Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction ❯ Defining Love ❯ Defining Love ( Chapter 43 )

Defining Love

Chapter Forty-Three

 

 

Work became drudgery when Seifer had nothing to look forward to in the evening. The day crept along at a snail's pace with an unending flow of paperwork. Following the training center's official opening, there had been a flood of clients, most of which were amateur fighters trying to prove their worth. The gyms buzzed with activity and his secretary no longer had to occupy herself by making paper airplanes.

 

It was Seifer's fortune that work occupied his time, distracting him from his dissatisfying personal life. If he hadn't reviewed inventory files and met with investors, he might have gone insane. Even with work to occupy his mind, thoughts of Leonhart affected his mood. He cursed every little annoyance. When the stapler jammed, he nearly chucked it through his office window, only managing to stop himself because his secretary came in. When he thought he had lost a permit license for the arena's first battle, he rattled off every single swear word he knew until he found the permit stuck to back of another piece of paper.

 

By the end of the workday, Seifer suspected his secretary was going to turn in her resignation. Leonhart had chosen a hell of a time to abscond to some remote island. Though he could force himself to concentrate on work, his mood became darker by the hour.

 

Part of him was jealous. The management of his fledgling business needed close monitoring, which meant he was stuck behind a desk until the training center had a firm base. Traipsing through a jungle and finding a fight around every corner was highly enticing, but his envy was abated when he considered how troublesome it was to bow to Garden's authority.

 

The life of SeeD had never agreed with him, yet it had been the only available means of becoming a fighter. While peace reigned, military organizations like Garden declined. Galbadia Garden had become a boarding school for truant trust fund children.

 

The art of fighting and the mastery of specialized weaponry would soon die out. His training center provided an independent means to becoming a fighter. Tickets for the first battle had already sold out. While such fights could not compare to real combat, where one's life was never guaranteed, they wouldn't be dictated by supply and demand quotas for soldiers.

 

Seifer admitted that his motives for the training center were also quite selfish. A life of leisure on the open sea had denied him the thrill of battle. A training center allowed him the chance to practice and search for fighters skilled enough to pose a challenge.

 

Standing from his desk, he paced to the window. His thoughts turned to Leonhart, who was the only fighter he acknowledged as his rival.

 

For years, he hadn't spared a stray thought to Leonhart. He hadn't realized how much he missed sparring with the man. Over the past few months, he had grown accustom to Leonhart's accessibility. Now he wondered how he had managed to live without their rivalry.

 

With a smirk, Seifer concluded that sparring fell under the same category as sex. He couldn't imagine a time when the prospect of tearing Leonhart's clothes off hadn't appealed to him. Now it was all he thought about, all he longed for.

 

A single day wasn't a long time when it was the first of many. He had no idea how long Leonhart would be gone. Part of him hoped that this time apart would quell his desires, but he didn't want the attraction to disappear altogether.

 

Seifer procrastinated the moment when he would return home to an empty apartment. Remaining at his office window, he watched the sun set on the horizon. With a sigh, he considered the danger involved in becoming too attached to Leonhart. He had sensed from the very beginning that it wasn't a good idea. After sleeping with Leonhart, he had developed strange feelings.

 

He had grown extremely fond of the sultry brunet. When he considered it, he felt more than fondness. The profession he had made on accident seemed an apt description of what he felt. He needed Leonhart. Whether it was their rivalry or sex, he had a demanding need that only Leonhart could satisfy.

 

There was an unexpected knock at his office door. Thinking his secretary must have put a rush on her resignation, Seifer told her to come in.

 

“Hey,” a familiar voice called from the doorway.

 

Seifer turned from the window. Seeing the raven-haired youth across the room, he stared with evident surprise. “What is it you think I've done this time?” he questioned.

 

Scowling, Lore muttered, “Nothing.”

 

Seifer waited for an explanation.

 

“I thought I'd come by,” Lore said, appearing almost as surprised by his being there as Seifer did. “I mean, it's the first day, which is usually the hardest. I thought I'd come and see if you'd already cheated on my dad.”

 

Scoffing, Seifer didn't bother pointing out how transparent the kid's excuse was. Judging from the agitated crease in the boy's brow, he wasn't the only one in a foul mood. He took the unexpected interruption as a welcome distraction. “Since you're here,” he lilted, a sinister gleam in his eyes, “how about a spar?”

 

Lore stared intently at the blond, wondering what angle the man was trying to work. Having thought about his father all day, he had hoped to find the ex-knight in a worse state than himself and rejoice in the man's misery. If he were perfectly honest, he would admit that he had crafted a weak excuse in order to satisfy his desire to see Seifer. With his father and Uncle Irvine gone, he would have normally spent his time with his grandfather, but Laguna was a busy man and didn't need to entertain a morose grandson. Though he had any number of friends he could stay with, none of them understood the detachment and worry he felt when his father was on a mission.

 

Despite his assertions, Lore had begun to suspect that Seifer liked his father a great deal more than he had previously believed. The ex-knight was arrogant and acted as though he only wanted sex, but the man had looked liked an abandoned dog after his dad had left that morning.

 

With a shrug, Lore mumbled, “Sure.” Seifer didn't appear upset, but when he had first walked in, he had sensed a subdued and frustrated aura around him.

 

 

--

 

 

Divided into groups of three, the team of seventeen waded through a sea of plants. They spread out to cover more ground, one group drawing a line on the right, one in the middle, and the third a few miles to the left. Though island was overrun with plants, but it was not as dense as anticipated. By mid-day, they had already reached their mark. Squall was eager to press forward, but decided not to push too hard on their first day.

 

The monsters they had encountered were low level, but there were a few higher-level creatures that had attacked the deeper they went. Squall suspected that the levels and aggression of the monsters would only increase the farther they progressed.

 

Irvine's third of the team was the last to join the campsite. The gunman handed over a map that charted the location of a wide stream.

 

As tents were set up, Irvine sidled up to the commander for a private word.

 

“I came to keep you company, not to act as second in command,” Irvine said. Imagine his surprise when Squall assigned him as a point man for one of the three lines edging into the jungle. He had expected to trail close behind his laconic buddy while making small talk, but had instead spent the better part of the day completely cut off from the man.

 

Squall quirked an eyebrow and met violet-blue eyes with a sardonic gaze. The man was the second highest ranked SeeD on the team. Everyone had to carry their own weight. It wasn't a vacation. Though Irvine had not been an initial asset, the gunman had more experience than anyone else under his command, which meant being a key figure in the operation.

 

Irvine clucked his tongue. “You realize that I'm taking the heat for this. That kid, Dannis, is pretty sore about the demotion.”

 

Squall considered this for a moment. “He'll lead tomorrow,” he compromised. Dannis was young and inexperienced, but Cid had requested he give trials that would force the boy into leadership positions. With Irvine in charge of part of the group, he had been able to worry less and concentrate on his surroundings. If Dannis suffered a bruised ego, that wasn't his problem.

 

With a shrug, Squall dismissed Irvine's concern and focused on clearing brush.

