Author's Note: Hi everyone—if you are still reading along, first of all, thank you. I want to say how much I appreciate the readership despite this fandom's quiet shrinking away. I want to address the angry messages I have been receiving out of the gate.

Firstly, this fic, if it wasn't obvious by this point, reviews Squall and Rinoa's past relationship and their dynamic as a couple through Squall's eyes. I have drawn this perspective based on real-life experiences—high school romances that fizzle out, finding reconciliation with a patchy past, and growing to accept yourself for who you are.

Secondly, while Squall and Rinoa are not together in this fic, this does not mean it is a Rinoa-bashing story; far from it. Rinoa has an important role to play, and she becomes more prominent starting in this chapter. She is also dealing with massive amounts of trauma Squall has caused her, stemming from his substance abuse problems and his regression back into his shell during the height of his time as Commander.

Lastly, it's okay if you don't like this fic! That's totally up to you, and I realize it's not for everyone. If the fact that it isn't present-day Squinoa bothers you, I do have several other Squinoa stories in my library that might be more in-tune with what you are looking for. I wish FFNet would allow for better tagging like AO3 so that I could be more direct about what's contained in my story, but here we are. I have tried to better classify my fic with some help from Emerald Latias (thank you!), so hopefully that helps.

14. Parent

I HAVE OFTEN imagined what it would be like to talk to Rinoa again, not just in terms of simple chit chat, but in the context of a real conversation. I miss it. In the early years of our relationship, I remember thinking how easy she was to open up to; I could speak at length with her about pretty much anything, and even though I was often clumsy with my words, she'd find a way to be engaged.

Then there was just the cadence of her voice. I'm not sure exactly how to describe it, other than to say she just had this way about her, so uniquely Rinoa, always bouncing from topic to topic as if it were the easiest thing in the world. It was so foreign to me, though. I could never fully comprehend how she could have so many ideas, so many opinions, especially after spending my whole life keeping my thoughts to myself. But I found it fascinating. She was always eager to share her thoughts, always curious (not unlike our daughter).

As the years wore on, though, I'd started to take our conversations for granted, and by the end, I had grown to almost resent them. I don't know what happened. I guess I became jaded. Every word she spoke started to feel like a critique, every sentence twisted into some double entendre. I would do everything I could to close myself off—more weed, more drinking, more pills. Whatever it took to drown her out. I wanted to hear nothing of what she thought of me, of how worried she was getting, of where she believed my actions might lead.

But then came the day when it all stopped. My life never felt so quiet.

There was this sudden hush which, paired with the break in our bond, existed as a singular point in my mind, like a north star set in the sky of the directionless. For months, I would fixate on it, dwell over what Rinoa might have said in any one given situation. It was pathetic. All that time I had spent pushing and pushing, and when I got what I wanted, when she finally went away, all I wanted was to have her back, to hear her voice. It was this sad kind of longing, born from the lonely kid I've always been, as I tried to piece together some semblance of her from whatever memories I could muster.

At one point, I'd gotten desperate enough to hatch a plan. I wanted to break through the barrier she'd put up after she left me. There was this whole speech I'd half-written out not too long before I'd moved to Deling, where I would acknowledge all the things I did wrong, say I'm sorry, and tell her how much I love her. I thought once I lived nearby, I'd find a chance to let out everything I needed to say. But there never seemed to be a good opportunity to connect, and as time wore on, I could see how much she'd wanted to keep me at arm's length. So, I gave it up.

I might have a new speech for her, now, though. Well, maybe it isn't so much a speech as it is a tirade. And this time, my motivations are much, much different.

It all starts when I pick up Harper on Friday evening. Straight away, I notice that Adrian's black Range Rover is there again, no longer parked in the street, but rather in the driveway (no need for plausible deniability anymore, I guess). I ring the doorbell, wait. The sound of Angelo's bark can be heard from the other side, and Rinoa opens the door a moment later, her smile propped up (whether by good will or necessity, I can't tell) as she invites me into the foyer.

I look around for Harper. Usually, she's eager and ready to go, pink backpack in hand as she squeals out a loud "Daddy!" and comes in for a hug. The fact that she's not here puts me on edge. Even worse is the apologetic look that crosses Rinoa's features and drowns out her smile. I've come to learn that particular expression is never a good sign.

