Author's Note: OK. Clearly cliff-hangers are not popular, especially if you do not have a chapter to follow it up right away. I appreciate everyone's patience, and I hope #5 doesn't disappoint.
A big THANK YOU to all who left comments and reviews! You make writing this an amazing experience.
Getting to Know You
"You've been learning sign language?" she asks.
"Yes." He stands, walks around to Moreau, and leans against his desk. She sits down in the chair opposite him. With the book open across her lap, she continues to browse through its pages. She attempts a word or phrase here and there, depending on its complexity, and soon wishes she had Sephiroth's intellect and memory. It is going to take her weeks or months to learn what he has undoubtedly accomplished in a fortnight. She closes the book, but can't bear to look him in the eye.
"I am so sorry, Sephiroth. I jumped to conclusions."
"Yes, you did."
"But I thought-"
"You thought wrong." Moreau looks up at him. If he is suppressing anger or exasperation with her, he is doing it well. Moreau sees disappointment. She sees fatigue. She sees a tinge of sadness that wrenches her heart. He expects behaviour like this from the professor, from other white coats, but not her. And here she is, barging into his office, spewing accusations, making judgments, and assuming the worst of him. And here he is, devoting his dinner and evening hours to expanding his knowledge of a new language so he may communicate with a woman that he didn't ask for or want in his life.
"I am an old fool."
"You are."
"Can you ever forgive me?"
"You must make me a promise."
"If it is within my power, naturally."
"In eight days time, I have an appointment upstairs." Moreau's face becomes solemn.
"I do not want her to know what it is for. You must promise me, Sybelline. Promise me you will never mention my 'treatments' with him to Shai." Moreau's whole body tenses upon hearing his condition for her absolution. She says nothing.
"Sybelline! Promise me you will tell her nothing!"
"Yes! Yes, of course. You have my word. But how do you intend to keep them from her?"
"Disinformation."
"Disinformation?"
"Yes."
"She's not the enemy, Sephiroth."
"I never said she was." When Sephiroth starts using military terms and thinking strategically, Moreau knows when to move on to a new topic.
"Where will you recuperate? You're not going to stay on the 68th floor, are you? In the specimen containment unit?" He doesn't respond. Moreau feels her blood pressure skyrocket. Her voice rises an octave as well.
"Sephiroth, you can't!"
"Where else do you suggest I stay?"
"My place."
"No."
"Why not?"
"I can't- I won't put you through that again." Sephiroth is no stranger to experimentation. He has been subjected to it, in some form or another, his whole life. But Hojo's so-called treatments are something new and altogether sinister, worse than anything Sephiroth's mind and body have experienced before. The experiments have progressively worsened as he has matured into a man. Moreau has had intense discussions with the professor over their purpose. Sybelline argues that they are nothing more than torture while Hojo expounds on their benefits to science and mankind.
When these treatments began, Hojo kept Sephiroth in the SCU for the duration of the treatment, including his recuperation. After seeing him lying on the floor of the unit, unconscious and in nothing but a hospital gown, Moreau demanded that he recover at home, giving Hojo little choice but to step back and silently comply. She made arrangements to have him brought to the 63rd floor that day. For forty eight hours, she cared for him, nursing him through a high fever, nausea, headache, and tonic spasms, sudden and continuous muscular contractions throughout his body. At the end of the second day, when he was well enough to leave his bed, he found Moreau exhausted and crying in the living room. She denied it had anything to do with him and said she was just tired. He vowed then to never allow her to look after him again.
"You must allow me to handle this on my own, Sybelline."
"I will do as you ask. I'm not happy about it, but I will do it."
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Moreau stays for another half hour giving instructions and advice to Sephiroth on how to better coexist with a domestic. First, she tells him to go home after work. Let Shai know when that will be, so she can have dinner prepared. As for meals, don't be afraid to tell her your likes and dislikes. If you prefer something specific one evening, let her know that morning. You have a voice, Sephiroth. Use it. Also, stop sending your clothes out to be cleaned. The condo has a washer and dryer. Let Shai do your laundry. She can only dust and vacuum so much. If something requires to be professionally cleaned, she'll know. You are not her first client. And for goodness sake! Let her clean your bedroom and bath!
When he confides that he is uncomfortable being alone with her, Moreau has advice for that too.
"Why don't you ask her to help you unpack the den? She'll get to know you a bit better and you will get accustomed to being in her company."
"Is that the goal of this arrangement? For her to get to know me better and vice versa?" Moreau sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose.
"Sephiroth. She will be able to do her job more effectively if she is learned in your habits and preferences. And it is simply a nice gesture if you take an interest in her. Don't give me that look! That's not what I meant!"
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
He arrives home at half past ten. The lights of Midgar and a lone table lamp are all that light the living area. Elongated shadows, stretching from the furniture in shades of grey and black, break in two as he passes through them on his way to his bedroom. He glances down the hallway. Lamplight shines from her room, cutting a crisp angle on the carpet. He huffs in annoyance, but shouldn't be surprised. It's not the first time she has fallen asleep with the light on and the door wide open. However, when he hones his sense of hearing, he detects her soft, steady breathing instead of snoring, and the whisper of paper as she turns a page. He reaches his room, turns the handle, then stops, Moreau's parting advice fresh in his mind.
"Be with her like you are with me."
"Stubborn and provoking?"
"Sephiroth."
"Fine. I will be on my best behaviour."
