Author's Note: I just wanted to say a quick thanks to those who commented on the last chapter. It really is great to know that despite the shifts, there are some people out there who are enjoying the fic. It's my goal in 2023 to get this one finished (over ten years and a rewrite later, but hey)!

18. Deadbeat

SUSPENDED WITH PAY. Thirty days. That's the decision that comes down from the Headmaster the Monday following my Dollet dumpster fire. It's not as bad as I had anticipated—at least I'm not out financially. Still, it's far from ideal. Without work, as mundane and seemingly pointless as it often is, there's nothing to occupy the time between visits with Harper.

It brings me back to one of my original gripes—the fact that I still don't have a hobby. As such, the first couple of days are fairly bland. I do a lot of nothing: waking up just before noon, watching TV, smoking pot and more than my fair share of cigarettes, browsing social media. I learn that Irvine and Selphie got engaged while on vacation in Balamb, that Zell and Penny adopted a dog. And yes, I know social is all curated, a greatest hits version of real life, but hell if I don't feel just a bit deflated by it, even as I comment my congratulations. Everyone is taking big strides forward, finding their way in this stupid world, while I'm just going around in circles (and that's at the best of times).

And although it already sucks, feeling so stagnant, it somehow sucks even more, learning about things this way. It just goes to show how far we've all drifted apart. I guess it's not that terribly uncommon; there are a ton of people out there who'll say that's just how life goes. Even so, I can't help but find it just a bit sad. When the people you spend all that time with in your teens end up becoming less like friends and more like acquaintances, it tends to feel like part of you has faded away, too.

Thankfully (although maybe to her detriment), Quistis has been the shining exception. She comes by on day four to check on me, dinner in hand. The visit shouldn't be all that unexpected; she'd already let me know she was concerned, if not unsurprised, after I told her what had happened with Robinson and my suspension. Of course, there's a difference between expecting her and being prepared for her. As such, she catches me in a less than ideal state (again): unshowered, unkempt hair, flannel pants, an old Nine Inch Nails tee that's seen better days. High. The Cure crying about love on the record player.

There's a small sigh that almost hisses out of her like air from a balloon as she sets the food down on the island. "You know, I was going to ask how you're doing, but I don't think I need to," she says.

A longer than acceptable delay plays out between her talking and my non-reaction. I know she's hoping to get something out of me—I can practically feel her insistent eyes drilling into my reddened ones, almost daring me to say the wrong thing. I don't shrink away from her, though; instead, I just shrug it off. I haven't exactly been one for standards these past few days.

"I look that good, huh?" I'm stoned to the point where it feels like I'm rolling cotton through my mouth. The words are dry coming out.

Her mouth pulls up into a half-smirk and etches a sharp line into her cheek. I recognize the look enough to know that it's more of a warning than anything. "I was kind of hoping you'd at least make it a week before you completely gave up."

"Wishful thinking."

"Clearly."

Well, I guess that means I'm not going out for another joint. Whatever. As lame as it sounds, I refuse to let myself feel guilty about the shape I'm currently in. If this had happened to me a few years ago, I'd have Xanaxed away the entire month. At least now I can say I'm conscious, coherent, and not some pill-popping, doped up zombie.

I turn my attention to the paper bag, the smell of garlic and chillies bleeding out the top. "What's this?" I ask.

"Food."

My turn to mimic her for once. "Clearly."

I pull out the containers and grab a pair of forks. Well, well, well—look who's trying to be less predictable. She's gotten us Centran, a change-up from her usual. Not that I'm complaining; I'd just spent the last half hour struggling to drum up the motivation to throw a shitty packet of ramen noodles into some boiling water. I let her grab hers first before tearing into mine, probably too fast for polite company.

The Cure gets through Another Day and Grinding Halt without a single word between us. At first, it feels almost a bit unnatural, but maybe that's because I'm on edge. See, there's a reason she's here, a motive that goes beyond my so-called welfare. She wants to dig into my shit, and that means that at any given moment, she's going to start grilling me. I can already tell she's trying to calculate her approach.

It takes up until Three Imaginary Boys before she says anything. "So," she starts in the short time between bites, "you going to share what happened?"

I offer her a hint of a smile. "Use your imagination."

She rolls her eyes back at me. "Don't give me that."

