|Disclaimer: I do not own KH; everything is © Square.|
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It was like picking petals off of a daisy when she was little, trying to decide if the shy boy with the long brown hair in her kindergarten class was the right one for her. Yuffie stood in Squall's doorway, head cocked to one side as she contemplated whether or not she would wake him up. After all, he had been more than rude to her last night - then again, he had found her, paid for her cab ride home, and above all invited her out with him in the first place. But then there was that little episode at 55 Bar, and then back in the apartment . . . she just couldn't make up her mind. Did he have good intentions, but too cold a heart to show them? Or was he merely trying to suck up to her to make her pay for more of the rent this month?
She bit her lower lip nervously, desperately searching for an answer. It would be like betraying him if she didn't wake him up, forgoing her insignificant relationship with that all-too endearing intern and giving up any hope that he had any emotions, even profound dislike, towards her - even when he spoke unkind words to her (the exception being last night), it didn't sound like there was any emotion behind what he was saying. She drummed her fingers against her forehead; eyes slammed shut tightly, trying to make her decision.
Taking a deep breath, she knocked loudly on the doorframe, having silently flung open the door already. Much to her surprise, he stirred, a few pillows dislodging and tumbling to the ground in soft feathery puffs while one hand reached out to slam the Snooze on the alarm clock, even though it hadn't rung yet. Yuffie had fallen asleep over her Psych book last night, and woke up at five forty-four to find her nose in the spine of the book and her breathing coming none too easy. She had turned off the clock so as not to bother her as it tolled the hour, but couldn't fall back asleep and ended up booting up the computer and finishing an essay that was due that morning.
When the clock didn't do anything, she noticed that his head turned towards the nightstand and one bleary, azure eye popped open, staring confusedly at the tall red numbers that made his eyes burn. Seven sixteen. His other eye opened, and he sat up halfway, blinking at the clock as if expecting the numbers to shift. When it became apparent that they wouldn't, he swiveled his head to face Yuffie, whose arms were crossed in defense, although her eyes showed confusion. He didn't have that gouge marring his perfect face yesterday . . . did he? No, he didn't, she assured herself. What happened to him?
"Uh . . . do you sleep with sharp things in that bed, or did that cut get there magically?" Yuffie asked slowly, taking a step back for defense. Squall's eyes focused on her, and he was about to come up with a snarky retort when he realized that it was Yuffie he was talking to, and closed his eyes briefly. Taking a deep, calming breath, he attempted to soothe out any anger that had risen, remembering that in no unclear terms he was trying to amend his attitude toward her - or that was what he decided last his brain was in perfect functional order, about two minutes before he decided to finally give in to sleep.
"I cut myself shaving," he said, with as much patience and calmness that he could manage. Yuffie quirked an eyebrow.
"Are you alright?" she managed to get out once the fear of being tackled, growled at, or merely given the look of death had passed.
"Yeah," he replied, trying to keep his voice smooth. A grin twisted the corner of Yuffie's mouth, and she took on a jaunty pose, one hand on her hip and the other dangling down by her side, soft indigo eyes gleaming mischievously.
"What's up with the sudden burst of civility? I thought it was all angles and sharp planes," she asked, ignoring the fact that his hair was still up in a ponytail, making his odd scar more prominent, and, to her, adding another spurt of handsomeness to his already long resume.
"I wanted to a-a-apologize for l-last night, because . . ." he stammered, pausing to fish around for an excuse other than his angry tirade. "Because I broke the shelf in the bathroom," he said proudly, grinning despite himself. Yuffie put a hand up to shield her mouth; she had never seen him act like this before. Being calm and collected was one thing, but making JOKES? Something was seriously wrong here. Quickly striding over to the bed, she slammed a hand against his forehead, watching him seriously. "H- hey! What're you trying to do to me?" he spat, no longer able to maintain his steady course of near-niceness.
"I think you're ill; fatally so. Are you sure you're feeling alright?" she asked, all serious. He blinked a few times before he pried her fingers off of his forehead, rolled, hard on his side, off of the bed, and stood, staring at her as if she as brandishing a six-foot-long pitchfork in front of him.
"I'm fine! What impression do I give off that I am in someway hurt, sick, or just disoriented?" he asked, straining visibly to keep his voice from rising considerably.
"You - you're attitude!" Yuffie stammered, pointing at him as if he had four arms. Silence reigned for a few minutes, and then he put his hands over his face.
"Is it really so hard to believe?" he asked quietly through his fingers. "Am I really that bad?" Yuffie found herself biting her lip again, trying hard not to nod. Her nails ground against her skin, hands balled into tight fists at her side. Finally, after what seemed like an hour, Squall dropped his hands, fished a pair of clean pants, a relatively unharmed button-up white shirt, and his leather jacket out of a pile of laundry and disappeared into the bathroom, muttering something about being late for work.
The alarm clock blared into life on the nightstand, shouting its warning to the only person standing in the room, who stared at it as if she had never seen anything quite demonic in her whole life.
