Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who's been reading this fic. I want to say I recognize everyone who's reached out to tell me they don't like that it's not a traditional Squinoa fic, and that's totally okay! I do have other fics that are Squinoa; it's a pairing I will always love. I'll probably try to manage a oneshot of them before end of year. I hope those of you who do choose to stick it out here with me will enjoy what's to come. Sorry for the long delay between chapters. I got a puppy and she's been taking up a lot of my time!

17. Mercenary

THE AIR IN Dollet is thicker than it is in Deling, ocean salt mixed in with exhaust from boats that clog up busy ports and shipping lanes, stirring and settling near the harbourfront. In another life, I think I might've liked to live here, but in this one, Dollet always reminds me of things I'd much rather forget: my final SeeD exam, all but cementing my fate as Commander; a trip with Rinoa that marked the beginning of the end of our relationship, where all we did was fight; and of course, the temptation that swirls in my mind as I think of Zurie and secretly wonder if she's still living here.

The grey that's been so stubbornly cast over the sky back home is notably absent. Pinhole black stands jarringly in its place, stars all expanding wide against the horizon, reaching for the warmth of Balamb. I lean my head against the window of my cab as it takes me to my hotel, staring out at the symmetrical brick architecture, the once-noble ornate buildings, all decorated in neon signs; restaurants and vintage clothing boutiques and a sex toy shop. Dollet, more than anything, is a city in search of itself, on the eastern edge of a nation that has known only struggle in the wake of wars and long-standing occupation.

I check in just before midnight, haul my luggage up to my room. The space isn't much—a queen-sized bed, a small dresser, a TV, a desk crammed up next to the AC unit. I toss my gun case and duffel bag into the closet, plug my phone in, undress, grab my toiletries kit, hop in the shower.

It feels good to just stand there and let the water pool around my feet. If only I could stay forever, just watching the swirl of the drain, feeling the steam rise from the heat. But even I'm not that unrealistic. I scrub away the oil off my face, wash off the stink of a day spent cramped up on the train.

Stepping out comes with a shock of cold—warmth evaporating, the chill of tile flooring. I towel off quickly, not wasting any time crawling into the bed, underneath the down duvet and tightly tucked sheets.

I wish I could just fall asleep. I'm tired, but not tired enough, and it's only 20:00 back home. I make an attempt anyway, try to give myself some clearance. A Xanax would be good right now. It'd bring the hush that I just can't manage on my own. Because even as I close my eyes, my brain keeps me up, telling me how much I don't want to be here, how I'm not looking forward to starting this mission tomorrow. The thought of Robinson hasn't gotten any more appealing, but the thought of being surrounded by plastic politicians has me feeling even more soured than normal.

I open my eyes up again, grab my glasses, reach for my phone on the nightstand. One email from Xu with a final list of SeeDs assigned to the summit, one text message from Quistis. I open it up.

"You've got this."

I smile. At least someone thinks I do.

"Sure I won't screw up?" I ask.

Her reply is quick. "Would you even care if you did?"

I have to think about that for a minute. I should care, obviously. On some level, I think I do. I hate fucking up things that I'm fully capable of doing right—cracking an egg and breaking the yolk, forgetting laundry in the wash overnight, nicking my skin when I shave. In that sense, my job is no different. And it's easier when I do it right; the paperwork that comes with a mistake has generally been enough motivation for me to fly straight in the past. I just don't know if it's enough now.

"I care as much as I should," I tell her.

Her "Whatever" is accompanied by a wink.

I ask, "Are you so bored that all you can do is mock me?"

"You know you like it."

I smirk. Bold of her to assume. I can picture her now, sitting at home, feeling all self-satisfied, basketball playing in the background. Definitely wine in hand. Phone in the other. Probably dressed in that old t-shirt. If I were there, she'd probably offer up some wry look and she stretched her legs across my lap, and—

—Hell. It might be the fact that it's now been the better part of a year since the last time I've slept with anyone. It might also just be the fact that I've forgone any clothing before getting into bed. Either way, I'm suddenly very aware that I'm getting hard. My head, at the very least, knows that I should not be. Especially over her. But my dick apparently has other plans, logic and consequence be damned, and well, here we are. God damn it.

I throw my phone and glasses back onto the nightstand, grab a pillow, and pull it over my face. A debate fires up in my head. Do I: A, scream into said pillow; B, fall asleep under it; or C, smother myself until I suffocate? Right now, C is looking pretty good. Fuck me.

—

THERE ARE FEW things I've come to hate more in this life than following Secretary Robinson around. I've worked for plenty of politicians in the past twelve years—presidents, senators, all the way down to mayors and city councillors—but none have been quite so…smug. And it reeks off him, more than I reek after a night of drinking and smoking weed. He wears this unearned look of satisfaction as I meet up at his five-star hotel to escort him to the summit. Do I have to introduce myself again? Yes. Do I think he'll remember my name for next time? Absolutely not.

