"What are you doing?"

It always started late at night. Quistis thought it had been mice at first, all those skittering, sneaky clatters, but mice didn't know how to access the internet, at least not the mice she knew. Besides, she was meticulous in her housekeeping. No food was left uncovered, no crumb left unaccounted for. If a mouse thought he might steal a meal from her kitchen, then he had another think coming.

"Working."

Again. He was at it again.

It had started with a movie.

Date night was wonderful that particular evening, dinner and a movie and drinks. He was charming and attentive, which was rare, but she liked him that way. Too much attention made her nervous, which was why they had been together as long as they had. Her shrimp was excellent, but his steak was overcooked. He brushed it off. The waitress was skittish enough, he had told her, and it would do no good to complain. She would have probably cried in the restroom if he had mentioned it. He figured it must have been one of her first nights on the job. She liked that about him. He was always able to tell when someone was uncomfortable, and he reacted to that the way a surfer reads the waves before they hop in the water.

They had waited in a bar for an hour or so before the movie began, laughing and joking and playing a round of eight ball. She had her usual whiskey, neat, and he had his cheap beer. Why he drank that foul brew was beyond her, but he never came home drunk, so she couldn't fault him. It was disgusting, but he enjoyed it. Half of her wondered if he drank it when they went out because he liked to have a makeshift club ready for the inevitable drunken lout that would try to flirt with her. It happened every time. Seifer would hang back and watch while she eviscerated her would-be suitor, but he was always there. Just in case.

The other half of her wondered if he drank it because it wouldn't get him drunk, no matter how many he guzzled down. He liked winning bets, and that bile was enough to make any competition surrender. He had a closet full of t-shirts from his beer competitions, but his trophy in the shape of Shiva holding a frothy mug of suds was his pride and joy. She had her degrees, her awards, her various gold-plated plaques on their living room shelves, and he had that cup covered with the tits and the stars. Horrible thing. It was worth keeping it displayed, though, because at least he kept up with the dusting.

Lunatics From Pandora. It wasn't exactly award worthy. The plot was inane, something to do with an alien invasion and the elixir that would repel them, and the characters were obnoxious in all their teenage angst. The number of wet t-shirts alone was enough to make her miss half the movie from rolling her eyes, but the special effects were top-notch. She would give them credit for that.

But the aliens. Mother of all things holy, the aliens. He talked about nothing else.

The cab ride home.

Aliens.

Climbing into bed.

Aliens.

Post-coital snuggling.

Aliens.

Coffee the next morning.

Aliens.

When she was trying to take a shower.

Aliens.

Six weeks.

Six. Long. Weeks.

"I'm not sure this is classified as work."

The house was dark except for the light from the desk lamp pooled around him. Charts, graphs, tables. Color-coded, alphabetical, chronological. Every item categorized and carefully marked. Some insane website was flashing green and purple, making him look like he was being blasted by a laser. Sightings, newspaper articles, eye-witness accounts, anatomical charts. Was that a spleen? No. Two spleens? Maybe? And what was that thing? Some giant appendix? She fumbled through the diagrams, and he flapped his hands at her like an old woman worried that she would disturb his rummy cards.

"It should be."

Quistis felt her ocular muscles contracting and fought the urge to roll her eyes. She had work in the morning and she really, really didn't feel like dealing with those adolescent assholes on four hours of sleep.

"Come back to bed."

Seifer had already turned back to his charts. He made a mark on one chart and consulted the newspaper spread on his lap.

"In a minute."

Any other night, she might have started rubbing his shoulders, knowing that he had a weak spot for massages and would hop into bed after five minutes of petting, but not tonight. He was irritating her.

"Your minutes tend to become hours."

That was true. He couldn't deny it. More than once he had woken with a sheet of paper plastered to his face and the taste of newspaper ink on his tongue. It wasn't pleasant, but goddamn if it wasn't satisfying.

"I can't sleep."

That was also true. He hadn't been able to sleep since John had rescued Samantha from that tank of acid and saved her from being turned into the surrogate mother for the invading alien race.

"You could if you tried."

Quistis didn't understand. She was great, she really was, but there were some things that she just didn't get. This was one of them. He wasn't upset by that fact. He would rather she not be able to understand him, at least not when it came to his work. It helped to keep him sharp, keen. Her doubt fueled him on the nights when nothing seemed to make sense. He knew that he just had to think like she did and it would all fall into place.

"Is there something you need? Something I need to do?"

Well, no. There wasn't anything she particularly needed. She just liked having him in bed with her, his belly against her back, all warm and protective. It was nice to hear his grumbling when she snored and feel his palm flatten her face when he tried to pat her back to sleep. He usually ended up making her snort herself awake, but the gesture was sweet. It gave her a few minutes to look at him with his mouth hanging open like a damned fool before she dozed off again. He was kind of cute when he wasn't aware of it.

"No, I just..."

Clingy. She knew she would seem clingy if she said any of this to him, so she just shook her head. He had been so tired, though.

"Just what?"

Every night she did this, interrupted him when he was trying to work on his research. He wasn't a whiz kid when it came to this sort of thing like she was, but he wasn't going to ask her for help, either. Fuck that. It might take him ten years, maybe more, but he wanted to do this his way. Not hers.

"Nothing. Forget it."

"Go back to bed. I'll be there as soon as I finish. Okay?"

He turned to grab her hand, but she was already up the hall. Her feet made no sound as she went back to the bedroom. It had always freaked him out that she could move so silently, but then again, that was probably why she was such an effective killer. She wasn't there, then she was, then she was gone again.

"Fuck. I'm just trying to work."

His eyes burned. He really hadn't slept at all the past few weeks. He'd make it up to her in the morning. Eggs, scrambled, with chives and sour cream, just the way she liked them, bacon, burnt to oblivion, which had always puzzled him, and her beloved dark roast, which made perfect sense.

In the morning, though.

There was too much to finish.