 

--

 

On their third day, Squall became concerned when it hadn't rained. Their water provisions were low. They had anticipated the usual tropical weather that hounded Centra with rain showers nearly every afternoon.

 

Squall decided to camp early, willing to lose a few miles when they were already ahead of schedule. The group was thirsty and tired. Wanting to know more about the stream Irvine's group had found, he detailed several men to determine whether the water was drinkable. The streams that trickled down from the snowcaps on Balamb's mountain ridge was poisoned by the eggs that Fin fish laid. He had seen a type of fish similar to Fin along the beach, but hoped they weren't the fresh water variety.

 

While one group searched for water, Squall and Irvine scrounged for wood. They had the luck of finding a fallen tree. Unlike to moister twigs and branches that littered the ground, this tree would provide a drier, less smoky fire. The last two nights, the fires had left them with tears in their eyes and the smell of burned wood in their hair and clothes.

 

As they hacked thick branches from the trunk, Irvine commented, “I'm surprised you haven't asked why I'm here.”

 

Wiping his brow, Squall paused in his work for a moment and regarded the gunman on the other side of the trunk. “You said not to ask.”

 

Irvine laughed. Unable to keep working, he drove his hatchet into the trunk with a swift swing and left it wedged in place. Removing his hat, he fanned his face and leaned against another nearby tree. “Hyne, you're about the only person alive who wouldn't actually ask. Selphie would say that if someone tells you not to ask something, what they really want is for you to snoop and pry until you figure it out anyway.”

 

With a shrug, Squall remarked, “I have figured it out.” Not bothering to elaborate, he set to work again, breaking away a thick branch.

 

“You're serious,” Irvine said, studying the brunet. Stormy blue eyes met his for a moment, reminding him that Squall was always serious. “Then why did I come?” he challenged, wondering what the other had come up with.

 

Sighing, Squall tossed his branch to a larger pile nearby. Stowing his hatchet in his belt holster, he motioned for Irvine to follow. They each had an armful and could talk as they returned to camp.

 

“Well?” Irvine prompted when Squall hadn't spoken. They had a mile to cover, which gave him ten minutes to pry a response from the reticent swordsman.

 

Squall listened intently for a moment, judging that they were relatively safe. The larger monsters made quite a noise and could be heard miles away. There were hoards of birds in the canopy, and their continued chatter assured that there was no immediate threat nearby. “Seifer asked you to come,” he finally said.

 

More than a little surprised, Irvine took a clumsy step and several crudely cut pieces of firewood tumbled from his hold. As he crouched to pick them up, asked, “What makes you think that?”

 

Appearing indifferent to both the question and his friend's plight, Squall replied, “It's the truth.”

 

Hesitating, Irvine remained occupied with balancing his load of wood. When he stood, he tried to read Squall's expression, but found that delicate features were too impassive to read. “Are you pissed?”

 

“…” Squall didn't respond. He had been angry at first, just as upset with Irvine as he was with Seifer, but his anger had passed.

 

“He practically begged me,” Irvine said, a small smirk playing across his lips.

 

Rolling his eyes, Squall moved forward. Given the recent call to arms that Irvine and Lore had answered to fend off Seifer, he had grown accustomed to his family's overbearing ways. Irvine and Lore had always been overprotective, but the recent expansion in his life that made room for Cale and now Seifer had driven his self-appointed guardians into a red alert.

 

In most respects, Squall found such behavior ridiculous, but he didn't have the heart to resent them for it. Squall had his suspicions about where their protective streaks originated. Before he could delve further into the matter, Irvine spoke again and drew him away from his thoughts.

 

Finding the commander's calm response unsatisfying, Irvine tried to remind the man that Seifer was meddling in the swordsman's life. He neglected to implicate himself in the same scheme that made the ex-knight a bad guy. “He's the same overbearing, selfish asshole he was when he was eighteen. He's like a boy that never grows up. He's treating you like a toy.”

 

Squall scowled. It seemed rather hypocritical of Irvine to cast judgment on Seifer when the gunman barely knew the ex-knight, not to mention they were in cahoots together. He supposed it wasn't easy to see beneath the Seifer's flashy exterior. It might have been easier for others to simply assume the bullying blond was shallow and hadn't changed over the years.

 

Irvine was past trying to convince Squall that Seifer was an ill-suited partner, but a reminder of the man's faults might knock some sense into the commander, especially when there was enough distance between the two rivals that hormones couldn't override commonsense. “He's thirty-five and suddenly decided to uproot his life and start a business. That's classic bachelor behavior. He'll abandon everything on a whim.”

 

“I admire him,” Squall said quietly. At Irvine's shocked stare, he added, “He never settles for less. If he wants to do something, he makes it happen.”

 

“Except that he wants to do everything and doesn't care who he hurts in the process.”

 

“Seifer doesn't hurt people,” Squall refuted. “He's more considerate than you think.”

 

“Was he considerate when he forced himself into your life?”

 

“…” Squall shrugged. The ex-knight had been as considerate as anyone could have been under the strain of strange and compelling emotions. He didn't know how to explain to Irvine that it was necessary to read between the lines with Seifer. The man was upfront and blunt, but so much of what he did was for show. It was a defense mechanism. Growing up, it had been necessary to develop a tough outer shell.

 

Squall had chosen to close himself off to the world, whereas Seifer had became abrasive and warded off anyone who wasn't willing to be a true friend and stick around despite his antics. If Seifer became more selfish towards someone, such as demanding them to say his name instead of their own son's, it was because the ex-knight was testing them. Seifer needed to know that Squall wouldn't become fed up and leave, like so many people had when they were children.

 

Even Irvine had his own type of defense. Being a sharpshooter meant not needing to rely on a team for missions. Irvine didn't have to repeatedly socialize and learn to trust his teammates, since he usually had none. When it came to missions, Squall was more of a social butterfly than Irvine would ever be.

 

It saddened Squall to know that Irvine didn't understand Seifer's nature. He thought the gunman might have some insight considering they had all grown up together. Each of them had developed their particular quirks for similar reasons. Seifer hadn't been born abrasive. Life had made him that way, into someone who continually tested the patience of others.

 

Squall recalled their time in bed right before he had left. He had asked why Seifer always pushed for more, but he already knew the answer. Seifer needed to know how much he was willing to give. Squall's chest ached in remembrance. He was glad to have passed the man's test, but he wondered how much Seifer would make him give before being satisfied that he wasn't going to become fed up.

 

Doubting he could ever convince Irvine of the truth, Squall simply sighed. None of them were invulnerable, no matter what they said or how they acted. They could all be hurt, and they all took measures to prevent that. Seifer was perhaps the most vulnerable, simply because no one believed that his actions resonated any deeper than his flashy exterior. Gold was a soft metal, and that was what Seifer chose to shield himself with. Words and actions could cut through, it was just a matter of knowing where to strike.

 

“I want him in my life,” Squall said firmly, cutting off any further argument on the matter.

