs of people, managing to break out of the endless masses and jog up the littered steps, where she emerged on a street she barely managed to get the name of before jogging onto the shoulder of the road. Disoriented as she was, she knew that the apartment was about sixteen blocks away - and, even if it was a small distance to some, she didn't have the patience for it now. Extending her right arm high into the air as a cab flashed by, light off, she growled as it ignored her and tried again. On her fourth attempt a yellow taxi finally pulled over, allowing her to clamber awkwardly into the backseat as she tried to keep her tea from spilling.
She gave the cabbie the directions in a rushed voice; she was hoping to catch Squall for dinner. She was trying, day by day, to get him to open up to her, and she figured that one way was over Cosmopolitans, and that was probably the easiest. The man was a bit of an enigma to her, although she was inescapably drawn to him, like a moth to the flame: she couldn't leave him alone. She would find herself staring at him like some sort of hopeless teenager (she shoved the thought that read 'But you ARE' into the deep recesses of her mind) with her mouth hanging open, and he would turn and glare at her like she was the oiliest, most rubbery burrito he'd ever eaten. The only reason she compared herself to a burrito was that she had actually met him over a rushed dinner of those, when Cloud hastily introduced the freshly-graduated woman he barely knew to a stoic, abrupt colleague who merely shoved the papers under her nose that allowed her to live in the apartment and all of the other legal stuff that she didn't read and merely signed.
She made sure not to give the cabbie any extra money for his fine job speeding down the crowded Manhattan streets; he had practically robbed her as it is. Slamming the door shut while tipping a hearty helping of tea down her throat, she hurried to the building and shoved in her key, turning it sharply and entering when admitted. She would have just buzzed up to him, as she really didn't feel like exerting the extra effort to actually let herself in, but she didn't know if he was in a Foul Mood or a Really Foul Mood, and it was best not to tempt him.
The elevator ride was jerky and made her slosh half of her tea down her front, and for once she was grateful that the November air had chilled it off decently - she only felt a slight sting as the liquid sunk into those Gap cargos that she had saved so much for. She never, EVER bought from the Gap - too expensive, too overrated - but those pants just wouldn't leave her alone. She began seeing them everywhere, and, finally, she relented to her subconscious and bought them. Nearly thirty-something dollars for them, too, she had realized with a groan as she looked at the receipt.
Hastily unlocking the door to the apartment, number 219, she immediately chucked the rest of her tea and sprinted at top-speed into her bedroom, slamming the door shut and forgetting the usual after-school-and-work stare that she usually gave Squall - he was leaning heavily on the miniscule countertop in the half-kitchen, like he did on every hard surface near him, poring over the Times.
"Hey," he called out to her, irritated that she hadn't even acknowledged him. Her open-mouthed stares were starting to grow on him.
"What?" she called back distractedly, yanking on a pair of faded blue jeans. The cargos lay in a ball on the other side of the room, and she was surprised to see that she actually remembered to make her bed that morning.
"You wanna go out for drinks with Cloud and Aerith tonight?" he shouted, thumbing over a few pages and skipping the Sports section.
Yuffie stopped dead, her left leg halfway into her pants, indigo eyes wide. Had . . . Squall Leonhart just asked her out? No, she told herself firmly, shaking her head and pulling the jeans up. It was a group thing. But . . . since when did Squall do 'group things'? He barely did single-person things. "Uh . . . sure? What time?" she hollered back, snatching up a yellow bandana from her dresser and using it to pull back her stringy raven hair.
"Now, if you'd finish whatever it is you're doing," he growled, and she heard the distinct rustle of the Times being folded roughly. He was never one to be punctual, but anything she did wrong seemed to annoy him - although sometimes she did it on purpose, just to see his 'mad face.'
"Fine, fine, I'm ready," she muttered, emerging in a chai tea-free pair of pants and tightening the scarf around her neck against the November chill. She had just enough time to seize her overcoat before he was out the door, leaving a slightly disoriented Yuffie in his wake.
----~----
Hah! The chapters are getting longer. But I don't want to seem informal, so I'll just say this: please, please, PLEASE review! Thanks ^^
---Author's Note: Thank you DarkKairi1! You're review made me feel oh-so- special ^^ Stupid FF.net won't let me read the second one, so I can't thank (or destroy) the second reviewer - yet. *evil laughter* Oh, and I had to change Yuffie's age - I don't think a sixteen-year-old would be living with a twenty-five-year old as little more than acquaintances in Manhattan, and if I put her in high school, it makes her sound immature. So she's a freshman in college. I considered every option, and it just wouldn't work any other way. Sorry.
