A/N: Yes, I know this fic hasn't been updated in more than two years. But now that we're all twiddling our thumbs at home under quarantine, what better time is there to revisit old pet projects and dead fandoms? After all, I would be doing this story and all its wonderful ideas a tragic disservice if I don't see it to completion.

Aloice, this chapter is dedicated to you. May your God Estheim-worshipping ways always continue to be the Light of inspiration for all things HopeRai. Enjoy :3

xxx

Chapter 7 – Overcaution

xxx

The eidolith shatters as Lightning brings Overture's silver edge down upon it, initiating Odin's summoning sequence.

Faithful as always, her Eidolon steed emerges from the subsequent burst of neon-pink glyphs. After allowing his two passengers to climb aboard, he flies through the streets in a steady gallop, his metallic hooves clattering against the stone pavement.

They arrive at a small, artificial lake in the heart of the metropolis. Within the lake lies a lone inlet, made all the more prominent by an oddly shaped building at its peninsula. Suspended above the water on two beams, said building resembles a three-dimensional infinity symbol, or more mundanely, a giant peanut. Bleached grey like its environment, it nevertheless catches the eye with its sleek curves – a stark contrast against the carved pillars and baroque, square structures of Valhalla's architecture.

Sliding off Odin's back onto turf, Lightning takes a few steps in the building's direction. "That's our stop."

She turns around to see Hope dismounting, albeit with more weariness than grace. "It looks like something on Cocoon rather than from around here," he remarks as he comes up beside her, his brow crinkled in puzzlement.

"Can't argue that. It's because this place was created from my memories."

The crinkle transforms into a surprised arch. "Wow, really?"

"Etro wanted me to have a place of my own," she explains. "Creature comforts, to remind me I'm still human. So she plucked this from my head—" she mimes pulling out a hair "—and magicked it into existence." She tosses the imaginary hair into the breeze.

A figurative lightbulb goes off behind Hope's eyes. "Is this a replica of your home, back when you lived in Bodhum?"

"You got it."

Upon receiving a mental thanks for carrying out his brief duty, Odin vanishes amid a whirlwind of rose petals. Turning her attention back to her Valhalla home, Lightning steps into the glass-covered entrance and ascends the stairway, Hope on her heels. The door, situated at the junction between the twin domes, slides open with a silent command. They spill into a short, well-lit corridor, and take a left turn. Here, a high-ceilinged space greets them, where the features of kitchen, dining room and lounge have been rolled into one.

"What you're seeing here is purely aesthetic," she says, gesturing around the room and its modern furnishings. "The lighting's maintained by magic. But the controls don't work." For emphasis, she walks over to the central supporting beam, which houses the command panel, and presses on the non-responsive keys. "Nor does the plumbing." She demonstrates likewise with a flick of the kitchen faucet, eliciting a similar lack of response.

Emboldened by curiosity, Hope scans their surroundings for a solid half-minute before turning back to her. "So all of this comes from magic? The likeness is remarkable; I can't tell the difference." He runs wondering fingers across the back of a nearby swivel chair. "Is this even made of real matter? If only I could access my lab; I'd love to run a composition analysis."

Lightning lets out a huff that is part amusement and part exasperation. "Trust you to think about taking apart my house the moment you set foot inside it, Mr Scientist."

"I'm sorry, I can't help it," replies her companion, his expression turning sheepish. "It's just fascinating. The fal'Cie can bend physics to some extent, but willing matter into existence is beyond their abilities. That power belongs to the gods alone, it seems. Though Etro's powers at replication aren't quite perfect, judging by the lack of electricity or running water."

"Maybe because those are manmade things?" she points out with a shrug. "I dunno; I've never thought about it. Having a working TV would be nice, I guess." She glances up at a mounted LCD screen, still as blank and unanimated as the first time she laid eyes on it untold eons ago. "Not that there's anything broadcast around here. Even if there was, you wouldn't be able to get a signal through the chaos anyway."

A spark of interest kindles in Hope's eyes. "Now that would be worth investigating, if we had the equipment to set it up. Unfortunately, all I have is the one communicator." He reaches into his hip pouch and retrieves the aforementioned device. It beeps to life when he presses the power button, causing his eyebrows to rise in surprise. "Well, at least that answers one question: electronics do work here."

