Part two of this "2-part chapter" update! Yep, meet the longer of the two! More hard-for-me-to-write stuff follows . . . so I hope I did alright. Sorry for any and all Out of Character-ness.

CHAPTER SIX -- Change.

It wasn't that late by the clock, but early night had already come down upon Orb, enveloping all in the shadowy darkness. The thick clouds from the night before had dispersed, leaving only a starry sky and close-to-full moon.

John and Murrue walked together in the silence of the night, soft conversations stopping for the moment. He shifted, fixing his hold of Murrue's bag in his hand. She immersed herself in her own musings, hands gripped around the handle of another bag of stuff she'd bought. It had turned out to be a very nice day, and Murrue smiled for that, but . . .

Her mind kept coming back to the empty silence of the present.

She glanced up and over to his handsome face, illuminated in the moonlight, but John was too busy gazing at the stars to notice her stare.

"It's so beautiful." He muttered, finally. "The moon makes it look like there's snow on the ground, it's so bright. . . . And the stars, they . . ." He turned to her, instantly grinning. "I—I've never seen anything like it, Murrue. I never thought it could be like this on the ground."

Murrue smiled at the return of the young look to his weathered face. John's amber eyes had become wide enough that she could see the stars reflected in them. Memories drifted, and she could remember the stars flashing in his eyes up in Space—as vividly as if it were only that morning. Even so, his awe at the moment made her laugh.

"So, I take it you've never been to Orb before?"

"Heh, of course." He returned, casually stern as ever. "I would never come here—if it wasn't for you." John smiled for her, believing in his compliment. Murrue on the other hand, had to turn her gaze away—fearful of what he might see in her half-lidded eyes.

Unable to hold back, it came out soft, and quiet. "Oh. . . . So that means you're still with . . ."

"Yep," he grinned, turning towards her, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. Chest out with pride, John's hand came up in mock-salute. "You're speaking to the man next in line to be named a Vice Admiral for the Seventh Orbital Fleet. One of the fastest rising soldiers in the entire Earth Forces, they say, too. And for a good reason! I'm second only in—" His face instantly fell; he turned it away. "N-never mind."

Murrue didn't hear his odd falter—she had already stopped listening. Suddenly awkward in her stumbling, Murrue's eyes dashed over the pavement before her.

"W-wow, John. . . . You've sure gotten far. Con- . . . Congratulations." Murrue was thankful for the dark, though despised the illuminating moon. She couldn't understand the sudden pain she felt behind her eyes, and she couldn't seem to hide it. It didn't make any sense. . . . or did it? What she was feeling . . . she couldn't place. She could only continue on with the conversation, not wanting it to stop. But, then again, why would she be afraid of stopping?

"Seems like the military's become . . . a career for you now, has it?"

John's ears perked at her tone—instantly reading what she didn't say. His giddy face darkened.

"Hey, hey. . . . Don't give me that look," he muttered, getting her to turn to him. Their eyes met with confusion in the night, his glaring down into hers. "I know exactly what you're thinking, Murrue, and—and it isn't like that!" He defended, sharp eyes tilting angrily, suddenly emotional at her comprehension. "Of course it's become a career for me! What else could it be? I'm a military man through and through.—You know that!"

His gaze instantly softened as he bit back his outburst. His fist clenched as his temper checked. As if it had been for always, the darkness of his eyes cleared away, leaving only an unclouded . . . love.

John tilted his head slightly to Murrue.

"Sure . . . there are those other guys who are things like lawyers and gardeners when not at war, but I don't have that to fall back upon. This is the only thing I've known, Murrue. The only thing I have.—Besides you."

Smile.

"And besides, during peace time, the only way you can go is up, right? Isn't that what we all want? To get to the top?" He stared back at her, his eyes never leaving her face.

The pair had reached a lamp-post of a street corner, and so now he could look upon every single aspect of her soft face—every aspect the moonlight alone seemed to hide. Murrue's eyes were cast away, flickering up to his waiting face for but a moment before dashing away. Beneath the light, her skin seemed so smooth it was almost inhuman. Her lips so full . . . her hair utterly gracing . . .

John held down a breath.

She was so close, he could touch her, kiss her, hold her hand at the very least . . . yet again he could only inch away. There was something in the way those eyes didn't sparkle that seemed to chill him in the less than warm night.

"Isn't that what we all want?" He repeated, slowly—studying the way her expression changed.

