Disclaimer: Square owns the characters of FFVIII. Square owns the soul of one disturbed Esse. Is it so wrong that we play together? Square, apparently, could care less, seeing as how they've yet to sue Esse. Why should they bother? They've already got her soul…
Notes: Esse very much hates herself for writing this story. Mind, she doesn't hate the story; she's rather fond of it, in fact. No, the hatred stems instead from the knowledge that she's stolen the idea lock, stock and barrel from someone else's original short story. Come to think of it, she's stolen just about everything that appears. A list of whom she's mugged from appears at the bottom.
Explanatory notes: This ficcie is not part of IMoS. I repeat, this is not an IMoS ficcie! However, it does make use of the background established for IMoS. Namely, bad things have happened to Zell. Only, here, he's not handling them as well. So, if you wanna consider this some sorta AU based in the IMoS universe, go ahead (that's what I did). If ya just wanna read assuming a different history, that's fine too. Jus' keep in mind — Zell's not stable. Not OOC, not quite…
Warnings: Language. F'r sure. Nudity ya wanna see. Nudity ya don't. Sexual situations, 'specially in the bottom notes. It's written in first-person. And you did read that I basically plagiarized someone else's wunnerful work, right? Okay then. Don't blame me if the story stinks — blame David Telfair. Yeah. Though somehow, I don't think he ever quite envisioned this…
Next t' Final Notes: Ficcie for Emily's graduation. And not nearly good enough for the best beta in existence. Ehn — I hope it's readable.
FF Notes: First posted at calicodragon 6/27/2001. Minor formatting changes to comply with FF. Shounen ai that would love t' be yaoi, but can't find a way around the towel…
.oO0Oo.
Deluge
.oO0Oo.
The couch — ain't the most comfortable place to sleep. The middle section has a lump, y' see. Damned if I know why. I've had the thing apart; even replaced the cushion twice, once with an exact duplicate the company shipped over after my ninth irate phone call, and the second with my own home-made effort that, while it didn't exactly look kosher, certainly fit the gaping space to a T. Trust me on this; I dug out the fricken' T-square t' measure the pattern, and that was a particular instrument of torture I'd thought left behind me along with the rest of the trappings of that 5 week drafting course all SeeD hopefuls hafta pass. But the lump's still there. Bugger me bloody if I can figure it out. Must be something in the actual upholstery. And doin' something about that will have t' wait until I've had a chance t' look at material — for most people, stain-resistance isn't such a high priority.
So, I cover the couch with blankets —cotton throws, and heavy knitted afghans Ma and I work on whenever I go t' visit, all in the same lovely hue of lilac— and hope that, when company's over, they don't accidentally sit on the lump and somehow throw their back out. So far, I guess, it's worked; the layers of blankets provide just enough cushioning. If a person's sitting. Laying down — hell, that's something else again.
Which is why I normally don't sleep on the couch; self-preservation, you know? But tonight… Let's just say that tonight it seemed for the best. Tonight, my best interests are served by staying right where I am. Though I miss the comfort of the Bed, the hissing sound of spraying water convinces me that the lump digging into my side isn't really all that bad, given the alternative. Not bad at all, now that I've got most of a bottle of Kahlúa sloshing around inside me. Although, now that I think of it, maybe that wasn't the wisest of ideas, 'cause my bladder's sorta yellin' at me, and there's nothin' I can do except yell back, 'cause there ain't no way in hell I'm entering the bathroom without backup.
As if reading my mind, the sound of falling water temporarily abates before returning with renewed fury. Hot, this time, if the steam billowing from the open door is any indication.
I'm not sure how long this's been going on; the time from when I was first driven from the bathroom to now — staring longingly down into the bottom of a dark brown bottle— is blurred by a warm, fuzzy haze, and I'm sure I woulda passed out a while back, if my bladder wasn't calling so urgently.
Or maybe I did black out for a bit, 'cause the next thing I know Seifer's frowning down at me, tryin' t' pry the Kahlúa outta my fingers. "Hey baby," I mutter, surely incomprehensible, because my tongue keeps trying to slide past my teeth, "you're back early."
"I'm back three hours late." Damn, but he's so fricken' sexy when he's angry! His eyes just spark — if ya haven't ever seen it, you can't imagine it. "And you're drunk."
"Mmm-hmm." Not much point in arguing, is there? Not when I'm currently seein' three of him, or maybe just one really blurry Almasy — it's hard to tell, with my vision lurching about like it is.
"Why?" He sounds — hurt. That's it, underneath all those other things like disgust and outrage. "You promised me you wouldn't do this anymore."
There's so many trite things I could say — if I wasn't so drunk, that is. Instead, I start blubbering like the crybaby so many kids used t' tease me about, and I keep rubbing at my eyes, but it doesn't seem to be helping the flow of tears. Y' see, I remember promising him that. And I'd meant t' keep it. Only, he'd not come back tonight on time, and I didn't know what to do — and to my sudden mortification I realize that I'm babbling out loud, "…an' I try, an' I try, but I cou'n't turn the shower off! Ya gotta b'weeve…"
I think I like the fiery hell of his eyes better than the current frozen wasteland they're reflecting at the moment. He straightens from the partial crouch he's been in, and walks into the bedroom. Seconds later, I hear the metallic rasp of metal turning, and the sound of water beating against the fiberglass sides of the shower stall changes to a musical drip. He comes back out, face still set into disapproving lines, drying his hands with a peach-colored towel. "Anything else?"
"Y' turn'd i' off?" I lunge off the couch and dart for the bathroom. Not to double check — my sight might be shot t' hell, but my hearing's perfectly fine. No — it's because my stomach's finally decided t' call it quits with me, and it's either make it to the toilet, or be violently ill on the living room carpet. I have no idea how I could face Seifer after doing something like that. He's threatened to walk out before.
And this time, I broke a promise.
.oO0Oo.
Guardian Forces are wonderful things. Equip one, and you experience incredibly good health. Equip two, and you might very well extend your natural life expectancy by ten years. Equip Hyne-only-knows how many, like me, and you'll never have t' suffer a hangover again. Only problem is, the GFs are more than happy t' tell you what an ass you made of yourself the night before. They can even provide flashbacks to the highlights of your binge. Or lack there-of. Mostly, I remembered the lump in the couch. And that, most likely, is because it's currently digging its way into what might have once been my liver.
Oh, and I remember Seifer, too, cleaning me up and tossing me back on the couch. Cracking open one eyelid, I study the acoustic ceiling, following the pretty pattern that dust from the vent has left on the snowy surface. I hear a cup clicking down on the coffee table, but that — that I'm not going to look at. Right now, acoustic is about all I can deal with.
"Hungry?" His voice is strained, distant. I'd like to start crying again, but I figure I've put him through enough. He'll leave this time. He'll have to; he swore he would. It's just… I hadn't meant to start drinking. I really hadn't. I just couldn't think of anything else to do. It's okay to see things when you're drunk. It's when you see them when you're sober that you hafta start worrying.
"Not really." If I tried t' eat anything now, I'd choke on it. Though some water would be nice; my mouth's parched, and I can tell my lips have started to chap. But I think I'll just keep lying here for now. Moving means there's a chance of looking at him.
I used to scoff at the idea of auras, presence. But right now, the strength of his regard is enough to raise the fine hairs along my arms. "Your heart stopped last night." That's said flatly, the lack of emotion scaring me worse than the news it conveys. "I thought you'd finally managed it. Maybe I'm a fool. I made sure the knifes were locked up, threw away all the cleaners, but I never considered alcohol poisoning. Anniversary gift from Irvine, wasn't it?"
"Yeah."
A pause, during which I closed my eyes — as if blocking my sight could somehow stop the flow of monotone words. "Saving it for a special occasion, weren't we?"
