Pairings: Squall/Seifer; Sephiroth/Cloud
Canon: FFVII + FFVIII (no Compilation)
Rating/Warnings: R – Battle violence, sexual content, foul language; time-travel, of sorts.

Summary: Jenova's legacy, living on through the Sorceresses, means that Squall has an unstable Seifer on his hands as well as another impending apocalypse. He doesn't know what to do with these awkward people claiming to be ancient warriors brought back to fight an alien menace, and really, maybe paperwork hadn't been so bad after all.

Disclaimer: The original inspiration was Konitsu's Bandages.
Note: This is a rewrite of the original, since fateofshadow and arinrowan convinced me to keep working on it but the original is just embarrassing. No major events have been removed, and this remains unbeta'd by anyone else.

1.

In Which Shit Gets Stirred Up

Monday.

Squall dreamed.

He stood in a field of pale flowers underneath a completely white sky. There were no aches in his body, none of the exhaustion that had slowly been wearing him down, just a quiet kind of relaxation that made his limbs feel heavy and dreamlike. Squall walked until he realized he could walk forever and never reach the horizon.

The hairs on the back of his neck suddenly prickled and Squall whirled around sharply, hand moving for Lionheart at his hip. A grey wolf watched him with sentient eyes that glowed faintly blue. They stared at one another, waiting for the other to make the first move, and then he blinked –

And there was no longer a wolf but a man with the same glowing eyes, a little shorter than Squall with hair startlingly similar to Zell's. The stark black of his clothing made him look sickly pale and exhausted, but he managed to carry the weight of an enormous sword over his back easily enough. "Who are you?" seemed the most sensible question.

"Cloud," said the man after a pause. "Cloud Strife. Most of the time."

The name wasn't familiar, and for a moment Squall wondered if all of this, this odd dream, was Shiva's doing. Some metaphorical theater meant to inspire self-revelation and inner peace. "I was asleep," was the safe, neutral statement that he chose, watching Strife carefully, but there was no sign of aggression or disbelief.

Strife frowned slightly. "Only the dead or the Cetra can use the Lifestream like this, Leonhart."

"How do you know me?"

"I don't. The Cetra do."

It was Squall's turn to frown, and he opened his mouth to ask who the Cetra were and what kind of dream this was, exactly, but then Shiva's voice was calling him awake.

Squall lay in bed for a moment and stared up at the ceiling. Predawn light came in through the slatted blinds of the commander's quarters, washing the plain white walls with a faintly blue light. Griever's cross was warm on his bare chest as Shiva, now that he was awake, withdrew silently into his subconscious.

Cloud Strife. Sorcerer? he mused, though he'd never heard of men with that kind of power. There was something about Strife's presence that had tainted the serenity of the field of flowers, the same kind of energy that had left a muted hum in the center of his chest when Rinoa had been around. Not as strong as when he was in the presence of a Sorceress, but there nevertheless. A new Guardian Force? Yes, because Guardian Forces were known for how humanlike they were. Squall snorted. It was just a dream. Don't be stupid.

The weariness had seeped back into his body and he lay on his back for a while, thinking about nothing in particular except that Quistis would likely be irritated if he showed up to his office so early. The only sound in his quarters was the quiet hum of Garden's utilities. He wondered if he needed to restock some of the supplies in the armory; he should get Irvine or Selphie to check on that.

The light had shifted a few degrees by the time Squall roused himself and went to shower. The water was warm and had the faintly metallic taste that Timber was never quite able to strip out. His clothes were freshly laundered; courtesy of Quistis' badgering of the cleaning staff, no doubt, without whom he probably would've worn the same clothes for days at a time and violated every one of Quistis' professional sensibilities in the process. He ran a hand through damp hair as he stepped out of his quarters with the mechanical whoosh of an electronic door.

It was early enough that he didn't come across anyone on his way to his office, a large box with light grey walls and nondescript carpet, even with the strengthening light crawling through the window. There was, as usual, paperwork that had somehow found its way to his desk overnight like a persistent vermin infestation: military requests, political entreaties, and student applications, and Squall wondered why people seemed incapable of helping themselves without his signature on the bottom line. Why they thought killing a Sorceress would make him qualified for this position, especially when he hadn't been driven by any sort of ideal. Just his own selfish reasons.