Three memories come racing to the front of my mind where she wore that exact face: one, the time we went out for dinner with Fury, and all he did was complain about Garden and SeeD; two, the time she used my credit card to drop 400G on a handbag, and I found out via the subsequent bill; and three, the first time she told me she had a boyfriend, shortly after I had started cleaning up my act for Harper.

She notices my staring, and tries to force her expression back to the more pleasant side of neutral. "Did you have a good week?" she asks as she retrieves Harper's winter coat from the rack.

I shrug. "It was alright." It wasn't really that great, of course, but what else am I supposed to say? Does she actually expect me to tell her all the things that happened, give her a play-by-play on the sad existence that is my life? It's not like she cares one way or the other. Still, I follow up with my own braindead question, if for no reason other than to be polite. "How was your week?"

She nods. "It was pretty good."

"That's good." Yes, good, everything's good. We're all good here.

I'm about to ask where Harper is, when I spot her playing with him, smiling, laughing. She doesn't even notice my arrival until Rinoa calls out, "Babe, it's time to go! Dad's here." After that, she comes running along, still happy to see me as always, but clearly distracted as she gets her boots and coat on. She grabs her backpack, kisses Rinoa, hugs him.

"Love you Mommy, bye Adrian!" she says. The words reverberate in my skull as we head back to my car.

And just like that, I am. Fucking. Fuming. It takes every last shred of self-control to keep my emotions under wraps on the drive home. But before you go thinking it, no, I'm not mad at my kid—I'm pissed at her mother. She's flat out introduced this guy into our daughter's life, given him more than double the time with her than she's given me. And why? Simply by virtue of their relationship status? That's bullshit.

When we get back to the townhouse, I throw on cartoons for Harper and excuse myself to the patio for a cigarette. I am quite literally shaking with anger. That little fear that had started as an anxious thought in the back of my mind has found a way to take shape in real life. What's next? Will Harper want to spend more time with him? Will I lose what little time I do have? Will she start to think of him as her dad instead of me?

I get it, the first couple years, I was terrible. I don't deny that, rather the opposite. But I've made some real effort here, and unlike other areas of my life where things have felt stagnant at best, with Harper, I can see a measurable change. Everything I do right is either for her, or because of her. Moving to Deling. Saving money for her future. All the visits with Laguna, with Ellone. Keeping myself clear of all the harder drugs, and the parties, and the people who went with them.

Having Adrian, perfect as he is, swoop in and take it all away feels like some sort of cruel punishment for a past that I've tried my best to put behind me.

—

I TRY TO have a good weekend with Harper, despite the constant monologue running in my brain, insisting that all this, like everything else, might soon be a thing of the past. I take her downtown, we drink hot chocolates and share a too-expensive pastry from the bakery, and she plays on the jungle gym at the park, where she meets a kid her age who helps her build a snowman.

When we get back home, I make us dinner, chicken and stir-fried vegetables and rice. Thankfully, she's not a picky eater; that's something she's definitely inherited from me. She does her best to help, handing me utensils, mixing ingredients together. When the food is almost ready, I ask her to set the table, two spots, one for me and one for her.

Her next comment comes out innocently enough, but hell if it doesn't feel like a sucker punch. "I set three spots at Mommy's."

I close my eyes and try to shake the words off. I have to remind myself that she's four, that she doesn't mean anything by it. It doesn't make it sting any less, though. "Yeah, Harps, I know. I'm sure you do a good job there, too."

She nods. "I like Adrian."

Great, wonderful, fantastic. We all like Adrian and his nice vehicle and his perfect hair and his practiced handshakes and his great fucking smile.

"That's nice," I say as I dish her food onto her plate. "Can we talk about something else?"

"You don't like him?" she asks.

I pause, close my eyes for a moment, exhale. What do I even say to that? It's not that I don't like him. When you boil it down to him as a person, he seems decent, but I don't know enough to really have an opinion one way or another. I just don't like the situation. I mean, I really don't like it. But I get that it's not fair to enlighten Harper of that fact.

Still, I can see that she's still looking to me for an answer. I set her plate down. "It's not like that, okay? It's just complicated."