"Why, were you expecting differently?"

Turning off the communicator, Hope returns it to his pouch. "Well, it appears that some of the natural laws are distorted here. You did mention, and I quote you, that 'there's some of kind of magic here that overrides basic biological needs'. Then there's your inability to age, which I presume extends to the rest of Valhalla's population?" At her nod, he continues, "So living organisms are suspended in time. But the environment is showing the typical signs of wear and tear, the buildings especially. Why does this contradiction exist? Are there are other contradictions like this? I'd like to find out."

Lightning feels her lips quirk in a self-satisfied smirk. Her predictions about Hope's mental leanings were spot-on. "I was right. You're plenty imaginative to come with things to occupy yourself."

Modest as ever, Hope waves off her compliment with a shake of his head. "It's not that, so much as how alien and fascinating Valhalla is. If it were accessible, the Academy would be swarming all over it. Your house itself would attract droves of researchers – assuming you'd give us permission to study it, of course."

Her mind conjures the image of rabid Academy interns poking and prodding at every inch of her property, and she grimaces. "I'm not sure I'd like that."

Sheepishness returns to Hope's expression. "That's understandable. I wouldn't impose upon your hospitality."

Lightning feels the corners of her mouth tug downwards in a frown. "That's not it. I hardly use this place, but…"

"You don't need to justify yourself, Light," he reassures her. "Most people wouldn't want trespassers in their home."

His well-reasoned response just makes her all the more determined to explain herself. "This house is mine, but only through Etro's will. I wouldn't have chosen it for myself. It brings back too many memories."

The look Hope gives her is filled with dawning unease. "Was coming here a bad idea?" he asks after a moment, voice quiet.

She shakes her head. "No. This is the safest place you can be in all of Valhalla. It's also the most comfortable."

"Going by the sorry state of things outside," he remarks lightly, "I'd say there's no competition. Shame about the lack of modern luxuries, though."

"Sorry if this isn't quite the five-star accommodation you were hoping for," she quips.

To her bemusement, Hope raises his palms in an appeasing gesture. "Don't get me wrong, that wasn't a complaint. This is a really neat setup, functional or not. It's practical, but also stylish. Says a lot about its owner."

His compliment brings an unwanted flush to her cheeks, and she ducks her head to hide it. "Heh, thanks. Let me show you to the other room."

They revisit the corridor and file through to the right chamber. It's smaller than the first, made considerably more cozy by the carpeted floor and upholstered stools and muted lighting. The most prominent piece of furniture is the circular bed, complete with pristine, made-up covers. Lightning doesn't remember the last time she had lain in it.

Turning to face Hope, she jerks her head in the bed's direction. "That's all yours."

"Are you sure?" he asks, dubious. "You're not just saying that to be hospitable, right? I wouldn't want to kick you out of your own bed." His wintergreen eyes sweeps the room, fastening on a nearby armchair. "Hey, that chair over there looks pretty comfy."

He moves towards the seat, but she intercepts him before he can reach it. "Just take the bed, Hope," she sighs. "Besides, it's got more than enough room to fit us both."

"I guess that's true," he mutters, eyeing the bed's generous dimensions. Is that a spot of pink on his cheeks? "Again, are you sure?"

"Positive."

"If you insist." He lowers himself onto the mattress with decidedly little grace.

She mirrors him by dropping into the armchair, crossing her legs. A squint of concentration later, her greaves and cuisses disappear, exposing the black stockings underneath. This causes Hope to focus on her, curiosity overriding the tiredness in his eyes.

"I've noticed before, but your whole outfit is made of magic rather than actual matter, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"And you can make it appear and disappear at will, correct?"

"That's right." For emphasis, she dematerialises all armoured components: breastplate, spaulders and faulds included.

Hope's eyes snap wide, and he sucks in a sharp, very audible breath. "Including that?"

Only then does Lightning realise that her demonstration has had quite the revealing effect. Save her stockinged legs, her sole remaining item of clothing is a skin-tight leather leotard, which leaves nothing to the imagination. She folds her arms – realising too late that it only serves to emphasise her breasts – and musters her most unamused expression. "If you want a strip show, Hope, you're not getting one."