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"C'mon, Squall, we've had this discussion before . . ." Cloud began, exasperated. Half of the students in the room were looking up from an exam to study the intern, forehead pressed to his miniscule desk, one fist closed so tightly around a pen that the ink was starting to leak out over his fingers. He looked truly exhausted, and had explained in a half-dead voice that he had cut himself shaving, which explained for the odd-looking cut on his right cheek.
"I. Hate. Women," he said pointedly, not looking at the professor. Cloud nodded sympathetically, but didn't say anything; he was meeting Aerith again tonight, this time for a more romantic dinner down in Little Italy at a place that the account herself had suggested.
"Don't I know it. But man, we have students here. Please try to make a good impression," the blonde begged, casting nervous blue eyes at the class, which was watching them intently. "Refer back to your exam if you want anything more than a failing grade for the whole lot of you. Go on, you know I'd do it!" Cloud managed rather convincingly, and the class grumbled before poring over their tests once more, although a few kept shooting Squall odd looks between questions.
"I'm serious. I mean, I never really was good with women, and I was fine - but now . . . !" He gave an animal-like noise that sounded like 'grr' and pounded his fist on the desk.
"Now what?" Cloud prompted, immediately interested. He had known his intern long enough now to consider him a friend, and he knew of his anti-social antics. This was certainly new.
"Yuffie!" he blurted out.
Cloud blinked a few times before repeating stupidly, "Yuffie?" Squall glared at him, and he shook his spiky head, regaining his composure. "Her or you?"
"Me," Squall said miserably, letting the pen fall with a small "click" of plastic meeting wood. Cloud hissed in sympathy, but couldn't do anything more: he couldn't help this socially-inept man; he had never had him deal with anything like this before. "What should I do?"
Cloud glared at the class for a moment, reminding them of their exam, and then focused on Squall. "Well, take her out. No, no, nothing like dinner or anything," he said hastily at Squall's look of death. "Just for . . . coffee, or something. You both like that, right?" His intern looked at him angrily. "I'm not helping, am I?" the blonde asked nervously.
"Nope," Squall responded dryly, then threaded his fingers through his bristly brown hair. "Well . . . I'll just have to do something on my own, then."
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I'm evil. That chapter sucked. But now we know that next chapter'll be interesting - what horrific endeavor will Squall think up, hoping to please Yuffie? We all know he's not good at these kinds of things . . . and what will Yuffie say?
As always, review! I'm so happy - 18 reviews for four chapters? Yay! You guys make me so happy; I might do another chapter tonight because this one was late.
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It was like picking petals off of a daisy when she was little, trying to decide if the shy boy with the long brown hair in her kindergarten class was the right one for her. Yuffie stood in Squall's doorway, head cocked to one side as she contemplated whether or not she would wake him up. After all, he had been more than rude to her last night - then again, he had found her, paid for her cab ride home, and above all invited her out with him in the first place. But then there was that little episode at 55 Bar, and then back in the apartment . . . she just couldn't make up her mind. Did he have good intentions, but too cold a heart to show them? Or was he merely trying to suck up to her to make her pay for more of the rent this month?
She bit her lower lip nervously, desperately searching for an answer. It would be like betraying him if she didn't wake him up, forgoing her insignificant relationship with that all-too endearing intern and giving up any hope that he had any emotions, even profound dislike, towards her - even when he spoke unkind words to her (the exception being last night), it didn't sound like there was any emotion behind what he was saying. She drummed her fingers against her forehead; eyes slammed shut tightly, trying to make her decision.
Taking a deep breath, she knocked loudly on the doorframe, having silently flung open the door already. Much to her surprise, he stirred, a few pillows dislodging and tumbling to the ground in soft feathery puffs while one hand reached out to slam the Snooze on the alarm clock, even though it hadn't rung yet. Yuffie had fallen asleep over her Psych book last night, and woke up at five forty-four to find her nose in the spine of the book and her breathing coming none too easy. She had turned off the clock so as not to bother her as it tolled the hour, but couldn't fall back asleep and ended up booting up the computer and finishing an essay that was due that morning.
When the clock didn't do anything, she noticed that his head turned towards the nightstand and one bleary, azure eye popped open, staring confusedly at the tall red numbers that made his eyes burn. Seven sixteen. His other eye opened, and he sat up halfway, blinking at the clock as if expecting the numbers to shift. When it became apparent that they wouldn't, he swiveled his head to face Yuffie, whose arms were crossed in defense, although her eyes showed confusion. He didn't have that gouge marring his perfect face yesterday . . . did he? No, he didn't, she assured herself. What happened to him?
"Uh . . . do you sleep with sharp things in that bed, or did that cut get there magically?" Yuffie asked slowly, taking a step back for defense. Squall's eyes focused on her, and he was about to come up with a snarky retort when he realized that it was Yuffie he was talking to, and closed his eyes briefly. Taking a deep, calming breath, he attempted to soothe out any anger that had risen, remembering that in no unclear terms he was trying to amend his attitude toward her - or that was what he decided last his brain was in perfect functional order, about two minutes before he decided to finally give in to sleep.