Why do we have to go through this? "Yeah."
He sighs, and I can hear him standing up from the chair. He begins walking towards me, and I quickly fling up one arm to cover my eyes. If I can't see him, I can still pretend this isn't real. That I didn't break my promise to him; I didn't drink the bottle of Kahlúa. I didn't — almost — die. Maybe, maybe, if I can't see him, he can't see me?
"Pretty fucking special occasion." With that, he jerks my arm back, and grabs hold of my chin and squeezes till I have no choice but to look at him. He's glaring at me, and his eyes are crystalline in their brilliance, and chilling in their coldness. "If I'd gotten home another half-hour later…" His fingers tighten, and I know I'm going to have a spectacular set of bruises.
"Seif…"
"Tell me what to do Zell, 'cause I'm out of ideas. What am I doing wrong?"
How can I answer that? Apparently, he realizes it as well, for he lets me go — not roughly, not tenderly, but with the same lack of caring that's marked the entire conversation.
"Seifer…"
"I'm going out." He pulls on his trench coat, but his gloves seem to be missing. "I replaced the bottle; it's all yours. I was wrong last night. By all means, don't let me stop you now."
.oO0Oo.
Medicine cabinet mirrors aren't designed to make a person look good. Instead, they're manufactured to show the truth. Every tiny flaw laid bare in the harshness of a too-bright sea-shell-motifed light bar. Bloodshot, weeping eyes confront me, peering out from behind a tangle of oily hair. I really need a shower.
I pull back the starfish spangled curtain, and as if cued the showerhead begins spurting water. Nibbling at my lips — not the smartest move when they're as chapped as they are — I try assessing the situation. The water is on. I haven't touched the faucets. Last night…
This is ridiculous! Last night I had an episode of some kind, that's the only explanation. The councillor had warned that something of the sort might happen; too much stress combining with not enough sleep bringing on delusions, the first step of a psychotic break. That's — all it is, my mind playing tricks on me.
Reassured, I turn the cold-water faucet. And turn it. And keep on turning it, holding fast to my belief that if I turn it enough, the valve will close, and freezing cold water will stop pouring from overhead. Yet it doesn't. So I try turning the hot water faucet as well, only it's stuck in position, while its partner spins freely in my other hand.
Grimacing, I get a firm grip on the hot faucet with both hands, prepared to twist the damned thing out of the wall if necessary. Hallucination or not, I'm not just gonna stand back and take this kinda shit from plumbing fixtures! Taking a deep breath, I apply leverage; enough torque to blast open the large fuel valves hidden deep inside the Garden's interior. The handle doesn't budge. The water spewing from the shower head does, however, change from icy to boiling within the space of a second, and I jerk back arms already scalded a bright red.
With a satisfied gurgle, the water stops running. I reach out to touch the cold-water faucet, but a warning rumble from the pipes quickly changes my mind. I think I'm going to go lay back on the couch. That's the best thing t' do when you're losing your mind, right? And this time, I think I'll skip the getting drunk part. It really didn't help all that much last time…
I hope Seifer changes his mind, and comes back. I'm really thirsty, but I don't think I'm up to testing the kitchen tap right now.
.oO0Oo.
I'd thought he was being sarcastic. But it's there, on that high shelf above the fridge that serves no purpose 'cause no decently sized person can possibly reach into it without the help of a stepladder. He replaced the bottle, and I'm incredibly disgusted with myself for even looking for it. I'm not going to get drunk. I do not care that the bathroom pipes are now moaning a credible Sousa — the Liberty Bell if I'm not mistaken. I'm just gonna march myself back to the couch (but not off the side of the step ladder; that, I'll carefully step down) and glare at the bedroom doorway. Yes, glaring, there's a worthy occupation, and I'll in no way think of the large brown bottle that's sitting in the cupboard above the fridge.
He thought I'd been tryin' t' kill myself again. I should be offended. I'd promised him I wouldn't. Then again, I'd sorta promised him I'd stop drinking as well. But — neither one's my fault. If I really am losing my mind, I can't be held accountable for the Kahlúa, can I? I mean, a person has t' be in their right mind, t' be responsible for their decisions, right? Ain't that the whole reason the delusional are institutionalized?
I'm sure arguing with myself isn't a good sign, so I get down and fold up the step ladder, shoving it back into place inside the pantry closet. There, my eyes are caught by a box of soda crackers, so I grab them up, along with a bottle of spray cheese. It's not my breakfast of choice, but seeing as how it's much closer to lunch, it'll do for a snack. Still, I'm more thirsty than anything, and I eye the kitchen tap warily.
To my relief, it fails to respond to my regard. At this point, the spout could've grown lips and started singing Moon River and it wouldn't've shocked me.
So, I reach over and grab up a cup from the dish drainer, without taking my eyes from the faucet. It turns out to be — the cheap blue plastic one I brought back from the movies one evening, that's shaped like a crayon. Huh. If there's an omen in that, I just ain't seeing it. Taking a quavering breath, I quickly turn the cold tap — and sigh gustily in relief when a thin stream of cold water comes out. I fill up my cup, turn off the water, and go to sit on the couch, thanking whomever might be listening that the kitchen sink wasn't acting up as well. After all, there's only so much a person suffering from auditory and visual hallucinations can put up with.
The bathroom fixtures don't seem to appreciate my victory. If I didn't know that all this wasn't just some trick my mind's playing on me, I'd swear the creaking pipes are cussing me out. But, since it is just something I'm imagining, why would I be telling myself stuff like that? Like, I don't think that last one is even physically possible…
Well, hah! I've got my cup of water, and it's heavenly, and I'm gonna sit here, and drink it, and ignore the lump that's tryin' t' pulverize my tail bone, and if… no no no, when Seifer comes home I'm gonna apologize, groveling on my stomach if that's what it takes, and humbly beg his forgiveness. Then I'll call up my therapist, and ask if there's any way she can fit me in tomorrow. I'll wait till I see her in person before telling her the shower's tryin' t' kill me. That kinda news just ain't something t' blurt out over the phone.
.oO0Oo.
Seifer's in the bathroom, taking a shower. The door's closed, so I can't really tell, but I don't think he's having any problems. But then, Seif's not the kinda man t' take crap from inanimate objects. He's not the one suffering from paranoia either. He came home last night — awfully late. And he'd still been — not mad, not upset — just that same eerie calm. But his face sorta softened when I told him that I'd made an appointment with Juleena for this morning. Which I'm gonna hafta get cleaned up for.
Which means I'm gonna have t' face the shower.
The door to the bathroom opens, and Seif comes out looking sexy. It's one of those things where drunk agrees with sober — Seifer always looks sexy. Even when he's filthy, and stinky, and looking like he's ready t' kill me. Maybe especially then; I never claimed I wasn't masochistic. But right now, he's only slightly scary, and he's lickably sexy with his skin flushed pink and beads of water running down to places I wish the towel wasn't hiding.
And it really doesn't help when he notices me staring, and he smirks, and says, "It's all yours." Refusing to blush, I step past him into the bathroom, and force my mind away from its lecherous maundering, no matter how much I want t' join it in ripping the towel away. Fantasizing is about as brave as I get.
I step out of my pajamas and toss them into the hamper; the lid refuses to close. There's something ominous about hampers. Pa used to tell me stories about goblins that lived in the bottom of them — they could only breed in the presence of dirty clothes. The lesson, of course, was to never let your dirty clothes pile up. The actuality of it was that I could barely stand to open the wicker boxes in the childish fear that I'd accidentally let the goblins out. Perhaps I'll talk about that as well today. My file is already several inches thick.