"I guess . . . you really are right, John. Sorry." Murrue shook her head slightly before continuing on down her street, out of the lamp light and back into the moonlight. John caught up to her after a few strides. He placed a faint hand on her shoulder—needing no force to make her pause.

"Did I . . . say something wrong?"

"Hm?" Murrue looked back to him, seeing only that odd 'young worry' of his. She curled her lips into a simple smile, telling him all her needed to know.

"No, no, John. Why would you think that?"

"Because you've never been the submissive type."

He bit his lip, not letting her see it. He may have been a little harsher than meant—but it was true to him. He watched her blink her return as his tone turned breathless. "You . . . could never be that, Murrue.—Not in the least. Sure, sometimes you may seem that way, but truly, you're more like fire. Yes, a blaze that . . ."

John's awed strength suddenly weakened. He turned to her, face twisting slightly as the hand on her shoulder pressed.

"Are you alright . . . ?" He asked, trying hard to hide his difficulty swallowing. It didn't seem to work. He tried again to force down the jumble of words in his mouth. ". . . With me being here . . . ?"

"John," Murrue sighed, unable to not smile. ". . . It's—It's not . . . Uh—Don't . . . Hm—I mean . . ."

With every pause, the frustration showed itself more and more as the former-Captain struggled with her delicate words. When John sighed beside her, she envisioned that soft, strong smile of his beaming down on her. When she looked up however, he only began to laugh. Softly, and as a chuckle, but laugh nonetheless.

"You're thinking too much, Murrue. Again." She cocked her head, off-set by his conclusion. "You know that'll never be too good for you in the long run."

John shrugged, knowing smile lighting up his amber eyes. "But . . . then again, I doubt that'll ever change. It's a major part of you, after all. She really was right when she said that must have been why we fit so well. . . ."

Murrue's ears were careful not to miss the subtle addition to his words.

"'She'?"

"C'mon! I mean Nessa!" Murrue was surprised by how much his face lit up with only the name. John could only grin. "Remember her, Murrue? She said that my never-thinking-strong-temper and your always-thinking-strong-calm seemed to be what made up a lot of 'us'.—And I guess she would know, right? Always hanging around the two of us. Not that you or I minded . . . such a sweet girl."

Murrue mused the choice. "Strong . . . calm" . . . ? She pushed the confusing thought away as her memories drifted back to the beautiful, young soldier they'd known.

"You've kept in touch with her? How is she now?"

His smile instantly faltered. John's full hands somehow found his pockets, his eyes drifting away.

"I . . . I couldn't say. After you left, she became . . . cold." His gaze fixed to the pavement, his eyes narrowed in a rare emotion Murrue could only remember seeing once. John shook his head, breathing a sigh. "Nothing like before. You'd be surprised, I think.—Ah," he chased the thought away. "I think she changed because the person she looked up to the most wasn't there anymore to show her what to do." John winked, nudging Murrue a bit. "Right? Right?"

A soft smile played with her lips at the thought. Murrue could only roll her eyes.

"I'm no role model."

John stopped in his tracks, seriousness pouring from every bit of him.

Another sudden change in his demeanor . . . Again.

It was all silence as he muttered to her . . . in the dark. . . . "You're more than you know."

She gasped. She couldn't help it. Let alone the words . . . his voice alone was enough to chill her spine in the night. John's eyes flashed darkly with her obvious surprise. "What? I thought for sure Endy would have told you that one already."

"—Don't call him that," she instantly warned, tone meaning everything. "Why?" He sneered, not receiving the hint, the conversation taking a turn for the worse. "What do you call him? 'Sweetie'? 'Hunnybuns'?"

Murrue turned only to glare at him.

If looks could kill.

"Odd . . ." she started, venom in her tone. "I seem to recall a certain name given to you before I came along. . . . Now . . . what was it again?"

"You . . . You wouldn't dare," he threatened, but his ears were already red in embarrassment from only remembering.

Murrue's silence was his only answer, and it could have been taken two ways.

"Okay, okay!" He surrendered. "I understand! Bad topic for either of us—especially when you have leverage. I shouldn't have ever told you about that, Murrue!"

Murrue cleared her throat, pace quickening slighting in her grumble.

"I can see what she meant when she said 'never-thinking' . . ."

He began to laugh, knowing how right she must have been. But . . . when he opened his eyes, he saw a familiar door, Murrue's hand on the handle.

"—Oh . . . Guess this is good-night, then," he sighed, heart already pained from seeing her go so soon, as if spending the day wasn't enough. Too short. . . . though it was after dark and he'd spent the entire day. John placed the one bag of hers he carried by her feet.