Her face contorts into confusion. "Why?"

Kids and their "whys." I sit down across from her, offer her a small shrug. "It's grown-up stuff. You don't need to worry about it."

Harper tries to look pensive as she eats a piece of chicken. I can tell she's wanting to find a way to make me happy; that's always been her nature. I just wish I wasn't such a burden on my own child. But what can I do? Keep pretending? She's starting to see through my façade already, not that I've been able to cast much more than a thin veil over myself to begin with.

"Dad, are you sad?" she asks.

Sad? It's hard to say if I'm truly sad anymore. The feeling has pretty well been normalized; it's become my new baseline. Trying to remember back to a time when this wasn't just my default demeanour is…difficult. Hazy. It's as though the happiness I've spent so much time trying to reach for has gone past the fringe, lobbed out somewhere beyond my grasp.

But it's her asking, so I put on a smile and shake my head. "Not when I'm with you, Harps."

—

WHEN I DROP Harper off, Adrian is there. I try not to pay much mind to him. It isn't easy. As I force my way through small talk with Rinoa, he's just standing around, all six-foot-something, perfect posture (of course), dressed in somehow-too-nice-to-be-lounge clothes. Then there's how he looks next to Rinoa; they seem like they just go together. I don't really know how to describe it, other than to say I don't think we ever matched quite that well in the seven years we were a couple.

I give my head a small shake and turn my focus back to Harper. She gives me a kiss goodbye, tells me she loves me, and I do the same. I pull her in for a hug, holding on for what's probably far too long. I really don't want to let her go. But I don't have a choice, and right after that, I'm back outside again, trying to reconcile with the fact that I've dropped my kid off with a functional family unit.

At first, I'm anxious, despondent. As soon as I get back home, I grab the good pot from the top cabinet, grind it up, roll a joint. Stare at it. I should want to smoke it. After all, what else is there for me right now? Nothing. There's nothing.

I pick the joint up. The lighter's in my hand, but I don't ignite it. I'm not really sure what my hold up is, but then I start to realize that I don't want to get stoned right now. That despondent feeling starts to fade, and in its place comes the anger—that same anger I felt when I picked Harper up on Friday, striking fast and hot like a match.

It's weird to feel this way. For years, I've been on the receiving end of Rinoa's frustrations. But it's because I've always been the one fucking up, the one trying to make good on all my past mistakes by climbing slowly back up that rope. Maybe it was stupid to think like this, but I always thought that to get to the top, I had to find a way to make Rinoa happy. It's never occurred to me that I might need to contend with her in order to climb higher.

I try to channel the sense of conviction I had when I'd first asked Rinoa for weekends with Harper; in turn, something sparks inside of me that feels vaguely like courage. Forget trying to ease my anxiety. Instead, I get ready to plead my case. I throw the joint back down on the coffee table and grab my phone. And I text her.

"We need to talk."

I grab a cigarette and head onto my patio as I wait for her response. I'm pacing back and forth, hauling my smoke back through clenched teeth.

"About what?" she writes a moment later.

About what. As if she doesn't know.

I want to see my daughter. I don't want her to grow up wondering why her dad couldn't bother seeing her more than two days a week. I don't want her to grow up feeling like someone else had to fill that void, because I wouldn't. I want her to know I tried. I want her to know I fought for her.

"Harper. Can we meet before you get her from daycare tomorrow?"

A read receipt. Come the fuck on. I draw my cigarette down to a butt in record time, smash it into the waiting ashtray. I see her typing. She stops. I don't really understand what she's hesitating for. I head back inside, sit on the couch, stand back up, pace around some more. My anxiety is hitting a solid nine out of ten right now.

When my phone finally buzzes again, I feel my breath get caught in my throat. Part of me is expecting the worst, a "no" or a "go fuck yourself" (the latter of which would be done in politer, more veiled terms). What I get instead comes as a relief, albeit, a small one.

"Meet outside my work at 4pm."

—

I CAN STILL remember when I'd first asked Rinoa to let me take Harper on weekends. She'd said "no." Vehemently. I tried to fight her on it, arguing over the phone, over text, in-person. But I was living in Garden back then, still trying to figure out exactly where I had landed in the wake of my life with Zurie. The most I had managed to get out of her was four hours a week, always in Deling, often with Laguna acting as the supervising party.