If possible, his eyes grow even wider. "I-I didn't mean—that's not what I—" he splutters, his cheeks well and truly ablaze. With lightning abruptness, he shifts, angling his body away from her.

She notes his hunched, defensive posture, the telltale way he locks his knees together. So she'd gotten that kind of rise out of him, however unintentionally. This sends a strange, primal rush of satisfaction through her. "But to answer your question, yes."

"I-I see," he chokes out, still not looking at her.

Maybe it has to do with how affected Hope is from all this, but Lightning feels heady, even reckless. "Why, Hope," she taunts, rising from her seat and sauntering across to him, "it's like you've never seen a naked woman before."

He tries, but the temptation to glance at her nearby, almost-nude form proves too great for him to resist. "Do I come across as a clueless teenager or something?" There's a strange, brittle edge to his words.

"A bit, yeah."

Very deliberately, he meets her gaze, eyes aglow with unmistakeable defiance. "And what if I am?"

Why, this conversation has taken a sudden turn for the unexpected. "Hope, what are you getting at?"

"As I've mentioned before, I've always turned down the attention of my peers," he explains rather heatedly, setting his hands atop his knees. "There were far more important things to occupy my time than romance or relationships. So excuse me if I'm not accustomed to seeing you, or anyone else, in any significant state of undress."

"You know," Lightning admits, placing annoyed hands on her hips, "when I watched you grow up, this really bothered me."

Hope cocks a disbelieving eyebrow at her. "The fact that I'm inexperienced?"

She shakes her head. "You never gave anyone a chance. Not even yourself. You went it alone when you could've had someone to support you and love you."

Stubbornness is clear in the rigid set of his jaw. "That's not an option for me."

"Why not?"

"Because whatever I do will end in heartbreak!" the words burst out of him with surprising vehemence. "How can I, in good conscience, make someone go through that?" His expression darkens, and his hands curl into fists, bunching up the fabric of his pants. "I'm not a monster, Light. I'm not going to toy with other people's feelings!"

"What makes you so sure it'll end in heartbreak?" Lightning counters, her own voice rising. "You haven't even explored the beginning of a relationship, let alone the end!"

"Because I know my heart," he argues, placing an emphatic fist over his chest. "It hasn't been mine to give for a long time. It had always belonged to—" he hesitates, shooting her an inscrutable look before turning away, "—to another."

Could he be so stupid as to set his sights on someone unobtainable? "Why haven't you gone out to find them then, whoever they are?"

The breath he expels is heavy with melancholy. "Believe me, I've tried. For thirteen years, I've done everything in my power to get to her. But all my efforts amounted to nothing. Turns out all along that she was someplace I could never reach."

"No one's truly beyond your reach, so long so they're still alive."

Her words, offered in sympathy as they were, trigger a spectacular and unexpected change in him. His back stiffens, and his hands clench into fists at his sides.

"How ironic it is that you should say that," he replies, words rough and tremulous with sudden fury. "You, of all people. You, who have to remain here, outside time and space, for the rest of eternity! How could anyone hope to reach you? Not even Serah, for all her time-travelling powers, managed to find you. So what chance did I have? In the end, it took me literally dying to see you again!"

His voice had escalated to a shout by the end of his tirade, and his chest is heaving with exertion. Never, in all of her uncounted centuries, had Lightning felt more taken aback than she does in this moment. "Hope, I-I didn't mean…" she begins, retreating a few steps backwards.

But as he continues to look at her, anger and grief and yearning painfully evident through the gleam of unshed tears, comprehension finally clicks.

How could she have been so fucking blind? The signs have stared her in the face this whole time.

Truth be told, they were already present as far back as their l'Cie days. During those short, intense weeks, she had noticed certain behaviours of his, which in retrospect, were not atypical of a teenager with a crush. The fleeting looks, the eagerness to jump to her aid, the unabashed concern for her. She had thought nothing of them; what did a boy's over-affectionate ways matter when their fate and that of the world hung in the balance?

But now that she and Hope have reunited, the signs have returned with potent, heart-stopping vengeance. There's the fact that he'd expressed his wholehearted trust in her, unbroken even after thirteen years of separation. His anger that she had chosen to seal herself away in Valhalla, coupled with his fervent wish to bring her home. The way he had crushed her to him, saturating her with his warmth and solidarity. The tenderness with which he had touched her face, like she was precious beyond all reckoning.