 

“What can you possibly see in him?” Irvine muttered, more to himself than Squall. Selphie would have scolded him by now, telling him to give the subject a rest and mind his own business. Yet, his past observations of the ex-knight's cruel and selfish behavior left him with the anxious certainty that Squall would be hurt. The rivals might last as a couple for a little while, but the novelty Seifer felt in having sex with a man would eventually wear off. Seifer would see his conquest as complete and lose interest, at which point Squall might close himself off to the world entirely.

 

Irvine had walked several paces before he realized that Squall had stopped. Glancing back, he found the commander gazing upwards, intent on something in the distance.

 

“Do you see that?” Squall asked, an edge of urgency in his voice.

 

“Where?” Irvine let his pile of wood clatter to the ground and moved next to the brunet. Tilting his head back, his sharp eyes scanned through the dense canopy. He nearly missed it, but spotted the falling spit of fire from a flare gun. Mildly surprised that Squall had seen the signal, he commented, “It looks about six miles east of us.”

 

“Hurry, and don't leave the wood,” Squall said, before starting forward at a sprint and disappearing through the trees.

 

“Hey!” Irvine called after him. There was no deterring Squall when he switched into fight mode. He could only scramble to retrieve his branches of wood and run after the man.

 

When Irvine made it back to camp, Squall had already organized a party to head east. The flare was a distress signal from the group that had gone out to explore the stream.

 

Dropping his armload, Irvine took a moment to catch his breath. Squall looked as though he had strolled back at a leisurely pace instead of sprinting a mile with an added fifty pounds of wood.

 

Ready to leave, Squall approached Irvine for a private word. “Four men come with me, the rest of you stay here.”

 

“You mean the rest of them, darlin'. I'm coming with you,” Irvine corrected.

 

Steely blue irises pinned the gunman in place. “No,” Squall said.

 

“The only reason I'm here is to watch your back.”

 

Expression sharpening, Squall cast a surveying glance around the group of mercenaries. Even among the older ones, there was a look of uncertainty and concern. The third highest ranked SeeD had been among the five men at the stream, and he was a man unlikely to send up a distress signal unless the circumstances were dire.

 

“I can watch my own back,” Squall stated. “I need you to watch theirs.”

 

Irvine stubbornly persisted, even though he knew Squall could not be budged. “Squall,” he began, but a severe look from the commander silenced him.

 

“That's an order, Kinneas,” Squall snapped. Turning away, he motioned for his chosen four to come forward.

 

Dannis took particular enjoyment in strutting to the commander's side. He spared the sulking gunman a glance, gloating over the fact that he was in a coveted position. Kinneas had taken his spot as leader on the first day, and his chance at revenge had come sooner than expected.

 

Irvine returned Dannis gaze reproachfully. The kid reminded of Seifer, and he was sorely tempted to draw his gun.

 

Hating to leave after such harsh words, Squall regarded Irvine once more and said, “Fortify what you can. You know the drill.” After thinking again on the man's strong desire to fight at his side, he reminded, “If you see a green flare, don't come after me.”

 

“Squall,” Irvine protested.

 

“Retreat to the beach. Under no circumstances are you to put the rest of the group in jeopardy.”

 

Irvine saluted, his jaw clenched to hold back a slew of protests. Every fiber in his body protested as Squall trekked off towards the stream with a scarce four soldiers in tail. The remaining group of five looked to him for further instruction.

 

Resolving not to let the commander down despite his sore rejection, Irvine turned to the group and began barking orders. The level of confidence in his voice seemed to infect the others, lessening some of their apprehensions.

 

--

 

Lore adjusted his grip, unable to feel completely comfortable with how the quarterstaff felt in his hold. For the third time that week, he was at Seifer's training center.

 

“You'll have to do better, kid,” Seifer said.

 

Circling cautiously, they studied each other. The sun beat down through the stadium's open rooftop. Seifer ran a hand through glinting gold hair, smoothing back strands that fell into his face. Lore's hair was shorter, his raven locks swept waywardly in a manner similar to his father's.

 

“I am doing better,” Lore muttered, taking another step to the side. “It won't be long before I beat you.”

 

“I didn't say you weren't better,” Seifer returned snidely. “But you're decades away from beating me.”

 

“We'll see!” Lore declared, thrusting the blunt end of his quarterstaff towards Seifer's stomach.

 

Seifer knocked the extended end of the boy's staff to the ground. Using his boot to pin it in place, he swung his own staff around and knocked the weapon from Lore's hands.

 

“Shit,” Lore hissed, losing his grip. His staff went sailing to the side. He became distracted at the loss, and nearly failed to dodge Seifer's next attack. There was no time to think, which made it impossible to figure out what his next move should be.

 

Seifer smiled when Lore dove away to retrieve the lost staff. The boy was learning quickly. A few days ago, the match would have been over by now, but Leonhart's son had a surprising aptitude and was beginning to react without hesitation. Immediate reactions needed to be dictated by instinct, such as retrieving a lost weapon.

 

“Better,” Seifer commented, already in pursuit of the boy.

 

Lore rolled out of the way of a hard blow directed at his leg. Staff in hand, he scrambled upright and jogged back several paces. “But not good enough,” he said through clenched teeth.

 

“You have quick feet,” Seifer stated in a tone that was simply observing a fact.

 

Smiling triumphantly, Lore said, “Like my dad.”

 

“Don't get cocky until you have something worth getting cocky about. You're snot half as fast as Leonhart.”

 

Lore's smile faltered. Gaze narrowing, he shot back, “That's still faster than you.”

 

Seifer let loose a series of quick jabbing attacks. Lore delighted in dodging each one, showing off swift footwork that he used for soccer. Thinking he had the upper hand, he was surprised when he suddenly ran into the wall bordering the battleground.

 

Before Lore could even process that he had nowhere to run, the ex-knight directed an attack to his shoulder. He parried at the last second, his staff held up between both hands, but the force of the man's attack sent a shock through his entire body. His teeth snapped together and the bones in his arms ached. The next attack wrenched his weapon from his hands once again.

 

Lore was forced to concede defeat. Seifer lowered the blunt end of his staff from the boy's neck and smirked victoriously.

 

“No point in being fast if you have nowhere to go,” Seifer jibed.

 

“Bastard,” Lore muttered sorely. “You cheated.”

 

“Cheated!?” Seifer barked, laughing at the notion. “It's called strategy. Half the battle is mental.”

 

Lore appeared skeptical.

 

Retrieving the kid's staff, Seifer tossed it to its owner and explained, “You can't be all brawn and no brain. That's how you get yourself cornered and killed.”

 

Glowering as he deftly caught his staff, Lore defended, “I know how to strategize.”

 

Hand gesturing to the wall, Seifer quirked a brow and remarked, “Then how did you end up here.”

 

“I can't think when I'm busy dodging.” It didn't seem possible. Each attack happened so quickly that he barely had enough time to counterattack or defend, let alone plan several moves ahead. Chess players sat quietly and took time to contemplate their next move. They didn't run around trying to avoid their opponent's well-aimed swings.

 

“Your father can,” Seifer returned with a lazy grin.

