Author's Note: I am alive. I have not given up. I have been absent for so long because I hurt my S1 joint in my sacrum back in September and was unable to sit upright for months without experiencing extreme pain. It is under control now, thanks to intensive physical therapy and I can now sit for short bouts at a time. I may not be able to post as often as I like, but please know, I will not leave this story to languish. It's my baby. I hope this chapter does not disappoint. You had to wait long enough for it. Enjoy!

The Caregiver

"I need to undress. I'll need your help."

Sephiroth opens his eyes, the brilliant green dimmed like warm seas shadowed by storm-blackened skies. They focus on Shai, either waiting for her to speak or leap into action. For her, leaping into action is not an option. He will definitely need to take the lead.

How would you like to proceed?

"Help me sit up." Shai stands to face him, her legs wedged between his, to take hold of his hands. At first, his grip is weak, but the second Shai begins to pull, his fingers tighten like a trap. She uses her weight as leverage and leans back, ignoring the ache of worn-out muscles, until he is seated soundly on the side of the bed. She hesitates to let him go until she is certain he can remain upright. She does not wait long enough. He falters and slumps against her. Shai doesn't move. She breathes in quiet rushes of air as she focuses what precious little energy she has on silencing the pounding of her heart. A sound she is sure the general can hear crystal clear with his head resting in the valley of her breasts. Shai drops her gaze. The crown of his head rises and falls in time with her breathing. She desperately calls upon every meditation technique she has seen in a book or online video to control each breath as it enters and leaves her body. She closes her eyes. In, out, in, out. Pull yourself together, girl. He needs your help and care now, not your insecurities and body image issues. Besides, it's unlikely he'll remember any of this come the morning.

Shai grabs him firmly by the shoulders and pushes him back into a seated position. Bracing him with one hand, she gently taps him on the cheek with the other until his eyes open, sluggish and bleary from fever and fatigue. It is obvious that the physical exertion and effects of his illness are threatening to claim what fragile wisps of consciousness he still clings to. There is no time to waste. Exercising greater caution than before, Shai releases him. She slips her hands underneath the hem of his sweater and lifts the garment up, slow and steady, over the general's head, and down his arms, his hair flowing through the neckline to drape over his shoulders and chest. The action causes him to sway dangerously, but Shai is prepared for that eventuality. Her hands fly to his shoulders to stable him. Confident he will not move, she untucks his t-shirt and lifts, doing her best to concentrate on the task at hand as slowly, teasingly, his sculpted torso is revealed.

Sephiroth stands out among the SOLDIERS for many reasons: his towering height, his silver hair, the felinity of his eyes, his leather coat and pauldrons, his formidable weapon. But he also stands apart for less obvious reasons as well. Hidden underneath that leather coat is a physique commonly seen chiseled into marble by artists rendering the gods: broad shoulders and chest; obliques angled perfectly to his hips; smooth, pale skin, flawless in its beauty; arms muscular and lean from years of training and combat. To put it quite simply, he is perfect.

Shai is well aware of the gravity of the situation. She has been since the moment she turned on the bathroom light to see her client in urgent need. But she is also a flesh and blood woman. It would go against nature for her not to have some form of emotional and/or physical response to the general's half-naked body. Granted, this is not the first time she has seen him sans shirt, but unlike that time in the kitchen, where she sheltered behind a cookbook to hide her blushing cheeks and appreciative glances, she has to physically interact with him in this state. In short, she has to touch him.

His hair lies against his chest, the long strands dampened from the feverish sheen covering his skin. Shai takes special care as she sweeps them out of the way. Gently, almost tenderly, she places her hands on his shoulders. Any reservations she may have had meet a swift end the moment her fingers feel his heated skin. This man is terribly ill and in need of someone with nothing but his comfort and recovery on her mind. His head begins to slowly sag towards his chest, eyes closed, his body desperate for sleep. Hating herself, Shai taps his cheek again to rouse him. He scowls, surprising her by slapping at her hand in a feeble effort to get her to stop. She knows he wants to rest, and she wants that for him too, but there is still the matter of his pants to remove, and she cannot do it alone.