You truly are a sight for sore eyes.

That was no mere pass he'd made at her. It was a proclamation of truth, filled with the gravitas that only decades worth of pining could achieve.

For the person Hope loves – had always loved – is her.

This epiphany hits Lightning like a douse of icy water, and she skitters away from it with the gracelessness of a drenched cat.

In the meantime, Hope has tracked her reaction with avid interest. However, the anticipatory gleam in his eyes eventually gives way to disappointment, then dread.

"I'm sorry," he breathes. "I've said too much. I honestly didn't mean for it to come out. Not like this. Not this soon."

On her part, Lightning is too stunned to do more than ascertain that it's she, not he who should be apologising. "I—I'm the one who shook it out of you."

"All the same." There's ostensible regret in his voice, now.

She's still at a loss of how to respond. "Hope…"

A heavy sigh escapes him. "Everything I've said is true. But if it makes things easier for you, then I—" he falters, swallowing. When he speaks again, his words sound like they are wrenched from him against his will. "I take back my statement. I don't want things to become awkward between us, Light."

For some reason, this is unacceptable to her. "No."

"No?" he repeats, as though he hadn't heard her correctly the first time.

"No," she confirms. Pausing for a moment to chew on her lip, she racks her brains for the most tactful way to respond. "You've lived with those feelings for thirteen years. The least I can do is acknowledge that they're real."

"Light…" It leaves her breathless, the sheer awe and vulnerability that he'd managed to instil into that one word, that simple utterance of her name.

"That's all I can offer you at this stage, Hope," she continues, practically pleading with him. "I—I don't know how to deal with this kind of thing."

"Then don't," he concludes for her, tone firm yet gentle. "I'm not expecting anything from you. Certainly not more than what you're willing to give."

Dissatisfied, she shakes her head. "I feel like I owe you an answer."

"If you feel that way," he insists, "then think on it for a while. You're not obligated to come up with something straightaway."

That's a very reasonable compromise. Lightning nods in relieved agreement.

"Whatever your answer is, I'll make peace with it."

His words are wooden like his expression, deliberately stripped of emotion. He's already closing himself off, bracing for rejection. It makes her heart ache.

Nevertheless, Lightning is sure of one thing. Hope deserves an unambiguous response: yes or no, not maybes, not prevarications. But whether it's rejection or – more terrifyingly yet – acceptance still remains to be seen. She needs time to sit down and process all of this.

Fortunately, here in Valhalla, they have all the time in the world.

After an awkward minute of silence, Hope clears his throat.

"Well, I guess I'll be calling it a night. Or day. What will you do while I rest?"

Lightning breathes a sigh of relief, grateful for the change of subject. "Meditate. While I don't need to sleep myself, I must remain on watch. But until the Goddess or Caius calls me away, I will stay here."

"To watch over me?" he surmises, silver brows pinching together and lips flattening into a displeased line.

She mirrors his frown. "Do you have a problem with that? I'm not convinced you're okay yet."

"L-Light," he begins, only to be interrupted by a big yawn, "I'd hate to upset your routine more than I already have."

She cannot help but let out an ironic bark of laughter. "Hope, there is no routine. You being here is a welcome change to the monotony, even if all I'm doing is watching you sleep."

"If you consider that exciting, life here must really be monotonous, indeed." He tries in vain to stifle another yawn. "Surely there are things to keep you occupied?"

"That's a conversation for after you wake up." She folds her arms, declaring the matter closed.

"Alright then." He proceeds to pull off his gloves and loosen his tie, before giving her a sheepish look. "Umm, do you mind turning around?"

"Oh. Uh, sure." Putting a respectable distance between them, she obliges, facing the opposite wall.

"This uniform's—a bit too stiff—to sleep comfortably in," she hears him grumble over the rustle of shifting fabric.

"I, uh, can leave the room if you prefer." Why is she being so awkward about this?

"No need, I'll only be a minute," he returns with exaggerated cheer. Then, in a mutter almost too quiet for her to pick up, he adds, "Besides, haven't you already seen it all?"