 

Lips pressed tightly together, Lore swallowed his retort. His father was the best there was. He couldn't possibly measure up.

 

“Of course, he wasn't always that way,” Seifer stated, recalling Leonhart's first few years at Balamb Garden. He smirked as he pictured the scrawny pre-teen, unable to specialize in the gunblade until meeting the weight requirement.

 

Seeing the same look in the blond's green eyes that Uncle Irvine sometimes had whenever old memories came forward, Lore became both jealous and curious. He wanted those memories, and to know what his father had been like at his age. Curiosity winning, he tried to appear as indifferent as possible while inquiring, “He wasn't?”

 

It was a moment before Seifer answered. Letting his memories slip away, he regarded the dark haired teen and said, “He lost a lot of fights before learning how to win them. Everyone loses until they know how to win.”

 

“Even you?” Lore hedged.

 

Smirking, Seifer shook his head. “I was born a god.”

 

Lore rolled his eyes. “You were born a jerk.”

 

“I can live with being a jerk. It's a hell of a lot better than being a mamma's boy.”

 

“You're one to talk,” Lore countered. “You're the one who hung around my house last time Dad was gone, wagging your tail until he finally came home.”

 

“At least I'm getting tail,” Seifer said with a lewd grin. As expected the boy rushed at him. Laughing, he raised his staff to block Lore's attack. When agitated, the kid gained a level of strength that reminded him of his own.

 

--

 

When Squall broke through the clearing and came to the stream, he wasn't certain how close he was to the group that had signaled for help. At the sound of shouting, he turned and followed the cry downstream.

 

Dannis followed on the commander's heels, able to keep pace. His smoky grey eyes were alight with energy, eager to see combat.

 

Squall jogged around the stream's bend. Before they were in sight of the members of their group, the towering form of a T-Rex loomed into view.

 

“Fuck me,” Dannis exclaimed.

 

Hearing this remark, Squall could not help but glance back. Dannis even sounded like Seifer, or perhaps it was simply the shared habit of vulgar language. Shaking his head, he forced himself to concentrate on the giant creature a hundred paces away.

 

Squall approached swiftly, each step he took seeming to make the beast grow larger. It was no ordinary T-Rex. Its hide was an ivy green with speckles of brown, and it towered at least four stories. Though it was recognizable as a T-Rex, it was twice the size of the ones in Balamb.

 

“Commander!” a man shouted near the streambed, before letting off several rounds from his machine gun. The unexpected end of the gun's reports signaled that the man had run out of ammo.

 

Squall recognized the man as Shripe, his third lieutenant. Approaching as close as he dared, he signaled for the others to huddle close for instructions. With its back facing them, the T-Rex hadn't noticed their arrival.

 

A plan had already formed in Squall's head. “Dannis, Kemmerick, take the right flank. Gorton and Lennex take the left. I'll move to the front and get to Shripe.” Drawing his gunblade, the steely metal seemed to glow silver at the promise of battle. Tapping the fingertips of his left hand to his forehead, he drew Diablo's presence closer to the surface. “Mind the tail and cast sleep whenever you can.”

 

After a chorusing “Yes'sir” Squall darted forward. When the monster caught sight of Dannis and Kemmerick at its flank, Squall was given an opening. Sprinting, he sloshed into the water, his boots and the legs of his fatigues immediately soaked. At the piercing roar the beast gave off, he tightened his hold on his gunblade and felt strength emanating from its core. The ground seemed to shake from the deafening growl, but he refused to hesitate. He moved alongside the swaying tail that hovered several feet in the air, the base of it as thick as the trunk of a large tree. Knowing that a single powerful swing from such a tail could easily put an end to his life, he took care not to knock into it.

 

T-Rexes had several weaknesses, and he hoped they applied to this particular breed. They were susceptible to sleep spells, their size left them with numerous blind spots, and they were easily angered. It was easy to distract a T-Rex simply by taunting it. It was this distractibility that allowed Squall to run up to the creature and rush between its legs. In a matter of seconds, he was on the other side of the enraged dinosaur, much to everyone's surprise.

 

“Commander,” Shripe called again, staggering to meet the ballsy swordsman.

 

“Where are the others?” Squall asked. While casting cautious glances over his shoulder to make sure the creature was occupied, he grabbed Shripe by the arm and drew him farther downstream, away from fight.

 

The lieutenant was older than Squall, in his late forties. He had a stocky build, his body a solid mass of muscle that could stop a boulder in its tracks. He had been a SeeD before the war, unlike most of the group members, and had fought enough battles to keep his cool in any emergency. His eyes appeared dazed. Blood oozed down from his dark hairline, and Squall suspected the man had experienced a lash from the monster's massive tail.

 

Panting, Shripe wipe a bloody brow and explained, “I ordered them downstream. I didn't want to lead that thing back to camp.” Taking several more breaths, he continued, “We fought as long as we could. If I'd known Rexes would be here, I would have stocked up on more sleeps.”

 

“Join your men. We can take it from here.”

 

“Sir,” Shripe protested. “It's not like the ones back home. It's stronger, and there's some sort of poison in its mouth. Its tooth grazed Felix and he was down for the count.”

 

“Go,” Squall said more firmly, giving the man a shove. Turning around, he found his group of four taking turns with their attacks. By alternating sides, they kept the T-Rex angrily uncertain which direction it wanted to make a counterattack. As he ran back to join the fight, the creature soon resolved its problem by spinning around and swiping its tail in a half-circle. The movement was swifter than Squall would have thought possible of such a large beast. It proved too swift for Gorton, who caught the tip and was tossed several feet away.

 

The creature's back was once again facing Squall. Unwilling to chance such a move as running beneath the T-Rex while it stomped about in a fit of rage, he decided to make the angry beast face him instead.

 

Keeping his eyes trained on the monster, he slid a hand along one of his belts and drew an explosive bullet. Removing a regular bullet from the revolver's chamber, he slipped the deadly ammo in and loaded it.

 

Taking a deep breath, Squall grit his teeth and charged the thick tail. Leaping into the air, he swung his weapon overhead. As the gleaming blade sliced through cartilage and bone, he pulled the trigger. A burst of fire exploded with a loud crack. He was thrust back by the explosion, but he managed to wrench his gunblade cleanly through. As the severed tail splashed into the water, the T-Rex roared in pain. It twisted around and focused all its bloodthirsty attention on Squall.

 

Squall staggered back, barely managing to keep his footing after the blast threw him back.

 

“Commander!” one of the men shouted in warning.

 

Having anticipated the creature would strike at him, Squall was ready. Instead of jumping back and gaining a safe distance, he crouched low and summoned Diablo. Just as the T-Rex lunged for him, its snapping jaws dripping acidic saliva, the sky darkened and a black figure materialized. An acrid scent filled the air as molten tar dripped from Diablo's form, sizzling as it hit the water.