He releases the handle and walks towards her room. Reaching her doorway, he pauses before knocking. She is sitting on the bed, her legs crossed, leaning over an opened cookbook, a finger following along a line of text. She is writing words in a list format in a notebook to her right. Her hair is free, spilling over her shoulders in unruly, loose curls past her face and neck, blanketing her arms and back. Her ice blue eyes seem to sparkle as they move from page to paper. He knocks. She jumps, a single curly lock dropping over her forehead. The pen she is holding pressed a jagged line of ink across her list. He lipreads the word damn as she closes the cookbook.
"Forgive me for startling you." Shai grabs the pocket sketchbook and pencil.
"You need not bother," he says, as he steps into the room, "I want to employ what I have learned." She looks at him, puzzled.
What you have learned?
"Yes. I have been spending my evenings studying textbooks and instructional videos on sign language so that you will no longer need to write in your book." Shai's features widen with shock long enough for her to realize her impropriety, the embarrassment that swiftly follows warming the center of her cheeks. The proper response is to show gratitude and admiration, not drop your jaw in disbelief.
Thank you, general.
"You're welcome, but it was a logical course of action if we are to have an open line of communication while sharing this residence."
Well, I am still thankful. Sephiroth simply nods in reply, unaccustomed to receiving words of thanks for efforts not related to his military expertise or lethalness in combat. A curious silence falls between the two. They continue to gaze at one another. Not in some contest of wills, but out of a kind of wonderment. Two people brought together into a situation new and unique to both of them. A young woman in the presence of a famous military leader, trying to separate myth from reality, and a young man, raised in a restricted and solitary environment, learning the behaviour and mannerisms of a independent woman; both seeing the other as a curiosity to comprehend. Shai is the first to speak after the general's eyes momentarily brighten, forcing her to break her focus on him.
Anything you need, general?
"Yes. I wanted to let you know that I will be home for dinner this week." She stares at him blankly for a second or two, before reaching for the notebook and holding it out for him. He steps closer and accepts it. On the page, is a menu for the following week: pasta dishes, chicken, fish, even a stew. It is clear she puts a great deal of effort into planning meals, in creating well-rounded menus. He thinks back on Moreau's words.
"This is very good, but you do not have to cook a large dinner every day. You can substitute some of these with lighter fare."
What would you prefer?
"I have a wide palate. I'm sure whatever you decide will be fine." He hands the notebook back to her.
"As you know, you do not have to worry about me for breakfast and lunch. I eat both in my office. If, by chance, I should be home for one or the other, I will let you know beforehand." Shai begins to take notes. He decides to continue.
"I am generally home by six. I like to bathe and change into more relaxing attire before I eat. If dinner is served by seven, that will give me time to do both." He notices she has drawn clocks at several points next to her menu.
"On mornings that I am in the dojo, you can have dinner prepared by six thirty. I bathe after I have finished training, so extra time in the evening will be unnecessary." She flips the notebook to start a fresh page. She sets the pen down.
What do you like to drink with dinner?
"Water is fine. If I wish something else, I will either purchase it myself or tell you." She jots down an abbreviated version of her question and his answer, then thinks of another. Shai recalls a teacher who once said there are no stupid questions. She is about to test that theory.
Do you eat desserts, general?
"No." Well, she thinks, it may not have been a stupid question, but she feels stupid for having asked it. No more triple chocolate cake chased with a bottle of white wine with Dr. Moreau. Her imagination conjures an image of her enjoying the same with the general by firelight and Shai feels her cheeks heat up again. The slight curve of his lips tells her that not only has he noticed, but she needs to keep the conversation flowing.
Do you invite guests over for dinner? And the stupid questions keep coming.
"As a rule, no. Occasionally, Dr, Moreau will invite herself over." That raises all sorts of questions for Shai, but she knows to keep these particular queries to herself.
"Is the information I have given you helpful?"
Yes! Very much so. Thank you.
"Then I am going to retire for the evening."
Good night, general.
"Good night, Shai." He turns on his heel, his hair swirling gracefully about him, and leaves. Shai waits until she can no longer hear him before she allows the whole surreality of the last half hour hit her like a slap to the face. After days of silence or one-sided dialogue, he comes knocking on her door offering information she would have preferred to have had on her first day. Careful, Shai. The next thing you know you'll be cleaning his room and doing his laundry.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Sephiroth has crossed the living room and is about to open his bedroom door, when an image of an angel of conscience appears in his head, resplendent and awe-inspiring. But instead of a small replica of himself in celestial regalia, his version looks suspiciously like Sybelline. Her wings are strapped to her back with elastic bands and a halo constructed of a gold glitter boa, wire, and headband, is suspended over her head. Her lips are pursed together and her arms are crossed. He can hear her voice as clearly as if she is standing before him as a luminescent heavenly figure and not a series of chemical processes in his neocortex and thalamus. He reluctantly engages in an inner dialogue with her.
Haven't you forgotten something?
Not that I'm aware of, but if you're here, clearly I have.
Meal times? Eating together? Maybe even at the same table?
Yes. You're right. It did not come to mind.
Please think on it. Remember, if you want to get comfortable being around her, it helps if you two are in the same room.
Noted. Now go away. I curse the day you ever told me the story of Hermes and tutelary spirits. You poisoned a developing, young mind and now I have you corrupting my thoughts.
Good night, Sephiroth.
And as quickly as she appeared, she is gone.