the trick is to keep breathing

Why, why did Squall have to assign her to be Balamb's official embassador to Esthar's rather ill-perceived ball?

She did not work well when confined to whatever it was that she was wearing (Rinoa had insisted that the blue looked wonderful on her and brought out her eyes, and the slit in the skirt was entirely appropriate given the circumstances), and she wasn't sure who she was more irate at- Squall, for giving her such a stupid mission when he should have been the one going, or Laguna, for thinking that such an idea had merit in the first place. She rolled her shoulders in an attempt to work out the kinks, but it seemed to be a lost cause.

If she found Laguna and handed off the reports and details for the Sorceress treaty between them, she could probably duck out early and change back into her far more practical uniform. She searched the room until she found his bobbing head, and marched towards him with resolution.

He didn't seem surprised to see her.

"Evening, Miss Trepe," he said. It thew her, initially, how much he looked like his younger self- and, given that she'd been in his memories too many times to count, it was slightly awkward at first speaking with him. She cleared her throat and shook her head.

"I have the papers for you," she told him, all business. "If you'll just–"

Someone- someone that looked suspiciously like Kiros- bumped into Laguna from behind and sent him reeling into both her and the unfortunate cocktail waitor next to her, who, even more unfortunately, was holding a platter of champagne flutes. She didn't know who was more coated in the bubbly concoction- her, or the waitor himself. Laguna looked aghast, and immediately grabbed her hand to pull her to the side where one of the buffet tables was located.

"I'm so sorry," he babbled, wiping at the front of her dress with a napkin, completely oblivious to the fact that his hand was getting rather close to–

"It's fine," she said quickly, waving his hand away. She was going to kill her commander for this, father issues be damned. "I'll just pass the papers off to you."

"You look very nice," he said, with that crooked smile she remembered so well.

"Thank you," she answered instinctively. "Here are the–"

He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, and she was so flabber-gasted that she completely forgot about her soaked dress AND the papers still clutched between her fingers. When it was clear that some sort of response was necessary, and he looked somewhere between embarassed and rejected, she scrambled to come up with the correct reply.

"Thank you," she said again.