 

Diablo dropped down, a single clawed foot smashing into the dinosaur's head. The T-Rex stumbled sideways, dazed by the heavy blow. With a flap of leathery wings, Diablo landed beside Squall. The Guardian Force's large figure appeared armored in a suit of spiky black mail. Diablo's flesh was leathery skin over corded muscles, with sharp horns that jutted from various joints. Unlike the other Guardian Forces, he was not just a demi-god. Diablo was a demon, a creature born from darkness, an antithesis to Hyne.

 

Diablo's distaste for humans was apparent, but as he glanced down at Squall through narrowed slits of red that served for eyes, he offered to objection to being used as a servant. He was not an easy Guardian Force to wield, but Squall had developed a high compatibility with the creature, and had formed a truce years ago after defeating him in battle.

 

With a single nod, Squall commanded Diablo forward. The black demon took flight and charged ahead. In a series of jaw-shattering attacks, Diablo slashed and kicked until the T-Rex had fallen and rolled helplessly on its back. Though the demon flew closer for another attack, Squall raised his arm and signaled Diablo to come back to him. The demon cast a questioning glance towards him, but obeyed.

 

“Thank you,” Squall said before releasing Diablo from his summons. The demon vanished without a trace. As the T-Rex thrashed about to regain its footing, he took pity and cast sleep.

 

With the monster oblivious to the world, Squall motioned for his team to regroup.

 

“We can take it!” Dannis declared with his broadsword extended for an attack.

 

“No!” Squall called out.

 

“We can't leave it here like this, Commander,” Gorton said. He limped closer, the impact of the creature's tail having broken at least one rib.

 

Shaking his head, Squall explained, “We will kill it, but not with weapons. Let it sleep. It doesn't need to be awake.”

 

“You mean, we should just use magic on it?”

 

“Yes,” Squall confirmed, feeling a sense of pity that a leader shouldn't feel for any monster that threatened the lives of his men. Nonetheless, the T-Rex was so large and had such a violent will to live that they could hack away for hours and it would still struggle to stay alive, bleeding and in pain. He would rather let it die as it slept, oblivious to the harm that magic caused.

 

Dannis became indignant. “What did we come here for!?” he shouted, refusing to leave his position near the monster's side. He was ready to strike. If the creature weren't awake to fight back, then he couldn't gain any real experience.

 

“Stand down!” Kemmerick yelled.

 

“Dammit!” Dannis cursed, seething as he walked away and joined the others. His fiery red hair was a match for his temper.

 

From a safe distance, the five men were able to cast various spells, using up the ones they had to spare. The T-Rex had a long lifespan, and it was a full hour before the deed was finally done. It lay lifelessly in the path of the stream.

 

Squall sent Kemmerick after the soldiers that had retreated downstream. They would need at least ten men, even if half of those men were weary and injured, to drag the body to the tree line so that it didn't pollute the water.

 

Though a cure spell mended scrapes and bruises, it did nothing to restore stamina. They trekked back to camp, sweaty and tired. Felix, who had been unfortunate enough to taste the biting sting of the T-Rex's tooth was in the worst shape. It had taken a mega-elixir to heal his wound and flush out the poison, and even then he appeared ashen and drained.

 

For his part, Squall wasn't exhausted, but his muscles were tight. Dannis had energy to spare, and spent it by brooding and casting rueful gazes at the commander.

 

“Come off it, Dannis,” Gorton muttered, slapping the boy on the back. “It was the humane thing to do.”

 

“Humane,” Dannis spat. “Is that how he killed Ultimecia?” He glared spitefully at the back of the commander's head. Everything about the effeminate swordsman pissed him off. He didn't see the hero that everyone else saw. The man was just some pretty-boy who knew how to put on a good show.

 

“I'm no beast lover, but you can't deny that we're the ones invading here. Besides, it would have taken ages to kill that thing if we sliced it and diced it. Then we would have needed to rest up tomorrow instead of carrying on with the mission.”

 

Though he understood the practicality behind the commander's actions, Dannis was not pleased. The T-Rex had been the first creature to put up a good fight on the island and he wanted the experience.

 

Kemmerick came up behind Gorton and Dannis. “Where there's one T-Rex, there's always another,” he assured.

 

“That's nothing to hope for,” Gorton returned.

 

Squall listened impassively as the group recounted the fight to each other. He kept his focus on their surroundings, cautious of other monsters. Most low-level fiends would have fled from the sound of the T-Rex's deafening roar, but if there happened to be another T-Rex within earshot, it would try to join the fight or seek revenge.

 

By the time they reached camp, Squall and the third lieutenant were the only two who remained on their guard. The others exchanged stories from previous T-Rex encounters, each trying to outdo the other.

 

Irvine rushed forward, meeting Squall with a scrutinizing gaze. From the looks of the others, there had been a battle. “Are you okay?” he asked.

 

Squall nodded, reverting to his silent ways now that there was no need to order his men. He spoke more during a single battle than he generally did in an entire month. Words came fluidly when he was in command, but he still kept it to the bare minimum.

 

Not taking the commander's response as the truth, Irvine turned to Shripe and asked, “Is he okay?”

 

Shripe laughed. Kinneas was a strange man and not at all what he had expected. The gunman was as much a legend as the commander. He still found it strange to see the world's champion sharpshooter fawning over the commander like a concerned mother hen. “Right as rain,” he stated. With a mischievous grin, he added, “As good as can be expected after encountering a T-Rex.”

 

Irvine blanched.

 

“You should have seen it,” Gorton said with an animated gesture. “The first thing the commander did was run right underneath it, straight between its legs.”

 

“Quite the daredevil,” Irvine muttered cynically, his expression grave.

 

Sighing inwardly, Squall brushed past his over-protective friend. “The water is safe,” he said, this declaration making all their efforts worth it. They had a source of fresh water and the knowledge that a nasty breed of T-Rex inhabited the island.

 

--

 

Laguna cheered, shouting excitedly as the crowd around him did the same. With an assist from Lore, his grandson's team had scored again, taking the lead. The boy was playing particularly well that night, and he was sorry that Squall was there to see it.

 

When Laguna's detail of black-suited guards stiffened and inched closer, he knew his guest had arrived.

 

“Mr. President,” the chief guard said near Laguna's shoulder. “Mr. Almasy is here.”

 

“Let him through,” Laguna directed, much to the guard's dismay.

 

Moments later, Seifer stood beside the longhaired president, towering over the man and everyone else in the crowd.

 

“Is there any particular reason why you called me out here?” Seifer asked in a gruff tone. Wearing black slacks, a burgundy colored dress shirt, sunglasses, and a stern expression, his presence was more assuming of the president's chief bodyguard than a businessman.

 

“Particular?” Laguna queried thoughtfully. “I suppose so. Seeing your son play soccer is considered particular, isn't it?”

 

Seifer would have scoffed if the president hadn't spoken in a surprisingly sharp manner. He rarely heard such a tone from Leonhart's father. The man's words came across as a reprimand.

 

“I'm a busy man, Loire,” Seifer stated. Despite his words, he removed his glasses and scoured the brightly colored forms in search of Leonhart's son.

 

Laguna smiled softly. “He's number sixteen in the red jersey.”