It's already bad enough that I have Xu in my ear once more, listening for any little mistake I might make. I can picture her with the other sub-command SeeDs back in Balamb, monitoring live feeds, the room hazy from her cigarette smoke. There's something so gross about it, too, the whole being watched thing. It's a feeling of unease I just can't shake off. Best I can do is try not to give her a reason to get after me. But even that's hard when you're assigned to someone like Robinson, and you have to spend so much time biting down on your tongue out of fear you might verbalize something that was meant to stay in your head.

Following him around is exhausting. Not physically. I just mean having to be near him. The sound of his voice on its own is enough to drive anyone mad. It's all nasal and full of pomp, touting Timber's recent international achievements as if it was his sole personal effort. What must it be like to be one of his staffers? I can barely stand being around this guy for a two-day stint. A forty-hour work week? God. Even if he wasn't plain gross in every other way, I have to think one would go nuts having him constantly claiming their work as his own. I bet the word "mutiny" has come up on more than one occasion in his office.

As he toddles from meeting to meeting, I catch myself wondering how much trouble I'd actually get in if I just left. Hell, it's not like I'm not actually providing any sort of real security. The Dolletian military has the entire affair completely locked down.

And even if they didn't, there's almost a dozen other SeeDs on watch, too, most of which Xu and I hand-picked ourselves. Fun fact: Robinson could've had any one of them, but no. He had to go and splurge. And of course, while it's not fine by me personally, it's all well and dandy with Garden—they get a job that has virtually no risk whatsoever, and they get to charge four times more for the pleasure of deploying top-tier talent.

It makes no fiscal sense whatsoever for him. Still, I know exactly why he did it. It's not about safety, or an abundance of caution, or anything like that. I'm an accessory to him. A status symbol. Having an A-rank on his wing gives him an air of power, something he can wield at his counterparts. And strangely, I kind of understand it, too. With his shit demeanour and bad toupée and absolute lack of physical stature, he really does need all the help he can get.

In my past life, I might have at least been interested in what the discussions were centered around: Timber's ongoing security alliance with Trabia, the stalled negotiations with Galbadia, the free trade deal with Dollet. But that's practically ancient history at this point. Instead, I'm mostly in my head, thinking about mundane things—what am I going to eat later, did I remember to pay my gas bill—while my feet start to get sore from standing around. It's all bland, boring.

That changes when he meets with the newly-elected leader of Esthar, President Okuro. And not because I'm suddenly interested in what they have to talk about; I could give less of a fuck. I'm mostly just curious about the person occupying the seat my father had once held.

I take a moment to look him over. He's all decked out in those traditional white robes, his smile razor thin, his dark gaze sharp. Yes, I know, I'm quick to judge (again), but I can already tell that beyond the title, he shares nothing with Laguna. My father is like glass, every emotion readily available, his approach so easy to read, it's hard to believe he was ever a politician. But he was a leader for a different time, and it's been almost a decade since his last day in office.

This man is opaque, stone. It's obvious that he knows the game. He's the embodiment of modern-day Esthar—no longer a re-emerging country, but rather a world player. And there's no folding with him; as the conversation goes on, it's easy to see how completely unafraid he is to tip the scales in order to ensure his country's continuing supremacy in a chaotic post-war world. Only someone as dense as Robinson could let that go over his head.

I try not to make much of the whole interaction, which is mostly just Robinson jizzing in his pants at the thought of being so close to real power (ugh, sorry for that visual—I think I just puked a little, myself). Okuro, in turn, offers little in the way of reassurances for Timber. I think he's mostly just content to have such a know-nothing peon as this toupée-touting Secretary to deal with; it makes negotiating (read: manipulating) that much easier.

And while it's all kind of sick, this dance they're doing, I can't really find a way to be bothered by the ramifications that may come of it. Maybe that's the SeeD in me. I've been well-trained to stay neutral. It's not until the end of the whole meeting, when Robinson brings up my father, that I actually feel something.

"I'm excited for the future of our two countries. Esthar has come a long way since Loire. He…just didn't get it," Robinson says. And he looks so proud, too, as if he's stating his personal dogma for the world to hear. "He was soft. A horrible leader. I'm amazed someone didn't just do your country a favour and take him out. Twelve years was twelve too long."

Okuro says nothing.

I chew down hard on the inside of my cheek. Now obviously, Robinson has no idea that he's talking shit right in front of Laguna Loire's son—no one here knows who I am beyond hired help. Hell if I don't want to rip him a new one though. And Xu must sense it too, through the security cameras and the long, low breath I let out, because I catch her voice in my ear, saying, "Squall, don't."

I don't. Instead, I let my hands clench into fists and feel my fingernails dig at my palms. All I can do is be thankful that this is the last meeting of the day, or else I might find a way to get myself fired.