In one last attempt, she lightly taps him on one cheek and then the other, but as she feared, what remnants of wakefulness he had have now gone. There goes option number one; pull him to a standing position then pray he could remain steady long enough for her to help him shimmy out of his jeans. In retrospect, not a very practical solution. An image of a falling redwood and a lumberjack in a red and black checkered shirt shouting timber comes to mind. And she would be the section of forest floor the tree landed on. Her only choice now is to lie him back down on the bed, unclasp his pants, and pull them off one leg at a time. This option has a number of logistical obstacles. Shai has never undressed a man before. Ever. Even when she first had sex, her partner had undressed himself while Shai did the same. He was a musician, a graduate student of her father. His body was nice, but unremarkable. After all, what sort of muscle mass is a violinist going to develop?

But now? She has a man in front of her. Not a boy who has barely passed through the threshold to manhood, but a man with a body that is the envy of mortal men and the desire of every fawning female. General Sephiroth. That she was able to remove his sweater and shirt was nothing short of a miracle. But now she's moved into territory reserved for lovers. Her dedication from moments before is wavering. Her heart is beginning to palpitate. I can't do this she thinks to herself. I just can't, no matter how sick he is. I'm not a nurse. I'm not even a certified caregiver. I'm a housecleaner and this is above and beyond my pay grade. You mustn't quit. Familiar advice. Shai smiles. Her mother's voice brushes against her thoughts with the softness of a downy feather. He needs you. She sighs. Her mother is right. She needs to follow through on what she has started whether it be this job, a new drawing, or removing her employer's clothes.

Her eyes fixated on the fastener of his jeans, Shai takes a deep breath, and with trembling hands undoes the button, then slips her fingers under the jean's fly, clasps the metal slider, and slowly pulls down. The zipper's purr seems loud enough to wake the dead or, in this case, a sleeping general. Her heart is now beating at what she is positive is an unhealthy rate, and she has a lump in her throat large enough to choke on. Time moves agonizingly slow until the zipper finally comes to a stop. Shai takes another deep breath before she slips her fingers within the waistband of his jeans, her heart skipping a beat when the tips brush against the elastic band of his underwear. She curls her fingers around the waistband and begins to ease his pants off, struggling with his weight, the bed, and keeping her attention strategically averted from an area that tenaciously pokes and prods at her curiosity. Eventually, she is able to get the denim past his hips and his thighs and clear of the bed. The rest of the removal goes much more smoothly.

With the worst part over, all Shai has left to do is remove his socks, which she flings towards the laundry hamper. With so much of his body exposed, the effects of the fever are clear to see: the thin layer of sweat, the sickly pallor, and the shivering brought on by chills, no doubt made worse by baring his skin to the air. She needs to get him under a light cover. Anything heavier could raise his temperature. This meant lifting and shifting him until he lies correctly on his bed. Oh, how her muscles are going to loathe her tomorrow. She forgoes the idea of pushing and pulling him across the mattress like some limp rag doll and goes for a much bolder approach.

Climbing onto the bed, Shai kneels behind his head. Slipping her hands and arms under his shoulders, she runs her hands down his sides until she reaches his waist. Once there, she brings them round to the front of his abdomen and clasps them together, interlocking her fingers for a tight hold. She shifts her footing to accommodate his weight and catches a glimpse of them in the dresser mirror. Shai's eyes peak out from over the general's right shoulder, sticky strands of silver fixed to her face. The rest of her is obscured by his body being raised to rest against hers. She did so well lifting him that Sephiroth's head is craned back to rest atop the crown of her own. No time to be admiring my work, she thinks, if I hold this position much longer, we'll fall backwards.

Ignoring the burn in her muscles and the trembling in her limbs, Shai shuffles towards the head of the bed, slowly directing his body to lie perpendicular with the pillows and headboard. Once in position, she lets her fingers slide apart with the intent of easing him gently onto the mattress, but between Shai's fatigue and the general's size and weight, the redwood comes crashing down upon the forest floor. She is now pinned soundly under the general with her neck bent at an uncomfortable angle and her head pressed into the tufted padding of the headboard. Thankfully, she has the pillows under her to provide cushioning and support. Shai would have thought with all this jostling around, the general would have surely emitted a groan or expressed a huff of air, but nothing. Not a sound. He is firmly in the arms of Hypnos and his sons.