In the shower I stare at the handles conveniently labeled hot and cold. They're behaving, as far as I know. Seif was able t' take his shower, no problem. So I turn them both — and water of the appropriate temperature comes out. Of course. It'd be pretty silly, hallucinating while Seifer's in the next room. And it feels wonderful to finally be taking a shower: Grunge does nothing for me. And warm water soothes away aches I'd scarcely been aware of, washing them away along with the stickiness of sweat and the sourness of spilled drink.
Until the water turns frigidly cold, that is.
"Dammit!" While hopping out of a shower isn't exactly smart, it's just plain bad luck that I slip in a previously unnoticed puddle and fall in a wet, protesting heap on the bathroom floor. The toes of my left foot are crammed against the baseboard, and it'll be a miracle if none of them are broken. This is so not fair.
Of course Seifer rushes in at this point, hearing both my fall and my subsequent swearing. He's dressed now, more's the pity, seeing as how I'm finally in a position where I'd be able t' see what he'd been hiding underneath the towel. "Are you all right?"
Am I all…? "What the hell does it look like? You think I fuckin' like laying here?" He's starting to frown, but I'm not gonna be suckered into it: This time, it's his fault. "What's the idea, using all the hot water?"
"What are you talking about?" He kneels down, and grabs me by the shoulders, helping me to sit. Oh yeah, there's broken toes for sure — that pretty purpley-red color is a dead give-away. I wanna punch somethin', but the floor's out of the question ('cause the last time I did that I ended up with a broken hand, and a lecture that lasted close to an hour from Dr. Kadowaki), and I don't dare hit Seif, 'cause he'll just sock me back. And he punches harder than I do. Even when he's holding back. So I settle for pouting, and hastily grab one of the towels hanging from the rack, 'cause it just now occurs to me that I've been bitchin' on the floor nude.
"I'm saying you used all the hot water!"
"Don't be an idiot," and by now he's positively scowling, and I'm really glad I remembered the towel (belated though it was). I have mentioned how sexy he is when he's angry, right? "I couldn't have used up all the hot water. The entire dorm shares a common reservoir. So unless I somehow managed t' use over a thousand gallons…"
Damn, he's right. Which means — I imagined the water turning cold. Wonderful.
But that's not enough for Seifer. He stands up, and turns the cold faucet off — to show me, I guess. "See? Hot wat…"
The look on his face is priceless. What I wouldn't give for my camera right now. I'd have the photo blown up, framed, and hung in the cafeteria. Junior classmen would build a shrine around it. Yes my friends, once in a great long while, even Almasy can be proven wrong.
I pull myself up from the floor, keeping the towel firmly in place. "Lemme guess. Still cold, ain't it?"
"I'll — go call maintenance." He places a hand on my shoulder briefly, which might have been comforting, or might have been something completely different, but my foot is complaining at its abuse and I'm too rattled t' try looking beyond the surface. "I'm sorry." And he steps through the door, gone.
Sorry; now that's sweet to hear. Only thing is, I don't know what he's apologizing for. That he doubted me when I said the hot water'd run out? That in my foolish haste to exit the shower I'd managed t' break three or four toes? Maybe sorry that he'd ever chosen t' live with a nutcase — a freak so out of touch with reality that when he got stuck in an elevator last week, he was reduced to a sobbing, babbling mess? Yeah… About now, the last one seems the most likely.
I wonder if it would make him feel any better, if I told him I was really sorry about that, too?
.oO0Oo.
As sessions go, this last one wasn't too bad. Juleena listened while I told her about my hallucinations; she's a really good listener — she doesn't stare at me the way some of the earlier ones did, with that look of horror and pity and faked solicitousness I've learned to ignore. Then she told me — I didn't do too badly. It was a good sign that I recognized the hallucinations for what they were. She wasn't as happy when she heard about my first attempt at handling them; more than anyone, she realizes what a backslide resorting to alcohol was for me. But even that she chose to regard as a positive, that I was being proactive instead of reactive, or something like that — she uses a lot of words that sound familiar, but mean entirely different things.
When she pointed out that a few months ago I would've gone into an autistic stupor in the same situation, or attacked my delusions in blinding rage, I had t' agree that getting drunk wasn't too bad of a coping mechanism.
She said that she'd like t' talk to Seifer during the next visit — talk t' him alone. Which normally means I haven't been progressing as fast as she'd like. She never blames me for it; instead, she has happy little sayings like, 'There's a weakness in your support network,' or, 'We need to reevaluate our approach, and redefine our roles in relationship to each other.' And all it ever means is that I'm failing again, but she says it so pleasantly that I can't get mad at her. But I'm not sure I want her talking t' Seifer again so soon; he always comes out of her office terribly sad, and worn down. I hate knowing I'm the one putting that look of defeat on his face.
As it is… I smile up at him as we walk back into the Garden. My left foot still stings a bit; the Curagas haven't taken full effect, but they're well on their way to healing. Just like me. It's taking time, but I'm slowly getting better, too. Maybe then, people will start looking me in the eyes when they're talking to me, instead of shifting their gaze nervously about, as if they're afraid of setting me off.
Seifer opens the door to our suite for me, and I walk in, tossing my coat to the floor. I used t' be a neater person, but lately I haven't felt like cleaning. I just haven't been able t' see the point to it. Anyway, the new pills Juleena prescribed are making me sleepy. It just seems like too much work t' open the closet and hang my jacket. Almost too much work t' walk into the kitchen and make myself a sandwich, but I think I'd sleep better on a full stomach.
Then I hear it, the sound of water raging against the shower's fiberglass sides. Okay, it's nothing to panic about. I was warned that it might take a while for the medication t' take effect. Not a problem. "Seif, c-could I have another pill?"
"Huh?" He's picked up my jacket, and is hanging it next to his own gray trench coat. "Why? You just took one an hour ago."
We'd decided pretty early in our relationship that he would be in charge of all the prescriptions the various doctors lavished upon me. Not only could I not be bothered with the task, all too often I found myself wanting t' take more than what was strictly necessary. After the second emergency visit to Dr. K., Seif changed all the childproof lids into Zell-proof ones. Most of the time it works out. At other times it's a real bitch t' not be able t' open the aspirin bottle when I've got a headache and he's away for the day.
"Yeah, I know, it's — it's…" And I'm not sure why I feel so embarrassed; Juleena explained t' him what was going on, and there's nothing wrong with admitting I have a problem. There's not — only it really does feel like it's wrong. "I can hear the shower." And it hurts, telling him that. Another failure; I've let him down again.
He tilts his head to the side, his eyes narrowing to icy blue slits. "Yeah. I can hear it too. Maintenance must a' left it on. I'll go turn it off."
Gaping, I follow him into the bathroom. After doubting my sanity for the last few days, it's an incredible relief when something turns out to be real. I watch him turn the handles to their off positions.
And water keeps spraying from the showerhead.
Gibbering would probably be counterproductive, but it's what I feel like doing. "You shut the water off, right?"
"Yes." His answer is more hiss than affirmation. He twists the knobs harder, but they're already turned as far as they will go.
Then why do I still see water? I'd hoped that when I finally broke down, it'd be over something important. Losing my mind over the shower seems rather petty. And I can feel the tears flowing down my cheeks, but they're not nearly as important as the fact that try as I might, I can't stop seeing the cold deluge of water raining down into the tub and swirling down the drain.
"Zell. Zell!" The sides of my face sting; how long has Seifer been slapping me? You're only supposed t' slap a person when they're hysterical. I'm not hysterical, just delusional. I wish he'd stop — what does he want from me? I'm doing the best I can… "Dammit, Zell, snap outta it! The shower's still running; whatever idiot maintenance sent must've broken something. I'm gonna go call them again, okay?"
