Disclaimer: I don't own much of anything, except my soul and a few boxes of cereal.

A dead-eyed bride stared out of a heavy gilt frame on her wall. A woman who was marrying to be safe, a woman who was marrying because she wasn't strong enough to protect herself when the time came. A woman who, when the last card fell, was really not a martial artist at all. Not a soldier. Not a warrior.

Just a little girl in a wedding gown, about to pledge lifelong obedience to a man she barely knew, all because she wasn't strong enough to kick the furry asses of a few giant monsters. All because a crazy old man and his magic, scanty undergarments were making it damn hard to go to the bathroom.

To her great discomfort, she now knew just what it was like to wear a chastity belt. Now that she knew, she was rather surprised that they were so popular. There's nothing hygienic about a band of material that. . . . well.

Akane Tendo, the desire of a thousand hearts, the prize of the century, the only woman appearing in more poetry than the Madonna, was drunk. Stark, raving drunk. And no one really faulted her for it, in fact, the servants had been exacerbating the situation.

The drinking began the night before, when she'd ordered her maidservants to bring her a cask of wine. They brought her the Rhenish, the strongest red poison they could find, and didn't dilute it. She had asked for another before finally collapsing on her bed, a glass in one hand and the half-finished cask on the floor next to her. She finished that wine with breakfast, which consisted of some of the sour beer the guardsmen favored and a few delicate sips of white wine, which went very well with the food she refused to eat.

She had been refusing food for three days, and instead of looking like a radiant bride, she looked like death warmed over. The bones in her shoulders stuck out through the rich white silk of her gown. That magnificent gown.

They might as well have been sewing her in her shroud, for all the gaiety that surrounded her adornment. She was silent, staring at the mirror in its heavy gilt frame. Silent as they wove flowers into her long, dark hair. Silent as they fitted her into her corset and her layers of skirts, silent as they fussed over her veil and earbobs.

She looked into the mirror, and saw the one type of woman she had always despised, the one sort of woman she had never been able to respect, regardless of how favorably society viewed them.

Weak. She had become weak. Too weak to stop the monsters from getting her. Too weak to slice the offensive undergarments away and take away the skin under them. Too weak to defy her fates and take her chances with the old man, living and maybe dying by the warriors code she had entrenched herself in.

And now, besotted with drink, wasted away with sleepless nights and red-eyed from crying, she saw in her reflection nothing like strength. Nothing like pride. Nothing like honor.

Nothing, period.

The maidservants left her to her silent staring, and she waited for the bells to ring and signal her that her plan for life had failed.

"Akane, am I too late?" came a soft voice behind her. She ignored it at first, only dimly registering that there was someone in the room with her. But then, a red-haired girl walked up behind her in the mirror, travel-stained, weary-eyed.

"How did you. . ." she began, but the words turned to dust in her mouth.

"The balcony," Ranma replied, jerking her head toward the open terrace. Akane turned to look at her, raised a hand to touch her and see if she were real, or a drunken delusion.

Her hand fell short, but another hand, just as calloused as her own, took it and squeezed it, a sensory anchor in a spinning world.

"Go home, Ranma," she whispered, trying to take back her hand. It was released immediately, and the girl who had been holding it jerked as if punched. She hated the hurt look in those blue eyes. But she hated, even more, the way that Ranma looked at her. As though she were something she now knew she wasn't.

"I came back for you, to stop you from marrying Ryouga," Ranma said, slowly, evenly. Because Ranma could force herself to speak slowly, evenly, could force herself to stay strong and aloof, could leap up balconies and . . . and. . . she would never lose herself in drink and despair, she'd fight it, because that was the way Ranma was. . .

Akane turned away, unable to watch her reflection in those blue eyes. Unfortunately, she turned too fast, and found herself rushing to greet the floor with her nose.

But she didn't.

A pair of hands caught her around the waist, slowly drew her back into a protective embrace.

"You're drunk," Ranma whispered, her voice soft with wonder. Akane jerked away from her, falling to her knees as her balance failed her. She punched Ranma's arm when the redhead reached down to help her, and sat there, wheezing, on the floor, with her silken skirts pooled around her.

"And if I am?" she asked, glowering. "It's no concern of yours."

"You don't want to marry Ryouga."

"Of course not. I don't want to marry anyone."

"And you don't love Ryouga."

"Of course I don't," she snapped, then her eyes grew wide and she looked down, studying her hands splayed across the folds of her wedding dress. "That's what makes this so horrible. I'm not marrying him for love, I'm using him. I'm marrying him because I can't take care of myself. Because I'm . . . I'm weak, Ranma." She looked up, anger the only emotion left in her gaze. "So get the hell out."

"That's the booze talking," Ranma grunted, sitting down next to her. Akane snarled and moved as if to punch Ranma, but the shot went about a foot wide and she pretended it hadn't happened.

There was apparently a reason martial artists shouldn't drink.

"Like hell it is."

"I've never heard you curse this much before."

