Dracobolt: Hey, you! Thanks for the kind words; it always means more coming from someone you know, you know?

ColletteTheKlutz: Thank you. And, yeah, there should be more Regal/Alicia around here somewhere.

ObviousMan: My ego hopes that you're mostly awake and also thanks you profusely.

Nameless: Thank you.

Lara Luna: I glad I'm not the only one who's noticed that there's a disturbing lack of Regal/Alicia. Nope, this is going to be multi-chapter. Partly because I'd be bored, partly because I'm nuts and partly because I'd go even more nuts if I didn't. Thank you.

End of Response Section

2/18/05 When a person realizes, after they hand in their math test, that they can write fanfiction on their graphing calculator, abet slowly and in caps lock, it's a sure sign that they need some sort of help.

Disclaimer: Rallalon does not own Tales of Symphonia or any of its characters, places or items.

.-.-.-.-.-.

Alicia had thought about it all day, fingering that slip of paper now residing in her apron pocket. She hadn't really known what to do, but she felt she had to reply somehow.

The main problem was how.

The first thing she thought of was waiting for him, being in the kitchen when he arrived. But if the plate had been meant for another person, unlikely as it seemed, the Rearranger could be understandably confused and, frankly, not happy. She wanted neither. And - here she grew nervous - what if he had meant it for her and she completely messed up? She barely had any idea of how to start that conversation. "Hi. Even though I know you're not supposed to be here, I've been cleaning up after you for the past few weeks. My name's Alicia, what's yours?"

...No.

So onto option two:

Reply in a like manner. That brought up the question of where to put the note. He might not notice anything on the counter as paper didn't exactly stand out. Putting it somewhere else was equally risky in the he-might-not-see-it sense. Besides, she couldn't risk anyone else finding it. That conversation would probably go even worse than the ones she had been imaging with the Rearranger.

Then there was the problem of what to write. Hello, Mr. Rearranger. Thank you for the food. It was really good. It was for me, right? Anyway, I know we haven't met and you're probably confused as to why I'm doing this for you. Well, if it makes you feel better, I don't know either...

And so, after being asked if she was feeling sick over twenty times by five people during the course of the workday, she had come up with her answer. It was polite, it was friendly, and it would hopefully establish a way to communicate from now on. Needless to say, she was very happy about this.

Waiting to implement her plan, the minutes seemed to stretch out. Alicia tried staring at the clock in her room. Alicia tried not staring at the clock in her room. Alicia tried thinking about what she had written in the note clasped in her hand, but that only made her more nervous, making her go so far as to wonder about her spelling, handwriting and grammar. After an eternity that had somehow been packed into less than two hours, she finally got up. One last check was preformed to see if Melissa was completely asleep, and then she was gone, walking as quickly and quietly as she could.

But mostly quickly.

She was relived to see that she had made it to the kitchen first. Not needing her eyes to be fully adjusted, she made her way over to where her apron was hanging, half by touch, half by memory. Her note in one hand, she searched with the other. That one . . . no, even by touch, she could tell that it wasn't her name that was stitched on at the breast. One over... the next one... the next... That one!

She slipped it off of its hook and felt around for the pocket. The piece of paper inside, already heavily creased, proved the apron to be hers. Alicia folded the apron best she could, leaving the pocket uncovered, and set it on the floor near to the peg. Last, she exchanged the notes, making sure to keep hers poking out of the pocket and hopefully rather easy to see.

And when the Rearranger saw it, he'd pick it up and read. You're welcome, it began, as that seemed the obvious thing to say once Alicia thought about it. How long have you known about me? was tacked on since she'd felt the need to say something else. Plus, this way she got a chance at directing the conversation. And there would be a conversation.

Because if all went well, her apron would soon be doubling as a mailbox.

.-.-.-.-.-.

"Ali! Watch what you're doing!"

"Huh- wha- Aahhhh!"

A few near-burns later...

"I'm sorry."