Murrue wet her lip, delaying what she wanted to say.

"Um, John . . . ?" Her eyes drifted slightly, never actually meeting his face. ". . . Who is it that you know in Orb? You've got to be staying somewhere . . . right?"

He grinned.

"Ah, there's this tiny hotel a ways from here. Don't worry about it. It's nice because the bus that stops around the corner here stops around the corner there too. It's really good that way, but . . . the bus schedule . . ." He laughed weakly, remembering his struggles. ". . . is so hard to figure out. I don't know how anyone can read it."

"So, you're fine with getting back? After dark?" Her words were clipped, yet her tone was soft. John blinked at the words, heart suddenly speeding. He looked up to Murrue and smiled—trying to hold back what he really wanted to say.

"I'm fine," he swallowed, evenly. "Thank you for asking."

"That's good. . . ." Silence. "Good night, John."

"'Night."

After Murrue closed the door, John stayed stunned for a moment. His face heated with excitement before he turned, running towards the bus-stop down the street. The long bus had just pulled up, its lights beckoning all travelers. As John slipped into a seat, he wondered faintly about whether this bus was the last bus of the night or not. . . . He still had trouble with the schedule.

But all that didn't really matter—not with other things to think about, anyway.

-----------

About a half-an-hour or so had passed since Murrue had closed the door on John. Though her mind and body were both extremely tired, she hadn't even sat down yet. All Murrue could seem to do was pace about her cozy house. She didn't really understand why.

Her coat and errand bags lay forgotten over the chair, and her stomach kept grumbling for anything to eat. She hadn't had a bite since that early lunch with John . . . Even so, Murrue never stopped moving. She thought about making herself something, but every time she steered her steps in the direction of her kitchen, she would find herself going the other way. She wrung her hands, thinking . . . debating. . . .

A few seconds more and she'd made up her mind.

Murrue ran to the chair, pulling on her coat. Though the time wasn't late on the clock, it was still quite dark outside, and she'd never been one to walking alone like that. She would just have to hurry. He still had her only flashlight.

Throwing the door open, a cool night breeze brushed across her, pulling at her hair, rippling at her skirt and coat. The outer-light of the house cast a soft glow on the surrounding area—lighting up the walkway until it just connected with the street.

Murrue instantly bit back her heart—pounding in fear. Her eyes had landed upon a figure of a man standing there before her. Because of his placement, he was cast in shadow. Murrue could only think to run, but she couldn't seem to move. He mind pounded with fear. Who would be there? Why?

It took only a moment more for Murrue's eyes to accustom themselves to the night, but that single moment was one of the most petrifying.

She could finally make out his face.

He looked about as startled as she felt.

"Mu!" Murrue gasped in relief, finally registering the man who stood on her walkway. "Mu, I . . . I was just going to your—"

"Well," he grinned, quickly moving forward to set himself before her front stoop. "Great minds think alike after all."

Murrue couldn't answer him, all of her focus going into regulating her heartbeat—which didn't seem so hard now that Mu was there. Mu on the other hand . . . his grin faltered slightly in the emptiness.

He coughed, clearing his throat.

"Here." He roughly held up a bag, high in her face. "This is for you."

Standing there, Mu never looked more different. Holding out the bulging plastic bag with one arm, stiff as ever into her face, the other hand found its solace stuffed deep in his pocket. The childish discomfort was clear in his tainted cheeks . . . if one was lucky enough to see them, at least. The rest of his handsome face was tucked away, eyes locked onto a dry leaf blown right beyond his shoe, the bitten lip kept from sight by way of his breeze-tossed blond.

Murrue didn't know whether to be confused or amused by his sudden actions. Slowly she reached up, puzzled as she threaded the bag handles from his fingers. Her eyes never left him—not even to glance inside what he had given her.

It took a bit, but soon his eyes had made their way up to her. Murrue didn't understand it. Since when had he been so . . . shy? She could just make out the lasting effects his awkward blush had left, and it made her smile.

Mu cleared his throat again, working on a playful smile.

"I promised you dinner yesterday, remember? Even though I am a day late . . . I don't really like going back on my word. . . . here."

Murrue finally looked down, cautiously glancing inside the plastic sac. She could spot several tightly packed containers, brimming with food.

"Yeah," Mu chuckled to himself. ". . . Though I did promise you dinner, I doubt you'll want to eat any of that," he warned, a wry grin pushing through as he regained himself. All it took was a bit of time.