Huh? Y' mean t' tell me the shower's really on? Well, all right! I stumble out of the bathroom, and collapse on the sofa, hugging a chenille pillow to my chest. The lumpy cushion presses against my knee, but it's a familiar adversary. Things are looking up. I wipe away the moisture from my face with the back of my hands, then dry them in the soft folds of the lilac afghan. It'll be funny, won't it, if we find out that all along it's just been a simple plumbing problem?
Seifer comes and sits down next to me, the tight creases between his eyebrows betraying how little humor he's finding in the situation. I nudge his thigh with my knee, and venture a small grin. He's gotta learn t' lighten up. If he starts taking life too seriously, he'll end up like me, with one foot in the loony bin. The pill's really starting t' get to me now, so I curl up against his side, with the warm plushness of the throw pillow between us. "What did they say?"
He's quiet, and he feels distant, if distant is something a person can feel. "They're sending someone over." I blink up at him; he's not telling me everything, I can tell. His voice gets this odd little catch in it when he thinks he's holding something back for my own good. Not that it matters. I'm comfortable, and liable t' start napping if there wasn't someone knocking on the door to the suite.
Must be the guy maintenance said they were sending over. I wonder what his verdict will be? As much as I strain t' listen, I can't hear a single drop of water falling in the bathroom.
.oO0Oo.
This is too much. It's been two weeks, and maintenance swears there's nothing wrong with the bathroom plumbing. Which would certainly be reassuring if the faucets weren't turning themselves on full-blast several times each day. Sometimes hot, sometimes cold, but always with the valves opened to their widest extent.
Seifer's taking it personally. He's tried tying the faucets together to prevent them from turning. Next he tried wrenches. I'm afraid that if this keeps up much longer, he's gonna tear down the wall and crush the valves closed. Not that I'll stop him. The stupid shower made me doubt my sanity. Juleena keeps calling, asking when I'll be coming in. Fat chance it'll be any time soon. She'd have both of us committed.
The wallpaper in the bathroom is starting to peel from the constant humidity. For all I know, the drywall behind it may be rotting as well. You can't walk in without being confronted with every surface slick with moisture, and the smell of mildew and spray cleaners clogging your nostrils. It's a shame; I really like the wallpaper, but I'd bought it on closeout. I don't think it's made any more.
Both of us are tryin' t' act like nothing's wrong, but it's hard. I can't count the number of times the wretched thing has scalded me now. However, I think Seifer has it worse; every time he steps into the bathroom, the pipes begin their clanking serenade, noisy renditions of popular love songs and pop ballads. I think I might be jealous — I wanna be the one crooning sappy drivel to him!
In an attempt to keep up appearances, Seif's invited Squall and Rinoa over for dinner next week. Normally I wouldn't mind; Squall's good company, if a bit quiet, and Rinoa — well, she's not too bad, once you learn t' ignore that cackling giggle of hers, and that annoying squint. Seifer says that back when he was going out with her, she wore glasses, large, bright-lime cats'-eyes ones. She probably still should.
I roll over on the Bed, and stare at the closed bathroom door. Seifer went in for his shower over an hour ago, and the sound of falling water hasn't let up since. Getting up, I try knocking on the door. Failing to receive an answer, I weigh my options. The first, of course, is t' walk away and go wait some more. Tch. The second is t' open the door — and maybe catch my incredibly sexy blonde boyfriend sans incidental fuzzy peach-colored towel. Uh-huh. Option number 2 it is.
I open the door, and peer into the misty interior of the bathroom. "Seif? Hey Seif, you drown or somethin'?" It's kinda worrying, that he's not answering back. Maybe he slipped, and knocked himself out cold. I grab hold of the starfish covered curtain and pull it aside, looking down into the tub at the same time.
There's — no one there. I rub at my eyes t' make sure, but the scene fails t' change. Seifer's not in here. And that just doesn't make sense, 'cause I saw him walk into the bathroom, and there ain't any convenient window he could've snuck out of.
I think the showerhead's laughing at me. I turn the faucets, and for once the plumbing decides t' behave itself, and turns off. Flustered, I sit down on the toilet seat, though t' be honest, the seat could've been up, and I still woulda tried t' sit down. What am I gonna do? It's Thursday; Seif's supposed t' report for a briefing soon. What am I gonna tell Cid when he calls, asking where my partner is? Should I go ahead and tell Cid the truth, that as far as I can figure the shower kidnapped him?
Yeah, right. That'd go over real swell. I think I'll go lie back down. If I act like I've been asleep, it'll be believable when I tell them that I have no idea where the missing Mr. Almasy is.
But I know the shower kidnapped him. 'Cause the only other conclusion I can come up with is that it ate him, and I'm so so not gonna think about that.
.oO0Oo.
"Ho ho ho, you and me, little brown jug how I love thee…"
It's tempting, but so far I haven't touched the Kahlúa. Well, I've touched it, but just t' set it on the coffee table. Heh, Kahlúa on the coffee table. It's not funny, but I'm laughing anyway. I'm at a loss; yesterday passed, and Seifer hasn't returned.
Cid was pissed, and kept talking about how he was gonna demote him. Which was kinda funny too; I'm sure Seif would much rather be demoted and here than be wherever the hell he's at right now at full rank. Cid wasn't serious with his threats; I could tell that he was worried. It's not like Seifer t' just disappear, he told me.
I'm not sure the Headmaster understood when I answered that while it might not be like him, he was getting in plenty of practice.
I wish I could start drinking; just ignore my responsibilities and forget for however brief a' time. I've never dealt with temptation well. Then again, not so long ago, all of my vices had been harmless. A passion for T-board racing, a habit of picking up stray cats and bringing them home t' Ma… None of them led to serious harm. Alcohol though — alcohol is a whole different story.
I can hear the shower going at it again. That's the eighth time t'day. It's mocking me, is what it's doing. Staggering up from my position on the couch, I go t' turn it off. That, at least, hasn't been a problem — it's letting me shut the spray off. It says incredibly vulgar things to me while I do it, but beggars can't be choosers. The stuff I'm yelling back at it ain't all that polite, either.
Only, this time, the shower's occupied.
"Seif!" I hug him for all I'm worth, paying no heed to the water that's turned arctic, and paying even less attention to his less-than-dressed state (although I'm sure that, in a moment, my hormones will flare t' life and inform me that I'm snuggled against my incredibly sexy, lickably slick, wonderfully naked boyfriend, and that it's entirely possible I'll die from the nosebleed that'll ensue). "You came back!"
His eyes kinda bulge, either 'cause I'm squeezing him too tight, or because I'm squeezing him…
Yep, here come the hormones, and I've never before realized how hard it is t' climb out of a tub with your eyes closed and your hands fisted at your sides because you're too afraid of what they might reach out and touch. I shouldn't worry about Seifer falling in the bathroom; it's myself I need t' take life insurance out on. This time, though, I'm face down. Should I curse or bless my luck?
"Are you okay?" I can feel him reaching over me to the towel rack while I curl to the side.
"Fine, fine… You're back!" And with that, I feel all the worry, biting anxiety, and depression that had been building up since yesterday boil forth as anguished rage. "Where have ya been you sonofabitch?!" I haven't looked up at him yet (just in case that towel hasn't been wrapped, ya know?) but I have managed t' get to my knees. From here — from here I can look up into his face.
He's confused; that much is obvious. "What are you talking about? I've been in the shower."
"Yeah." It's hard, pulling my thoughts together. I don't know why I'm mad at him, but I figure it has something t' do with the fact that getting mad at the plumbing hasn't done a bit of good. I try taking a deep breathe, and wobble to my feet. "Oh yeah. You've been in the shower. Yeppers. Yes indeedy. In the shower. In the shower. Somewhere inside the fuckin' shower…" And by now I'm sobbing more than speaking, and Seifer keeps looking at me in confusion and a not-inconsiderable amount of fear.