That arrangement got exhausting quick. I would leave Garden first thing Saturday morning, arrive by 13:00, visit Harper from 14:00 to 18:00, have dinner and crash at Laguna's, and go home first thing Sunday. Repeat. I think that went on for about two months before I decided enough was enough.

(And yes, I know—I was doing the same trip from Friday to Monday for Zurie with no complaints, but that's probably because the drugs were egging me on. Those weekends didn't come with any notion of anxiety, either, not like my visitation trips. Seeing Rinoa, fighting off my demons, reconciling with all that guilt that had built up—I had a lot in front of me to deal with.)

What came from my exhaustion, though, was the motivation to leave Balamb. I remember telling the Headmaster of my plans, bags already packed. I was fully expecting to be terminated. But instead, he set me up to work remote, which at the time, felt like a small reprieve, because at least I didn't have to figure out my employment situation in tandem with my new living arrangements.

It was a bit of a shock at first. I had been suddenly freed of the routine I'd known for almost a decade; I had escaped the walls I'd been living in since I was five. I didn't quite know what to do with myself. The first week, I spent at Laguna's, just me and the two large suitcases I'd left with. It was uncomfortable. I felt like I was an imposition, although my father never seemed to be anything less than happy to have me around.

Still, sentiment or not, I felt like I had to do this on my own. I ended up renting out an apartment for a couple months, a small, bland place in the west end, while I tried to figure out where I wanted to settle on a more permanent basis. All the while, I was learning to live in the city where so many past temptations were within easy reach; some days, it was hard to not just give up and revert back to what I knew. But those four-hour visits with Harper gave me something to hold onto. They kept me climbing up that rope, first hauling myself off of the bottom floor, then slowly working my way one foot up, two feet, three.

Finding a place to live long-term was pretty damn tough. If it was just me, I wouldn't have cared; I could have lived in that one-bedroom flat indefinitely. But I wanted more for Harper, because maybe one day, Rinoa would grant me more than a Saturday afternoon with her. Maybe one day, she'd let her have dinner with me, or even stay the night.

I looked at a lot of places online, went to more than my fair share of open houses. There were times when I'd start to worry that there was nothing suitable out there, but when I finally came across the listing for my townhouse, I knew it was home. Moving in was surreal. I barely had any belongings for my tiny one-bedroom apartment; filling up a full two storeys was not something I ever thought I'd have to do. I ended up buying all new furniture, got enough dishes and linens for two, set up Harper's room.

I think that was what finally changed Rinoa's mind. When she dropped her off for my allotted hours, she saw the lengths to which I'd gone to make it our daughter's home, too. The following week, she came with paperwork—an agreement—to officially grant me weekend custody. And I knew then fighting for Harper was not an exercise in futility.

—

I PULL UP next to Rinoa's car on the second level of the parkade as 16:00 rolls around. I'm fucking nervous. It's like suddenly, I don't know what to say. I think I used up all my bravado on texting her last night. I try to calm myself with a smoke, put on New Miserable Experience and commiserate with Gin Blossoms.

I'm not exactly enthused that she's picked a parking lot of all places to talk to me. It just goes to show how much she wants to keep her distance. I would have thought maybe a coffee shop might be more appropriate, but I'm not about to argue the where. I need to stay focused on the why. All it takes is picturing picture perfect Adrian to remember my reason for being here.

Rinoa's late enough that I get halfway through Mrs. Rita before I spot her walking up the row of cars. She still looks like the girl I used to know, the one I loved (and still do), even with her high ponytail and her business casual attire, all wrapped up under a long sherpa coat. It's a bit strange to see her professional side. I know she isn't particularly crazy about this job; I don't think it's anyone's dream to work as a mortgage broker, but it's good pay, and like me with SeeD, she's doing it for Harper.

I can tell as she draws nearer that she's exhausted, the way her mouth is pulled into a straight line. Her eyes meet mine as she opens her car and throws her work bag into the back seat.

I get out of my vehicle, take a last pull of my cigarette, smash it into the ground. "Hey."

"Hey," she says.