"What's there to know?" I ask. I'm already at the bottom of my carton, digging up bits of rice and a straggler mushroom. "The client was out of line. I didn't put up with his stupid little outburst. Xu caught the whole thing, freaked out, and here we are."

"You didn't try to calm him down?"

Sometimes I forget how utterly Garden Quistis can be. Xu faulted me for the exact same thing: no attempt to diffuse a volatile situation. I get it though; they're right. The SeeD that's still in me should have at least tried. But the real me was too pissed off at that point, too tired of escorting a middle-aged child around for two straight days to deal with his temper tantrum. Simply put: I ran out of fucks to give.

Quistis is still waiting for an answer. I huff out something between a laugh and a sigh and shake my head. "Would you believe it if I said I just didn't care?"

"I would," she concedes.

"Well, that's your answer."

She deflates a bit more. It's far from the response she was hoping to get, but it's all I have. I'm just too high to articulate anything else right now. The top of my head is an open lid; there's nothing there to grasp at, nothing that would make any sense.

Boys Don't Cry comes to a stop on the record player as I toss my empty take-out carton into the recycling bin. The silence that follows is uncomfortable at best, punctuated only by the sounds of her fork scraping along cardboard. And it doesn't make matters any less awkward when she's watching me with that goddamned SeeD stare, taking mental notes on my every move as she fiddles with her food. Part of me knows she can't help it. It's what she's been trained to do her entire life, after all. Still, that doesn't make me hate it any less. I call her out.

"Don't do that," I say.

"Do what?" she asks.

I fold my arms, shake my head. "You're analyzing me like I'm a damn target."

"How would you know?" She lifts an eyebrow. "You're completely baked."

"So?" I take a step closer; there's a taste of bitterness on my tongue as I challenge her. I can already tell this is going to turn into some kind of argument. "What, is it against Garden rules or something?"

"You know it is," she says plainly. "But that's besides the point." She pauses to take a bite off a carrot slice. I can see her thoughts regrouping, her one brow coming back down to knit against the other.

"Say it," I tell her.

Her frown hardens. "Squall, I get not caring about Garden, really, I do, but what the hell is this?"

I scowl. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Quistis sets her fork down and takes a step of her own. Challenge accepted, apparently. "Come on," she says. "You don't see what you're doing here?" She gets close enough for her index finger to extend and press firmly into the middle of my chest, right onto the "I" of the NIN logo.

"Get to the point," I say.

She presses a little harder. I have to make a conscious effort to not stumble back. "This whole feeling sorry for yourself thing." She makes a wide gesture with her other arm. "It's getting pretty tired, don't you think?"

I shrug. I don't know if it's me feeling sorry for myself, so much as it's me not knowing what to do. But I've always been this way, I think. Even when I was younger, I'd spend my downtime doing one of two things: training or sleeping. The only difference now is that there's no training.

"I'm just…tired," I finally say.

"I get it," she says. I'm not sure she does, but she forges ahead regardless. "Does that mean you're going to spend the entire thirty days moping around, then?"

The entire thirty days? No. I've got Harper to think about on the weekends, and even though Rinoa seems to think I'm a deadbeat dad, I'm still keen to convince her otherwise. Having said that, I know from looking at Quistis that she's not talking about the weekends. She's talking about days like today, when I'm stuck here alone with only my vices to keep me company. That's…a different story.

"What would you have me do?" I ask.

"Literally anything," she says.

I smirk. "'Literally'?"

"For god's sake. You know what I mean," she says. "You're better than this. Why not act like it for once?" Her hand crumples into a fist before falling away to her side. But she doesn't step back. For a moment, she just stands there, her face contorting as she tries to sort out what to say next. When she finally settles, her voice softens into a tone I've known her to take only with me. "I'm just…worried about you. I know you hate hearing that."

"Don't." The response is automatic, a reflex.

She forces out some bastardized version of a laugh. "Then stop making it so easy."

Easy, huh? See, this is the kind of nonsense that makes me crazy. It's like all I have to do is exist and people get all concerned. Rinoa was always the worst for that—every single thing I did left her anxious, her worries bubbling over in the form of a million questions: "what are you doing", "where are you going?", "when will you be back?", and so on. At least back then, the misgivings were somewhat justified. But I was in a different place. A darker, shittier, angrier place. I'm sure as hell not there anymore.