—

DAY TWO GOES about the same as day one. Piss, shower, suit up, grab breakfast to-go. I smoke two cigarettes on the ride over before picking up Robinson from his hotel. Xu does her quick check-in before settling into my ear for the day. I'm sure this whole summit has been fascinating to her so far—there's endless fodder for Garden buried in all these discussions. What others see as conflicts, they see as opportunities to offer up its security services on a silver platter.

Robinson doesn't acknowledge my greeting (no surprise) as I stand there with the car door open, waiting for him to get in. Fine by me—he's preoccupied anyways, babbling on the phone with whom I can only presume to be his wife, all the way back to the duchy.

It makes me wonder: who in their right mind would marry this man? And for what purpose? His wonderful personality and winning looks? I would rather be single for the rest of my life than even consider it. Maybe she's just in it for the money. Separate bedrooms, separate lives. Just be available to make him look good when it's convenient. Whatever. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't slightly amused by her forcing him to play defense for once. I never thought I'd hear so many "yes dears" coming out of his crusty, crooked mouth.

Robinson gives himself a moment to reset after he hangs up. A breath, a sip of bottled water, maybe a few mental high-fives. And it works, because his demeanour changes as soon as we pass security and head back in for more talks.

He meets first with Prime Minister Hale of Balamb, who actually recognizes me from my on-site days back at Garden and offers a small greeting. "Commander Leonhart, good to see you."

Normally I'd shrink away from someone using my title, but it's actually nice to be recognized as a human being in the midst of all this so-called diplomacy. I give her a small smile. "Good to see you as well."

Of course, this doesn't fly with Robinson, and he steps in to remind her that I'm just his lowly help, a bit of background noise. She throws me a raised eyebrow before turning to sit down with him.

I shrug. There's nothing she can do; he's the client, and while he's a complete cock, I'm not about to argue for some sort of seat at their table. I turn back into a fly on the wall, standing around for hours on end, thinking about what to do with Harper this weekend, wondering what hurts more after being on my feet for two days straight. Following Robinson feels like cruising on auto-pilot; I'm just a passenger in a SeeD's body as he moves from Hale to the delegation from FH and then into the grand chamber for formal wrap-up discussions.

I wish I could say that was the end of it, but of course, there's always the stupid party (and I use that term loosely) that follows these events. I take Robinson back to his hotel so he can get "freshened up"—an image I do my best not to picture. As he gets out of the car, he offers me some wonderful, unsolicited advice.

"You should go back to your hotel and clean yourself up, too, boy." The words are already demeaning, but somehow he finds a way to make them sound even more so. It's almost as if it's the only way he knows how to communicate: downward. "Fix that hair of yours and put something on that doesn't smell like smoke."

I say nothing. Fuck this guy. He's forgotten the fact that I literally have only thirty minutes to myself, not enough time to do anything other than grab a bottle of water and a protein bar from the store up the street. But even with all that aside, I wouldn't change my clothes or fix my hair (emphasis on my hair, as in, not a toupée) for him, anyways. He's lucky that I even put on this godforsaken uniform in the first place.

I make sure to grab a smoke before he comes back out; it's all I can do to keep myself sane at this point. I just hope I smell extra nice for him.

—

I KEEP A low profile at the evening banquet. It's not hard to do. There's plenty of noise here, enough so that it drowns out the sound of Robinson's voice. For my own sanity, I try to keep as much distance as is allowed; I figure as long as I have eyes on him, I'm good.

Everyone is dressed in formal attire. There's a phrase about polishing turds that comes to mind as I scan the room, looking at the perfectly plated food that I can't eat and the champagne that I can't drink. SeeD and security alike are posted all throughout, hiding on the fringes, doing their best to not be completely redundant.

I hate these ballroom affairs. There's just so much ass-kissing, so many people all vying to climb one extra rung on the ladder. Of course, Robinson's the worst of them all. He charts a path from table to table, meeting with representatives from different delegations. In turn, they put on fake smiles for him, nodding along with whatever nonsense comes out of his mouth until he finally runs himself aground. Heads shake and eyes roll the moment he turns away.

God, there are so many things I would rather be doing right now: getting a drink, cutting my toenails, sleeping until this whole damn summit is over. I have to keep reminding myself that there's only a couple hours left until I can escape back to the hotel. My fingers twitch—I want another smoke, badly. I can practically feel the irritation rising underneath my skin.

Now despite all that, I'd like to say that I've been nothing but professional, at least outwardly. I've mostly done what I've been asked, kept an eye on my client, stayed out of the way. But when Robinson finishes blabbering with Prime Minister Hale (poor woman, having to endure two rounds of this guy), he decides to truly put my patience to the test.