"I cut myself shaving," he said, with as much patience and calmness that he could manage. Yuffie quirked an eyebrow.
"Are you alright?" she managed to get out once the fear of being tackled, growled at, or merely given the look of death had passed.
"Yeah," he replied, trying to keep his voice smooth. A grin twisted the corner of Yuffie's mouth, and she took on a jaunty pose, one hand on her hip and the other dangling down by her side, soft indigo eyes gleaming mischievously.
"What's up with the sudden burst of civility? I thought it was all angles and sharp planes," she asked, ignoring the fact that his hair was still up in a ponytail, making his odd scar more prominent, and, to her, adding another spurt of handsomeness to his already long resume.
"I wanted to a-a-apologize for l-last night, because . . ." he stammered, pausing to fish around for an excuse other than his angry tirade. "Because I broke the shelf in the bathroom," he said proudly, grinning despite himself. Yuffie put a hand up to shield her mouth; she had never seen him act like this before. Being calm and collected was one thing, but making JOKES? Something was seriously wrong here. Quickly striding over to the bed, she slammed a hand against his forehead, watching him seriously. "H- hey! What're you trying to do to me?" he spat, no longer able to maintain his steady course of near-niceness.
"I think you're ill; fatally so. Are you sure you're feeling alright?" she asked, all serious. He blinked a few times before he pried her fingers off of his forehead, rolled, hard on his side, off of the bed, and stood, staring at her as if she as brandishing a six-foot-long pitchfork in front of him.
"I'm fine! What impression do I give off that I am in someway hurt, sick, or just disoriented?" he asked, straining visibly to keep his voice from rising considerably.
"You - you're attitude!" Yuffie stammered, pointing at him as if he had four arms. Silence reigned for a few minutes, and then he put his hands over his face.
"Is it really so hard to believe?" he asked quietly through his fingers. "Am I really that bad?" Yuffie found herself biting her lip again, trying hard not to nod. Her nails ground against her skin, hands balled into tight fists at her side. Finally, after what seemed like an hour, Squall dropped his hands, fished a pair of clean pants, a relatively unharmed button-up white shirt, and his leather jacket out of a pile of laundry and disappeared into the bathroom, muttering something about being late for work.
The alarm clock blared into life on the nightstand, shouting its warning to the only person standing in the room, who stared at it as if she had never seen anything quite demonic in her whole life.
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"C'mon, Squall, we've had this discussion before . . ." Cloud began, exasperated. Half of the students in the room were looking up from an exam to study the intern, forehead pressed to his miniscule desk, one fist closed so tightly around a pen that the ink was starting to leak out over his fingers. He looked truly exhausted, and had explained in a half-dead voice that he had cut himself shaving, which explained for the odd-looking cut on his right cheek.
"I. Hate. Women," he said pointedly, not looking at the professor. Cloud nodded sympathetically, but didn't say anything; he was meeting Aerith again tonight, this time for a more romantic dinner down in Little Italy at a place that the account herself had suggested.
"Don't I know it. But man, we have students here. Please try to make a good impression," the blonde begged, casting nervous blue eyes at the class, which was watching them intently. "Refer back to your exam if you want anything more than a failing grade for the whole lot of you. Go on, you know I'd do it!" Cloud managed rather convincingly, and the class grumbled before poring over their tests once more, although a few kept shooting Squall odd looks between questions.
"I'm serious. I mean, I never really was good with women, and I was fine - but now . . . !" He gave an animal-like noise that sounded like 'grr' and pounded his fist on the desk.
"Now what?" Cloud prompted, immediately interested. He had known his intern long enough now to consider him a friend, and he knew of his anti-social antics. This was certainly new.
"Yuffie!" he blurted out.
Cloud blinked a few times before repeating stupidly, "Yuffie?" Squall glared at him, and he shook his spiky head, regaining his composure. "Her or you?"
"Me," Squall said miserably, letting the pen fall with a small "click" of plastic meeting wood. Cloud hissed in sympathy, but couldn't do anything more: he couldn't help this socially-inept man; he had never had him deal with anything like this before. "What should I do?"
Cloud glared at the class for a moment, reminding them of their exam, and then focused on Squall. "Well, take her out. No, no, nothing like dinner or anything," he said hastily at Squall's look of death. "Just for . . . coffee, or something. You both like that, right?" His intern looked at him angrily. "I'm not helping, am I?" the blonde asked nervously.
"Nope," Squall responded dryly, then threaded his fingers through his bristly brown hair. "Well . . . I'll just have to do something on my own, then."
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I'm evil. That chapter sucked. But now we know that next chapter'll be interesting - what horrific endeavor will Squall think up, hoping to please Yuffie? We all know he's not good at these kinds of things . . . and what will Yuffie say?
As always, review! I'm so happy - 18 reviews for four chapters? Yay! You guys make me so happy; I might do another chapter tonight because this one was late.