"Hey, look babe, I'll call Cid and cancel today's assignment, okay? Maybe you should see if Juleena has an opening…"
I stagger out of the bathroom, the rest of his words running together into a soothing mumble. The dark brown bottle confronts me as soon as I walk into the living room, and as quickly as that the world regains its humor. What's a little alcoholism compared to whatever's taken possession of our shower? I sit down on the couch, and pat the lump almost fondly. A wink directed at the Kahlúa, acknowledgment of a furtive friendship. It'd be so damned easy…
"Zell?" Seifer's standing in the bedroom doorway, phone up against his ear and soft peach towel snug around his waist. "Cid — Cid says it's Friday." There's panic in his expression now, the same panic that's been in mine all along. "When did it become Friday?"
The phone drops from his hands, fingers too numb t' retain their grip. "It became Friday when ya didn't come out of the shower yesterday, baby." Sighing, I toss a pillow at the Kahlúa, knocking it to the floor. We need help, and no matter how much I might wish it, I doubt it's to be found at the bottom of the bottle.
Guess it's gonna be sponge baths from now on. 'Less we decide we wanna take another unplanned vacation.
.oO0Oo.
I'm sure I've said it before: Rinoa's nice. Pleasant. An excellent arm-ornament for some up-and-coming Deling career-military-type. It's what she spent most of her life training to be. And as such — she babbles. Incessantly. Uncontrollably. Almost hypnotically.
She's seated across the table from me; Squall's to my right, and Seif (if he were sitting right now) would be on my left. She's making little motions with her hands, and little pouty motions with her lips, all the while with her eyes squinted to sooty slits as she attempts t' see three inches past her nose. All of this I'm used to, and I've learned not t' laugh, 'cause after all, Rinoa's nice.
"And I was just telling Squall…" She blinks rapidly when she realizes her paramour is fast asleep. She tries nudging him, all the while talking. "I was telling him :nudge: that the junior classmen would :nudge: respect him more if he :nudge: started painting his fingernails a more — ah — masculine color." Her last nudge sends him sliding from his chair, and he groans from his new position on the floor.
"What's wrong with the color?" He gets up slowly, rubbing at his eyes with the abandon of a young child. "It's pretty enough."
I kinda agree with him. The purplish hue is just stunning on him; with my complexion, it'd bleach me out, more so than I already am. Not that I'm thinkin' of taking up painting my nails. Too much upkeep, and they look like shit when they're chipped.
Fortunately for the sidetracked conversation, Seifer comes back into the room. He's wet, which is t' be expected, and angry, which ain't no surprise either. He claims his chair, and pokes idly at the cold remains of his meal. I'd told him we shoulda cancelled tonight's dinner with the Leonharts, but he felt we had some kinda social obligation.
"I still don't understand," Rinoa says while alternately trying t' bat her lashes at Seif, Squall, and the table lamp across the room, "What exactly is wrong with your shower?"
How t' answer that? Honestly, it'd been behaving itself since returning Seifer last week. It hardly tried t' burn us anymore, and it had stopped making weird rhythmic noises entirely between the hours of 11:00 pm to 4:00 am (presumably t' let us have a few hours of uninterrupted sleep, for which I find myself shamefully grateful). But as soon as the Commander and his overly-dressed wife had shown up, it had greeted them with a rousing rendition of Dueling Banjoes, a decision so outré that it actually brought a smile to Seif's face. Then it had segued into the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies, which led into Grieg's Piano Concerto in A minor, which was followed by King Cotton repeated ad nauseam (for which I'll blame the shower's apparent love for Sousa, and speculate no further).
Even that we could live with; however, when Rinoa finally noticed the sound of water pouring down into the fiberglass enclosure with enough force t' rival Timorlack Falls itself, she'd innocently asked why we'd left the faucet on. Seifer'd muttered some excuse — which I'll need to ask him about later, since all I could catch of it was, "…cow-faced nosey slut…" — and went t' turn the shower off.
"Ah," I look to Seifer for help, but he's busy glaring at the lump of congealed tuna casserole on his plate. Does he know how sexy he looks when he's…? Tch, I think he does it on purpose. Anyway, Rinoa's still peering at me (well, she's really peering at the sofa behind me, but it's the thought that counts) expecting enlightenment. "Well — the thing is — it's haunted… What?!" the last being said to my incredibly sexy, glaring boyfriend who just kicked my shin using Fujin's patented attack.
"It's not haunted."
To his credit, Squall's managed t' stay awake through this, and actually looks mildly interested. "What makes you think…"
"Ooh! A haunted bathroom!" Someplace, somewhere, there's a person exactly Rinoa's opposite. It's rumored he's a shy, rather well-liked fellow whose all-consuming passion is the collection of ladybugs for his herb garden. I live in terror that someday I might meet him; it'd provide living proof that Rinoa has no sense. "That's so neat!"
Neat, she calls it. I've been calling it a few other things. "How else would you explain it, Seif? The handles turn themselves. The valves won't close. The fricken' thing's addicted t' marches. Oh, and by the way, remember the way it zapped you who-knows-where for kicks? Huh?"
He jabs down at his plate with a fork — needlessly if ya ask me; the casserole wasn't going anywhere. It wasn't possessed. "Okay. Okay. Maybe there's — something — a bit off with the shower…"
"You don't actually believe…"
"Squallie!" Beaming with pride, Rinoa latches onto her husband's arm like the good little bubble-headed ornament she is. "Can you believe it? How romantic! Surely there's something you can do to help them, right? Right right right?" Squall's squirming, as are me and Seif as the dark-haired woman works herself up. "Right right right right?" She flashes us her brilliant smile, the pride and joy of a certain Timber dentist. "I'm sure Squall can think of something!"
"Umm, well," he tries prying his wife from his arm. "Have you tried Dispel?"
And as easily as that, he offers us the solution that'd been plaguing us for weeks. At times, it's really easy t' hate Squall. Then, I remember that he's stuck with Rinoa. "No… I never thought…" I slide my eyes to Seifer, who's currently doing his best t' bash his head against the table. "Hey, baby? Do ya have any Dispels?"
"No, I don't have any Dispels!" Well! I can see where he's comin' from, but it's still no reason t' snap at me. "Mind doing the honors?" he asks Squall.
Who sighs, and stands away from the table, pulling up Rinoa as well. "I guess. Not that I think it'll do any good. I mean — really. A haunted shower? You don't really think…"
"Just cast the Dispel!" And I bite back a giggle, 'cause it's not often that Seif and I stereo like that. Ah, the joys of living together.
So we all walk through the bedroom and into the bathroom, Rinoa going on about how exciting it is t' confront the supernatural, and how brave we are for putting up with it, and I wonder if it's poor form t' be wishing for the shower t' poof her.
Squall manages t' work his hand free, and he raises it in preparation. His eyes focus (which may very well be the scariest thing I've seen this month. Squall — focused. It just doesn't bear thinkin' about), and his fingertips begin glowing a showy sea-green. And that clashes with the violet nail polish just awful, and he knows it too; he winces, but manages t' hold onto the spell. After a suspenseful few seconds, he says something too softly t' hear, and releases the Dispel.
And the shower turns itself on, swivels its head, and begins spraying us in retribution.
"That's — not right." The formidable Mr. Leonhart looks worse for wear with his hair dripping down into his eyes, and his expensive leather splotched with moisture. Calmly, he turns around, and walks out of the bathroom, fingers fidgeting in the damp white fur of his coat collar. "Not right at all…"
"Look at me!" Rinoa trounces after her love, leaving wet smudgy footprints in her wake. "My dress, ruined! My makeup…" She runs a knuckle underneath one eye, "My mascara! Squall, you didn't say I needed waterproof mascara!" And he didn't tell us we'd need earplugs. "My hair!"