It happens quick. He doesn't look as he gets up from his seat, and before anyone can react, he collides with a server. There's this distinct look of horror that crosses her face as four glasses of wine come tumbling off her tray, spilling in an almost cartoon-like fashion down the front of his penguin-esque tux.

There's a quick hush as the shock sets in. I have to hold my breath to keep from laughing. The feeling doesn't last long, though. Robinson's head flares up, almost as red as the wine staining his once-white shirt. His eyes zero in on the girl, and he starts losing his goddamned mind.

"Do you not pay attention to where you're walking?" he cries out. As if she's supposed to read his mind and know that he was about to scoot out in front of her path. "Have you any idea what you've done?"

She starts crying. Hale hands Robinson one of her napkins, which he snatches from her hands. He frantically tries to absorb the stains, but the attempt is futile. After a moment of rubbing the cloth against his gut, he throws the stained napkin at the server's face as if she's some sort of dirty laundry basket. It's a move that pisses me off more than almost anything else he's said or done this weekend. She's not just some prop—she's a human being, someone's friend, daughter. (I wouldn't hesitate to fuck up the guy who'd dare attempt something like that on Harper.)

Robinson sets his sights on me. "SeeD boy!" he hollers from halfway across the room.

I raise an eyebrow. He did not just call me that. I don't move—I let him come to me. Client or not, I'm not about to be a bitch to some walking, talking low-grade fever. Especially not now. I'm hungry, I'm tired, I'm running on a nicotine deficit, and I reached my bullshit quota hours ago.

"Boy, did you not hear me?" he asks as he waddles up under my nose.

"I heard you," I say.

It's then that Xu reminds me that she's listening, that she's got eyes on me. "Watch it, Squall. Just do what you need to calm him down."

Calm him down? Since when am I his babysitter? I've seen my four-year-old do a better job of keeping her cool in situations far worse than this.

Robinson's brows knit even closer together. "Why didn't you come when I called?"

Because I'm not a dog? I shrug. "You're here, now. What do you need?"

"I want you to deal with her!"

What. A. Douche. I shake my head. "I'm not going to do that."

He looks at me as if it's the first time he's ever been told no. "That's a breach of your contract. Your superiors won't have it."

Xu chimes in again. "Don't escalate this."

Escalate what? There's nothing to escalate. I can't help but snort. "Are you in danger?"

"Squall! Are you listening to me?"

He looks incredulous. "Yes, if that's what it takes for you to follow a direct order!"

For a moment, I just stare at his snarled face. The anger has caused him to sweat, which in turn has caused the glue to lift on the corner of his rug. The phrase "fix your hair" comes to mind. I look back at the server. She's clearly upset. If I had to guess, she's probably wondering if she's about to be detained by a SeeD (not to mention panicking over what kind of nonsensical charges Robinson might try to lay on her).

I tell him, "I can't arrest her. She was just doing her job, and you got in her way."

"What good are you, then?" He's seething.

"Apparently none," I say.

"Fucking useless!"

He yells it loud enough that the other SeeDs in the room turn their attention toward me. Some look shocked, some are ready to move in. Me? I'm about to give them an important lesson that they'll never learn from Garden. The client is not always right.

"Are you done?" I ask. "Because my contract doesn't cover bruised egos."

Xu cries out one last time, but it's too late. "What the fuck are you doing?"

I think he might blow a vein in his head. He looks me up and down, tries to think of some sort of retort, comes up empty, and then storms off.

Maybe Quistis is right—I don't care as much as I should. But why should I? The only thing I've gotten out of the whole weekend is the affirmation I didn't know I needed: that I really don't belong with SeeD anymore. Because now I'm not just coasting in this job; I'm doing something much worse—I'm holding myself back. And you know what? I am sick and tired of it.

As I watch Robinson walk away one last time, I can't help myself. I call after him, "Oh, and my name is Squall Leonhart. You know, in case you missed it the last three times. You can include it in your complaint to Garden."

—

XU CALLS TO give me the reprimand to end all reprimands, full of frustration and densely packed with the kind of anger that's become all but on brand for her. She tells me she's put in a formal request for a leave of absence on my behalf, and that she intends to have a meeting with the Headmaster about my performance in the morning. And while I know full well I should be panicking about the prospect of a work suspension—not to mention all the financial implications that come with it—I can't help but feel, well, not much of anything.

Hell, even as she's talking to me, I'm already back in my street clothes, sitting at my not-five-star hotel bar, having a whisky on the rocks. Never before have I been so checked out from a conversation. And that's if you can even call this a conversation at all. The whole exchange is almost entirely one-way. I polish off my drink, hit the bartender up for another.

"Are you even listening?" Xu asks.

"Sure," I say. "Leave of absence, effective immediately. You got it."

"Fuck, Squall. You're unbelievable."