 

Sneering, Seifer tore his eyes from the grassy field. “Why am I here?” he demanded.

 

Laguna regarded the blond with a smile. “I asked you to meet me here. You didn't have to come.”

 

“You said you had something to discuss that concerned Squall.”

 

“It's not about his mission or anything like that,” Laguna assured.

 

“Well fuck,” Seifer grumbled. “You've just wasted my time.” He turned to leave, but the president set a hand on his arm.

 

“They're starting again,” Laguna said. A collective cheering from the surrounding crowd rang out.

 

Seifer found his eyes drawn back to the field. Even as he cursed Loire for being a meddlesome fool, he stepped back into place and watched with an edge of curiosity. “Is he any good?” he questioned doubtfully.

 

“Quite,” Laguna said, beaming a proud smile.

 

Seifer had been to a previous game, but his intention had been to harass Leonhart, so he hadn't watched the boy. When his eyes finally spotted the raven-haired teen in the distance, he found himself unable to look away. Soccer didn't interest him, but he acknowledged that the sport required some degree of skill.

 

“Have you heard from Squall?” Seifer asked. If he could obtain any bit of information on Leonhart's mission, then his drive from the training center wouldn't be entirely wasted.

 

“I haven't the faintest idea what Squall is up to,” Laguna declared. Feeling the glare from fiery green eyes, he added, “No news is truly good news in such situations. The only way I would hear from anyone about the mission is if something went wrong and Squall were hurt.”

 

“It's already been two weeks,” Seifer said. He buried his concern as best he could, but he couldn't manage to keep it from creeping into his voice.

 

Laguna's expression softened. Casting doleful hazel-green eyes upon the ex-knight, he consoled, “I've been through this routine dozens of times. He always comes back safe and sound.”

 

Seifer muttered something of an agreement, but didn't comment further. He knew enough to drop a topic when Loire felt the need to console him.

 

A shout went up and Seifer turned his attention to the field just in time to see Lore maneuver the ball past an opposing player and make a goal. As Loire began cheering, a strange sort of elation swelled inside him. When he realized he was grinning, his expression quickly turned sour.

 

“He's quite good,” Laguna reiterated.

 

Seifer slipped his sunglasses on and crossed his arms.

 

“Lore tells me he's been sparring with you.”

 

Seifer's gaze remained fixed, his stern profile offering no response to Laguna's comment.

 

Not at all discouraged, Laguna continued, “I always found it strange that Lore never took more of an interest in learning to fight.”

 

“Is it the boy's lack of interest, or Leonhart's discouragement?” Seifer returned.

 

Laguna hummed to himself, finding something new to reflect on. “I'm not certain. Squall never seemed to have a problem with Lore learning the basics.”

 

“But he never encouraged the kid to enroll in Garden or take up the gunblade,” Seifer stated matter-of-factly.

 

“I would worry about him if he became a SeeD,” Laguna stated. “I'm sure Squall feels the same.”

 

“If it's okay for the father, then it's okay for the son,” Seifer reasoned. Having no father himself, he had always made up his own rules and followed his own code of conduct.

 

“That's not what it's about,” Laguna refuted. Eyeing the man beside him, he added, “You wouldn't understand.” There was an intentional bite to his statement. When he saw the annoyed gleam in jade-green eyes, he knew he had hit his mark.

 

Seifer felt the sting of Loire's accusation. For the first time, he resented not being able to understand what Leonhart felt as a parent. “So instead of being a fighter, he'll become some pampered egghead that wets himself when he sees a Grat.”

 

“I doubt that,” Laguna refuted. “I've seen Lore fight. He can defend himself.”

 

“He can manage,” Seifer muttered disdainfully. “But it's a fucking waste. He's got too much of Leonhart in him.”

 

“He's got some of you in him too,” Laguna stated, fixing a penetrating gaze on the ex-knight.

 

Seifer suddenly realized what the president was after. He had fallen prey to an experienced politician. The man used his innocent and feckless tendencies as a weapon, luring unsuspecting targets close until it was time to pounce.

 

Sensing that his cover had been blown, Laguna's expression sobered. The crows-feet at his eyes deepened and his laugh lines became visible. “I like that you're dating my son,” he stated deadpan.

 

It was because the Estharian president was his supporter that Seifer hadn't already left. He didn't appreciate being called away from work on a misleading premise. However, he had very few allies at the moment, and none so influential as Loire, so he extended a rare courtesy.

 

“I like you despite what you may think right now,” Laguna continued. “I don't care for the fact that you bully my grandson, but boys his age could use a little bullying now and then.”

 

With a huff, Seifer said, “They stay spoiled otherwise.”

 

Laguna gave an agreeing nod, though he fixed an adoring gaze on Lore's distant figure. “At this point I don't think you need any help wooing my son. Squall is completely taken with you, whether he knows it or not.”

 

Seifer let a sly grin spread across his face. “Naturally,” he said.

 

Ignoring the blond's arrogant attitude, Laguna regarded Seifer with a sharpened gaze. “Squall is not a lone wolf anymore. If you want him, you have to want Lore and even myself. I'm not going anywhere, and I make it my business to be as much of a father to Squall as I can.”

 

“I don't mind you, Loire,” Seifer admitted. Laughing darkly, he considered the veiled threat and began to wonder if he might abscond to another country with Leonhart. There was no escaping Loire's reach while living in Esthar, which could easily become an annoyance in the near future.

 

“And the boy,” Laguna pressed, his tone mocking and condemning the way Seifer repeatedly referred to his grandson.

 

“Lore,” Seifer said, reflecting on the various times Leonhart had corrected him and urged him to use the brat's name.

 

“He's not a means to an end. Getting on his good side might make things easier, but it doesn't mean he goes away. If you're in Squall's life, then you're in Lore's life too, just as they'll both be in yours.”

 

“I've heard this before,” Seifer clipped, his patience waning.

 

“But have you listened?” challenged Laguna. “Ten years ago you wanted nothing to do with Lore or Squall. Has that changed?”

 

“I believe you witnessed the answer to that question when you walked in on me and Leonhart last time,” Seifer said jeeringly. His remark hit true when the composed president blushed furiously.

 

Struggling to overcome his embarrassment, Laguna reiterated, “Squall doesn't come alone. You can't pry him away from Lore.”

 

“I know,” Seifer muttered sorely. “I've tried.”

 

“If you can't give me a clear answer, then the answer is clear.”

 

Quirking a quizzical brow, Seifer studied the older man's profile. After a moment, Loire turned and looked at him insistently. “Hyne, you're really no better than Kinneas, are you?”

 

“I should think not.” Laguna was Squall's father, which gave him more right than anyone to meddle and pry, even if he usually kept his distance.

 

Taking a deep breath, Seifer released it on a heavy sigh. “The boy is tolerable,” he conceded. The president hadn't told him anything he hadn't already known. He had known for a long time that Leonhart came as a packaged deal. He had made repeated efforts to consort with the kid, and indeed found that he could tolerate the boy in small doses. He wasn't going to take Lore fishing for long weekends, but a spar every now and then worked out well.

