Karma Part 1/2
Alright, so I offered to write Ruthy -
terrayndian
Summary: In which, Rinoa teaches a lesson, Squall gets a kitten, and life all around sucks for Seifer. Or 'The Kitty!Seifer Story'.
-
The sun was setting along the sandy beach that edged the garden at the orphanage. Three dark haired beauties sat silently on the patio, relishing the peace and quiet. Cid had taken the latest gaggle of adorably exasperating misfits camping, leaving the women to their sunset. He requested only that the house still be standing when they returned. The three sorceresses, however, had no plans for explosions of any kind. Instead, they were taking the rare occasion to be completely and utterly normal. No magic, only the joy of touch, the thrill of sight, and the meditation of sound.
They were tending the many rips and tears accumulated in the children’s clothing over the past few weeks, falling into habit with needle and thread. The youngest bit her lip in concentration, squinting at her snaggled stitches as she valiantly battled the material. Every so often, she huffed at a bang dangling in her face and vainly attempted to push it out of her way without gouging her eye with the needle. Finally, Rinoa growled and dropped the mess into her lap. She scowled.
“Would you like some help?” Ellone smiled softly, leaning over the arm of her wicker chair. “I’m afraid Ferris won’t fit if you keep going.”
Rinoa gave a heavy sigh and smiled ruefully. “I guess I need it.” She shook out the shirt and grimaced at the distinct bunch of cloth in the armpit. “Oh Hyne, it really does look terrible.” With a few futile tugs she gave up and handed it over. “How about I just buy him a new one? I’ve always been good at that. Daddy’s credit card has yet to fail me.”
“Well, that would rather defeat the purpose of sewing, wouldn’t it?” Ellone chuckled. “It’s hard to feel an object when you’re shopping. You don’t find the grounding purpose; that sense of earthly connection. Sweat of your brow and the like. Humanizing, I guess. Reminds us we’re still like everyone else.” She smiled ruefully.
“What’s wrong with you!” Rinoa gasped, scandalized “No grounding purpose? Those are the words of a woman who doesn’t know how to shop! Why, I can’t imagine a better way to be connected! I mean, with shopping, you have the weaves and the earth tones, environmentally friendly dyes, wooden buttons, not to forget that social connection, much less keeping up with the most important cultural aspects, and then there’s accepting your limitations, because while a credit card might seem endless, Daddy’s patience is not -”
Ellone quirked a bemused eyebrow. “Is that so? And what about the sweat of your brow? Shopping’s hardly a character building experience.”
“Since when?” Rinoa responded animatedly. “What about waking up at four am to wait in line for the big sale, only to find out that cute top you’ve wanted for a whole month was sold to the fat lady who can’t fit in it, much less with the right to wear it! Then you have to battle the vicious sale slashers, who don’t care what it is as long as they beat you to it; it’s an ancient practice, the subjugation of clothing in the name of ‘Thrift Shopping’. You thought saving the world was hard? Well, let me tell you, Ultimecia has nothing on Helga: The He-man Hall Hogger.” The younger woman shook her head. “You’ve obviously been sheltered if you can’t even enjoy shopping.”
“I didn’t say that!”
“Your disrespect speaks for itself! I bet you’ve never walked into a store and just looked because you wanted to!” The teen accused, bouncing to her feet. “I mean, sure, your clothes are expensive and in fantastic taste for the mature twenty-something, but I have never seen you even glance at a lacy bra to go with it! Squall shops better than that! The boy at least looks at the silk boxers. I have on good authority that after the set I sent him for his birthday, he wears nothing else!”
Ellone’s jaw dropped in disbelief. “He does not!”
“Wanna bet?” Rinoa scrambled across the chairs for her purse, digging through with fervor. “I have proof!”
“You do not!” Elle followed, peering over her should when Rinoa cheered in triumph, brandishing her cell phone.
“Yes, I do! Right here!” On her phone, looking akin to a deer caught in the head lights, was Squall. He was changing in the training grounds locker room, ass turned towards the camera as he froze pulling on a pair of doubtlessly silk boxers.