She hangs up. Whatever. I let another sip of whisky burn a welcome path down my throat as I drop my phone back onto the countertop. It lands with a dull thud.

It's not like this is my first experience with disciplinary action. There were plenty of incidents when I was dating Zurie where I found myself on the receiving end of a Michele Xu tirade. But those were all for smaller things: showing up late to meetings, issues with paperwork, a myriad of minor unforced errors. Reaming out a client, though, especially one as high-profile and as fragile as Robinson? And to do it with so much intention? That's the part that's all shiny and new for me.

I don't regret it, though. I just don't have the tolerance for his kind of attitude anymore, not like I used to. Maybe hanging out with Seifer is having more of an effect on me than I'd first thought. Hell, if he was here right now, he'd probably offer up some sort of congratulations, give me bonus points for royally pissing off Xu in the process.

So what do I do with my newfound (albeit, forcibly imposed) freedom? My original plan was to spend the evening working on my mission report. That seems pretty pointless, now. I don't feel like going back to my room just to spend the next few hours focusing on how drained I am. I push my glasses up, rub my eyes. They're still dry from wearing contacts for the past two days. It's a minor discomfort though, especially compared to the lingering sense of defeat that's sinking ever deeper into my brain.

I pick up my phone, start scrolling. It's a Wednesday night; prospects aren't exactly fantastic. Not that they have to be. I just want a distraction. My search turns up a cover band playing just a few blocks away. Good enough for me.

I finish my drink, settle up my tab. It's a short walk down the mostly empty street to the pub. I can hear the place before it comes into full view, loud, unpolished rock and roll pouring out the half-open door, a small gathering of smokers camped under the gaudy yellow awning.

Five gil gets me inside. It's not terribly busy; there are a few tables right in the front that've filled up, likely friends of the band. Beyond that, people are scattered, some near the pool tables, a small group in the back by the sound booth. I find a seat at the bar.

There's no such thing as top shelf here; hell, there's not even an option to get a proper cocktail at all. I guess I should have expected that. I yell my rum and Coke order over the music. The bartender pours a generous shot of cheap, spiced Centran crap and mixes it with soda from the bar gun. I quietly wonder how long it's been since the lines in the thing were last cleaned. The whole drink fizzes up like a science experiment. He jams a lime wedge onto the rim of the plastic cup and hands it back to me.

It's the kind of sweet that makes your teeth feel all horrible and fuzzy on contact. Still, it's better than nothing, especially after the shit couple of days I've had. I take another drink as I turn around on the cracked stool to watch the band.

They're what you'd expect for mid-week in Dollet. The singer sometimes falls a bit flat, the drummer has a habit of speeding up. The bassist is definitely drunk. But they're not terrible, and they cobble together a halfway decent version of Come As You Are by Nirvana.

Their friends jump up onto the dancefloor when they start playing Two Princes, a song that has never been a favourite of mine, but that I can't help but tap along to as well. Live music has a funny way of doing that. It's almost as if the songs transform, and you can feel them more completely, feel the energy that comes off other people when they hear something they love.

It's the distraction I needed. I end up getting fairly absorbed in the whole performance, enough so that I'm startled when the bartender taps my shoulder and points to the tequila shot waiting for me on the sticky countertop.

"Huh?" I ask him. "What's this for?"

A hand comes to rest on my other shoulder. "Hi."

I spin around. For a second, I'm surprised, and then, not. Hell if it doesn't feel like I've just stepped into a timewarp, though. The long purple hair is unfamiliar, but Zurie's smile is the same as ever, all toothy and wide and mischievous. And she's as unreserved as she's always been too, comfortable enough that she gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek without a second thought.

"Um, hi," I manage as she releases me from her grasp. I don't know what else to say.

"Cheers," she says, holding up a shot of her own.

I grab the tequila, slam it back, try not to wince.

Let me say this. I'd be lying if I told you I wasn't hoping (at least in some subconscious capacity) that I'd run into her again one day. Because even though my time with her was disastrous in so many ways, I did actually like this girl. A lot. We had fun together. She showed me a side of myself I didn't know existed, made me feel like a human rather than a product of Garden. But still. There's the hope of running into her, and then there's the reality. And the reality is weird. Really fucking weird.

In a past life, I might have said this was all fate. But I know better. It's not fate; it's not even really coincidence. Confession time: a part of me had a feeling she'd be at a place like this, and it likely played into my decision to come here. The only part that might be fate is the fact that she's actually here. But even that feels more like luck than anything (whether it's good or bad luck though—that's yet to be determined).

"Go for a smoke?" she asks between songs.

I nod. We head outside. Unlike the first time we met, she doesn't grab my hand. I don't think I was expecting her to, but I decide to shove my hands into my pockets to avoid any (additional) awkwardness.