----~----
"I'm taking Aerith out to a club tonight. You want to come?"
"What? Pinkie?"
"Who's Pinkie?"
Squall put a hand over his face to cover the smile that threatened to break loose. He was leaning heavily on his miniscule desk, as opposed to Cloud's behemoth one - the monolith piece of furniture threatened to take over one whole wall of the enormous New York University classrooms, although most of the students preferred to think of them as auditoriums, as they could honestly be - although the real auditorium was more than thrice this size. Row upon row of empty seats greeted the already-tired eyes of both Cloud and his intern like manna from heaven; they didn't have another class for the next ten minutes, which they considered a lifetime.
"Pinkie, Aerith - doesn't she work with Yuffie?" Squall asked distractedly, waving his hand to brush off the subject. However, the professor stuck to it, leaning across his desk to fix his intent blue stare upon the novice seated uncomfortably next to him.
"Okay, spill it - how do you know Aerith? C'mon, I want every last detail - she's MINE, Leonhart!" Cloud growled menacingly, beginning to rise slowly, as if to draw every last particle of fear out of his coworker's mind. Squall merely rolled his eyes, leaning back in the cheap swivel chair the university had provided and propping his feet up over the worn blotter on the desk.
"Listen, she's all yours - I'm not into those 'pretty-in-pink' types. I just know her because Yuffie made me swear on penalty of death that I would escort her to that little shack they work in for a week to make sure that no one in the rather . . . unhealthy neighborhood would bother her. She calls me 'macho' and says I would 'scare half of them away if I so much as looked at them.' I was forced into meeting Aerith one day while I was waiting for Yuffie to finish changing," the brunette explained, scrubbing a hand through his bristly locks.
Cloud sunk into the chair again, but not without shooting Squall a look of warning before completely letting down his guard. Finally, he slammed his forehead onto the desk, pounding acidly with his fist over the dark wood.
"I really like her, Squall, and she seems to genuinely tolerate me, which is saying a lot - you know it. But . . ." The blonde man's would-be lengthy interlude was suddenly silenced as a roar greeted the two men from outside of the frosted-glass window that was placed so appropriately into the door: the faces of uncountable students, features distorted in the way the glass was made. Squall suppressed a shudder and finished the last of his once- replenished latte (he had managed to make it all the way down to the nearest Starbucks and back in under four minutes, what Cloud considered a new record) before taking a deep breath, cleansing himself briefly of any hate or strong feeling towards these uncultured adolescents, and stood, looking like the responsible twenty-five year old he was. Skipping a grade had really paid off in the end.
"Prepare for the onslaught," Cloud said seriously, walking around to his mammoth desk to the door with a grave face. "If we don't make it out of this alive . . . I'll make sure my insurance company pays for your funeral, too."
"Thanks. It's good to know I've got friends in this world," Squall said sarcastically, hoping it wouldn't come to that. As Cloud's hand closed around the brass knob, his intern advised, "Brace yourself." Cloud nodded and saluted the brunette, and Squall returned the gesture - of respect, of determination to face these rowdy sophomores, and of the will to survive long enough to have a third cup of Starbucks that day.
----~----
Yuffie Kisaragi flopped down on the cold, hard subway seat, a Styrofoam cup of chai tea in one hand and her keys in the other. Work had been, like always, frustrating and annoying - a student at Brooklyn College during the school hours (a trek in itself; she was drained every time she managed to make it from Manhattan to Brooklyn and back), and then teaching those brats that flooded out of the infinite public schools the fine art of karate. Although it barely managed to sustain her half of the rent, she enjoyed what she did, if merely for the sake that she had a rather lengthy list of friends and enjoyed being barefooted and kicking at nothing. Those stupid kids could be overlooked - it was her passion for the martial arts that drove her to endure their whines about the required uniform, the mats being too slippery, or some other unimportant complaint.
Yet now . . . she was free. Free of screaming ten-year-olds, writing record- breaking essays in terms of length, and wearing apparel that she not only despised, but all-out loathed. Even Aerith, who worked the financial part of the martial arts program, had to admit that the uniforms could do with a little revising.
"So just order up some new ones! Everyone agrees," she had stated sourly not two weeks ago, pacing across the woman's tiny office.
"Sorry, Yuffie, but it's just not in the budget. We can barely afford to keep this place going as it is; new robes are just out of the question," the pink-clad woman had explained gently, holding a fax in one hand and twirling her thick, light brown braid in the other.