“Mother of Hyne!” Ellone screeched. “How did you get this!”
“Selphie.” Rinoa shrugged easily. “She and Irvine were satisfying their exhibitionist streak when he walked in. Apparently, Irvine decided he wasn’t THAT extroverted and threw her in a locker. She, and I quote, ‘was finding the kinkiest bit of a decidedly unsexy situation.’
“Oh.” Ellone responded dumbly, smoothing out her pristine white pencil skirt. The girls stood there silently for a long moment. “He really does have a fabulous-”
“Oh, Hyne, I know.” Rinoa moaned in frustration. “Being a friend and confidant is all fine and dandy. It’s an honor, really, but sometimes I really hate the naked barrier.”
Ellone set a sympathetic hand on her shoulder
Edea watched them gossip in quiet amusement from her shaded chair, pulling her thread cleanly back and forth with the practice ease. For decades, she’d used nothing but the hands Hyne had given her and now they were all she ever wanted. Magic was a seductive trait, but Ultimecia had taught them all a difficult lesson. They were three powerful sorceresses and all of them had been abused by the venomous witch. She and Rinoa were mentally violated, stripped of all control, while Ellone was a catalyst for the apocalypse. Magic was seductive, but misused it became an aura of rape. Even now, Edea dreamt of the scars her children carried through the actions she couldn’t fight.
Those children healed her heart, though. Alone in the world, brought together by indelible ties, able to bind together and stand against the maelstrom. Rinoa was a girl of fairytales and fancies, but for all her naïve assumptions, she wasn’t wrong. Love, it seemed, truly was the most powerful weapon. Matron missed them, her little guardians. It was hard to admit, but they were her favorites, of all the children she had raised. None had bonded with each other like they had, none had become a family.
Edea jumped when Rinoa yelped, suckling a needle pricked finger and glaring at Ferris’s innocent shirt. Ellone winced empathetically and tried to pull the hand towards her for inspection, but the bouncy teen stubbornly stuck her finger more firmly in her mouth. That was always like her, hiding her wounds. Her heart overflowed for others, but when it came to herself, Rinoa smiled sadly and suffered silently. Edea doubted the girl had always been that way, but whether it was her scar from the war or a habit she learned from Squall, it worried her. Three days ago, the girl had appeared on their doorstep unexpectedly, dusty and travel worn. The Ragnarok was nowhere in sight and her bedraggled appearance suggested she walked farther than she drove. More disturbing was the quiet tears she shed in the evenings. Edea had asked her quietly, that first day, what had brought her this far, but she’d merely smiled and said ‘Broken girlish dreams. I didn’t believe them, but they still hurt.’ Still, for all her worries, she had to admit the girl was healing from whatever ghosts drove her.
“I do think shopping would be a relaxing adventure.” Matron spoke, bringing the conversation around again. “I fear I’m a mite short on gifts for the holidays.”
Ellone gave Rinoa a mock frown when she stuck her tongue out victoriously. “Oh, very well. I suppose I’ll get Laguna something. What do you buy the King who has everything?” She asked rhetorically before gasping in horror. She clutched her head in panic, twittering helplessly. “Oh Hyne, Squall! What am I going to get him?”
Rinoa giggled sympathetically and drawled smartly. “What do you buy the prince who wants nothing? Well, besides silk boxers.”
Elle groaned. “It’s impossible!”
“Your brother will appreciate anything you give him, Ellone.” Edea reassured her. “He always has.”
“Matron, “ Ellone explained patiently. “As much as he may appreciate the gold pocket watch and custom designed SEED Uniform, they were hardly the most inspired gifts.”
“I’ll have you know he did like the boots, at least. Wears them almost every day.” Rinoa piped in.
“Every day?” Ellone pressed. “They were meant for formal occasions! They’re made of the finest grendel skin available!” Rinoa shrugged.
“He felt something so well-made would waste away in his closet. You know he avoids parties on principle. Has a thing for being the social pariah.” Rinoa plucked a sandwich off the table. Inelegantly, she spoke with her mouth full. “At least he uses them. I bought him a full dining set for his promotion. I know for a fact the only reason they’re in his cabinets is because I put them there.”