It's started snowing that wet, slushy kind of snow that's all too common near the ocean. We huddle underneath the yellow awning to keep dry. She pulls out a pair of black cigarettes, hands one over to me, offers me a light. For a moment, I just stand there, staring out into space, trying to figure out what to say, what to think. I can't think of anything necessarily polite. I want to dive in headfirst, ask her why she left me so abruptly. Did I do something to upset her? Because if I didn't, then why haven't I heard from her again until right now?

"So, what are you doing in town?" Zurie's the first one to ask anything.

"Work," I say. I don't want to get into it.

"Still with Garden?" she asks.

Performance review pending. "For now." I take a long drag. I wish I had a joint or something. This interaction has me more on edge than the entire dressing down I got from Xu. I try to force the conversation along, stringing empty words together through wisps of smoke. "How about you? Still serving?"

She grins, shrugs. "Yeah, working at a breakfast café near the harbour market. Well, not tomorrow though. It's my Friday."

"Ah." I scan the small crowd outside. "You here with anyone?"

"Just a couple of friends."

There's this thought that's swirling around in the back of my mind. Like, Zurie and I are two people who dated for over a year. I know all these things about her, like how she took ballet lessons as a kid, or how she eats popcorn one kernel at a time. I know the more intimate things, too, the stuff she doesn't say out loud: that her dad was a drunk, that it took her mom years to leave him. That she was a gifted kid, but then she dropped out of high school in grade eleven. And hell if we haven't shared ourselves with each other more than enough times, too. I've seen her scars; I can map out the hidden cherry blossom tattoos branching up her ribs and under her breasts. And yet, despite all that, here we are, making awkward, shitty small talk as though we're nothing more than old acquaintances.

"You know, I was wondering if I'd ever see you again," she says.

"Oh?" I flick the ash off the end of my smoke.

She nods. "Yeah."

I'm expecting her to say she's sorry or that she's missed me, but she just drops her eyes to the dirty, wet sidewalk and takes another long, slow drag off her cigarette. It's almost as if she's…embarrassed? I don't know if I've ever seen her like that before. It's pretty unnerving.

We fall silent for a moment. Strange to think how I used to be so comfortable with blank spaces like these. Now I can't stand it. My mind just races, my anxiety spikes. I want answers, closure, something.

"I was wondering the same," I finally tell her. "You were gone just like that. I kept wondering what I did."

She throws her butt to the ground, crushes it underneath her checker-patterned sneaker. "Can we go somewhere else?"

We? I look around. "What about your friends?"

"It's fine. I'll text them later."

—

IN THE QUIET corner back at the hotel bar, Zurie tells me all the things I had been wondering about and then some. How she felt like she was spiralling out, how she was afraid she was taking me down with her. That she didn't just ghost only me; she hasn't spoken to any of her old Deling party friends since the day she'd left.

I don't tell her that she was right, that I did fall down that spiral with her, further and further until I hit the floor. I just let her offer up her bit as she thumbs at her glass of whisky, spinning the glass round on the cardboard coaster as the ice cube melts.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," she says.

"It's okay."

She half-laughs. "It isn't, really."

I shake my head. "It was for the best."

"How so?"

I can tell this has been weighing on her. I try to alleviate some of her guilt. "I don't think I would have been able to stop myself if you didn't leave," I say.

"So I was dragging you down." Her head slumps a little.

God, I am still so bad at this. I try again. "I…missed you. You were a lot of fun." I down the rest of my bourbon before continuing. "I probably could've tried tracking you down, but I knew it was a wake-up call."

She nods slowly. "What did you do after that?"

I pause, look at her for a moment. I can't help but notice now how different she is. More grown up, maybe? This version of her is certainly more reserved, more considered. Not Picasso, not Renoir or Manet. More like Dali, his atomic portrait, Galatea of the Spheres. She dares to make eye contact with me as I formulate an answer to her question.

"I got visitation with my daughter, reconnected with my family," I say. "Visitation turned into weekend custody after I moved to Deling. Other than that, just work. I've been trying to keep out of trouble."

She grins. "I'm glad you get to see your kid more. What was her name again?"

A small smile sneaks its way onto my lips. "Harper."

"Harper," she repeats.

The server comes by and grabs my empty glass. Zurie finishes off her drink and orders us another round. It's fairly obvious that she's not outrun all her demons yet, either, but I can recognize the struggle. We both share it, this fight back up the spiral, climbing metres and metres of rope with raw hands.

"So, you're still a merc," she says. "I don't know why that's surprising to me."

I shrug. "I guess it's what I know."

"You're comfortable."

"Sure."

I say nothing of how I've been spending these past months in existential crisis mode, worrying about empty notepads and panicking about not knowing what I want out of life. The little quirk in her eyebrow lets me know that I don't have to say anything at all—she already doesn't believe me. She does that little half-laugh again, rolls her eyes.

"What?" I ask.

"You're still so full of shit, Squall."

