One should always have one's boots and be ready to leave

—Michel de Montaigne

Chapter Two

The Exeter's recoil was something he'd long since gotten used to, but after the seventh downed T-rexuar, he knew his shoulder was going to be stiff as hell by the time classes started up. But that really didn't matter, if he was sore or not. Besides, he figured a shoulder covered in bruises would be a fitting punishment for actually getting caught.

A grat flitted across the scenery of the training center, just out of the corner of his eye, and Irvine ignored the indignant strain of his muscles to take a pot shot at it and have it turn towards him. It would be a quick fight, but he figured he might get something good out of it. Something better than a bruised shoulder and protesting arm.

"Are you actually trying to get yourself killed?"

Zell's stern, slightly humored voice was followed by the warm rush of magic through Irvine's veins. The bruises on his shoulder ceased their tired ache and his head cleared of its tired fog. The grat fell with one powerful, angry shot.

Irvine turned the Exeter's barrel on Zell, frowning a little. Zell, cocky as ever, planted his hands on his hips and cock a brow at the redhead.

"Go ahead. I'm sure Quisty will love another excuse to get your ass canned."

Irvine actually thought of cocking his rifle. Instead, he brought it down in a long sweep, then with a sigh balanced it over his shoulders, looping his elbow over the barrel.

"Why are you here?"

"Just making sure you weren't shooting yourself in the foot for real this time." Zell was bouncing on the balls of his feet then, hands up in an offensive posture. He smiled a little, half-falling into that normal, cocky posture. "If you ditch the gun, I'll be a better fight than any of the monsters."

"If I ditch the gun," Irvine contended, "you'd wipe the floor with my ass, Dincht."

"Ooh, surname." There was a laugh in his voice. "You must be really pissed about that Gordon girl ruining all your fun." The rifle came back up, close-range this time, and Irvine did cock the piston it, giving Zell a stormy look. Zell smirked. "Hit a nerve, I see. Put the gun down before you hurt yourself, Irvy."

Despite his anger, Irvine did lower the Exeter. He sighed, shoulders slumping, and sat heavily on the side of the path. Zell watched him for a second, before stepping over and sitting beside him on the huge stump he'd claimed. Irvine buried his face in his hands, grumbling morosely under his breath; Zell bumped his shoulder, and offered a consoling smile.

"You're a good Instructor," he offered. "If Quisty does get you canned, you can always go to, like, Trabia or something."

"The other Gardens wouldn't hire me."

"You could talk to Laguna about helping train the Esthar army." Irvine cringed at that. Since the Ultimecia incident, Laguna had been pestering all of them to come help with his meager volunteer army. After seven months of it, Squall had threatened to have him shot if he was spotted near Balamb Garden; Laguna had i laughed /i , but dutifully kept his requests quiet and mostly in the form of audio messages and letters addressed to them personally.

Zell chuckled at the no doubt sour expression concerning that proposal. He hummed for a second, before smiling softly and saying, "Matron was saying she wanted to have a school to go with the orphanage. You could help there."

Irvine stared at his fingers dully for a second before sighing. He gave Zell a pressed grin and thanked him quietly, before grabbing the Exeter, and pointedly walking away from the tattooed blond.

Irvine supposed it wouldn't be so bad, going back to teaching after a brief hiatus, if it weren't for the fact that Quistis showed up after every class to escort the girls en mass out of the classroom and to the first floor concord. Really, it was entirely unnecessary: he'd been exercising absolutely spectacular self-control, declining any approach from a female student—and, surprisingly, quite a few male ones, just to keep himself safe—for any 'tutoring' outside of class.

For the most part, he just tried to keep to himself. It had gotten around, somehow, that Squall and the rest of the Instructors had Irvine on something of a probation, and it was unnerving to walk through any of the facilities and have quiet murmurs following him around. He'd noted, a week after he returned to teaching duties—Squall contested, when Selphie and Quistis protested, that they couldn't afford not to have him teach, with SeeD exams coming up and everything—that he was turning into something of a hermit.

And that, more than Quistis escorting his female students out of his class, pissed him the hell off. The Training Center became a common haunt for Irvine, working out frustrations with the situation all around; and when he wasn't there or in classes, he was sequestered in his room, wondering when the other shoe would fall.

He finished grading the last test from that day, disgusted with the average score of the class, and tucked them into a drawer as he grabbed his hat and gun and stepped around his desk to leave the room.

The door swished open just as he was adjusting his hat, and he found himself bumping into a firm, delicate female body. With a mild curse on his lips, he steadied the young woman, tilting his hat back to see who he'd jostled.

His hands flinched back instantly from Meya Gordon's elbows, and he took several safety-inducing steps back, before summoning a genial smile that he hoped she wouldn't take the wrong way.

"Miss Gordon," he greeted gently. "How can I help you? I was just about to head out, but if you're concerned about something—."

"Commander Leonheart told me you wanted me considered for your post, should you be . . . excused." Irvine cringed a little. Thanks Squally, he mentally grumbled. Self-consciously, he removed his hat, and began to mess with the band on it.

"Ah, yes. I told him that."