"I'm fine," I say.

"Is that a relative statement?"

Fuck me. I'm getting sick of this. "Are you done yet?"

"Well, that depends," she says. "Have I gotten through that thick skull of yours?"

I scoff. I'm too stoned to come up with anything even remotely intelligent. "If I say yes, will it make you shut up?"

"You're so unbelievably frustrating sometimes," she says.

My next words are admittedly, well, immature. "And you're naggy as hell."

She looks a bit…shocked? Or is it amused? Her eyes dart back and forth for a moment as she scrapes together an equally idiotic retort. "Well, you're a stubborn little shit."

Are we doing this? I guess we're doing this. "You're fucking nosy."

"And you're bitchy."

"Ass."

"Dick."

I stare at her. I want to win (if you can even call it winning) this so-called challenge. She's right—I am a stubborn shit when I want to be. But so is she, so much so that she takes another step forward, her stare hitting me back with equal, if not amplified intensity. I'm not about to give in, though. I take a step of my own. We're close enough now that there's little more than an inch between us. Her head cranes up; she refuses to break her gaze, even as she's looking mostly up my nose.

"Give up?" she asks.

"Never," I say.

Her hands settle firmly on her hips. "I can stand here all night."

"Me too."

"Better not piss yourself."

"Same for you," I tell her. "At least my pants didn't cost 300G."

I can tell she's trying to think of something else to say. There's a shift in her expression, her mind racing for a response and subsequently coming up empty. She starts biting at the inside of her lip; tears well up in the corners of her eyes. Then, a snort. She breaks, laughter erupting against her will as she comes to the realization that she has, in fact, lost.

"You're such a bastard," she manages.

I grin. "I know."

She makes a hasty turn away from me, grabs her near-empty carton again, examines the remains. A couple of last bites; the rest, tossed. I motion to the couch. She nods and follows me there, dropping unceremoniously into the cushions as if she'd just gotten through some strenuous training exercise. I guess I have that effect on people; when I'm in a mood, I can be kind of…exhausting. Hell, I even make myself tired.

I turn the TV on. The background noise spills into the space between us, a cushion-wide gap that feels weirdly necessary and yet somehow too far away at the same time. It should be noted that I have not told Quistis about Zurie. In fact, I've made a conscious effort to omit anything about my night with her. Why? For one, there's the fact that I'm not usually the type to kiss and tell, but beyond that, it just doesn't feel right. I don't know if it's guilt or what. It's not like I've somehow cheated, although maybe it bears repeating: Quistis and I are not a couple. Still, I can't shake this feeling that she might get upset if I ever were to bring it up.

Of course, there's the chance that I'm completely wrong. I mean, who knows? It's entirely possible that she's gone out and hooked up with some of her online dates, too. And would that upset me? Well…maybe it would, but that just proves my point—it's just better not to say anything.

Quistis leans across the divide to nudge me. "I nag because I want to make sure you're okay. You know that, right?"

I turn my attention back to her, nod. "Yeah, I know."

"And will you be?"

I have to think about that for a second. "...I'll be fine. Really."

She exhales low and slow, forces her mouth into a smile. "I hope so."

—

ADRIAN ANSWERS THE door when I go to pick up Harper on a particularly snowy day five. He's far too friendly with his greeting, to the point where it's almost sickening, letting out a warm "Heya, Squall!" as if we're somehow friends. Even worse is how well-put-together he looks in his work attire—his grey three-piece suit is perfectly tailored to his lean, tall frame. And here I was thinking I'd accomplished something by putting actual pants on today.

"Hey man," I say. It's the best I can do. I'm not friendly, and I'm sure as shit not happy to see him, even as he invites me into the foyer.

Angelo makes her way over to the door, her stub of a tail wagging as she pushes her nose into my thigh. I give her a couple of quick scratches behind the ear. It dawns upon me then how quiet it is: no Harper calling out "Daddy" as she thunders down the hall, no Rinoa chasing after her with her backpack.

I look around, clumsily babble out, "Where's everyone?"

"Stuck in traffic," Adrian says.

Stuck in… Why didn't she text me, then? I check my phone. One message from Rinoa. Goddamn it. "Bad accident on the highway. Going to be late."