I can't help but laugh too as our next round is set down on the table. "Am I really that easy to read?" I ask, and then immediately think to Quistis, to Rinoa, to Zell and everyone else who has ever called me predictable. "You know what—don't answer that."

She doesn't fidget with her drink this time; the whisky goes back like water. "You always worry about the long-term," she says. "Even back when we were together. You wanted to party it all away, but you just couldn't help yourself."

I take a slower sip off my bourbon. She's right. I tried running, gave escape a real shot, but it didn't do me any good. Status quo isn't doing me much better, though. I think that's part of why I ultimately lost it at Robinson. Something had to give. All this worrying about the future (which, no one can predict, I might add) has given the present far too much room to slip by.

It almost makes it ironic, then, how after all that, I can be sitting here like this, three-quarters drunk and face-to-face with my past. I shake my head lightly, let my eyes fall down to the table. "I don't really know what I'm doing."

"Me either," she says. "I don't think I ever have."

I shift my weight forward, rest my forearms into the table. "How do you deal with it?"

She takes another drink. "Whisky? Weed?" There's this almost sad look about her as she stares down at the mostly empty glass. "You know, it never used to bother me, but now…? Maybe some of your worrying about the long-term rubbed off on me. I mean, I'm twenty-seven and wondering if I'll still be serving at some diner when I'm in my fifties. It's not exactly a good feeling, you know?"

I know all too well. It's the question, the fear, that I've been fighting in my own head for a while now. I think what's more surprising is the realization of how many others seem to feel the same way. Zurie's strife is fairly obvious, but then there's Quistis who lets herself get dragged along by Garden because it's what she knows. Hell, my father at fifty-seven, even after everything he's accomplished, doesn't have an answer.

"Doesn't matter if it's serving or SeeD," I say. "It's easy to feel stuck all the same."

Zurie grabs my hand, threads cool fingers through mine. "I try to tell myself that nothing has to be permanent. That sometimes it's okay to just let things unfold, you know?"

I lean a little closer. "Is that right?"

She shrugs. "Prove me wrong."

I don't want to prove anything. Instead, I just sit there as she reaches up with her other hand, combing up the hair on the back of my neck. I let out one last breath before she draws me in. Her mouth, her tongue, it all tastes familiar and yet feels so foreign, so distant, like a country I've never been to or a language I don't speak.

She pulls away, closes her eyes, exhales. I can tell she's trying to figure out if she's just made a mistake. I'm doing the same, myself. She lets her head fall slightly. "I… Um, sorry."

"It's okay." I rest my forehead against hers, let my fingers graze along her cheek.

"What is this?" she asks. Her voice is low.

I laugh again, shrug. "Closure?"

She nods. "Closure it is, then."

For a second, I think she might pull away. It would probably be for the best if she did, but instead she lifts her chin back up, smiles. Her lips are close enough that I can feel her breath. I freeze. She closes the gap again. Her next kiss lands with more fervour than the last as her hands start to move, crossing down my sides, pressing into my thighs. I inhale sharply, feel my heart hammering against my chest.

I know we should just end this now, say our goodbyes, say that we'll stay in touch, and then never speak to or see each other again. But maybe that's me overthinking, plotting out more worst case scenarios that may never come true. I mean, no one's said that this has to live anywhere other than in the moment. Right?

It's fucked up, I know. I'm all over the goddamned map, afraid to continue and afraid to stop, afraid of what comes next and afraid that I might not find out.

"We shouldn't do this," I tell her.

"No, we really shouldn't," she says.

It's all the resistance I can seem to muster up—big surprise, it's not enough. I take one last pull of my bourbon, quickly pay our bill. Then it's through the lobby, into the elevator, eight floors up and eight inches of rope slipping away as we find our way back to my room.

Her lips stay glued to mine as she shrugs her jacket off. I do the same, letting leather fall to the floor. Her hands reach up under my t-shirt. She pulls it off, throws it haphazardly over the back of a chair before pushing me down onto the bed. Everything starts moving fast; I'm just trying to keep up as she forges on, my hands reaching up under her sweater, lightly tracing cherry blossoms along her ribs.

I can feel myself growing hard again, but she doesn't hesitate. Her knees sink into the mattress on either side of me, hips grinding into mine through denim fabric as her tongue grows bolder still, exploring beyond my mouth, moving across my jaw. Her breath is light on my ear; kisses and bites trace a path down along my neck.

All the while, there's the mess in my head, a discordant chorus of voices screaming everything all at once. Part of me is aware of how stupid this is, that absolutely nothing good will come of hooking up with her—Zurie is in my past and she should damn well stay that way. But then there's the lonely part of me that's practically screaming, drowning out the last bastions of logic, reassuring me that it's only one night, that this won't ever have to be anything more than that, that it's been ten goddamn months since I've been with anyone and at least she's someone I (used to) know.