"Why, Instructor Kinneas?" Her voice got hard. "Do you think you'll get something out if it?

Dammit. "Miss Gordon, I told the Commander that I wanted you considered because you're a competent marksman who would make an excellent Instructor. I realize that your perception of me is . . . marred by my—my . . ." He fished for the word aggressively.

"Liaisons?" the young student offered. He gave her a sharp little look, but accepted the aid nonetheless.

"Liaisons with the other female students, but I assure you that my interest in your continued excellence is not part and parcel with my wanting to sleep with you." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized he had said them wrong.

But only because her mouth fell open a little and her eyes looked just about ready to bug out of her skull. He swore.

He tried again: "Look. You're good. End of story. I want to i actually /i tutor you, as in, show you how to be better than you already are. Not sleep with you. I don't want to sleep with you!"

That expression wasn't going away. He swore again, slammed his hat onto his head, and pulled the brim down far enough that it mostly concealed his gaze, before gritting out a gruff, "I'm going to go now," and stepping around the stunned young woman.

He was halfway to the corridor that led to the northern elevator when he heard her running up behind him. When he turned, he expected a hasty and strong verbal abuse.

Instead, she handed him his practice rifle, her eyes diverted.

"You left it in the classroom," she said gruffly. He took it slowly from her, looking it over. Then, without a word, he handed it back to her. She looked up, quietly saying, "Sir—?"

"I was given that gun by a Galbadian soldier, when I was an aspiring sharpshooter. Figure it's only fair to hand it down. Legacy, you know?" He looked at her, tried to summon a cheeky grin but succeeded in more of a grimace. "Take good care of her, when you get my post."

He turned away from her, and began to walk again.

Later, when he lay on his bed staring at his ceiling and swearing himself blue, he realized he'd wanted her to apologize for jeopardizing his career. Had that been why he'd given her the gun? In hopes of bribing an apology out of her? It wasn't as if she could retract her harassment charge or something; his job would still be hanging in the balance, apology or no.

The tone of his call-button made him cease his swearing. He stood sluggishly, shuffling through his tiny Instructor's apartment toward the door. As he door swished open, he decided he needed to talk to somebody in mechanics about getting his tone changed; it was i annoying /i .

Zell stood on the other side, leaning against the door and ready to press the call-button a third time. He looked up and smiled at Irvine.

"Can I come in?"

"No. I'm having a pity party. What do you want?"

"Squall's callin'." Irvine rolled his eyes with a groan, grabbed his hat from the small cabinet beside the door, and stepped out into the hall. Zell fell into step just behind his shoulder, silent and perhaps a little ominous.

Irvine twitched a gaze over his shoulder at the blond, and finally asked, "Did he ask you to escort me?"

"No. But I figure he wanted me to anyway."

"Goodie."

"Sheesh. If I had known not gettin' laid turned you into such an utter bitch, I would have convinced Squall to ignore Gordon's complaint." Irvine stopped, held very still for a moment, and brought his elbow up into Zell's gut as he kept walking. The blond grunted, but didn't buckle, just glared up at him.

"Just . . . don't." They kept walking.

The ride in the elevator was utterly silent, and Squall's young secretary—a student—didn't even dare to look up when they stepped off the elevator. Zell hung back at her desk, talking with her amiably, and waved Irvine onward into Squall's office.

In the office, Squall was talking quietly with Rinoa Heartilly, but fell silent when Irvine stepped in. She continued on with whatever it was she was talking about for several seconds more, before turning and giving Irvine a cold once over.

Irvine was getting really tired of that expression. From everybody. He huffed a little, and didn't even try to smile.

"Hey Rinoa. Back so soon? We were all kind of hoping it would rain while you were in Timber. And you would melt."

"Wow, Zell is right. You do turn into a bitch when you aren't getting any sex." Squall, behind his desk, buried his face in his hands and shook his head. Irvine resolved to get Zell intimately acquainted with his steel-toed boots.

He turned his attention to Squall, very pointedly, and said, "I was busy. Are you actually going to fire me now, or am I getting another Talking To?"

"Rinoa," Squall muttered pointedly. She sighed, leaned over the desk, and gave him a peck on the cheek. "I'll talk to you tonight, alright?"

"Yeah." She stepped out of the room, and Irvine had a feeling it was only by Squall sheer charm that Rinoa didn't whip out the Cardinal and ensure that Irvine would stay in his apparently no-sex induced Bitch Fest mood.

It was several minutes of Squall staring powerful at Irvine in silence before the brunette rolled his eyes and asked, "Do I want to know what you were busy with?"

"I was having a Pity Party. How is that when I say 'I was busy' everybody instantly translates that to 'I was balls deep in something'?" It was one of those moments where he wished he could take the words back as soon as they were out of his mouth. Instead, he jabbed a finger towards Squall and grumbled, "Don't answer that."

He sat down with his back to Squall's desk, as had become his habit shortly after the Ultimecia incident, and waited for the brunette to start talking. There was only the intermittent scratch of his pen on paper, and the quiet, distant whir of the environmental system cycling into life.

Irvine began instead. "Why did you tell Gordon that I thought you should give her my post?"