"Shut up! This is hard enough for me without seeing you all. . .strong and stuff and leaping up balconies and you know how obnoxious it is to be so much better than everybody else? I bet that you. . . ."

"Akane," Ranma smirked, the very calmness of her voice stopping Akane mid-rant. "You don't love Ryouga."

"We covered this already, yes?" she growled. "And don't start with me about the whole girl-on-girl thing, because, all personal tastes aside, I can't marry a girl. . . ."

"Akane."

". . . legally, it just doesn't. . . ."

"AKANE," she said again, louder. The bride blinked a few times, but fell silent—just long enough to hear the church bells ringing. The gilt frame of her mirror vibrated with the tune of the bell tower, and the little trinkets she kept on her desk trembled at the thought of losing her. And in the middle of it all, sat Ranma, a determined little smirk on her lips.

"I don't have time for this," Akane muttered, rising unsteadily to her feet. Ranma stayed where she was.

"Akane, what if you could marry someone you love, and be safe at the same time?" she asked, keeping her hands clasped so Akane wouldn't know how much they trembled.

"I'm not in love with anyone," Akane muttered, adjusting her skirts—the problem with formal dresses is they aren't really designed to be flopped around in.

"But you do love me, right?" Ranma asked. When Akane gave her a sharp look, she shook her head violently and rushed on. "I mean, as a friend at least, right? You're fond of me. More than Ryouga?"

"I suppose, but I really don't see what that has to do with. . ."

"Akane, I have something to show you, and I want you to stay right here," Ranma admonished, leaping to her feet and dashing out of the room. She returned a spilt second later with a steaming teapot.

"You'll want to sit down for this," Ranma advised. Glaring openly now, Akane made to push past the smaller girl, who was between herself and the door.

"Honestly, Ranma! I don't have time for games! What did you come back for, anyway, to stall my wedding until I've got gray hair?" she snapped. Ranma stepped in front of her neatly, holding the pot of hot tea right over her head.

"I'm telling you, you really want to sit down for this," Ranma repeated.

"And I'M telling YOU, you'd better get out of my way before I . . . ." Akane's voice trailed off as Ranma upended the teapot on her head, and the scent of chamomile and lavender rushed around the room, in little steamy clouds.

A man, a black-haired man, stood where Ranma used to be.

The man from her garden, who had protected her from Kuno.

The man from the ball, who had carried her up to her room, away from tiresome suitors.

Was Ranma? But. . . was she a . . . or was it a he that. . ..

The black-haired man grabbed her hands, his were big and rough, calloused, she tried to pull away but he held her until she met his eyes, those same blue eyes and she was falling, falling into an ocean of doubts but he caught her, safe and snug against his chest. . . she pushed him away, and cursed as she nearly stumbled, only to have him catch her.

"Let go of me. Who in the hell are you, anyway?" she cried, blinking furiously to make the world spin a little slower. It wasn't working.

"I'm Ranma Saotome, just like before. . . except this was the body I was born with. The other has to do with this curse. . . look, it's not important. What is important is you need a strong guy around, and I'm pretty handy for that. Akane. . . please stop staring at me like that, it's. . . . neither of us ever wanted to be married, right? At least, if we marry each other, it will be more of a mild torture than the screaming hell I was expecting. And life with Ryouga wouldn't be too great, if you know what I mean."

Akane did what anyone would have done in that situation.

She fainted.

As oblivion rushed up to meet her, she heard Ranma's voice fading into the background, and a new voice, uttering the most curious phrase she'd ever heard. . .

"Where in the jujubes am I now. . . . Ranma!"

Ukyou took great satisfaction in noting the sour faces of her fellow partiers the following morning. She was lucky, she had wonderful genes—and a lot of practice. Her father had believed in weaning babes on sour beer, and so that was how she'd been raised. Her father's court was full of drunks every night, full of hangovers every morning. Everyone, except her father, would beg to be allowed a few hours to sleep it off, if he would just forget about holding court until around noon. . . but nothing later than sunrise would satisfy her father, and so she learned to drink hard and rise early at a rather tender age.

The one sour face she saw that wasn't nearly sour enough for her belonged to Becafica. He was calmly eating breakfast in the Great Hall—patiently ignoring the people snoring on the floor around him—with nothing to show for his debauchery aside from a red rim around his eyes.

Those eyes captured hers, and he beckoned her over. She acquiesced, glowering as she lowered herself onto a bench across from him.

"I understand I said some cruel things last night," he said, carefully, studying the apparently fascinating curvature of his knife.

"Yes," she said, as shortly as possible. She intended to swipe some food from the kitchen and leave, wander into the sunset. Or sunrise. Or just off into the trees somewhere no one would harass her, that would be nice too.

"I'm sorry for that," he apologized, meeting her gaze shyly.

"Why are you talking to me?" she asked, flatly, not in a mood to waste her time. He sighed, and put the knife down. She resisted the urge to pick it up and give it back to him through the route of his lower abdomen.

"I wanted to apologize, and offer you a deal."

"A deal?"