“Well, then what did you buy him?” Ellone asked desperately. “What would he have a use for? He never talks to me, anymore.”
“Well, he never really speaks to anyone.” Rinoa reminded her, politely ignoring the eleven years Ellone hadn’t cared to acknowledge his existence. “Besides, I didn’t give him something useful.” Ellone and Edea exchanged looks while the teenager grinned mischievously. “I just sent him something he can’t ignore.” Neither older woman found her unexpected laughter particularly comforting, but they smiled and continued dithering over what the buy the proud and powerful of the world for Christmas, while she chuckled happily to herself.
Rinoa licked the frayed string again, confidently threading her needle. This would be a very Merry Christmas.
-
Squall stared at the brightly wrapped box hesitantly. The paper was red and green, with happy bells twined into the ribbon, but the box had four large holes cut in the top, and the last time he’d picked it up, it mewed. The tag was a small piece of simple cardstock folded in half and decorated with star stickers and the words ‘Merry Christmas, Squall! Love, Rinny.’ He stood, leaning over the blinding juxtaposition of holiday cheer with dread, trying to see through the holes. If he never opened it, maybe he could lie and say it never arrived.
A sharp hiss echoed through the office as the box rattled and an angry paw shot towards his face from one of the ragged holes. Oh Hyne. It was worse than he feared. This wouldn’t just chew his shoes, it’d shred his apartment. Could he develop a sudden allergy to anything lighter than fifty pounds? No, Rinoa would give him that heartbroken look of overwhelming disappointment, take the beast, and return with a big slobbery mess named ‘Butch’. Still, there was always the training grounds; let it loose, see how long it took to be eaten. What Rinoa didn’t know, couldn’t hurt her.
The soft swish of his office doors pulled his attention away from Pandora’s box. He pushed it aside as Zell bounced in, boyish as ever in his hideous surfer cut-offs. He leaned against the desk, tapping the iridescent paper. “Hey, hey! Christmas has come early this year, eh?” Zell waggled his eyebrows. “Someone special?”
Squall sighed and dragged a gloved hand down his face. He shook his head. “Rinoa.”
“Rinny baby!” Zell yelled ecstatically, and Squall half expected her to pop out of the wall. “How is she? Heard she was lying low in Galbadia - Spat with her Dad or something.” The spiky blond shrug flippantly. “Politics.”
Squall hummed. Galbadia? That was news to him. Then again, he wasn’t exactly the world’s most up to date social calendar. Besides, Rinoa had mentioned her Timber apartment was a bit conspicuous these days. Something high classed in her father’s neighborhood was probably safer for a world renowned Sorceress, anyway.
“Sooooo…” Zell pressed expectantly.
Squall crooked an eyebrow quizzically. “…”
Zell stared at him for a long moment, obviously incredulous that the ever wise Commander could ever be so oblivious. Finally, he threw his hands theatrically and gave in, asking, “Well, what is it!”
“Dunno.” The brunette answered simply, picking up a pen and signing the latest batch of inventory requests. Zell boggled at him. Of course, Squall sighed mentally, Zell would never leave a present unopened on his desk. The suspense would kill him. Fine, he’d kill two birds with one stone. Maybe Zell would get attached to ‘it’. “You can open it.”
“What?” The boxer squawked. “Nah, man! I couldn’t!”
Squall shrugged. “Whatever.”
“I mean, are you sure?” His fingers were already itching towards the ribbons with obvious impatience. Subtlety and self-restraint never had been on the boy’s list of strong suits. Humming with unbridled excitement, Zell reasoned, “Of course you’re sure!” and in a flurry had the box shredded to pieces.
Squall quietly cursed. He couldn’t send it back, now.
“DUDE!” Zell yelled and bounced happily, cradling a yellow mass in his arms. “It’s a kitten! Just look at you, you adorable little tyke, yeah just look at you! I bet you’re such a cute little cuddly snuggler, just what the commander needs, eh? Just exac- Huh?”