Late. Of course. And I'm supposed to do, what, exactly? Hang out? I shove my phone back into my pocket as I fight to keep my expression from souring.

"Do you…want to come in?" he asks.

Not really. Maybe? I don't know. It's weird. I've not once been invited beyond this foyer in the two and a half years since I've come back into Harper's life. I turn to look back out the front door; the blizzard has already coated my car with a fresh inch of snow. A debate plays out in my head. What's worse: sitting parked out on the street in the cold, or waiting around in here, attempting awkward, empty small talk with my ex's new boyfriend?

Before I can step outside, Adrian's waving me in. "Don't be like that," he says. "I just put coffee on. Come sit down."

There must be something hypnotic about his voice, because just like that, I'm taking off my coat and wet sneakers and following him. The walk is uncomfortable. As I make my way down the hall, a whole world starts to come together in front of me: Rinoa and Harper's world. Pictures of them are hung up all over the pale walls, moments I wish I could've been a part of, milestones that have come and gone in my absence. Baby Harper standing on her own, Rinoa holding her in front of Galbadia station in Timber. It's admittedly a lot to look at, even now; the weight of the guilt alone is enough to knock me down on my ass. Thankfully, there's a dining chair waiting for me as I cross over the cool tiles of the kitchen.

The room is small, mostly white, quartz countertops, a macramé window dressing, some nick-nacks, a set of cactuar salt and pepper shakers. Lots of plants. More photos peering up at me from the fridge. In the middle, there's a polaroid of Rinoa, Harper, and Adrian wearing paper new year's headbands. I can't help but stare at it. They just look so happy. Like a family. I start to chew at the inside of my cheek.

Adrian, for better or worse, interrupts my anxiety before it can get too far. He holds up a mug. "Take anything?"

"Black. Thanks."

"Good man," he says through his straight-toothed smile. I can't help but wonder if that's his default response for everything. The guy is just so…agreeable. He tosses a pair of coasters down and gingerly sets the mugs in the exact centre of each one. "I know it's late for coffee, but I can't seem to kick the habit."

Kick the habit. God. If coffee's the worst thing Adrian has to worry about, he's doing alright. I guess that's probably part of the appeal; he's practically a clean slate. It makes sense, though. Rinoa doesn't need (or likely want) another version of me. My vices, my actions (and subsequent inaction) have caused her enough grief to last a lifetime. Case in point—today is the first day I haven't smoked weed all week.

"Some storm, hey?" Adrian asks.

"Yeah." I don't know what else to say.

He takes a slow pull from his coffee before forcing the conversation along. "You born on a day like this?"

I shoot him a confused look.

"You know, because of your name," he says. "Just unique is all."

"Oh," I say. "No. I was born in August." I don't tell him that my first name, according to Ellone, wasn't supposed to be Squall at all. It was supposed to be what ended up becoming my middle name: James. The assholes who took me in for the short time between my mother's death and my departure to the orphanage—they were the ones who chose Squall, primarily out of spite. I was the bastard child of the outsider; the parasite who killed their beloved Raine. I didn't deserve to be named for anything more than what I was: a shrieking little nuisance, there for a moment, and then gone.

"Rinoa always said you were talkative," Adrian remarks with an almost boyish eyeroll. "Guess I didn't realize how much until now."

"Sorry," I say, moreso as a knee-jerk reaction than an actual sentiment. I mean, what was he expecting? That he'd invite me in and we'd magically become all buddy-buddy? Fuck no. I'm not here to be charmed by him.

He lets out a smooth laugh. "I'm just joking."

I divert my attention down to my coffee, take a sip. How I wish I could just dive into the black and hide there until Harper was ready to come home with me. It feels like I've been stuck here for hours, but it's barely been five minutes. I check my phone; no update.

Adrian's still staring. I don't have to look at him to know; I can feel his gaze settle on me much in the same way Quistis' did last night. If he's trying to figure me out, he's not going to get far. There's not much I'm willing to share with this guy. But then again, maybe he's already got what he needs from Rinoa. There's a whole treasure trove there, a veritable gold mine of shit I've pulled with her. The thought that he's likely sorted through my dirty laundry with her makes me feel insecure, squirmy.

"How's work going?" he asks.