The pleasantries from our foyer exchanges are out the window, here. There's no Harper to pretend for, no reason to dance around. Still, I weirdly wish there was something. The tension between us is almost unbearable.

I try my best to cut through. "Thanks for meeting me."

"No problem." She looks as nervous as I am, but her voice is steady, bordering on impatient. "What do you need to talk about? I have to get Harper in twenty minutes."

Twenty minutes. Good thing this isn't important. (Of course, I'm being sarcastic.)

"I…" How do I even start? Ease into it? Rip the proverbial band-aid off? Fuck, I don't know. I hesitate. I don't want this to become some big thing. We've fought too many times over Harper for one reason or another, and at this point, I've become eerily familiar with the sense of despair that tends to follow. I look at her for a moment; I can already tell this is not going to be easy.

"Squall…" She puts her hands on her hips in a way that I know means she's irritated. "You're the one who wanted to catch up."

I shake my head. May as well get it over with. I rip the band-aid. "I want to talk about getting more time with Harper."

She raises an eyebrow. "More time? Really?"

What? Is that so hard to believe? Am I not allowed to want to see my daughter more than two days a week? I shrug. "Is that out of the question or something?"

She looks down to the concrete, lets her shoulders fall, exhales. Of all things, I wish I could still sense our bond. When it was there, it was like my empathy was heightened; I could reach out and feel what she was feeling, and she could do the same (side note: I am absolutely certain that is one of the reasons I started taking Xanax, and why she hated it so much when I did).

Right now, she's a mystery to me. It's almost like we don't know each other anymore. Her next words come out soft, but they hit like a hammer. "Squall, I can't do that."

"Why?"

Her head snaps back up. "'Why'? You're not serious."

"I am."

"Well, I just don't feel comfortable changing things right now," she says.

"Rinoa, I'm her dad," I say. I try to keep focused, but I can already tell I'm losing my grip. "I should be able to spend more than forty-eight hours with my own kid. You don't think it's good for her to have a proper father figure?"

"I do, but…" She trails off.

"'But' what?" I can hear the desperation starting to come through in my voice. "It's been well over a year of weekends. I just feel like…" I feel like Harper is growing up so fast and I'm missing everything. I feel like Adrian is going to be with her through all the moments that I want to experience myself. I feel like if I don't say something now, she'll slip away forever. "...I feel like I should be more of a parent to her than I am right now."

She heaves out a long sigh. Something like pity flashes across her face. "I know you feel like that. I want to feel that way, too. But Squall, there's still so much—" She closes her eyes for a moment, shakes her head. "—damage."

"Rinoa…" I force myself to look her straight in the eye. "I'm not going back to that. Ever. You know that, right?"

She bites her bottom lip for a moment, shies away from my gaze. "That's just it. I don't know that for sure."

The next word mostly falls out of my mouth. "How?"

"Because," she says.

"'Because'," I parrot back.

"Because Squall, you got better once before when I was pregnant, but you and I both know it didn't last." She pulls her coat tighter, closes herself off. "I can't let Harper experience something like that. She won't understand."

"I'm not about to let the past repeat itself again," I tell her. "I know better this time. I know what's on the line, here."

"You can't expect that a short amount of time on best behaviour is enough to convince me of that," she says.

That particular comment gets me fired up. What does she even mean? "It's been more than two years, now. That isn't exactly nothing," I hiss out.

"Yeah? And what came before that?" She throws a hand in the air. "Do you expect me to forgive and forget after what you did to us?"

Forgive and forget? No. Acknowledge that I've done better? I'd like to think that she can at least see some sort of difference. Am I perfect? No, of course not. I never will be. But I'm here. I'm fucking here, after everything that's happened. And I've been trying to do right by both her and Harper. "I don't expect any sort of denial. I can't forgive or forget, either. But Rin, I'm trying."

"I know you are," she concedes. "But what I'm telling you is that two good years don't make up for nine bad ones."

That throws me off. "Nine? So you're saying the entire time we were together was a wash."

"I'm saying it wasn't exactly as promised."

As promised. God. Nothing's ever as promised. Doesn't she know that? No one can be that naïve. "Our relationship has nothing to do with this."

"You're wrong," she says. Her eyes narrow. "It has everything to do with this."