Squall silently thanked whatever god felt like taking credit Zell had stopped cooing over the small feline. Zell was a happy endearing personality, but just at the moment, there was nothing else in the world he wanted to deal with less. Squall watched as the startled man pulled the tiny animal away from his body, illuminating the heavy swath of soaked shirt that trailed down his chest. Even across the desk, the commander recognized the scent of urine.
“Dude!” Zell whined, hurriedly setting the kitten on Squall’s desk. “He pissed on me, man!” Squall waved the scrap of cardstock guilelessly. ‘Love, Rinoa.’ In other words, he took no responsibility for anything the mongrel did. Pouting, Zell pointed an angry finger at the menace. “Bad kitty!”
It merely hissed and slashed at his hand, narrowly missing soft flesh with miniature claws. The fighter yelped and danced back. “Your cat’s crazy!” Zell shook his head. He grimaced down at his shirt again. “The ladies wanted me to ask you to lunch, but you’d best put that somewhere first.” The hellion spat, flexing a tiny paw threateningly in his direction. Zell just stared, eyes bugging in proper dramatic fashion. “Like I said, man. Crazy.”
Then, he turned and left, leaving Squall in an even more awkward position than before. His present crouched and stalked along the edge of the desk, plotting against the featherbrained boy all the way out the door. Squall almost wanted to stop him and hand the fur ball over, but he knew, in the end, there was only one solution.
He’d have to keep it.
With a heavy sigh, the resigned swordsman reached across the desk and scooped the kitten up with one hand. Immediately, the little bastard began to thrash and maul at his leather clad fingers. A lucky tread caught Squall along his unguarded wrist and he began a tally of what exactly should come first: potty training or declawing. Grasping the wriggling body tightly, he held the bright yellow monster at eyelevel and scowled.
As they stared at each other, the kitten calmed down, voting instead to return his unhappy gaze with one of green-eyed insolence. He remembered that look. Educators had dreaded that look since the day Seifer Almasy walked into Garden, and Squall felt a chill run down his spine. Slowly and quietly, the tiny body began to shake with a rather endearing rumble he might have mistaken for a purr if needle-like claws hadn’t been methodically kneading into his hapless gloves.
“You’re going to kill me in my sleep, aren’t you?” He asked dryly, snorting in amusement when it yowled; probably agreeing whole heartedly, the little hellion. If nothing else, Rinoa had sent a cute one. Normally, if he’d been forced to pick a critter of any size, Squall would have chosen something a bit more coal toned, but he had to admit, for being a murderous ray of sunshine, blond suited him. Fitting in the palm of his hand was also rather darling.
Now, he needed a name for… it. Unfortunately, naming a living organism required something along the lines of artistic creativity, which, unless battle plans and weapon schematics counted, Squall Leonhart desperately lacked. He noted, more out of boredom then any actual discomfort, that ‘It’ had taken to chewing on the knuckle of his pointer finger. Squall cocked his head and watched. Kittens could twist their bodies around in the most fascinating ways, but somehow Bendy, Twisty, and Limber, all seemed in rather bad taste for a name. ‘It’ had no defining marks that Squall could tell, other than a white slash across its nose. He ignored that, too. Scar, Zit, and Disfigured, were even worse than the flexible selections. Glancing around the room, his eyes settled on the tattered box Zell had strewn about the room. Pandora’s Box really was rather apt. Since that was the box, that would make ‘it’ -
“Pandora.” Squall nodded simply, leaning back in his chair. The kitten paused at the word, obviously trying to figure out if comprehension mattered. Oddly enough, the unnatural angle she tilted her head seemed rather thoughtful. Pandora mewed dubiously, back legs pedaling fruitlessly while she tried to find a foot hold.
Wait.
Squall lifted the cat carefully, shifting his hand to check certain defining features. Sure enough, he and ‘Pandora’ had more in common than being warm-blooded. “Male, I should have known.” Well, he could spend another hour trying to thing up a new name for the ungrateful mongrel, or he could keep the name and realize the feline wouldn’t know the difference. Glancing at the pile of paperwork he didn’t want to go through, he was tempted to try again. Eventually, though, he admitted his creative juices were devoured entirely in the first venture. Pandora it was. Pan.