And of course he asks that fucking question. Because why not just saturate the entire wait with as many lame small talk standards as possible? I try to hide my expression behind my mug, but the exhale that passes through my lips betrays me. He catches the inflection and grabs on tight.

"Oh," he starts, "I didn't think it was a sore subject—"

"—It's fine," I interrupt him before he can weave his way to any conclusions. "I'm just in the middle of figuring some things out."

"Gotcha." He nods slowly.

I can tell he's skeptical, which in turn makes me paranoid. There are still so many things rattling around in my brain from my last fight with Rinoa. The fact that she considers my weekend custody to be a reward. The fact that she still doesn't fully trust me with our daughter. The last thing I need right now is Adrian letting on to her that something's wrong with my job, because then it just reinforces the narrative that I'm exactly who she thinks I am: volatile, absent, forever on the brink of a fresh collapse. I don't want this suspension to be the period at the end of my sentence.

I try to follow up, not so much to explain myself to him, but rather to (hopefully) preserve whatever's left of my standing with Rinoa. "I mean to say that I'm considering other options outside of Garden." It's not entirely a lie. I've been saying for awhile now that I want to quit. The problem is that those "other options" don't exactly exist. Not yet, anyways.

"Well, we're always looking for new blood at my work," he offers. "Good starting pay, benefits. Holidays and weekends off."

"Thanks," I say. It's an empty platitude. I cannot, even for a second, imagine myself working with this guy. God. One of two things would happen: either I'd kill him for insisting on such shitty, banal banter, or his charisma and charm would drive me to jump out a window. And then what would Rinoa think of me? It's hard to imagine she could feel anything less, but if either of these scenarios played out, she just might find a way.

I'm plotting the best method of escape from this whole unwanted visit when Adrian pipes up with the first thing out of his mouth that doesn't sound like idle chit-chat.

"You know…now that I think about it, it might make the office holiday parties a bit weird," he quips. "Not sure Rinoa would enjoy being my plus one with her ex lurking about. No offense."

I snort out a nearly imperceptible laugh. "You can probably forget about the corporate family picnic, too."

Adrian's smile quirks up. "I doubt she'd be too keen to see us partnered up in any three-legged races."

"Definitely not."

"Maybe volleyball," he suggests.

"Well, that's different," I say. "Team sport. It's not just about us."

"Exactly. And I'd be remiss to let my serve go to waste," he says. "College me would never forgive myself."

"Wouldn't want that," I tell him. As I take another sip of my coffee, I realize I'm grinning. Just. Like. That. Fuck, he's good. And that's part of the problem, too, isn't it—he's made himself hard to hate, hard to even dislike. I can see why Rinoa and Harper are drawn to him. Hell if that doesn't carve a pit into my stomach, though.

I could easily go on a mental tangent right here and now, obsessing over how much better this guy is than I'll probably ever be, but the front door opens and takes a welcome hold of my attention. Then it's the sounds of shoes coming off, of Rinoa and Harper's hurried chatter, followed by footsteps—Harper's running up the hardwood stairs, Rinoa's coming down the hall.

When she spots me at her dining table, there's this look on her face that lies somewhere between surprised and unsettled. To see her ex-boyfriend sitting in her home, drinking her coffee—I doubt it's a comfortable experience. Hell, my own skin is starting to prickle as I feel my welcome quickly wearing out.

"Hey," I say.

"Hey," she says back.

A heavy silence follows, the quiet akin to a snowfallen valley. But it doesn't take our bond to know why. Our fight is definitely weighing on her much in the same way it's been weighing on me. Last weekend, she barely said a word at pick-up. The weekend before was the call out in that black mini dress, which she immediately followed up with a quick "forget it". Right now, she's fighting back something. I can see the restraint in her dark eyes, in the way her lips purse tightly together.

I stand up. If nothing else, I figure I can ease some of the pressure. "I'm sorry; I should have waited out in the car—"

"—I invited him in," Adrian pipes up. He looks over to Rinoa. "I didn't know how long you'd be. I didn't think it was a big deal."

Rinoa shakes her head, her face turning as stoic as she's capable of making it. "It's…not." She sits in an empty chair. "Babe, can you give us a minute?"

I'm trying not to hold my breath as Adrian excuses himself and heads into the other room. Rinoa waits until he's out of sight and his footfalls become too quiet to hear. Then her attention turns back to me, the sharpness of her gaze drilling a pair of holes neatly through my brain.