Melissa stared at her in something close to disbelief. "You know, I'm supposed to be the tired one here."

Alicia stared at the charred contents of the small bowl on the stove. "I didn't even know butter could burn like that..."

"And yet we let you melt things." Melissa looked at her appraisingly for a moment. "Normally I wouldn't ask this but...You want coffee?"

Mutely, Alicia nodded, still staring. She remained that way until her friend returned.

"You okay?"

Nod.

"Just tired?"

Nod.

"Anything bothering you?"

Shrug.

"Family?"

Shrug. Sip. "Gah!"

Melissa fought back a smile but failed miserably. "You want some cream or something?"

"Yes please," Alicia said sheepishly, handing the cup over.

"So now that you're talking, what's with you today? Something's wrong when my human alarm clock sleeps later than I do."

"I guess I'm just..." Alicia searched around for a better answer than "nervous about the Rearranger" and found one alarmingly close to hand. "I'm worried about my family. I haven't heard from them in almost two years now, so..."

"They didn't send you anything for your birthday?"

Alicia mumbled something about it not being an Ozette tradition, her mind elsewhere. More specifically, it was in her apron pocket with a piece of paper. On one side was her message. On the other was written: I first noticed you over two weeks ago, when you were in the pantry. I would like to meet you, Alicia. May I?

The entire thing made her feel incredibly flustered and the only reason why she described the feeling that way was because that was the best word she could think of. She felt like she was in over her head, like the tables had somehow flipped, like she had made some sort of mistake, like she wanted to jump about in glee and smile until her face could stand it no more.

Just thinking about the first sentence brought heat to her face. He'd known. She'd been hiding in a pantry – of all the embarrassing places to hide, a pantry! – and he'd known. He could've opened the door at any point and seen her. But, the gentleman he was proving himself to be, he hadn't. Even through her deep embarrassment, she appreciated that. It was the sort of thing that made a person smile, not an about-to-laugh smile, but a smile that meant the person was so happy and content. A humbling happiness.

The second sentence had her even more conflicted. The Rearranger knew what her name was. It had surprised her out of her mind when she'd first read it, leading to several re-reads and much rubbing of the eyes. She'd as good as told him herself: it was on her apron and she'd made certain he'd known it was hers. That meant he knew her full name, her occupation, and even a rough idea of her size! With the first two items, he could look her up in the company database! What if this had been some sort of a... a test or something? Or, if he were doing something bad, she would most definitely get dragged into it. And the possibilities were endless when it came to that what-if: drugging the food, doing some sort of an exchange, using the cooking thing as a cover up and so on. She didn't think he would be doing anything like that, but then she didn't want to either, meaning she could be ignoring something obvious on purpose. She'd used the apron, after all; had she subconsciously wanted him to know?

Then there were the other six words to think about. He wanted to meet her. First reaction: Happy. Ecstatic. Stuff-hand-in-mouth-to-prevent-joyful-outburst-in-public.

Second reaction: Fear. Worry. What if he didn't like her? What if she said something completely inappropriate and alienated him forever? Sure, he rather needed her for insurance, but she wanted him to like her.

And the last part. Just two words, but he was... asking for her permission. Right after saying he wanted to meet her, when he could have simply waited around for her to show, he had asked. Like it was some sort of privilege. The thought threatened to bring her to giggles. As she had dropped off to sleep immediately after her kitchen adventure and woken up to a very grumpy Melissa, it was possible he might have waited for her before writing the note, but it didn't seem so. He was such a... a gentleman!

Okay, she was really obsessing over this.

But she was tired. People were silly when they were tired.

"Ali?"

"Huh?"

Melissa thrust the cup at her, the liquid inside now amber-brown. "You sure you're okay? You do have sick days you can use, remember?"

"I fine. Really."