Leaning Lionheart against the wall within reach, he worked through the papers as the rising sun shortened the shadows in his office.

"Squall?"

Quistis was leaning in through the door, eyes stern behind her glasses. When Squall just blinked at her, she entered, the whip coiled at her waist bouncing gently against her thigh. "Did you sleep at all?"

"Yes," he said shortly, turning back to the mission report he held. Casualties from monster attack…

"You're here awfully early." Obviously. "Have you eaten?"

"No." Scans showed monster stats were unusually high…

Quistis bit her lip briefly. "Squall…"

"I'll have the secretary call for something from the cafeteria." This was about the time she started her shift, wasn't it? Squall couldn't remember.

Thankfully she let the matter drop with a frustrated sigh. "There's been another request from Galbadia for financial restitution."

Squall's eyes narrowed. "Garden isn't a charity."

"Nevertheless, they feel that SeeDs were responsible for much of the damage and that SeeDs should be out there rebuilding, or at least paying for it," she said dryly. When Squall snorted, she continued, "They probably came to me about the issue because I'm a woman and thus a bleeding heart, and so they wouldn't have to deal with you."

Ahaha. Ha.

"Oh, and Laguna's been trying to get a hold of you."

Fuck. "If this is about the treaty, tell him I haven't changed my mind."

"I have been. I can see where you get your stubbornness."

The glare he gave her literally caused the temperature to drop a few degrees. She crossed her arms and shifted her weight, looking at him more keenly than Squall was comfortable with, but before she could press him on this other issue (and it was an issue, wasn't it, when a person's coldness was no longer quite so metaphorical and one was reminded that the side-effects of using Guardian Forces weren't fully known), he asked, "Have you ever heard of something called the Lifestream?"

She frowned in thought. "It sounds familiar. Maybe it was mentioned in one of the magic courses? I'm sorry, I don't know anything about it. Why?"

But Squall had already turned back to the report, and after a moment he heard the clicking of her heels disappear outside and down the hallway. He was irritated with himself for having indulged a moment of whimsy.

The monsters also appeared to display a basic understanding of attack strategy…

It was a dream. It didn't mean anything.

…

Tuesday.

Squall dreamed.

The flowers were still butter-yellow and lace-white, the sky still empty and unchanging. It smelled like a storm was looming on the horizon.

The blond man was there again, sitting in the flowers with his elbows on his knees and the huge sword resting against his back, the tip pressing heavily into the ground. Squall stood beside him and wondered if humans could naturally have those eyes.

Time was impossible to measure in this place, so it could've been minutes or hours before Squall finally seated himself beside the other man, laying Lionheart across his lap so its handle wouldn't dig into his hip. Neither spoke at first, but t hen Strife said, "People think war and death are the two worst things we can experience."

Squall said nothing.

"They're wrong. The worst thing is the silence that comes after."

…

"Squall! I'm so glad I finally managed to catch you. You're an incredibly difficult person to get a hold of."

Squall stared back at his father, already vaguely regretting accepting the call. Laguna's voice was cheerful, despite the tinny quality of the vid-phone, but there were lines of worry around his eyes. "What did you want?"

Laguna was momentarily taken aback, but he recovered with an exhausted smile. "Well, something's…happened. Sort of. I mean, I'm not really sure what happened, but it can't be good."

If people were given a finite number of words they could use per lifetime, business would be so much more efficient. "If you don't know, then find me someone who does."

Laguna was gently pushed aside and Kiros' dark face appeared, looking more tired than even the president. "Some of our weather stations have detected an anomaly on the northern continent. Unusual weather patterns, mostly, and tremors. One of these stations near Dollet has been reporting sightings of monsters that no one has seen before."

"Why haven't I heard this?" Squall made a mental note to speak with Quistis about getting their own reports on these monsters so his SeeDs could be effectively prepared.