Setting the furry creature back on the desk, Squall slipped the glove off his right hand. Then, he grasped the small chin between thumb and forefinger, holding it steady. “Your name is Pan. You will do what I say, or I’ll dispose of you. Understood?” Suddenly, Squall had the amusing idea to name the cat ‘Bastard’ and paint a cross on his head. Maybe he could kick it whenever work was too stressful. Pan immediately hissed and took a swipe at his face.
Fine.
Roughly, the SeeD picked him up, pulled open his top draw, and deposited the unruly ball of fluff inside. He closed it with a snap, ignoring the desperate yowl that followed. Squall was mildly surprised he felt no guilt at the pathetic mewls and scratches. While SeeDs were used for rescue missions and recon, they weren’t cuddly individuals. A cute yellow kitten wasn’t going to change that.
-
Running a tired hand through his hair, Squall refused to sigh. It would cede victory to the siege of paperwork and that, he told himself firmly, would not be his downfall. A glance at the clock on his wall gave him a deep set sense of morbid futility as it slothed over the glossy eight. Fourteen hour day and he still couldn’t see his desktop. All that was left was to go home, shower, and set his alarm. Lather, rinse, repeat. Really, there was no denying the truth. The office had long since taken over his life; anything left was stubborn denial. Squall gave in and sighed
Pulling the top drawer open, Squall glared down at his captive. The calico - if he could really call it that, but what else could he call it other than ‘yellow’? - blinked owlishly from the dark, curled tightly in the corner nearest the front. Gouges and scrapes littered the dark wood and Squall had to resist another exasperated sigh. First, Squall’s desk, then the world.
“You finished?” He asked mildly, watching the sleepy green eyes blink listlessly at him. Pan merely mewed and set his head back on his paw lethargically. Squall frowned. For a cat that so fiercely tried to devour his fingers earlier, this sort of nonchalance seemed out of place, even after his imprisonment.
Being ever diplomatic, Squall poked him.
Pan barely twitched, the slightest tilt of his head the only sign he noticed the affront. Stroking a leather finger along the petite nose, the slight man watched the kitten’s eyes loll open and closed, not entirely from pleasure. Finally, he admitted his concern and picked up the small animal. It was encouraging when Pan began chewing absently on his thumb, but the listlessness still hadn’t worn off. It was more than sleepiness, he was certain now. He reached for his mug, pausing when Pan stirred.
The sound was quiet, but the soft jerk was telling all the same. Leonhart flinched. It took something gut wrenching to make him feel guilty, but there was no denying ‘starvation of small animals’ fell in the category.
“Damn it.” He cursed, berating himself for the obvious. The cat had been mailed to him; even express, that was several hours. He’d been locked in the drawer since sometime during the early afternoon, which meant Pan hadn’t been fed or given water for at least twelve hours. Even with his inexperience, Squall realized that was bad, particularly for something so small. He coddled the kitten guiltily, curling the boneless heap of fur against his chest and steadied his mug underneath the small nose. He only hoped the lingering scent of coffee didn’t deter the little guy from drinking. Rinoa was going to kill him.
-
Half an hour later, Squall stood attentively behind the stove, eyeing the newly rejuvenated devil’s spawn as it dragged an old tee shirt around the living room. It was a little surreal to see something so tiny attack his innocent clothing with such ferocity, but the shirt was old and battered anyway. Actually, he couldn’t think of the last time he’d worn it. Before the war, at least.
After a day’s worth of paperwork, he hadn’t felt like cooking, but the cafeteria was closed and Pan had to eat something. Cats like fish, he knew, but sadly he hadn’t cared to buy any from Balamb in over a month, so he hoped the frozen chicken would be enough. There was a cereal bowl filled with water on the floor which Pan had pompously ignored, choosing instead to conquer Squall’s water glass whenever the urge came to him. Squall was quickly appreciating the fact he never planned on having children.