Shai knows she can't very well remain here, but she hasn't the strength to move. Plus there is the matter of his lower legs still dangling over the side of the bed. Dear gods, what am I to do? Whatever it is, she must do it soon. Her body is telling her the hour is late, and it is getting harder and harder to keep focused and alert. There is only one thing she can do and, unfortunately, it will not be done with the delicateness that a patient in his condition deserves. Shai yanks her hands out from under his body, grabs his upper arms and begins to rock him back and forth. Her objective is to get enough momentum to balance him on his side so she can wriggle out from under him. Granted, it increases the pressure put on her own body, but it is a secondary effect she is prepared to endure to reach her end goal.

With new pains blooming in her shoulder and elbow joints, Shai's determination finally brings rewards. She is able to maneuver Sephiroth onto his right side. Supporting him with her right hand, she awkwardly extricates her body from his. Delicacy be damned, she pulls her hand away to let his body drop onto the mattress, his head flopping to its side, his fringe shrouding his face with silver streaks. She lies still for a few moments to catch her breath. With her breathing slowing, she turns on her side to face her employer. I can't leave him like this, she thinks. He will inhale his hair and choke to death. Crooking her index finger, she gently pulls the strands away, starting from his brow to his chin, and tucks them behind his ear. Shai's mouth hooks up at the end. It's like unwrapping a gift. A beautiful, intelligent, charming gift that wields a sword with such power that the world trembles at his name.

She rises from the bed and walks around to the other side. With one last effort, she lifts his lower legs and places them on the bed. Shai lets out a well-deserved sigh. Done. It only took them into the wee hours of the morning, but he is finally where he should be. Shai goes over to the closet, slides one of the doors open, and takes out a flat sheet. She unfurls it over him, the linen ballooning upwards before floating gracefully down to cover him and the bed. She makes sure the sheet is pulled over his feet and tucked under his chin. Ever the housecleaner, she gathers his discarded clothes and puts them in the hamper. She leaves the bathroom light on, and turns off the recessed lighting. She leaves the door open as she exits his bedroom and makes her way into the kitchen. After that workout, she is left parched and is well deserving of a glass of water. Or two or three.

All Shai desires is to crawl into her bed, disappear under her duvet, and sleep until the sun has passed into the afternoon, but that is not going to happen. Yes, she has him in his bed and his exhaustion has him sleeping, but there is still the matter of his fever. She cannot leave him alone. She needs to stay by his side should he need her during the night. It's the right thing to do. The compassionate thing, and Shai would never forgive herself should his condition worsen and she was not there to help him through it. She turns on the electric kettle for a cup of tea. She's going to need it. She pulls a large glass mixing bowl from one of the lower cupboards and sets it on the counter. To provide relief from the fever, Shai is going to use a tried and true remedy her mother turned to when Shai was young and in the grip of a fever; apply damp washcloths to the forehead and wrists.

She returns to his room with the mixing bowl and heads straight into the bathroom. She fills it with cool water from the bathtub's faucet and carries it into the bedroom. She sets it on the floor and begins to clear an area on the bedside table to place the bowl. Suddenly, her busy hands come to a stop. There, on the table, partially hidden by one of his philosophy books, is the astronomy book Shai gave him from her father's collection. She stares at it, dumbfounded. What did you think he was going to do with, silly girl? Use it as a doorstop in his office? Maybe a coaster for his morning coffee? Of course he is going to read it! Shai smiles to herself, a puff of pride in her chest, as she moves the books to his dresser. With the bowl in position, she goes back into the bathroom for three washcloths.

Shai submerges the washcloths in the bowl, one by one, the dry fabric darkening as the water absorbs into the natural fibers. A pang of guilt stabs at her heart at taking the risk of disturbing him after labouring so long so he may finally rest, but her hope is this simple remedy will keep his sleep deep and peaceful and free of feverish chills, if only for a few hours. She seats herself on the edge of the bed. Her hands reach for the top hem of the sheet. Gently, she folds it back to his midsection, his body releasing a shiver at the sudden exposure. Shai leans over him and, simultaneously, raises his left arm with her right hand while pulling the sheet up to cover his chest with her left. She then lowers his arm to rest on top of the sheet, his wrist facing upward. She repeats the same process with his right arm. To her relief, he remains quiet and still.