"Our scientists don't think there's anything to be concerned about yet. There hasn't been any increase in monster-related deaths or anything, and they're keeping a sharp eye on the situation."

Laguna took back the vid-phone and said, "You remember what we spoke about last time, Squall?" His voice was still lighthearted, but there was an unmistakable spark of shrewdness in his eyes. "If there is a potential threat – "

"No."

"Surely you see – "

"Balamb Garden is an independent institution," Squall said flatly. "An alliance made with any nation not only calls into question our professionalism but also usurps the entire purpose of SeeD."

Laguna's bid to tie Balamb Garden to Esthar, wherein the nation would provide financial aid in peacetime and the Garden in turn would aid Esthar in times in of war by default, made Squall's skin crawl. He'd rather send his SeeDs on embarrassing missions to save cats from trees than sign away their integrity. Garden belongs to no one, and he severed the connection.

…

"Look at me!"

But the other boy never turned in his direction, and he was confused and hurt because everyone else did, even if it was only because they were irritated or angered.

"Look at me!" Seifer grabbed the other boy's arm and twisted, leaving a raw rash. "Don't ignore me!"

The other boy wrenched his arm away and swung a tiny fist, connecting painfully with Seifer's jaw, and then they were rolling around on the ground kicking and snarling like little wild animals.

"SEIFER."

"Don't ignore me!"

"SEIFER."

Seifer wrestled his way free and looked up at Fujin, her one eye narrowed with worry. She carried a small tray in her callused hands.

"Fu?" Seifer rasped, blinking away his dream? Memory? Ow, my goddamn head.

"EAT."

His bed felt cold though he'd been lying there for several hours, and he shivered as he pulled himself up to sit. He was so weak, you insignificant little worm –

There was a bowl of broth that warmed his hands when he cradled it, and he let his lips rest against the edge for a moment, imagining that the heat from the broth passed through the bowl and his cold lips to soothe the pounding in his temples. Had Fujin always had one eye? He couldn't remember. Must've been a violent fight to lose her eye, but the other guy probably lost his life. Pride, that his friend was so strong; guilt, that she was wasting her time on a broken man.

"OKAY?"

"I feel like shit and this tastes even worse," he sniped, but there was no heat behind his words. If he tilted the bowl slightly the dim overhead light would refract off the broth and bits of vegetable inside, and he didn't have to look up to see the sadness in Fujin's expression. Weak, said the voices inside of him. Pathetic. Sob stories only get you so far until the audience loses interest, and it looks like you lost that a long time ago.

Fujin's hands were cool against the feverish warmth of his skin as she gently but firmly pushed the bowl against his lips again. "DRINK," she commanded, and through all the timelines in his head Seifer felt a rush of anger (how dare she patronize me) and guilt (fuck I'm such an immature shit). But eventually he managed to finish the broth, as much as his nausea could handle, and then Fujin pressed him back down to the bed.

"SLEEP."

How the mighty have fallen.

…

Vincent had been dreaming for a very long time. His breathing had evened out until his heart beat once every ten years and the flow of his blood mimicked the natural tides of the Planet.

He dreamed mostly of the past in vague blurs, like watching a room full of people through a rain-drenched window. The people were indistinct, soundless shapes playing out familiar scenes. Sometimes he dreamed of darkness and blood and agony, and during those times he could hear CHAOS laughing. But most often he lay quiet, cradled in the warmth of the Planet in a sleep that was as close to death as he could come. He could see the Lifestream, touch it, but he couldn't join the cycle of birth-death-rebirth that was the right of all mortals.

Vincent recalled once dreaming of himself on a cliff overlooking Midgar, the sun low in the sky and the ground as dry as a desert. He stood at the very edge and when he looked to his side, Cloud was sitting by his feet, staring off into space towards the city. Vincent glanced behind them and wasn't surprised to see a large patch of dirt stained dark with old blood, not far from where the old Buster sword was slowly rusting away. Nothing was said, and after a while the dream dissipated.

But now his dreams were changing. The pulse of the Planet was shifting, growing faster, and Vincent could feel awareness returning to him.