"Come on, you can't fool me, Ali. just go over and ask Cook- O Martel, I'll go over and ask-"

"Melissa, I'm fine. Just tired. Nothing coffee won't fix for a bit." She took a drink to prove her point and ended up chugging it, using the cup to hide her expression until she could be sure it wasn't one of complete disgust. She would've sworn that half-elves had to have invented the liquid with its misleading smell if it weren't for the number of people who actually enjoyed it.

Melissa still looked skeptical, but didn't press the subject further, going back to her task for the day and leaving Alicia to clean the mess she had produced. Alicia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Who needed the last word when you could get the last action or, in this case, the last inaction?

As she reluctantly set herself to the pattern of rinsing and scrubbing by one of the sinks, her mind returned to what was now the main topic it had.

May I?

Like it was a privilege!

.-.-.-.-.-.

She was going to do it. She was. No matter what, she was going to do it.

And for the first time in her life, she wondered what to wear.

As an eight-year-old kid in Ozette, she'd never really thought about clothes. That kind of stupid worry was for older people, and people who were meeting new people and wanted to be liked. Her sister had been approaching the stage where she wanted a new ribbon on the gift holidays instead of a toy, but that was the farthest Alicia had ever seen it go. Well, excluding when Melissa was dating. Even then, it wasn't very helpful. There wasn't much a person could do to their uniform. That being the case, Alicia wouldn't have had much to worry about if she had been meeting the Rearranger during the day. No one can be expected to look amazing in uniform. Good, possibly. Amazing, no way.

Unfortunately, she wasn't in uniform. Sharing a room with Melissa made this both worse and better.

"Melissa, my stuff isn't back from the wash yet," she said truthfully. She had waited for the right moment, both in the regards of laundry day and Melissa's state of dress. "Can I borrow some of your night clothes?"

Already in her pajamas, Melissa agreed to it before adding, "but besides this, I've only got my nightgown... though I could switch if you want..."

"No, that's ok. Thanks."

"No problem. Just hope you can sleep in it."

Alicia made a non-committal sound.

Three hours, a snap-decision not to bother putting her hair back into pigtails and a regret that she didn't own slippers later, she hovered outside of the kitchen doorway. Now that she was there, it seemed a completely stupid idea, meeting him. Using notes, they could talk, but she could have enough time to come up with something intelligent. Face to face, she was positive her mind would go completely blank. And as she was fully coming to grips with how she would be no good mentally, she was becoming disturbingly aware how physically unimpressive she was. She wasn't sure if the blue nightgown made it worse or not.

Breathe in, breathe out. Tired people do silly things. How many times would she have to remind herself of it? Whether this was silly or not, it was even sillier to just stand here doing nothing. It would be okay. And if it weren't, it wouldn't matter much in the long run. All she had to do was keep that in mind. The Rearranger might be nervous, too. For some reason, that seemed unlikely, though it was a bit comforting.

Heavy footsteps. She held her breath and heard the lights click! on. More footsteps. They stopped, presumably by her hanging apron. He was looking through them now; he paused and, though she couldn't be sure, seemed to recheck the empty pocket. Then the other one, also empty.

Silence, save the hum of the refrigerator that masked the sound of their breathing.

Heavy footsteps. Click! More footsteps in the dark, leaving.

...He thought she'd rejected him.

Quite suddenly, she found herself trying desperately not to cry and to stop from sniffling. She wasn't sure why it hurt so bad, but it did and that only made it worse. Alicia pressed at her eyes, trying to prevent anything from leaking out before remembering that doing that would only make it worse. Blink eyes, take even and quiet breaths, try not to think about how much she wanted to go home and find Mommy there...

Heavy footsteps. He was coming back.

Just as suddenly, she felt like she was going to cry for a different reason. There was a feeling in her chest like something in it, not exacting physical, was expanding and wanted to come out of her anyway it could, through smiles and laughter and dancing around and –

Goddess Martel, what was wrong with her! She could get very emotional when exhausted, but wasn't that tired. She was acting like Melissa when she got a crush on some poor, unknowing –

No.

No.

Just... no. Not... him.

But the more she thought about it...

Crud.