"Now, Murrue . . . It took me a while, but I think I have all the ingredients right for everything, and . . . Oh! None of it's burned!" He beamed, triumphant . . . face soon falling. "But . . . it's probably all undercooked then, since I took everything out early not wanting to burn it. It's annoying how it works out that way, no?"

He sighed, right hand finding that place on the base of his neck. Murrue could have laughed, trying to imagine the blond man cooking like that.

"I hope it's all warm enough for you, too. I didn't want to risk taking the time and walking over incase it all cooled too much, so I took the bus to get here faster. Though I didn't know if that was any help. First time for me, riding a bus.—In all my years? Amazing, huh? The schedule was so hard to figure out . . . but I got myself here so I must have been right somehow."

Mu's gentle laugh drifted off into the darkness. Murrue would have laughed too, if not for the sudden shock of familiarity in his words. She forced her own swallow, looking back down to the bag in her hands.

"All of this . . . for me?"

"Well, yes!" Mu grinned, pure delight in the idea. Somehow, seeing him like that made her own heart flutter.

"Well . . . thank you." She turned to open the door, but paused when she didn't hear the familiar plod of his steps to follow. Murrue looked at him, still standing below her, below the stoop.

". . . Aren't you going to come in?"

The hand in Mu's pocket tightened its grip.

"Ah . . . no." He took a step back from the door, laughing. "I should really be getting home. Kinda left the door unlocked again, you know?—Stupid habits. I even brought your light back to return to you, but, I'm going to need it for the walk home . . . Sorry. I took the last bus up here. They stop really early this time of year," he rambled.

Murrue raised an eyebrow, thoughts going back to the clock.

"What about your own dinner? Have you eaten yet?"

"Of course! Tons! Not this stuff, though," Mu assured, motioning towards his bag of concoctions. "Take-out food and such. Filled me right up."

He patted his stomach to prove a point. But it was then his stomach decided to growl . . . quite loudly . . . gurgling in the night.

At his body's betrayal, Mu swore quite loudly in his head. Murrue's eyes narrowed, thin slits of annoyance coming through.

"Come. Inside. Now." A Captain stood before him again, as if the war had never indeed ended.

"Y-Yes, Ma'am," was all he said, her tone chilling his resolve as he skirted inside. As if Mu would attempt to walk away . . . when she was like that.

Without a word, Murrue ushered Mu through the tiny first room of her house and into the second one. The humble kitchen, lit up in the darkness, seemed as inviting as ever.

"Sit."

Murrue pointed towards the cleared table as she began to fiddle with the bag he'd given her. With a swallow, he sat down, his immediate discomfort falling to the familiar 'warmth' of the place. Though he sat at the table, Mu swiveled back around to face into the kitchen. The first glance told him one thing—not a single blossom bloomed in his sight. Upon his second look over, he could see past to kitchen's counter where Murrue was standing, dealing his food . . . quite harshly . . . to a plate.

"You know, you're scary when you're angry," he teased from the chair—unable to control himself.

"And you're scary when you're scared. . . ." she muttered beneath her breath, words meant only for her ears . . . but Mu overheard.

"'Scared'?" He laughed, brow furrowing as she set the plate before him. "Who said I'm scared?—I'm never scared!" He boasted, scooping up a forkful of his food and shoving it into his mouth.

Then the taste of it hit his tongue.

Mu instantly curled forward in his seat, whimpering like a puppy, as he struggled to swallow.

". . . without a reason . . . at least. . . ." He looked around the table, desperate for water to clean out his mouth. Murrue couldn't resist a giggle at the 'child' before her. She made her way to his side.

"Hmph, let me see that," she ordered, taking the fork from Mu's hand. She reached over onto his plate and scooped up the same amount of the white stuff that he had, placing it all in her mouth.

Mu gaped at her resolve.

"Mm. I like it," she smiled, reaching over to his plate for another taste. "It's honestly better than I thought it would be."

Mu could only stare, child eyes wide with enlightenment.

"You're insane," he muttered, quiet. "There's no way around it.—You're insane."

She laughed at his accusation. At him, with him. She laughed, more than the tiny giggle she'd been allowing herself lately. With that laugh, that break, all the emotion she'd kept in that day—joy, laughter, anger and sadness—all of it just . . . spilled out, all in the form of one.

Tears.

They spilled down her smooth cheeks, slowly stopping the chuckles that escaped her. She looked at her wet hands, confused.