Shai dips her fingers into the cool water and pulls a dripping washcloth from the bowl. She twists the cloth tightly, wringing fat droplets back into the water. She meticulously folds it into a long strip and drapes it onto the general's forehead, smoothing it with her fingers from hairline to hairline, the slight pressure sending rivulets running down his brow. He frowns the moment the cold hits his skin, a low moan of discontent leaving his lips. Shai knows from experience that while the compress may bring discomfort now, he will soon feel relief. The application of the other two compresses do not go as well as the first. The second the wet fabric touches the sensitive skin of his wrist, his hand jerks and the washcloth slides off. Damp patches dot the fitted sheet marking every failed attempt. Shai is ready to use hair ties to secure them in place, but fears affecting the circulation to his hands. She decides to try one last time, beginning with the arm closest to her. She dips the cloth back into the bowl, submerges it until it is sufficiently soaked through, then wrings any excess back into the water. She folds it neatly into a smaller size, and, with a certain amount of apprehension, places the washcloth on his skin.

Shai wishes she could say the compress remained in place this time. She wishes she could say he kept nice and still, his hand motionless, with not even the slightest twitch from a finger. But both are lies. The washcloth doesn't just slide from his wrist. It is catapulted across the bed when his hand snaps upwards and seizes Shai by her forearm. With her heart beating its way through her sternum, and her flight response pushing all rational thought from her mind, she tries to pry his fingers from her arm, but his grip holds fast. She watches his left hand slowly rise, remove the washcloth from his forehead, and toss it onto the carpet.

"Shai?" The light shining from the bathroom fades in brilliance by the time it reaches the general's bedside, washing his body in pale yellow and grey shade and casting faint shadows that outline his face. It is enough for Shai to see that his eyes remain closed. Unable to sign, she places her free hand on top of his and gives it a gentle squeeze. He responds in kind by releasing her arm, leaving behind long red blotches of irritated skin where once there were fingers. Shai ignores the marks and waits for the general to tell her what he needs.

"A glass of water." She jumps to her feet and walks briskly into the kitchen. She walks past her cup of tea on the counter, steeped to a dark brown and likely cold as ice. She grabs a bottle of spring water out of the refrigerator and pours it into a large glass. She brings both glass and bottle back into the bedroom with her and sets them on the bedside table. When she glances at the general, she is met with tired eyes tinged pink from frail vessels swollen with blood.

"Have to...sit up." Shai cocks an eyebrow. She is having a moment of déjà vu. Last time he made such a seemingly innocuous request, he was in and out of consciousness and unable to maintain his balance, the results of which ended with his head nicely snuggled between her breasts. Calm yourself, girl. He won't remember that little incident, and it is improbable that it will happen again within the same night. Shai is not convinced. Perched on the side of the bed, she is prepared to repeat the same technique she used before, but the general has a different strategy. With his right hand, he clasps Shai high on her forearm, near her elbow, and tells her to do the same.

"Now, pull." Shai does as she is ordered, just like a good, little soldier. As soon as the general has the opportunity, he swings his left arm behind him, pressing his hand into the mattress, his fingers digging into the cotton weave. He pushes forwards to help offset the strain put on Shai. A minute or so later, he is sitting upright and Shai's modesty remains intact. She grabs the glass from the table and hands it to him.

"Thank you."

You are welcome. He brings his lips to the rim of the glass and lets the water flow freely down his throat. It is emptied in seconds.

"More. Please." Shai refills the glass. This time he takes a less hurried approach and, when finished, hands Shai a glass still half full.

"Thank you, Shai." To her surprise, he takes her hand in his, his thumb drawing airy patterns against her skin or skimming over the rise and dip of her knuckles. His silence, his deep concentration, the emerald sparks that flicker here and there are sure to send Shai's heart bursting through her sternum. Eventually, his thumb stills and his fingers gently curl around hers. Shai reacts in the only way she deems appropriate; she holds his hand too. A few moments pass. No one moves, nothing is said. Shai does not want to be the one to end such a tender gesture, but she needs to speak to him and for that she needs both hands. With a certain amount of reluctance, she pulls her hand from his.

You are most welcome, general.

"No. I mean thank you...for more than just quenching my thirst." Shai's cheeks bloom a bright red, and despite the frenzied impulses that have her nerves buzzing, she meets his gaze with her own.

And you are welcome. Again. Please know, general, if ever you need me in such a capacity again, do not hesitate to ask. I like taking care of people, regardless of their rank. Shai gives him a wink. Sephiroth replies with a cheeky grin.

"Be careful what you wish for, Shai...You just might get it."