At those words, Lightning feels heat creeping up her face. Unbidden, her mind pulls up the image of his naked body, which only stokes her blush hotter. It wasn't her intention to rob him of his modesty, honestly! True, she'd let herself get carried away – just a bit – but giving him a proper checkover had been an necessary part of his emergency treatment.

She stomps down on the urge to tap her foot. Really, how long can a minute take? And why must every second that she's forced to wallow in her mortification feel like an eternity…?

"Okay, you can turn back now."

With something bordering on impatience, she whirls around. Hope's shed clothes have been folded and stacked onto a neat pile on the floor, and the man himself is tucked underneath the covers. As if magnetised, her eyes follow the blanket's edge to the shadowed bow of his exposed collarbone; she wrenches them away before he can catch her looking.

Not that it matters, for Hope seems too tired to notice anything amiss. "Goodnight, Light," he murmurs. "Or morning, rather. All this… excitement has messed up my circadian rhythm something awful."

"You'll adjust soon enough," she replies, schooling her expression to neutrality. "Rest well, Hope."

"Thank you. I'll try to." With that, he snuggles deeper into his pillow and closes his eyes. Within a few minutes, his breath evens out, assuming the steady rhythm of sleep.

Satisfied, Lightning returns to the armchair she had vacated earlier, settling into it. With only Hope's quiet snores for company, she is once again left to her thoughts.

As if on auto-pilot, her mind replays their recent conversation. That intensity of emotion – both his and hers – is unlike anything she'd ever dealt with, but eclipsing it is one vital, unavoidable truth:

Hope Estheim is in love with her. Had always been in love with her.

She'd promised him that she would think on it – and so she will, right now. But describing the matter as merely problematic is an understatement. For what Hope feels towards her is far, far more than simple attraction. Attraction, she can deal with. But love? That's a whole 'nother category in itself. While she is indisputably drawn to him, reciprocating his affections is something well outside the realm of her experience.

Despite her insistence that Hope avail himself of the same, Lightning had never had any kind of romantic involvement. The closest she'd come was for her one-night-stand to ask her out after the deed, but she'd always declined. Between her surly disposition, work and parental duties to Serah, she simply couldn't accommodate another person in her life. This struggle was already present before fate swept her along, plunging her into the l'Cie crisis before imprisoning her on Valhalla's time-frozen shores. Then all further opportunities were barred from her forever.

As such, she wouldn't have the faintest idea how to navigate a romantic relationship. All she understands is physical intimacy. But she does not want to use Hope for one night – or indefinite nights, for that matter – and give him nothing beyond that. Compared to the world that he sees in her, sex is just so paltry an offering. Were they to enter into such an arrangement, it would be completely unfair to him. He deserves so much better.

However, if there's anything that Hope's (accidental) confession had done, it was to make him eminently more desirable. His feelings for her are concrete, certain, secure. And concreteness and certainty and security are things that Lightning appreciates. While Hope's love may be a terrifying, alien prospect, she need never fear that any demonstration he makes towards her – be it of concern, affection, or something more carnal – is less than genuine. That in itself is an immeasurable comfort.

Were she truly honest with herself, there is one thing that terrifies Lightning more: the indistinct, unvoiced desire in her heart. It wants to embrace what Hope is offering. It wants to experience his love.

I'm just lonely, she reminds herself. That's why I'm even considering this.

What better cure for loneliness is there, her traitorous mind retorts, than being with someone who's unequivocally yours?

Unable to resist the urge, she allows herself one moment of fancifulness. What would it be like indeed, to be Hope's lover? To know – with marvellous, absolute confidence – that he delights in her presence, longs for her touch?

She casts her gaze across the room until it alights on Hope's sleeping form. His collarbone – that sinuous curve that had formed the source of her distraction earlier – is still peeking out ever so tantalisingly above the covers. What if she runs her fingertips across it, trails her fingers down his chest? How would he react? Would his eyes flutter in bliss, would he let out a rapturous sigh? What if she explores lower? What if she feathers her hand down his stomach, skimming across those dark, curly hairs to the junction of his thighs, and—

No, I'm completely jumping the gun here. There's no point thinking such… vulgar thoughts about him. This is stupid. All of it is stupid.

Determined not to contemplate things further lest she drive herself insane, Lightning creates a mental void and steps into it. The blank silence is comforting. It does not judge her.