"I thought she should have forewarning before she took the SeeD exams."

"Yeah, well, she came by today after class. Just so you know. Got all 'You want in my pants!' on me."

"And?"

"I gave her my practice rifle." Squall's pen stopped in the middle of what sounded to be a very long word. Irvine turned to look over the desk at him, and narrowed his eyes. "The gun Not the euphemism."

"Whatever." He returned to writing. Irvine kept watching him, eyes narrowed, for several minutes, until Squall looked up and put his pen down.

"Why am I here?" he asked the brunette. Squall sucked on his tongue for a second, before actually looking away from Irvine.

"Quistis and I, along with several other Instructors, have decided it'd be best if we suspended you for a while. Until after SeeD exams are over, and everyone is settled."

"Really?" Irvine gritted. Squall gave him a sharp look, but Irvine just shook his head and sank back to his spot at the desk leg. "Whatever you think's best, Mr. Commander, sir."

"Kinneas, stop being a prick about this."

Irvine actually stood up, planted his hands on the desk, and leaned in real close to Squall, growling, "How do you expect me to act? Look, I know I fucked it all up, right? But now you're kicking me out of the only place I've got—."

"Go stay with Matron. Go visit Galbadia. Just . . . go."

A nervous, insane little laugh broken through Irvine's lips. He shook his head a little and sighed.

"Do I get pack? Or is everything being 'arranged' for me?"

"I'm doing you a favor, Kinneas."

"Okay. Sure. You tell yourself that." And he stepped out of Squall's office without another word or glance back.

They didn't tell him where to go, just dropped him off in Balamb and drove off. The sun gleamed through the smoke billowing from chimneys around the city, and the burble of life was a comforting one. One or two people looked his way, but thankfully, nobody looked long enough to recognize his face. He hurried along, stopping in the upper square, and looked out over the lower half of the city.

There were only so many places to go, really. Even with regular commutes between most of the major cities, the ships had already left for Fisherman's Horizon, and the trains only went to Timber from Balamb.

He had some spare gil in his pocket, though. At least for the night, he'd stay in the Balamb Hotel, and deal with everything else in the morning.

The young woman running the front desk smiled prettily at him, flirting shamelessly. Irvine found himself gnawing his lip after he'd ferried himself to his room, wondering if it was worth the trouble of going back downstairs to invite her up to his room.

On the tiny desk in the room, there was a vid-comm. He stared at it stupidly for a second, before dialing through to Squall's private line. He left a scathing, angry message when nobody picked up.

Then, without really thinking, he dialed the only other number he knew by heart.

A young man answered the phone and said in a too chipper voice, "Esthar Central, how might I patch you through?"

"I'm trying to reach the President," he told the receptionist quietly. The young man's smile dimmed a little as he slipped into a slightly more professional mood.

"I'm afraid the President cannot be reached at this time—."

"I know he's not in a meeting, so short of him being in the middle of having sex with somebody, you're going to tell him that it's Irvine Kinneas, and you're going to patch me through." The receptionist blinked owlishly at him for a moment, before nodding.

The screen went blank for a moment, before popping up on a very tired looking Laguna Loire, hair mussed and only half dressed.

"This had better be damn good, kid."

"I told your little receptionist boy not to patch me through if you were in the middle of fucking somebody."

"Language barrier, I'm telling you." He was straightening his hair out slightly, blinking away the sleep that clouded his eyes. After a moment, he sighed and asked, "What can I do for you, kiddo?"

"I'm in a bit of a pinch with your son and . . . everybody at Balamb Garden."

"Hm. Did you fuck somebody you shouldn't have?"

Irvine sighed, dejected. "Yes."

"Did you fuck Rinoa?" Irvine cringed, giving Laguna a startled look; he chuckled, shrugging nonchalantly. "She looks like her mother. I wouldn't blame you."

"She's not my type."

"Yes, that's right. You like chipper, overly enthusiastic girls who want to blow everything to smithereens." Irvine just shrugged a little. Laguna sighed, giving Irvine a powerful look; he could see where Squall had gotten that particular gift. "So, how am I helping you, exactly?"

"I need a place to stay until this blows over."

"As in, you're running away from your problems, or—."

"Squall kicked me out."

"Lover's tiff," somebody off-screen grumbled, just loud enough to be picked up by Laguna's vid-comm. There was no mistaking the distinctive accent in that voice. Irvine gave Laguna a wide, predatory grin.

"Really."

"If you ever speak to my son again, you say nothing."

"That ashamed, are you?" Laguna shook his head helplessly, rolling his eyes.

"I'm on enough choppy water with him, I don't need him knowing I'm sleeping with one of my best friends."

Irvine chuckled and said, "I'm pretty sure he wouldn't care who you were sleeping with, so long as it wasn't Rinoa. Are you going to help me out or not?"

"I'll have somebody pick you up in FH." Off-screen, there was a quiet question that sounded like 'Somebody is me, right?', and Irvine chuckled softly, shaking his head. Laguna looked ready to turn off the vid-comm.

"I'll see you in a couple of days, Uncle Laguna."

"Yeah, yeah, kid. Just don't piss anybody off while you're here, okay?"