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Entry tags:
FFVIII: Counting
Fandom: Final Fantasy VIII
Pairing: Squall/Rinoa
Warnings: None
Rating: G
Summary: He's been gone five days. For the Rinoa fanwork-a-thon.
He's been gone five days. One hundred and thirty-two hours and fifteen minutes, to be exact. She didn't mean to count, but the time stacks up in the corner of her mind anyway. She hasn't been able to sleep -- the bed's too large, the night too quiet, the dark too close. There're rules, she's sure, about wandering the corridors of Garden at night, but she's the commander's wife, and besides, rules are slack lately while the students are on holiday.
In another week, he'll be back. Or not. One hundred and sixty-eight hours until she sees him or hears of what happened. She feels the little tug of her senses that tell her he's still alive, of course: a sorceress never loses track of her knight. But he hates it when she slips into his head, when she pries. He's still uncomfortable with dependancy -- his or hers -- and so she's promised. No checking up.
She told him she wouldn't mind if he tried to check up, but she knows he won't.
Squall wouldn't tell her anything about this mission. She hadn't asked. There's no point in asking if it's dangerous: it always is. And there's nothing she can do but think of him, feel the little pulse of his life tied to hers.
"Come back soon," she whispers, to nobody, to the little pulse of life. She imagines she feels a brief flare, an acknowledgement. She smiles into the dark.
One hundred and sixty-seven hours, and fifty-five minutes. She can wait.
Pairing: Squall/Rinoa
Warnings: None
Rating: G
Summary: He's been gone five days. For the Rinoa fanwork-a-thon.
He's been gone five days. One hundred and thirty-two hours and fifteen minutes, to be exact. She didn't mean to count, but the time stacks up in the corner of her mind anyway. She hasn't been able to sleep -- the bed's too large, the night too quiet, the dark too close. There're rules, she's sure, about wandering the corridors of Garden at night, but she's the commander's wife, and besides, rules are slack lately while the students are on holiday.
In another week, he'll be back. Or not. One hundred and sixty-eight hours until she sees him or hears of what happened. She feels the little tug of her senses that tell her he's still alive, of course: a sorceress never loses track of her knight. But he hates it when she slips into his head, when she pries. He's still uncomfortable with dependancy -- his or hers -- and so she's promised. No checking up.
She told him she wouldn't mind if he tried to check up, but she knows he won't.
Squall wouldn't tell her anything about this mission. She hadn't asked. There's no point in asking if it's dangerous: it always is. And there's nothing she can do but think of him, feel the little pulse of his life tied to hers.
"Come back soon," she whispers, to nobody, to the little pulse of life. She imagines she feels a brief flare, an acknowledgement. She smiles into the dark.
One hundred and sixty-seven hours, and fifty-five minutes. She can wait.
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