"My my." And wonder of wonders, the smirk is back on my boyfriend's face. Life just ain't right with it gone. "Very impressive."
"I'll — get maintenance here. Yeah — maintenance…" I can almost feel sorry for Squall, if I wasn't so busy tryin' not t' laugh. The look on his face is priceless. His hair is still dripping; his eyeliner's smeared. And the suite he shares with Rinoa is at the other end of the dormitory. "A plumber…" Shakily, he opens up the front door, his expression dazed. "…with a really big wrench…"
"My shoes!" Rinoa is waddling after him, hands full of water-drenched skirt. She bobs her head cordially enough at us as she walks out. "Something must be done! That kind of behavior out of a shower is unacceptable, haunted or not!"
Seifer carefully closes the door after them, then succumbs to temptation. Some vices aren't so bad. It's been a long time since the two of us have laughed like this. It's a pleasure t' catch our Commander discomfited, and Rinoa… Well, Rinoa may be a ditz, but she's an awfully nice ditz.
.oO0Oo.
Why, hello Kahlúa! It's been a while, hasn't it? And lump, my old friend, you're here as well. All three of us, cozy as can be.
My fault, all my fault. I'd joked about it, thought about it — wished for it. And it happened. And I don't know what t' do.
And while it'd make everything easier t' bear in the short term, I'm not gonna open up the bottle. Nope, not me. I might ask Seif for one of those little blue pills when he gets home, but that's it. This time, I ain't gonna try drinking away the problem.
Ya see, Rinoa came by today. She came by — and I don't know why I'm sitting on the couch crying into the soft folds of the lilac throw, when actually the whole thing is horribly hilarious…
"Zell? What's wrong?" Seifer, it's him; he musta walked in while I was busy sobbing. A waste of time, crying is. It doesn't help anything. But right now, it's all I seem capable of doing. He sits down next to me, and I lean up against his side, 'cause even in the state I'm in, I recognize that he's a whole hell of a lot more comforting than the lilac throw. "What happened?"
I hate crying, I do. Which really sucks, since I seem t' be doing it so much lately. My nose gets all stuffy, and my eyes puff out, and my face turns all blotchy — not a pleasant sight, no. Yet here I am, cryin' inta his shoulder, harder than ever, 'cause it's either cry, or tell him what happened… "It's Rinoa…"
"Hmm?" No demand in that soft sound, and his arm is amazingly warm. That's my man, always warm, always caring; I hope, one day, I can understand why he bothers with me. "What about Rinoa?"
I wipe at my eyes and hiccup; Seif's here and together — together we'll think of something. He'll think of something. I hope. "She came by today." Reaching blindly, I manage t' snag a tissue from the box sitting on the end table. "Came by, sayin' she could fix the shower."
"Ah-huh." He has such pretty bronze-gold hair. It'd be gorgeous, grown out. But he'd look ridiculous with long, flowing hair, so it's not something I think about often. Yet, I'm tempted t' start thinkin' about it really hard at the moment, because otherwise I'd hafta focus on other things, like the way he's just reached over and snagged up the bottle of Kahlúa. And the way he just twisted off the top. Or the way he just took a drink, liquor escaping from the side of his mouth t' dribble down his chin. Yep, such pretty-colored hair. "She came by."
"Yeah…" Okay, okay, better. He's putting the bottle back down. Damned unfair, that he can drink. But I can snuggle, and maybe that's not such a bad trade-off. "And she had this bag with her…" I hold out my hands, trying t' mime dimensions. "It was full of all kinds of stuff. Wax candles. Little containers of I don't know what — smelled like flowers and yeast. Then she told me that she needed t' be alone, so she locked herself in the bathroom."
His eyes dart upwards, noticing the obviously opened bathroom door. "Then what?"
"Well, it was quiet for a few minutes. Then she started chanting. Nothing mystical; mostly boy-band lyrics." I shiver, and cuddle closer. Never, ever let anyone tell ya Rinoa can sing. "I guess the shower didn't like whatever she was doin'. It turned itself on and started playing Ride of the Valkyries. Rinoa just sung louder. So the shower got louder. Steam started coming out from underneath the door. Then, Rin-Rin started screaming…" That hadn't been pleasant, either. Mortal terror I coulda handled better than her irritated shouts of, 'You little bitch! Take that back!' I wonder if Squall doles out little pastel pills to his wife on an as-needed basis? "I was all ready t' knock down the door, when it opened by itself. And Rinoa — she was gone."
"Shit." Huh. Well, I think Seif's taking the news well. "Do you have any idea what she might've been tryin' t' do in there?"
"Dunno. Guess she'd been burning candles, till the shower put them out. There was something that looked like baby powder all over the place. And all the little vials were empty."
"Empty." I can tell by the way his eyes keep shifting that he's trying to decide whether t' laugh, or have another go at the Kahlúa. "I suppose I better go tell Squall."
"Okay…" He stands up, and I reach underneath the lilac throw, handing him the piece of cloth I'd considered destroying. "You can give him this while you're there." Seif takes the damp material, patting at it curiously. "Tell him… Tell him that wherever the shower took Rinoa, it zapped her there naked. Her dress was folded, on top of the hamper."
.oO0Oo.
I think I'd go out more, if everybody didn't bloody stare so. They're doing it now, casting glances from the corners of their eyes, sly eyes, all of them the same — 'There he goes, that poor poor Zellie-boy, did ya hear…?' — and absolutely none of it useful, not like an earnest, 'Hey there,' followed with a 'Wanna grab lunch?' would be. They gossip about me, not all of it behind my back, and most of it falls on the darker side of sympathetic. Is it any wonder I choose t' stay at home so much, away from their mocking faces, mocking words? 'There goes Dincht, he ain't never been the same, not since…'
Not since then, yeah. Back before, I didn't need little pills to fall asleep, and little pills t' keep me from screaming at shadows, and Juleena t' pat my back and tell me I'm doin' good when I've half-lost my mind with fear. But it's not like I can just walk up to them and tell them to stop, that the whispers hurt far more than mere indifference would.
I fumble with my keys, finally managing t' open the suite's door. It's a hard lock to turn, purposefully so. It rattles, and sticks, and warns me whenever Seif's coming in — if I'm paying attention. Now, it's an annoyance, when all I want is to escape the hall, and the murmurs, and the sly, knowing looks.
"Seif, ya home?" The shower's making a racket, Anitra's Dance best I can tell. At least it's not Sousa. I'm not sure how much more Sousa I can take.
"Huh, Zell? You're back earlier than I was expectin'…" He moves into the bedroom doorway, looking as sheepish as I've ever seen him. He's drenched. He's red-faced. He's dressed in feathers and seashells and an enormous amount of aqua taffeta. He holds his hands out to his sides; they're covered in friendship bracelets. "Ah, I can explain…"
I'm not sure I want him to. I want this moment to last, with him blushing and dripping and ridiculous. My camera, I'm sure my camera's gotta be nearby…
"Who is it Seifer?" And him — I'm not expecting, not Squall dressed in hot pink vinyl, wearing identical friendship bracelets and several intricate layers of eyeliner.
"I can explain!" This time around, my bubby's voice is a tad bit shrill, prolly for good reason. 'Cause now the Headmaster, Cid Kramer, all around respectable guy is walking out of the bathroom in what could only be an olive-green tutu. And lots and lots of dotted Swiss cloth. And the same friendship bracelets! I know that breathing is important, but the first breathe I take's gonna come out as laughter, and something tells me laughing at the Headmaster ain't the wisest thing t' do. I really really really wish I could turn around t' search for my camera, but by now, I sorta wanna hear Seif's explanation.