 

“Do you feel anything for him yet?” Laguna asked in a quiet voice. A line of worry knitted his brow as his eyes earnestly fixed the ex-knight in place.

 

With a smirk, Seifer responded, “I feel annoyance.”

 

Sighing, Laguna shook his head. “If it happens, it'll happen quick,” he explained. “You'll find your eyes drawn to him at first. You'll think about him and wonder how much of yourself you can find in him, and if he has your habits. Before you know it, you'll feel pride in everything he does.”

 

Frowning, Seifer stared forward. He thought back to his earlier lapse, when he had been compelled to stay just to catch a quick glimpse of the boy playing. His frown deepened. “What are you on about?” he grumbled.

 

“That's how it was for me,” Laguna said. “When I learned that Squall was my son. At first, I stayed away. After the war, I thought I had no right to be in his life. More than that, I didn't want to be a father to a grown boy that was already seventeen.” With an anguished expression, he seemed lost in old memories. “Squall was just a year older than Lore is now when I first met him. Our circumstances are remarkably similar, wouldn't you say?”

 

“No,” Seifer muttered. “I walked away years ago. I met the kid when he was a pipsqueak.”

 

“You didn't really meet him, and you had other concerns that made it difficult to stay.”

 

Expression darkening, Seifer murmured, “Says you.”

 

“I regret it to this day,” Laguna continued. “When I decided to be in Squall's life, the guilt I felt was overwhelming. I love him so much that remembering the years I wasted brings more regret than any person should feel. I never saw my son grow up. It's my greatest tragedy.”

 

Seifer listened, but didn't express any sympathy towards the president's pained experience.

 

Laguna tried to make Seifer understand the precarious situation. “When I say that you have to let Lore into your life if you want Squall, I'm not lecturing you. I'm warning you. It may hurt.”

 

Standing in silent reflection, Seifer churned Loire's advice over in his head. After several minutes, he declared, “You and I aren't cut from the cloth. I regret nothing.”

 

Laguna watched with a feeling of anxiety as the ex-knight left. The man could have a heart of steel, but that heart would be moved to tears when he accepted that Lore was his son. The connection between parent and child was a peculiar thing, and he hoped Seifer was ready for it.

 

--

 

By the third week, Squall and his team had covered nearly half the length of the island. There were numerous hills and high ridges that would take too long to detour around. Hiking along a steady incline was exhausting, but once they reached the top, they could look forward to an easier trek downhill.

 

The trees were less sparse along the base of the ridge, but the terrain was dangerously steep at points. Pushing the group until the last rays of the sunlight were fading from the sky, Squall was satisfied when they reached a safely fortified plateau halfway up the mountainous hillside.

 

Performing like a well-oiled machine, camp was set up quickly for the night. The distant babble of the stream had become a permanent fixture. They had followed the stream's path, finding that it turned north and took them exactly where they wanted to go. The water was deeper than the shallow trickle nearer the beach, allowing them to bath and wash their clothes.

 

As usual, Irvine directed the team away from the stream while Squall bathed, giving the commander a “respectful privacy”. Squall knew Irvine's true motivations for joining the mission, which was the same reason the man kept a headcount while he washed up.

 

When Squall came to the streambed, he made a cautious descent, holding a relatively clean set of clothes in one arm while his other arm never strayed to far from his gunblade. The water had cut into the hill, creating a sharp V shaped gouge. The drop off was sudden, and it would be a painful fall for anyone that tripped.

 

Shedding sweaty fatigues, Squall listened intently for the sound of unwelcome guests. There were fewer monsters near the ridge. He suspected there might be aerial predators that deterred smaller creatures from leaving the dense coverage of the jungle.

 

Though he risked exposing his body, Squall couldn't trust his surroundings. One of the belts that tied around his thigh to hold a dagger was easily tightened to strap around his upper arm. Wearing nothing except the small blade, he gathered his dirty clothes and waded into the center of the stream. First washing his clothes and then himself, the chill water was refreshing.

 

It was dark by the time he finished. A pale half-moon provided a surprisingly bright light. Even the stars seemed bright enough to counter the dark shadows of the brush and trees that surrounded him.

 

Squall was grateful for the time alone, but it was irksome to wait until everyone else had finished. The nightly ritual was always done under the cover of darkness, as though he had to hide his body.

 

Irvine's fixated concern with his chastity had nothing to do past incidences or any likelihood that his teammates would attempt to sexually assault him. In fact, it had nothing to do with chastity, since he wasn't a virgin and the periods of celibacy in his life were not due to chasteness. Irvine and Lore's peculiar protectiveness was partly his fault.

 

His son and best friend reacted to his asocial behavior. They recognized that he preferred solitude and perceived others as threats to the isolation he clung to. His lack of experience when it came to relationships triggered his family's concern, making them wary and doubtful that he couldn't navigate the twisted roads of romance. Seifer was possessive to a fault and had different motivations for acting like every adult male in a mile radius wanted to jump him.

 

He wasn't incompetent when it came to romance, but he would be the first to admit that he had trouble perceiving and understanding the emotions involved. Cale had been in love with him for year and he had been oblivious to the fact. With Seifer, he still had no idea what he felt or why he felt so attracted to the man.

 

Dunking under the flowing water, Squall cleared his head. There was little sense in brooding over such matters. Lore had become less protective lately, grudgingly accepting Seifer into his life. Irvine wasn't around as often, even if his presence on the mission was the gesture of a best friend's protective concern.

 

In reality, he didn't need anyone looking out for him. He was wary and standoffish by nature, making it difficult for anyone to become his friend or even approach him. Most people found him cold and aloof. Enamored fans generally kept their distance, perhaps suspecting he would ruin their idolized image if they met him.

 

With a reflexive smile, Squall concluded that Seifer understood him better than anyone. The man saw past his defenses, knowing what buttons to push and when to back down. His fingers trailed over his neck, rubbing where the mark had been. He could feel the heated press of Seifer's lips, even if the mark had disappeared weeks ago.

 

When his body began to react, Squall dipped beneath the water again, willing it to become colder. Dragging himself back to the shoreline, he dressed quickly in a set of dark grey fatigues. With his gunblade strapped on, he gathered the clothes he had washed and headed back to camp.

 

Upon returning, Squall found that several team members had retired for the night. The remaining stragglers were grouped around the fire, talking animatedly. Except for a few minor disagreements, everyone mixed well together. Their time confined on the island had brought them all closer. Despite differences in ages and ranks, they fought with an increasing amount of concern for each other's well being.

 

A hush fell over everyone as the commander drew within earshot.

 

Squall took a seat beside Irvine. His body shivered against the night air, cold drops from his hair running down his neck. Inching closer to the fire, he stared at dancing flames. Feeling hypnotized by the fire, he was quickly lost in his own musings.

 

Irvine had to nudge Squall to draw his attention. Stormy blue eyes sharpened and Squall glanced at the gunman questioningly.

 

“They asked about your scar,” Irvine said.