And then there's just the insecure part of me. The part that knows that I'm just average in size, that I'm okay at sex, but certainly not at the top of anyone's list. Because it's Zurie and not some stranger, I know I can probably bypass a lot of that neurosis, but there are still plenty of other things to worry about instead, like how my abs don't quite show the way they used to, and how it's been so long that I probably won't last like I should.

God if this doesn't feel so fucking good, though. And it's that feeling that overrides whatever anxieties are left in my brain. She sits up long enough to pull her sweater off. My hands move to her bra; I awkwardly unclasp it. It's pretty damn clear that I'm out of practice. She laughs as she gingerly plucks the glasses off my face and sets them down on the nightstand.

"Thanks," I say.

"No problem."

The rest of our clothes get discarded easily, strewn along the floor. It occurs to me how woefully unprepared I am for this. Thankfully, she grabs a condom from her bag and hands it to me. I have to try not to think as I put it on. The whole bit feels messy and a tad embarrassing. But then she's kissing me again, and it's not long after that I'm inside her, and what the hell just happened? I don't know how this ended up being so easy, but either way, we're fucking like a pair of idiot teenagers, clumsy and drunk, her legs wrapped around my waist, fingernails clawing at my back.

The whole thing feels a lot like trial and error, rolling around in different positions as we make a mess of bed and boundaries alike. I try not to think too much, not about her, not about the circumstances, and certainly not about myself. See, self-consciousness is the enemy of a good lay. And considering it'll probably be ages before I get another chance to be with someone, I really don't want to screw this up.

It lasts longer than I expect. She manages to get off, which is a miracle considering. I only make it a few seconds beyond that, letting out a too-loud moan which, if it had happened any sooner, would have ended me, and then I'd be stuck apologizing instead of finishing. But it all ends up about as well as it could, I suppose. I collapse on top of her, our bodies nothing more than a pile of tangled limbs and sweat.

I give myself a second to recover before slowly pulling out of her. Then it's the awkward naked march to the bathroom to roll the condom off and flush it down the toilet. I bend over to grab my boxers on my way back, putting them on before returning to the bed. I don't know why. I guess it makes me feel better, less exposed somehow (and yes, I realize how futile that notion is after all this). The sheets are bunched up at my feet. It takes a good minute to sort out all the blankets and pull them over us.

She rolls onto her side, her smile half-buried into the pillow. I reach across the divide, push wild strands of purple hair away from her face. Her lips catch my palm with a light kiss.

"Is this still closure?" I ask.

"You're asking if this has to be anything else?"

"I just—"

"—Squall, we had fun," she says. "But that's all we ever had, wasn't it?"

"Yeah," I say lamely. I don't really know what I was expecting. It's not like I want to get back together with Zurie, not by a long shot. I've regained too much ground to let it all slip away. But this—what we just did—stands as a stark reminder of how lonely I really am.

Maybe it's just par for the course. This entire trip to Dollet has been nothing short of a disaster. I'm not sure how much of what I feel is being betrayed by my face, but I can tell I'm starting to get overwhelmed, my anxieties prickling hot my skin, my breathing uneven and ragged.

"Hey… It's okay," she tells me.

"Is it?" I heave out a sigh, run my hands through my hair. I could cry, but I don't. I just feel so fucking stupid.

Then Zurie laughs. Not that weird half-laugh she's been doing all night. This time, she lets out a big, full-throated laugh, the one I remember from when we first met. I look at her. She looks at me. It dawns on me how absurd, how ridiculous this whole situation is. I can't help myself—I start laughing too.

"I'm sorry," she says as she tries to compose herself. "I don't know why this is so funny."

"Because it is." I wipe the tears from the corners of my eyes.

She takes a breath, steadies herself. "I just… Wow. This is not how I was expecting my night to go."

"Me either." Not in a million years. My own laughter dies out, smile flattening.

"You're anxious," she says.

The callout catches me off-guard. "Yeah."

Zurie pulls the blanket up over her breasts, leans forward, kisses my cheek. "Try not to worry, okay?"

"I'll try."

She gets up then, retrieves her clothing from the floor. I turn my gaze away from her and stare through the ceiling; it's dumb, I know. Modesty should be in the rearview mirror. We've already seen everything there is to see, done everything that probably shouldn't have been done.

"Squall?" she says after she's fully dressed. My eyes settle back on her. "I mean it. Don't worry. This isn't forever. Whatever's going on with you… You'll get past it."

I shrug into my pillow. "Maybe."

"Definitely." She sounds so sure. "You might not realize it, but you've already come so far. Make me a promise?"

A promise. God. Like my promises have ever been worth anything. Still, I humour her. "What's that?"

Zurie flashes me that big smile one more time as she stands there, hotel door open, hallway light ready to guide her back home. "Keep going."