"Perhaps I can explain better." That's Matron, coming out of the bathroom, and how the hell did they all fit in there in the first place? She's dressed in full sorceress mode, down to long spiky nails and elaborate coat rack in the back. "We're trying to retrieve Rinoa from your shower." She shakes her head, and the various adornments decorating her headdress tinkle merrily. "It's putting up quite a battle."
"Okay, that explains why you're all here. It doesn't begin t' cover why you're all dressed like — like —" Someday, someone will need to create a word that covers Cid in a tutu; I value my sanity too much t' do it myself.
"It's supposed t' help with ritualistic magic." That's said between gritted teeth, and I can tell Seifer's not at all happy t' play the fool. I think, if it'd been up to him, he'd've let Rinoa fare for herself.
"Nnn…" There has t' be something I can say that won't land me in trouble. "Any luck yet?"
Squall plants one fist against his hip, and while that might be acceptable in black leather, it just doesn't work in pink vinyl. "Matron thinks she has it figured out. We'll know in a minute."
Less than a minute, because the screaming from the bathroom can only be coming from the incomparable lungs of the former Miss Heartilly.
"And let me tell you something, you little…" She's in the tub, pointing an accusing finger at the showerhead. In the tub, with the water blasting away, to little avail. Standing in the tub wearing nothing, unless the glittery greasy lotion she's smeared herself with counts. She takes notice of our presence at the same time the plumbing gives a happy little burble and desists its efforts to drown her. "What are you doing here?" She crossly folds her arms, and taps one dainty foot. "I'm sure I locked the door."
"Oh dear…" Cid, sweet old dear that he is, hastily covers his eyes. "Mrs. Leonhart, I assure you… ahm…" Even sweet old dears can be tempted to peek — unless they have sorceress wives standing behind them ready t' give their husbands angry swats. He settles for just closing his eyelids. "We were just trying to help. You've been missing, you know."
"Of course I've been missing!" Rinoa steps out of the enclosure, and proceeds to drip on the bath mat. She doesn't seem to mind that her assets are on display. Guess I win that particular bet with Selphie. "Edea, care to explain it to them?"
Matron steeples her fingers (and that's impressive, when you're lookin' at fingers as long and pointed as hers are) and bows her head, either in thought, or in an effort to avoid looking at Rinoa. "Where to begin?" She leans against the wall, slightly hampered by all the gold-gilt metal sticking out of her back. "You do know, don't you, that your shower's haunted?"
"You don't say?" It's rude, but I can't help myself. No need t' tell me there's a spook in the plumbing. Seifer promptly places his hand over my mouth, allowing Edea to continue.
She smiles, a quick brightening of her topaz eyes. "Indeed. However, a haunting is usually accomplished when the spirit of a deceased individual takes up residency; most choose graveyards, a few houses, and yours — the shower pipes. Your case, though, is significantly different in one detail. You aren't being haunted by a ghost."
"No?" Squall's not doing well; he didn't want to believe in the haunting to begin with, and all the humidity in the air is causing his eyeliner to run. He needs to buy a better brand; quality counts. "What else is capable of haunting?"
"To be absolutely blunt," Rinoa sits on the counter next to the sink, and her bare bum is way too close to my toothbrush for comfort; I hope I have a spare hidden away in the drawer, "you're being pestered by an unborn spirit. Dispel won't work, because it does belong here; holy won't work because it isn't dead."
"So what do we do?" Seifer runs his fingers underneath the friendship bracelets, and adamantly doesn't look in Rinoa's direction.
"There are several options." Edea moves away from the wall, and starts pushing us out of the bathroom. "The easiest of which is to just wait. The child should be born soon enough; it's just a matter of time."
"Time?" I don't like that answer at all. "We're just supposed t' wait, while this kid keeps poofing us at whim?" I shake my head, grab up Seif's hand, and snitch one of his bracelets. I feel very much in need of friendship, and don't wanna be left out. "What does it have against us, anyway?"
"She." The two Leonharts are standing together, and luckily Squall is blocking our view of Rin-Rin. "The child's a girl. And from what she told me, the reason she took up residence in your shower is because she likes Seifer. A lot. Her taste in music is abominable, but when it comes t' men…" Rinoa licks her lips hungrily, and a space several feet wide miraculously appears around her. "With men, she takes after her mother."
"You." Unamused, my boyfriend hands the twilight-eyed woman a towel. "You're telling us it's your daughter making our lives a livin' hell."
You've gotta hand it t' Squall; he stands by his mistakes. "I guess that's what she's saying. A daughter…" He tries t' look stoic, but the tears gathering in his eyes ruin the effect. You'd almost think he was proud, if ya couldn't hear his frantic whispers of 'Please Hyne, no! Not another one!'
Cid's beaming in a fatherly sorta way, slapping people on their backs and prancing around in his tutu. "How wonderful! How grand! Isn't this fantastic dear? Dear?"
Edea's one to think ahead. "Fabulous, darling. But it doesn't help out Seifer and Zell, now does it? They're still stuck with a malfunctioning shower, until Squall manages t' knock up… err…" Well, Matron may be wiser than the rest of us, but it's nice t' know that even she can't manage t' hold her tongue when it comes to Rinoa. "I'm not saying he can't… Oh fooh."
"Don't worry." Seifer's grinning, and holding on to my hand, and I have a feeling everything's gonna be okay. "I think I have a plan that'll suit everyone."
The shower, as if in agreement, starts back in on the Liberty Bell.
.oO0Oo.
Moving wasn't so bad. All our friends showed up t' help out, and we finished by nightfall. The Leonharts' suite holds all our furniture well, with room to spare. There was some discussion on whether we should bring the couch, or just buy a new one out of the generous bonus Cid gave us (hazard pay is hazard pay, and I ain't gonna make any complaints) but by now I've grown fond of it, and the lump, which I don't think I'll try to upholster over. It's spent many an evening with me, keeping me company, and I'm loath t' part ways with it now.
Squall and Rinoa are now residing in our old quarters, and more power to them. Edea calls it quality bonding time with the little witch-to-be. Seifer calls it karma acting with a swiftness rarely seen. I'm keeping my mouth shut for now; strange noises have been coming out of the coat closet next to the front door, but I'll wait a while before sayin' anything. It's not like we'll hafta deal with the closet on a daily basis.
I've stopped seeing Juleena; Seifer and I both agree that a woman that doesn't believe in magic isn't the right sorta person t' act as my therapist. Not that I have anything against her; she was nice enough — the best of a bad lot. But she thought I was delusional when I told her about the shower, and Cid in a tutu, and Rinoa making cooing sounds to a running shower splurting out the 1812 Overture. She doesn't believe in Guardian Forces, either. Or about Edea. She explained away the Thunder spell I used against her window curtains as a massive flare-up of static electricity. I'll miss her.
How strange it must be, to live in a world without magic.
I'm feeling better. Dr. Kadowaki has cleared me for light duty, as long as I cut out the pills, and stay away from the Kahlúa. No missions, not yet, but a teaching position doesn't sound too bad. Seifer and I are going out to celebrate; we're picking up Ma, and Raijin and Fujin, and are heading into Esthar for the week. It should be fun; Laguna's gonna flip when we tell him the good news. Can you imagine him a grandfather?
It still might not happen. Rinoa has t' get pregnant first. And that's looking less likely, what with the way the junior classmen say they can hear Squall screaming at nights, pleading with his wife. Quistis says Rin-Rin has borrowed one of her whips. I suppose it'll all sort itself out eventually.
