A/N: Forgot to mention this earlier, but I'm using a medical/patient structure for this, instead of a typical story structure. So instead of setup, climax and resolution, its observation, history, examination, investigation, treatment/progression and outcome. We're still in the observation stage. History covers chapters six to nine (ten, if nine decides to explode like six and eight did…). It's a grating style for some, I think, but I started doing it unintentionally and now the story's decided to stick like that. I blame the psychiatric mini-block I just wrapped up on Monday. We don't get our patient contact for that until next year. :D

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a chaotic heart
Chapter 3

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He trembles at the echo of his own laugh, but it's far too late. Always has been too late. Before even the flood of memories sometime in his fourteenth year. They only explained: explained the cycling between detachment and a scorching fire under his skin. And then it got worse. Memories building on shapeless nightmares, giving them form, until he knows it's more than a nightmare that'll never come true.

Funny how a moment of weakness and going home manages to damn him over a thousand years later, even if he's going on his father's word for that one. But the fantasy will have collapsed eventually, anyway. So few people remember the old world but there's still a lot of them. Enough of them to solidify the existence of that old world, that old life he can barely recall but knows is there, like a documentary of someone else's journey he has to watch again and he just can't bear the thought.

He can't bear a lot of things, but there's something about the chaotic nature of bars that's almost…comforting. Inhibitions stripped away. Fights just waiting to break out and yet there's decorum and a big net holding everything in place.

And then there's Lightning, who just slices every silk thread binding something. Who goes up against a God and wins, and somehow manages to salvage his soul in the process.

You'll be the last soul I save. Or so she said.

He's a little disappointed she doesn't chase after him, but relieved as well. Relieved because she must have seen, must have understood – and once upon a time, he might've known her well enough to know whether she'll let it go or chase the little tidbit he'd unintentionally let escape to the ends of the new earth. And…at least she can understand.

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She doesn't understand. Not a bit. Not even after looking Hope up in the library, and calling his parents too. Oh, she gets a story by the end of it. And a few ideas of where to start looking. But she's also let slip that she's seen him and she can only hope Bartholomew can manage to convince his wife not to jump onto the next train.

He seems resigned when the conversation dies and she counts her change and makes sure she has enough for a day ticket, or if she needs to change the notes she's put aside for grocery shopping instead. Part of her hopes Nora Estheim will show up and do what mothers do and whip the situation under control – and then she just shakes her head and scolds herself, because, really, when had Hope become a "situation" again?

I'm thinking too much. The consequences of no longer having monsters to fight every step of her life, she supposes. Except she's usually thinking about what she's doing: whittling away as a waitress in a less than reputable establishment. But she's tried other things. Security. Desk jobs. She's been tempted to join the army too, but Serah got wind of that idea and guilt-tripped her into avoiding that particular profession.

And now she's hunting a sixteen year old and a ghost from her past, and who would have thought? But he's not the first person she's searched for, and not the last, and at least she has a search perimeter and the means to cover it all. Forget the confusion, she tells herself. Just focus on finding him. Then getting his story out of him. And then, after that… whatever comes.

She skips apartments and homes and quaint little coffee places. It's quite obvious Hope has no permanent shelter at the moment and small quiet places aren't really his thing. 'He'll make his own noise and clutter if there's none there,' his father had said, and she knows there's more than the face value of that statement but she'll take face value for this little job. Though it makes her wonder why. Something his parents aren't able to tell her. Something she'll have to find out himself. Though she does wonder if she'll get a well-deserved: 'why do you work at a bar?' in return.

At least there aren't too many bars in the big city. Not so many that she can't question them all, at least. And green is a distinctive colour to dye one's hair. Not that they've had much practice at disguising themselves. Might've helped in their tenue as l'Cie but not one of them had thought to try. And a quite hair job isn't going to get her out from under the scrutiny of the mighty Bhunivelze, is it?

I need to stop thinking about this. She goes back to the mental checklist in her head. Fresh out of bars and other similar establishments in the area, but there are still a few places of worship she hasn't checked out yet and then it's back on the train to a new quadrant. She's a bit more reluctant now, but it's for a cause and if she can bear wearing a pink frilly dress – Serah's choice, of course – to Serah and Snow's long overdue wedding, she can do this too.

No results and winds up on the train again after all, but finds him in the first stop off the train. At a church, with its high windows and yellow light streaming through and shadowed pews with rows of people sharing a voice as they listen to the priest's sermon.

Hope is sitting on the pew closest to the door, and she stands behind him because what else can she do? Leave and risk him slipping away again – but she also can't force a scene. Not here, where the people look so calm, no matter how uncomfortable those blank faces make her appear, and how much worse it is to see Hope with an equally blank look on his face. She can't tear her eyes away though, for he'll melt into the shadows and disappear and so she just stares at his hunched back and counts silently. Picks up some convoluted pattern from high school she's surprised she hasn't forgotten for its uselessness, but it's there and it keeps her on her toes. Makes her backtrack a few times too, and start over once, but she's still here when the sermon finishes and people start to leave.

And she's still there when Hope is the only one left sitting, and the priest and his – disciples? – drift over.

'Hope,' she says. She doesn't want them coming closer, wandering why they haven't left or, worse, preaching about a God she'll never face again. And she can pretend to be a relative, or a companion, or something, anything, that'll take suspicion away from one friend searching for another and that's not wrong. Does pretend. Waves them off and puts a strong, comforting hand on the teen's shoulder. 'Let's go.'

He stiffens, then jerks forward but not very hard and she easily holds him in place. 'Lightning.' And this time his tone is flat, and without the stutter.

She might have a better idea of what he's thinking if she sees his face, but it's unlikely. She saw his face before, and that hasn't told her much. His right hand had told her more.

'Claire,' she corrects again, before glancing at the priest and his men. They haven't heard. It's a Christian church in any case so it shouldn't mean anything to them if they do – but churches are churches to her, and she remembers Etro's, and Bhunivelze's, all too well. It's probably worse for Vanille and Fang, and she would've thought Hope as well and yet here they are. She'd assumed too much.

Hope is still again. Staring hard at the pew in front of him, she presumes. 'Come on,' she says, as gently as she can manage. 'Let's go get something to eat – ' She's deferred her lunch and it's worked to her favour, but that doesn't mean she won't have to get a bite at some point. 'And talk.'

His breathing hitches. 'That's crazy.'

Her lips quirk. That's Hope-talk for "you're an idiot" and quite reminiscent of their first time alone.

'I can take on any god,' she whispers, in his ear. Probably not a good idea to let the religious sort hear her say that. They'll probably miss the context. 'Whether that's the real deal or a phantom in our minds.'

It's not a lie. She can. She has. But she's trying to soothe her own nerves as much as Hope's and just because she's capable of doing something – or was, once upon a time – it doesn't mean she wants to ever have to again. But she'll do it again. She knows she will. She does, in those nightmares, picking up a sword that no longer exists in this world and charges straight in. Of course, that clumsy strike doesn't stand much of a chance without magic and hope and a few other things to back it up and she doesn't need to see the end to know how it winds up.

She's not the Saviour anymore, but she can pretend.

And, apparently, she does a good enough job, because Hope lowers his head and whispers an 'okay' and that's a small victory for her.