Finally, the food was done. He hauled the skillet off the fire and set it on the granite counter top, searching his cabinets for plates. He knew he had some. Or, well, he was pretty sure. Ah, there they were, next to the glasses. He grabbed one large and one small, divvying the meal between the two.
“Food.” Squall called, reaching in the fridge for a beer. He wasn’t touching his water again; swallowing a whisker sounded positively unpleasant.
Pan popped his head up from underneath the couch, flicking his ears about in what Squall guessed was happiness. Carrying dinner over to the table, he set the little plate on the floor and put his water down with it. At least it wouldn’t stain if the fur ball knocked it over. Pan seemed leery to relinquish his white trophy, however, and spent a good five minutes glaring in Squall’s direction.
Eventually, Leonhart rolled his eyes. “I promise I won’t take it, alright?” He swore, pulling lightly on the thin fabric. “Now, eat.”
With that assurance, Pan let go of the shirt and shimmied back in pounce, attacking his meat with the same vigor he’d dismembered his stitched enemy. Squall watched in dismay as little paws tossed chicken in the air, only to slam it back into the floor to be devoured. It oddly reminded him of frenzied geezards ripping apart their prey, but, luckily, sautéed chicken had less blood. He snorted and shook his head. Feral little beast.
However, as soon as Squall popped the cap off his beer, Pan’s attention shifted. Sharp green eyes followed the brown glass on its journey from table to lips and back again, poised perfectly to fall off the table. It was amusing to watch the miniscule muscles shift and flex while the kitten wound himself tight for the leap. Squall waited till the last moment to swoop the tower of liquor to safety, and watched the kitten tumble gracelessly across the table in morbid satisfaction.
“This’ll make you sick.” He explained, bopping Pan on the nose. Still, the yellow mass flung him self at the bottle, yowling when it, once again, dodged cleanly out of his way. It became somewhat of a game after that. Though, if questioned, Squall would insist he was merely testing the animal’s physical capabilities. Such as, for the record, Pan was an excellent jumper. Also for the record, his landings were crap and often involved tumbling off the table.
When Squall checked the clock again it read ten. Pan was still bounding around the sofa after his beer and Squall, honestly, just didn’t have the energy to play anymore. With a sigh, he set the bottle on the table. “Fine.” He said. “You want it? Have at it, but don’t you dare wake me up.”
Promptly, Pan knocked over the bottle and dove into the pool of amber, frolicking about gleefully. Squall just shook his head and added ‘New Coffee Table’ to his list of things to replace.
-
Morning broke through the window with a vengeance, announcing itself far too early. Squall stretched lazily, eyeing the window thoughtfully. If he closed the drapes, no one would wake him and he’d make up all the sleep he’d missed over the last week. Of course, if he put forth the effort to actually haul his ass across the room, he’d already be good and awake. So, unless Hyne decided to blot out the sun in some biblical gesture, Squall was doomed to consciousness, either way. Stifling a groan, he sat up, slowly rubbing the sleep out of his face.
Shower. Shower good. Water.
Dredging the last vestiges of energy he could muster, Squall hauled himself up and stumbled towards the bathroom door. Once upon a time, he could wake sharp and alert, ready for anything. That was three years and ten million signatures ago. Paperwork, it seemed, dulled the senses and slowed even the most battle honed reflexes. Next time Galbadia wanted to start a war, he wasn’t going to take prisoners. They’d all be chained to tiny desks with a data console and a pen, forever to be known as accountants.
Stumbling inelegantly into the bathroom, Leonhart gagged. Hyne above, what the hell was that smell? He flipped on the light and noticed many things. First was Pan’s miserable yowl as he tumbled off the toilet and hid in the dark crevice beneath the sink. Second, there was a disgusting yellow broth covering his bathroom floor. Lastly, chunks of chicken floated guiltily in the smelly goop.
Squall scowled, leaning over the counter to glare at the miserable animal, desperately avoiding the light. The blasted cat had a hang over. “I told you so.”