". . . What? Why am I . . . ?"

"Murrue . . ."

Mu went to stand up, but faltered, reasoning holding him back. He angrily stayed seated, but the hand he'd kept in his pocket furiously dug around within the folds. He pulled out a small handkerchief and held it before her face. Murrue didn't take it from him, for instead she slipped into the chair beside, tears still slowly streaming for no reason.

Mu, face solemn, began to wipe away at her face, gathering her cries in the cloth.

Murrue . . . you're stretched thinner than I thought . . . It's my fault.

Murrue bit back a tiny gasp, noticing how the hand caring for her was loosely bandaged.

Mu . . . your hand. . . . what . . . ? You must have burned it when . . . It's my fault.

"There, all done," he announced softly, pulling the handkerchief away. It was only then did Murrue realize she had stopped crying.

Mu, though his reasoning held him physically back, couldn't hide away the melting worry in his face or tone.

He brushed away some wayward auburn bang that fell into her red eyes.

"Murrue . . . At the moment, are you alright?"

She could only look back into that face . . . that face so soft and caring—so alive, so serious, so familiar, so wild . . . so much of everything, she was always amazed by that face.

"Y-yes," she muttered into her lap. "Thank you. I'm sorry."

He stood up, stretching his legs, placing some space between them. He drifted over to her kitchen counter, hands busy folding the handkerchief again.

"Don't be. Don't be sorry. We all need a good cry once in a while. It keeps us sane after all." Mu smiled back at her. "Sometimes that's the only way we can let things out. But . . . as we get older . . . it becomes harder. Which is why it's so important, then, no?"

Murrue could only breathe—but even that in turn was difficult as his crystal blue eyes softly rained down upon her.

"Murrue," he murmured, soft and gentle, like a father's lullaby. "But I believe that this is just a prelude. You hold a lot on your shoulders, you know. You're strong."

"Mu . . . ?"

"What I mean is . . . you can always cry to me, Murrue. Hah, I don't mind if my shoulder gets wet. I'll be there, whatever happens." As his eyes washed over her, softly, Murrue had to wonder about the un-placed emotion she saw brimming in those blue eyes.

The silent tension in the air . . . wasn't unfelt.

Mu turned back his focus to the counter—with all his "food" spread out on the stone. He couldn't control the anger he'd suddenly felt for himself. He just had to go and ruin such a perfect moment . . . and turn it into something so . . .

His thoughts pushed away as his eyes landed on the "white-stuff" Murrue had been spooning earlier. Mu cocked an eyebrow at it.

"Say . . . Murrue?" he slurred, breaking the silence, sour whine to his tone. "Are you really going to eat all of this?"

He held up the tub to show her.

"Of course," Murrue defended, with a sigh. "You're the one better at this than you think."

"Oh, really . . . ?" Mu slipped on a sly grin, holding up another tub—this one filled with . . . something . . . drowning in a "less-than-smooth" blood red sauce. "Then I bet you wont even touch this one."

Murrue hesitated for only a moment in answering, eyes locked on the 'bubbling' dressing. Mu took full advantage. "See!" he taunted. "I told you so! You don't want to touch it."

"No! No! I going to say—"

"—'Going to say' means nothing, Murrue," he taunted, grinning. "It only means it if you say it!"

Murrue instantly produced a come back—making Mu the one to hesitate. She laughed at his gaping stall.

It was odd . . . how 'comfortable' everything seemed then. How right. How it wasn't right at all. Yet . . . Somehow . . .

Murrue could still feel the wetness of her eyes lingering on her lashes. In the back of her mind, a painful thought played toying-ly with her. The two situations, then and the day before . . . Both were right after . . .

Have I ever actually cried in front of John?

As she played with him over "dinner" . . . she had never tried harder.—But . . . she couldn't remember.

---

Mu laughed with her—amazed at how everything had 'flowed'.

He could feel his steady breathing clashing with the oddly fast pace of his heart. Somehow, throughout the joy the warm house was enveloped in . . . his soft eyes darted about, between the pair.

The gently blue was screwed with questions it had yet to betray.

As he played with her over "dinner" . . . he had never been more confused.

A/N: Here's to those times in all our lives when we've stretched ourselves too thin, and it takes its toll.

There's this one line in this chapter where what John's saying gets cut off (on purpose). I faintly wonder to what people think he was about to say . . . if anything at all.

PS: Hmm, next chapter . . . looking over what I have planned, I honestly don't think Mu appears at all? (utter shock)