She laughs, but she absolutely keeps her hands right where they are because Locke is warm. But there’s a playful nip at his throat for good measure, one that she follows up with a kiss.
“Oh, relax. If I were a zombie, you’d be turned by now.”
She lets go to hop up on the counter, taking a dishtowel with her to help, plucking the glass from his hands once it’s clean to dry.
It’s weird, being in Esthar like this, strangely domestic, caught in some kind of holding pattern-- the threat seems to have handled itself (or she’s finally snapped under stress; she’s beginning to think it might be the latter, considering how distance and time away from Garden help her think a little more clearly, get herself back on even keel.)
Doesn’t disable the retinal locks or make her pack away the arsenal hidden in the various closets, but...
(It will be nice, one day, when she eventually decides it’s safe, that the entire world isn’t out to get her every second of every day.)
Xu takes a plate, attention focused on getting every last droplet.
“You want to go be touristy this afternoon with me? There’s a cherry blossom festival happening downtown-- we could dress up and buy expensive street food. It might be...nice to get out of here for a while. Be normal people for a bit?”
They don’t leave her alone, because that is standard Garden protocol when someone is having what appears to be a psychotic episode, and honestly, it’s just good common sense, especial in the infirmary, where there are all kinds of sharp and dangerous things just lying around in drawers and cabinets.
They do, however, take her gun, even though every single bullet in it is lodged in various office surfaces rather than where they should have stayed today, and when the gate guard radios Locke’s arrival, someone loads her into a wheelchair like she weighs nothing at all.
Xu’s willing to blame the drugs, but she certainly doesn’t trust her feet to carry her from the infirmary to the gate. The cool night air helps, though; the spread of stars are familiar, reassuring. Outside Garden’s walls, the world hasn’t ended.
"My grandmother's, actually. I inherited it when she passed. Did some upgrades."
Cleared out most of the memories, changed the furniture when she thought she might retire here, live here after everything at Garden was over.
Now, though, it's a tastefully decorated nightmare. Xu moves through the hall, into the sterile kitchen, appliances new and barely used.
The refrigerator is completely empty. She's not surprised; she doesn't let anyone in here. Not even her mother.
"We'll need to go shopping or something. Remind me to stop at the store after we visit the Palace."
Because if anyone is going to know what's going on, it will be the President and his cabinet.
Xu lets the fridge slam shut with a sigh, leaning back against it to face him. "You know, I was going to bring you here for a vacation or something. Now..." She shrugs.
“Guests aren’t allowed down here-- did you get separated from your tour group?”
This is what she hates about the slow season at Garden-- tours. Strangers, all needing to be monitored, watched on the live feeds, school trips, parents with children seeking alternative education, all shepherded around the common areas of Garden.
The dorms, the caf, the quad-- the viewing room over the training center, even. Not, however, central command, and Xu is glad the door to the heart of the organization is shut behind her. A sterile hallway holds no secrets.
Her hand flickers against the arm of the sofa, a brief imitation of her usual dismissive wave.
“I’m fine. Totally fine. Perfect, in fact, considering all of my internal organs are still where they’re supposed to be.”
Had she meant to say that? Probably not, but oh, well. The distilled Curaga drip taped to her bicep was still doing its sweet work; she wouldn’t really be responsible for anything that she said for the next few hours, at least.
“Well. More or less, anyway. Pass me a pillow? What’s that you’re working on?”
fic: take my hand (take my whole life, too) | (xu/locke, ffviii/ffvi)
Trabia is good to them, kind to them. Cold, but kind.
She makes up for it with sweaters, cardigans, borrowing Locke’s jacket on occasion. The hotel doesn’t make a fuss about their presence, just delivers room service when they ask, turns down the bed and refreshes their towels.
Esthar is a hundred miles away, and it may as well be a thousand. Every morning, she wakes up and expects to get in the car, to keep driving-- every day, they go down the street to get breakfast at a little cafe, and something happens that keeps them there another day, comfortable in the small movie house, or wandering another one of Trabia City’s hundreds of nature trails.
She doesn’t want to leave, Xu realizes late one evening, drowsing against him in the window seat of their room; the sun has long since set and the stars are out in force, a million of them overhead like diamonds.
It reminds her of their days in the desert, late night campfires, the soft warking of chocobos nearby.
She shifts, drawing Locke’s arms closer across her chest, tilting back to look up at him. “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” Xu says finally.
His response is a soft rumble that Xu feels more than hears, and his kiss is scratchy with overgrown beard against her temple. “I don’t think you’re crazy, couerl. Nuts, sometimes, yeah-- crazy, no.”
“That’s the same thing.” But her argument doesn’t have any bite, and it makes her feel better, to hear him say it out loud.
“No, it ain’t. Nuts is charging into a one-woman war with not much more than the gun in your purse and the knife you keep in the center console. Crazy is doin’ it without a plan.”
His sweater smells like the generic clean soap of hotel laundry, but beneath it, he smells like he’s been rolling around in the forest, and it’s her favorite scent in the world. She tucks her face into his arm, and sighs.
“By that definition, I’d have to be committed, because I certainly didn’t have a plan beyond shoot first, questions later.”
“Still a plan.” He folds into her, protective, letting the cigarette between his fingers spiral down to the bricks below. The window latch had been simple to pop open, the screen a breeze to remove from its security locks. No one’s called them on it yet, and they have no intention of putting it back together until they’re getting ready to leave.
“Besides, you brought along backup-- can’t be all that crazy.”
Xu smiles, briefly, burying it against his sleeve, and doesn’t say anything in response. Locke’s mouth moves across her temple, down her cheek. free hand drawing back some of her hair to find the line of her jaw.
“I’ve always got your back, couerl.”
She holds fast to him, warm in his embrace. Trabia is kind to them, but temporary-- will anything ever feel like home?
She orders a shot of whiskey, and knocks it back with the air of someone who doesn’t particularly enjoy what she’s doing, but knows it’s the most effective way to get results.
Xu stops the waitress before she can get too far away, and requests that she leave the bottle this time.
“If you count a disciplinary suspension something to be worth celebrating. Welcome back, by the way.”
Spreading the photos out, letting her really see what she's potentially wrought. It doesn't matter to Xu that Rinoa is dressed up, that she looks like she's got exciting plans.
If she's responsible at all for any of this, she can go to the brig in a gown just as well as jeans.
Xu stabs a finger on the sheet that gave President Loire a heart attack, pink nail vicious against the red scrambled text.