Stepping carefully over the vomit, Leonhart pulled a towel out of the closet and tossed it in the mess. He glared at Pan, with a frown. Weren’t animals supposed to know by taste what they should and shouldn’t eat? ‘Balamb Brewhouse’ hardly put out the sweetest beer. Still, considering his new pet seemed to have a few screws loose, he’d best make sure Pan drank plenty of fluids after this. Squall dumped the towel in the sink, rinsing it out before scrubbing at the smell. Fluids, he reminded himself, right after my shower.
He tossed the soiled towel in the dirty laundry and stripped his clothes in after. The bathroom still reeked, but hopefully the fan and an air freshener would make a difference. Otherwise, he was killing the cat and covering the stench with blood.
The shower sputtered to life, spitting a rain of ice water onto the slick tile. Squall learned the unpleasant way his shower was unlivable for the first minute, flexing cold to scalding until it finally evened out around tepid. It was commonly assumed that the Commander in Chief had the best rooms. Commonly, assumptions were completely wrong. If anything, Quistis had the best lodgings out of anyone. Smaller in floor size, the woman still had the best environmental control and water access. His was connected to the training center which, hypothetically, meant there would always be hot water. Hypothetically, that was about as credible as assuming. To manage a warm shower, Squall had to steal away in the wee hours of the morning to catch anything over fifty degrees. Honestly, it was exactly like being a cadet, but without the hope of a better life on the horizon. He ran the most powerful mercenary syndicate on the planet. If he couldn’t get hot water when he wanted it, no one could.
Finally, he saw the boiling steam fade to a satisfying billow and stepped under the flow. Tepid or not, whoever invented the shower should be commended. There was no way a SEED could bath after a mission - it was humanly impossible to crawl into the tub, much less out of it, when multiple joints no longer bend. Therefore, stiff-jointedly designed, showers were as close to heaven as Squall could get. Though, Heaven probably had hot water.
Squall jumped and dropped the soap in surprise when a sneezing ball of sodden fur curled up around his foot. “What the-” Pan ignored his shock, tottering over to the slick bar of soap and diligently rubbed himself along it. The wet brunette blinked, blocking his eyes from the spray. His kitten was trying to bathe. That was so… Well, not to impugn on his dignity or anything, it was adorable.
Chuckling, he scooped up the kitten in one hand and the loose soap with the other, setting it in the cradle. “Hey now. That’s the first decent habit I’ve seen out of you.” He smiled, rubbing wayward suds away from Pan’s sensitive eyes. “Com’ere.” Carefully, He tucked the tiny body under his neck, popping the cap on his shampoo. “This should work a bit better.”
Softly, he rubbed the gel along the filthy fur, working out the encrusted mucus and vomit. “Guess you don’t like the smell of this stuff any more than I do.” Pan nuzzled his chin in response, making Squall laugh. Really, when he wanted to be, the little beggar was cute. Apparently, though, not for long.
“Ow!” Squall yelped. “Stop that!” He rapped his kitten on the head. “I’m not edible.” He ran fingers along the hollow of his throat, wincing at the tiny scrapes Pan’s teeth left. He held the kitten up and glared. “I can still drown you.”
Pan blinked, shaking his head against the flood of water, but, in all other ways, ignored him.
Squall sighed. Something told him they weren’t seeing eye-to-eye on the dynamics of their relationship. Lifting Pan into the concentrated spray, he fantasized about leaving him there, but waited just long enough for the suds to wash out, then dropped him to the floor. With a grin, he watched the little kitten legs splay out from underneath him. Probably, that was a sign of some dastardly disease and he’d feel terrible laughing about it when the animal died, but until then, the almost scientifically impossible lack of landing coordination brought nothing but happiness to his day. A little indignity served the destructive bastard right.
Squall finished rinsing his own hair, keeping close tabs on where his drenched mongrel was lurking. More than once, he watched the beady little eyes zero in on his ankles and he didn’t trust Pan to pass up an attack if given the opportunity. Finally, he turned off the water and left, abandoning the kitten to make his own way out.
-
( Karma 2/2)