 

Squall's hand instinctively rose to his forehead. He traced the diagonal slash between his brows. He held a bizarre affection for the mark. He and Seifer would always be linked by it.

 

Lieutenant Shripe had a gruff manner, but was always respectful, never once questioning the authority of the team leader who was ten years younger than him. He even used the honorific title that didn't actually apply to the man. Squall Leonhart was no longer a commander, but everyone called him that. Raising his left arm, he pointed to a long jagged scar that ran from his the underside of his wrist to his elbow. “I was telling the boys how I got this beauty. I wondered if you'd give the story behind yours.”

 

Everyone grew quiet. They all knew the rumors about the commander, which included how he had received his prominent scar. They knew the scar had a twin, a mirror image born by Ultimecia's knight. Hearing the account firsthand had them eagerly holding their breath.

 

Dannis tossed another log onto the fire, breaking the tense silence. Seated opposite the commander, he peered over licking flames and met clear grey-blue eyes. Feeling the commander's attention, his stomach tightened. Wondering what the swordsman thought while looking at him, he became self-conscious. When the unblinking gaze flickered to the ground for a moment, he realized that the commander had been staring into the fire and hadn't even noticed he was there.

 

Shripe was about to move on, feeling certain he had met another boundary with the commander. The younger man was eerily quiet at times, rarely speaking even when spoken to. He always wore a look of equanimity, appearing calm and composed in and out of battle. He had a standoffish aura, and most of the guys had stopped trying to strike up conversations since their remarks were only met with silence. It wasn't until they observed the commander treating Kinneas with the same reserved manner that they realized his aloofness wasn't a personal affront, but merely a character flaw.

 

Indignant at how the commander continued to ignore all attempts at socializing, Dannis spoke up. “You got the scar from Ultimecia's knight, right?”

 

The silence that followed was heavier than before. None of them were afraid to ask the commander questions, though they had learned to limit their inquiries to what was relevant to the mission. They knew enough not to press for an answer when the laconic brunet didn't offer a prompt response.

 

Irvine stirred, shifting to sit straighter. Inclining his head, he peered from beneath the brim of his hat and studied Dannis. The brash soldier had made a habit of questioning Squall's authority, but had never actually disobeyed an order. Squall refused to let him teach the boy a lesson. He suspected that Squall found Dannis amusing rather than troublesome, since the kid reminded him of Seifer.

 

Waiting for a cue, Irvine watched Squall's profile. Delicate features were relaxed, appearing indifferent to the comment.

 

Jaw clenching, Dannis found the commander's patient nature to be a greater annoyance than his lack of words. “What about the scar on your stomach?” he asked, hoping to elicit some sort of reaction.

 

Squall stiffened. Ice filled his eyes as he gazed narrowly across the fire towards Dannis.

 

Smirking, Dannis felt victorious. He had hit a bull's eye. “Most of the guys have seen it.”

 

A collective curiosity targeted Squall. Everyone knew the general story behind the faintly pink scar on the swordsman's forehead, but none of them had a clue where the other scar came from. It had to have been a strong enemy, perhaps another memento of Ultimecia's knight, or even the sorceress herself.

 

Irvine teetered on the edge of his seat. Fighting the urge to fire a few rounds into Dannis' leg, he clipped, “Drop it.”

 

Dannis' attention turned to the gunman. Kinneas had no real place on the mission and wasn't even a member of Balamb Garden. The sharp shooting cowboy was almost as annoying at the commander. The man always hovered near Commander Leonhart, speaking on the swordsman's behalf as though he were a dog trailing after its master. “Come on, Commander,” he pressed in a mocking tone. He gave Kinneas a challenging smirk before meeting the pale swordsman's icy eyes again. “A scar like that has a story behind it. How long was it before you got a potion to close it?”

 

Taking a steady breath, Squall reined in his emotions. He had mixed feelings about Dannis' question. He wasn't ashamed of his scar, but he didn't make a habit of publicizing it. As his expression became neutral again, he took a moment to reflect, finally deciding that he wanted to keep the truth close to his heart. After a long moment of oppressive silence, his eyes flickered over to Irvine.

 

Irvine nodded and turned his attention on the group. Masking his anger, he drawled sweetly, “You gotta earn that story.”

 

Dannis kept his gaze on the commander. The challenge made him sink his teeth in deeper. “It's a clean cut, almost like it was surgical, except that surgeries don't leave scars.”

 

“Dannis, back off,” Kemmerick hissed beside the young man.

 

Gorton countered Dannis' remark, saying, “I've got a scar from having my appendix removed. The longer they have you open, the more visible the scar.”

 

“How long were you open?” Dannis queried, his eyes burning into the commander's.

 

Squall sensed that Irvine was ready to draw his gun. Raising a hand to quiet the gunman, he simply stared across the fire and held the persistent redhead's gaze.

 

Feeling the ground tilt beneath him, Dannis became lost in the commander's eyes. They were unreadable, yet he swore he saw something flicker behind the carefully erected guard. It was as though the man were trying to convey a message through thought alone. Losing some of his anger, he felt mesmerized. Perhaps it was the way the glint of reds and oranges from the fire danced in clear grey-blue irises, but he couldn't look away.

 

“When you earn it,” Squall said evenly, impressing countless meanings into his words.

 

For a moment, Dannis couldn't tell if the swordsman had spoken. He hadn't seen the man's mouth move, and it was hard to miss any movement from those bow-shaped lips. However, his ears could not be deceived, and he was certain he had heard the brunet's clear and dulcet voice.

 

Realizing he had just been challenged, Dannis grit his teeth and glared. The commander continued to stare. Before he lost himself again, he dropped his gaze, but quickly realized that this was a sign of submission. Raising his eyes again, he found that it was too late. The swordsman gazed towards the bottom of the fire, a long fringe of dark lashes shrouding those strangely powerful eyes.

 

Unease remained as the group acknowledged Dannis' increasing disobedience and the chilling effect the commander's rapt attention could have. Squall gracefully stood and nodded to the others, intent on retiring for the night. Irvine was quick to follow, as though the gunman didn't trust leaving the commander unattended.

 

Dannis seethed, vowing to discover the origins of the scar on the commander's abdomen.

 

 

TBC…

 

Author's note:

 

Excuse the typos/overlooked grammar errors and general clumsiness. My mind is not working well today.

 

Anyway, YAY! for another chapter. I suppose the fact that it takes me ten times as long to update as it used to makes it feel like a bigger accomplishment. I hope you enjoyed it. I know some of you are concerned that I've dropped the issue of Squall's pregnancy, but I swear it's still an important factor, and will come into play again later on.

 

The pace is faster and so much is happening compared to the slow going chapters that I usually post, it almost seems like a completely different story. I've made so many new issues that have to be resolved that I'm beginning to wonder if I can ever end the story. No worries though, I will finish it.

 

Thank you for the awesome reviews on the last chapter (they seriously kept me going). I look forward to your thoughts on this new chapter. Criticism is always welcome, since I usually need a kick in the butt that points out flaws (like referring to someone as “the commander” a million times until you never want to see those words again).