The eighteen-year-old groaned at the mere memory of that frustrating afternoon. One session had been particularly adamant, and she had resorted to physical violence when a thirteen-year-old said he could 'bowl her over with a feather.' Of course, she had proven him wrong; however, the next day his mother called to confirm that Tidus would no longer be attending Yuffie's sessions, and would be with the -other- instructor, a one Riku . . . something or other. She wasn't sure she had ever really HEARD his last name, although it hardly seemed to matter.
As the subway pulled to a screeching halt, Yuffie bounded up and out of her uncomfortable seat and weaved her way through the throngs of people, managing to break out of the endless masses and jog up the littered steps, where she emerged on a street she barely managed to get the name of before jogging onto the shoulder of the road. Disoriented as she was, she knew that the apartment was about sixteen blocks away - and, even if it was a small distance to some, she didn't have the patience for it now. Extending her right arm high into the air as a cab flashed by, light off, she growled as it ignored her and tried again. On her fourth attempt a yellow taxi finally pulled over, allowing her to clamber awkwardly into the backseat as she tried to keep her tea from spilling.
She gave the cabbie the directions in a rushed voice; she was hoping to catch Squall for dinner. She was trying, day by day, to get him to open up to her, and she figured that one way was over Cosmopolitans, and that was probably the easiest. The man was a bit of an enigma to her, although she was inescapably drawn to him, like a moth to the flame: she couldn't leave him alone. She would find herself staring at him like some sort of hopeless teenager (she shoved the thought that read 'But you ARE' into the deep recesses of her mind) with her mouth hanging open, and he would turn and glare at her like she was the oiliest, most rubbery burrito he'd ever eaten. The only reason she compared herself to a burrito was that she had actually met him over a rushed dinner of those, when Cloud hastily introduced the freshly-graduated woman he barely knew to a stoic, abrupt colleague who merely shoved the papers under her nose that allowed her to live in the apartment and all of the other legal stuff that she didn't read and merely signed.
She made sure not to give the cabbie any extra money for his fine job speeding down the crowded Manhattan streets; he had practically robbed her as it is. Slamming the door shut while tipping a hearty helping of tea down her throat, she hurried to the building and shoved in her key, turning it sharply and entering when admitted. She would have just buzzed up to him, as she really didn't feel like exerting the extra effort to actually let herself in, but she didn't know if he was in a Foul Mood or a Really Foul Mood, and it was best not to tempt him.
The elevator ride was jerky and made her slosh half of her tea down her front, and for once she was grateful that the November air had chilled it off decently - she only felt a slight sting as the liquid sunk into those Gap cargos that she had saved so much for. She never, EVER bought from the Gap - too expensive, too overrated - but those pants just wouldn't leave her alone. She began seeing them everywhere, and, finally, she relented to her subconscious and bought them. Nearly thirty-something dollars for them, too, she had realized with a groan as she looked at the receipt.
Hastily unlocking the door to the apartment, number 219, she immediately chucked the rest of her tea and sprinted at top-speed into her bedroom, slamming the door shut and forgetting the usual after-school-and-work stare that she usually gave Squall - he was leaning heavily on the miniscule countertop in the half-kitchen, like he did on every hard surface near him, poring over the Times.
"Hey," he called out to her, irritated that she hadn't even acknowledged him. Her open-mouthed stares were starting to grow on him.
"What?" she called back distractedly, yanking on a pair of faded blue jeans. The cargos lay in a ball on the other side of the room, and she was surprised to see that she actually remembered to make her bed that morning.
"You wanna go out for drinks with Cloud and Aerith tonight?" he shouted, thumbing over a few pages and skipping the Sports section.
Yuffie stopped dead, her left leg halfway into her pants, indigo eyes wide. Had . . . Squall Leonhart just asked her out? No, she told herself firmly, shaking her head and pulling the jeans up. It was a group thing. But . . . since when did Squall do 'group things'? He barely did single-person things. "Uh . . . sure? What time?" she hollered back, snatching up a yellow bandana from her dresser and using it to pull back her stringy raven hair.
"Now, if you'd finish whatever it is you're doing," he growled, and she heard the distinct rustle of the Times being folded roughly. He was never one to be punctual, but anything she did wrong seemed to annoy him - although sometimes she did it on purpose, just to see his 'mad face.'
"Fine, fine, I'm ready," she muttered, emerging in a chai tea-free pair of pants and tightening the scarf around her neck against the November chill. She had just enough time to seize her overcoat before he was out the door, leaving a slightly disoriented Yuffie in his wake.
----~----
Hah! The chapters are getting longer. But I don't want to seem informal, so I'll just say this: please, please, PLEASE review! Thanks ^^