"'Everything'? Really?" I can't believe what I am hearing.

"Reverse the roles, Squall." Her voice is sharp. "Would you let Harper spend any more time with me if I'd spent almost a third of my life hopped up on all sorts of pills and who knows what? Giving you weekends was the reward for staying straight."

My turn to throw my hands up. I don't even know what to do with this. It feels like she's piled all my past indiscretions up in front of me, put them on display in the world's shittiest showcase of human error. And reward? What the hell is that? She's hanging our arrangement out in front of me like a carrot to a horse. "Are you just going to hold this over my head until she's eighteen-years-old?"

"If I have to, yes." She draws in another breath through her mouth and exhales through her nose. It comes out ragged. "You were gone for so long. I don't know you anymore. I still don't know if I can fully trust you with her."

She can't trust me with her? Unbelievable. I am pissed off now. "You've never given me the chance to regain anything, let alone trust! You just left!"

"I left because of you!" she cries out. "Because. Of. You. And don't give me that 'never gave you a chance' bullshit. What did you do once we were gone? You didn't call, or come see us, or try to fix anything. No, why do that?"

I can feel my emotions rising in the back of my throat, hot like bile. "Well, what the fuck did you think was going to happen, Rin? It's not like you left the door open. Your message was loud and clear. You were out. Gone. Done."

"Done with this!" She gestures wildly back and forth with her hand, pointing at herself, pointing at me. "I was done with the lies. Done with the constant fighting. But I didn't think you were going to just shut her out, too."

"I didn't shut her out," I say. "You took her away."

"What choice did I have?" she asks. "What else was I supposed to do?"

I don't know. Fuck. "Stay? Try and work things out?"

"And watch you double-down? God, Squall!" Rinoa's voice raises on my name as a tear streaks down her pale face, dark eyes lost in mine, searching for a why that does not exist. "We both know the path you were on."

I can barely think. I'm just reacting, trying to deflect a hailstorm of past mistakes, flung right at my face. "I was on that path because I didn't know what else to do!" I tell her. "Every single thing in my life was fucked up. Garden, SeeD, our relationship, every goddamned thing. I had to get a break somehow. I had to escape."

"Yeah, some break. How was partying our child's first steps away?" Rinoa spits. "Was doing coke better than hearing her first words? Please tell me, I want to know!"

Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck. I have to stop myself from completely blowing up. This is the first time we've really spoken since our initial agreement; I really didn't think it was going to turn so quickly. But now I know why she was so insistent on keeping her distance—all that anger was still just sitting there, barely two inches below the surface, waiting for a chance to rise. Any illusions I had of making it further up that rope are being shattered. Maybe I haven't been climbing at all.

"I know I messed up," I tell her after a long pause. "But you're focusing on the wrong thing."

"Well, I'm sorry, but that's all I can focus on whenever I see you."

"Even now?" I can feel my heart rate go up.

"Squall, listen—"

"—So what, then?" Fuck listening. I'm shouting. I don't want to be, but I am. My voice reverberates through the concrete lot, up and down the levels of cars, exiting out beyond the walls. "That's it? You're gonna give your new fucking boyfriend more time with my daughter than I get?"

"Adrian is a good guy, and you can keep him out of this," she spits out.

"The hell I will!" I'm all in, now. The rage is boiling over; all that frustration, laid bare in front of her. "He doesn't get to step in and take over. I won't let it happen."

Rinoa takes a step forward, matches her anger against mine. There are fresh tears in her eyes. God, this is not how I wanted this to go. "Squall, you should consider yourself lucky that you get to see her at all."

"What does that mean?" My words come out not so much a question as a demand. At first, she's silent, her head shaking slowly back and forth, fists clenched. I try again. "Rinoa, what does that mean?"

"Forget it, okay?" She carefully brushes her eyes dry, turns her gaze back toward her waiting car. "I have to go, or I'm going to be late picking her up."

"Are you taking her away?" I ask. I can feel my own tears starting to form. My words crack against the upset. "Rinoa, please."

"Squall…" Her voice is ready to rise again, but then she sees me—really sees me for the first time since we started this whole mess—and she softens a bit. "The only person who can take her away from you is you."