But you wanna know what the really odd thing is? Maintenance called me up the other day; they needed me t' check something. So down into the bowels of the Garden I went, bopping oilboyles along the way. Seems the last guy down there noticed something fishy with the plumbing during his last inspection. I noticed it, too. Every bit of water-bearing pipe on the MD levels has turned into gold. It adds up to an amazing amount of wealth, if we ever need t' scavenge it. For now, we're keeping it under wraps.
Why? 'Cause every time we tap one of the pipes, it starts playing Sousa. And a smart man knows better than t' mess with the King of March.
End End End
More Notes: Okay peoples, put down the pitchforks and let me explain, okay? Original idea for the story came from David Telfair's short story In a Quart of Water. I very much recommend it; it's funny, it's a joy to read, and it makes wonderful use of the word lush. Other main sources I stole from are Necromancer Nine by Sheri S. Tepper (who speculated on a haunting caused by the spirit of one not yet born) and Cavernsby Kevin O'Donnell, Jr. (wherein the lovely Mrs. Feighan drinks in an effort t' have an excuse for seeing things). It's said that no one creates in a vacuum, and so I humbly ask for forgiveness for using others' ideas.
Why is Zell so horny? Erm, he's not, not exactly. He's a normal young man, with normal enough urges, but is unable to express them. Remember, the story's based on events that happened in the IMoS universe. Here, he's having more trouble recovering from them. Not that he's doing so well over in IMoS… oh hell.
What's up with Seifer's and Zell's relationship? You're not really askin' that, are you? This's not a relationship ficcie. I didn't feel like writing a relationship ficcie. I felt like writing a haunted shower ficcie. They're not at all the same. So any little nuances you might have picked up will hafta stay like that — nuances.
Rinoa has a daughter? Ah… To see the inspiration for her, you could always check out Angels' Tread, piece of crap that it is. If ya feel like it.
What's up with Rinoa? :starts sobbing uncontrollably: Do you have any idea how horrible it is to suddenly wind up with a Nekkid Rinoa SB? She's driven away all my other House Guests; every day it's just her, and me, and, and…
Hell, I'll show you. Blame Steve. He understands the power of Nekkid Rinoa.
The Selphie and Squall Making Out in Seifer and Zell's Haunted Shower Lemon Fic!!!
No one knew why they were there. One moment, they'd been off minding their own business, the next, POOF, there they were, crunched together in a too-small bathroom with no visible means of escape.
"Bwa ha ha, at last I have you!" Nekkid Rinoa wriggled, and jiggled, and smeared glittery lotion goop against every surface she came into contact with. "Off with your clothes!"
Another POOF, and everyone was suddenly — a little drafty — excepting Nekkid Rinoa, who'd already been naked.
Esse looked down at the script that suddenly appeared in her hand; sitting down on the toilet seat, she tried reading through it, though she was often distracted by the bathroom's other occupants.
"No fair!" she eventually whined, tugging fretfully at her frazzled hair. "Why's Seif in a towel?" Her sentiments were echoed by the room's other occupants.
Seifer was too self-possessed to blush (and it had t' help that he was the only one covered, t' boot!). "It's the chemistry club's fault… They imbued the towel with some kinda super glue, it won't come off, see?" He tugged at the towel, but it remained fixed, much to the disappointment of the room's other occupants.
"Damn! I mean — whatever." Squall stepped into the shower along with Selphie, both of them trying to make sense of their lines.
"So, are we ready for the scene?" Nekkid Rinoa bounced up and down, and her hair bounced up and down, and other parts of her bounced up and down as well, though not the ones that — in all honesty — properly should.
"I don't get it." Zell scratched at his tattoo in puzzlement. "Why are we doin' a SquallxSelphie lemon?"
"That's Selphie and Squall!" Nekkid Rinoa glowered, and pouted, and glittered for all she was worth. "Get them straight! Selphie's on top!"
"Booyaka!" Selphie twirled her hair around her fingers, and chewed on a piece of gum. "'Bout time!"
"But Zell has a point…" Esse shook glitter from the pages of the script. "Why those two? It doesn't make sense."
"It makes perfect sense! Squall's a guy, Selphie's a girl; people wanna see them screw around." Nekkid Rinoa leered.
"I don't. And… why would they get together in the first place? There's no plot, all you've written is sex." Esse flushed a bit on the last word, overly aware of the other people crowding the bathroom.
"Why? Why not?" Nekkid Rinoa clenched her fist meaningfully. "Admit it Esse, you're a hack, only good for writing Selphie and Squall sex scenes. So get reading!"
"But if anyone should be having sex, it's Seif and Zell!" Esse whimpered, hiding behind the thin stack of papers.
"Hell yeah!" Zell practically cheered. "Now if I could only find some way around that towel…"
"Read!"
So Esse reluctantly began narrating the scene. "(The two treasured these private moments together, stolen, illicit, yet strangely exciting. Squall ran his hands across Selphie's firm, pert…) Hey! I'm not gonna read that! It's filth!"
"Oh, grow up already!" Nekkid Rinoa tore the script from the gray-eyed girl's hands. "Squall, start from the top of page 3!"
"Umm, okay… ("Selphie, there's nothing I'd rather do now than ram my hot, throbbing, ten inch…') ..err…" Squall glanced down, puzzled. "Are you sure that's my line? 'Cause I've measured, and there's no way it's even half that…"
He was cut off by Seifer's and Zell's uncontrolled giggles.
"Morons!" Nekkid Rinoa was extremely unhappy. "How's anyone supposed t' know how long it is? It's fiction! It's not like they can actually see you! Selphie, you try."
"Can do! ("Squall, oh please, you know what I want. Yes, yes, oh, there, yes yes! God…") Ah, Miss Nekkid Rinoa, can I ask a question?"
"What is it?"
"Well, do I get any lines? Or am I just here for sound effects?"
"Just, just shut up, you big meanie! Squall, read!"
"("Ah, ah, Selphie, so tight, so hot…") Excuse me? Excuse me Nekkid Rinoa? What's my motivation?"
"Motivation?" By the sounds of it, Nekkid Rinoa's teeth no longer had any enamel left to grind off. "What the hell are you talking about? What motivation? You're supposed t' be fucking Selphie! End of story!"
"But why?" Squall sounded genuinely confused. "Why would I want to do that with Selphie? I mean, she's a girl — no offense, Sefie. If I wanted tight and hot…" he looked longingly over to the other two men, who were busily whispering in the corner. "Everyone already knows I'm gay."
"Don't say that word!" Nekkid Rinoa cupped her hands over her ears. "You're virile! A lion amongst men. Insatiable, priapic, a wonder to behold…"
"Well of course I am! That doesn't mean I'm not gay. Look at me! I'm a modern day Liberace, only a whole lot prettier, and with a better sense of style! I wear fur! Sexy fur! And hot kinky black leather!"
Esse quivered, and tried humming to block out the conversation.
Nekkid Rinoa trembled in her fury. "You're straight because I say so! Now go boink Selphie!"
"It's too late," Zell pointed out. "She's, ah, found the haunted shower — and is entertaining herself."
"You're all sick! That's it, I'm leaving!" And with that, Nekkid Rinoa POOFed everybody back to their original locations.
"At last!" Esse thankfully hugged her monitor. "Oh compy, I was so scared!"
"Who said you were off the hook?" Nekkid Rinoa asked, appearing behind the other girl. "We've got ourselves a Nida and Quistis lemon fic t' write!"
End Again the End
What, still around? Well, dang. Hated the story? Write t' me, and tell me who to steal from next time. Recognize the stories Esse stole from, and wanna chat? E-mail me! Otherwise… Emily, I hope you enjoyed the ficcie. Don't think I'm not still working on that one birthday story of yours :D