It is a few hours later – a quick glance outside confirms that the sun is now in its overhead position – when Lightning hears the whimpers.

She shoots up from her seat, jerking her head towards the other occupant in the room. Having wrestled free of the covers, Hope is now thrashing in the sheets, which are stained a dark turquoise with his sweat. As she rushes over to him, she can see the unnatural rigidity of his flailing limbs, how his eyes rove restlessly under his pale eyelids.

He's dreaming. Or rather, he's caught in the grip of a nightmare.

Seizing his shoulders, she gives them a vigorous shake.

"Hope, wake up!"

He doesn't respond. Instead, a horrible gurgling noise escapes from his throat. Feeling panic encroach upon her, Lightning runs a quick Libra through him and finds… nothing.

"Hope!"

It is with increasing franticness and violence that she persists, shaking him several more times before she manages to snap him out of his thrall. His eyes blink open, the wintergreen lenses glassy and unfocussed even as they look up in her direction.

"Light, am I dead?" he asks. His voice has an eerie, faraway quality to it, as though he'd already crossed over to the wrong side of the veil.

Throat too tight to speak, Lightning shakes her head.

"I was shot," he continues, seemingly oblivious to her response. "Fatally wounded. I felt the bullets rip through my chest." His hand drifts upward, hovering over his breastbone. "I couldn't breathe; I was drowning in my own blood. It still hurts…"

With effort, Lightning finds her voice. "You're safe now. I'm here." Forcing aside her usual reservations, she draws him into her arms, hoping that her physical nearness would be enough to ground him.

To her concern – and quickly squashed disappointment – he does not return the embrace. "Is this where we go when we die?"

"You're not dead, Hope," she asserts, the words coming out more roughly than she'd intended.

But he doesn't seem to pay her growing agitation any mind. "Aren't I?" he carries on in that odd, distant manner. "That must be the only reason why I'm seeing you now."

"You're in Valhalla," she says through clenched teeth, using every fibre of restraint to keep her voice from rising. "I saved you and took you here."

"This doesn't look like Valhalla." There's a detached evenness to his words, like he's merely stating a observation.

"It does outside." Disengaging from him, she points towards a window. He follows her lead, gaze sharpening as he confirms for himself the sight of the citadel. Then he sags back against the mattress.

"It felt so real."

"Probably because it actually happened," she reasons, sitting down on the edge of the bed. Now that Hope seems to have regained his footing in reality, she allows herself to relax. "Your body's still adjusting to the trauma."

He captures her gaze with his, eyes warm with sincerity. "Thank you then, for waking me."

Letting out a huff in friendly dismissal, she replies, "Don't sweat it."

They lapse into a brief silence. Hope appears to be recovering, looking far less disorientated than he was mere moments ago. Deciding that it would be best not to crowd him, Lightning rises to her feet and makes to move away. But before she can so much as take a step away, he catches her forearm.

"Light, don't leave me, okay?" he pleads, giving her wrist a feeble tug. His eyes, wide with sudden fear, look childishly large in his adult face. "Please don't leave me again."

At this, the rush of protectiveness that wells up inside her is so intense, it leaves her blindsided. Determined to reassure him, she repositions his hand and interlaces her fingers with his. "I won't."

"Can you promise me that?" There's still that heart-wrenching vulnerability in his wintergreen irises.

No, but— "I'll try my best."

Her answer seems to placate him. Leaving their hands entwined, Hope lets his head fall back against the pillow, his eyes fluttering shut. Within the space of a minute, sleep claims him once more. Taking care as not to wake him, she disentangles her hand from his. Then, with equal delicacy, she pulls up the covers and tucks him in – a tender gesture she'd otherwise reserved for only Serah untold eons ago.

Her gaze drifts across his handsome face, his soft silver hair. It's a sight she's growing accustomed to, a sight that becomes more and more precious to her with every passing moment. As she feels that familiar, fond warmth blossom behind her breastbone, a thought takes form in her mind, coalescing into a silent promise:

I'll do whatever it takes to keep you safe, Hope. Whatever it takes.

A/N: Well, that's one way for Hope's confession to play out. Such delicious romantic and sexual tension, isn't it? Please leave a comment, if you feel so inclined :-)