"Squall, sit back down. Please."

I sit.

"Listen, about the whole…you know, what happened in the parkade." She pauses to inspect Adrian's coffee mug, finds it's already been emptied, sighs. "I just feel like I could have…handled it differently."

"It's okay," I tell her. "I didn't exactly help things along, either."

She lets her stare sink toward the table. The drilling stops; I let out the rest of my breath. Her next words are quiet. "You understand, though, right?"

I nod. "I do. I just wish things were different."

"Me too," she says.

God, I really do wish everything was different, though. There are so many parts of our time together that I'd take back if I could. And the consequences are all around me, in the photos I'm not a part of, in the home she shares not with me. But I guess that's to be expected. The amount of shit I have put her through is not insignificant.

"Rin," I start, "you know, the only reason I bother to try at all is for her."

A hand reaches up, her fingers aimlessly twirling around the ends of her ponytail. It's a nervous habit, I recognize, but it makes her look so girlish, not unlike the Rinoa I met all those years ago. And it's enough to cause her stoic demeanour to slip a little bit more, her expression easing into something soft, like a Renoir portrait. "I know that."

"...But?"

"No 'buts'," she says.

I let out the smallest shadow of a laugh. She sounds like the night she accosted me back in FH, back when we were young and dumb and there was nothing but us and the sound of our friends' music. That night, she called me out for being too cynical, and told me not to squander our time together. If only I could've taken those words to heart more than I did. Maybe I wouldn't be such a disaster now.

"Sorry." I shrug. "I guess I'm still a bit of a pessimist."

"I told you to cut that out," she says. Her lips lift into a smile that's so thin, a word might cause it to snap in two. But it's a smile nonetheless.

I smile ever so slightly back. "I'm working on it."

She nods. "Good."

Another pause in the conversation. I wonder if this will ever get any easier. I remember when the quiet we shared used to be comfortable, easy. Her legs draped across my thighs as she read her books, the way she'd peer over my shoulder, curious as a child while I worked on my reports. I miss that. It's hard to believe that those moments will only ever be memories from now on, nothing more.

I exhale, shake my head.

"What's up?" she asks.

Everything? God, I don't know. Only one thought comes to mind. "I just…" I take a breath. "I hope you can find a way to trust me again."

She looks me in the eye once more, but this time, there's a hint of something else there. Not anger, not malice. I think it might be hope. "One day, Squall."

One day. I wish one day was right now. I know I should be more patient; she's already told me once that she doesn't think she knows me anymore (god, that's weird to say). But really, she doesn't. I'm four years a stranger, maybe more if you count all that time I spent finding solace in pills and drowning in alcohol. Where does the real me even lie? Hell, I'm still trying to figure that out myself.

"Squall, I —"

"—Hi, Dad!" Harper interrupts Rinoa then as she comes bounding into the kitchen with her bag all packed and ready to go. Her smile is wide and bright enough to cut through the fog that's settled in my head. "Are you visiting Mommy?"

"Hey Harps," I say as I scoop her into my lap. "I was waiting for you to get here."

"I'm here!" The words come out like a declaration. Rinoa and I both laugh.

"Good," I tell her. "Shall we, then?"

"Yup!"

We head toward the foyer, past the myriad of photos once more. As I'm putting my sneakers on, Adrian comes back to see Harper off with Rinoa. He's wearing that perfectly tempered expression again, his mouth curled at the ends in a small grin. It's strange—part of me wonders if maybe we'd be friends in another universe.

"Drive safe," he says.

"I will," I tell him. I put my coat back on, open the door to the snow and the cold. Harper heads toward the car, small boots leaving fresh prints in her wake, when Rinoa grabs my arm and stops me from following, if just for a moment.

"Hey, one last thing," she says.

"Yeah?" I ask.

I can tell she wants to look down at the floor, but she forces herself to anchor her eyes to mine. "Squall, you need to try for you, too."

Try. It seems to be a running theme with everyone that knows me. Perhaps they're not wrong. I just wish I knew how; it feels like a joke without a punchline, like a secret I've been left out of. Nights spent lying awake and notepads sitting forever empty. Anxiety piled on top of anxiety.

Still, despite all that, I nod. Rinoa smiles in return as she lets go.