Unnerving

by TheUnlikelyOne

Summary:

A silent Turk for a silencing mission.

Notes:

Set before BC, a couple of years after their recruitment

Written for Turkstober day 11: "Just following orders"

Chapter 1: hodie mihi cras tibi

Somewhere near Fort Condor, summer of ‘99

Snuffing out a colleague.

An unnerving task in itself, just for the feeling of ‘hodie mihi cras tibi’ that surrounds the whole matter.

And not just any colleague, no. The redhead. The one with the ‘I know shitloads of things you can’t even imagine, you low-ranking ass’ kind of smirk, and the constant snarking. Mr Dress-code-breaker, filling the whole Department with his loud voice and the thick smoke of his cigarettes, despite the ever present "no smoking" signs. Always acting on impulse, breaking the rules whenever the fuck, slipping out of dire situations as easy as sunday morning.

Not this time.

He sighs, squatted on the loo, perching the shades on his forehead to rub his eyes.

But he has no exposed nerves to strike, ain't it? Maybe this is why Veld chose him, maybe he’s the only one in the Department who seemed fit to carry out this mission. Not sure if this is an honor.

The stall stenches of stale piss, with an aftertaste of old bleach; taking the next breath it's starting to become detestable.

Stanley's sister gives free blowjobs 556-334-098.

Eat shit and die with a bad breath.

I fucked your mommy.

There are instructive writings on the graying walls. He's been reading them non stop for the last twenty minutes, trying to make time tick away quicker, eager to be done with this as soon as possible. And now he should be through with the waiting; the timer agrees with him, finally. Two minutes for the night shift. His chance.

The porcelain lets out a squeaking noise, as he shifts his weight to get down; sore muscles protest against the sudden movement. He stretches his spine, shakes the legs to regain some circulation, then turns off the restroom lights and waits for his man behind the half-closed door.

Then lazy footsteps, a whistled tune. There you are, slacker; he slips out of the restroom, right behind the guard. Tall, bulky. Longish dark hair, a wrinkled blue uniform with orange dart inserts on the thighs and forearms.

For someone approaching the man, he would probably seem about to hug him from behind, but then his arm coils around Blue Uniform's head, one hand over his mouth, the other against the side of his neck.

"Never let your guard down," he whispers in his ear, tugging harshly. Oh so true. A sharp crack, the man falls at his feet.

He drags him into the stall where he was waiting before, then sits him on the loo, propped up against the water container, head lolling against his chest.

"Alas, Mr." He bends down to check the dead guard's badge as he strips him naked. "Griffin. You never saw what was coming.".

It takes him longer than he’d have liked to change into the guard's uniform, cursing against counterintuitive buckles and zippers. It fits quite well, just a tad smaller, showing too much of his wrists; he hides the materia cuff under the sleeve, the thick fabric is already making him sweat. He flushes the toilet, dumps his own slacks and jacket into the empty reservoir.

"So long, Griffin," he mutters, applying onto the badge a mock sticker with his face and the name of the day.

Ready to go.

The stench of piss is unbearable. At least it won’t bother Griffin.

He closes the door, slips one of Griffin's coins into the slit and turns it to lock the stall from the outside.

A quick glance down the hallway before slipping out. Nobody in sight.

Beyond the glass wall, the black sky swells with clouds. That godforsaken village, if he remembered its name now, glows faintly at his feet. He straightens the folds of Griffins' crumpled uniform, adjusts the shades on his nose and hastens to meet another colleague.

The makeshift checkpoint is made up with a long office desk, that almost blocks the hallway. "You’re fucking late, Steve!" His man is leaning against the dark wood, rifling through a thin stack of papers."Wifey cooked rice today and she’ill break my neck if I'm late. Here, sign and lemーhey, who the hell are you?" The guard’s head snaps up, his face contracts into something between surprise and fear. The forms fall from his fingers, already wrapped around the gun at the belt.

He opens his arms and shows his empty hands. His weapons; but the man doesn’t have to know. "Rick Weight," he offers. "I’m here for a replacement. Weren’t you informed?"

"No. I was expecting Griffin." The guard approaches, inspects the mock badge in its clear chest pocket; then scans him head to toe, brows furrowed. "Never saw you around, Weight. But it’s appropriate." A stupid snicker.

He keeps his face level. "Might be. I mainly serve in the Southern Division."

"What are you doing here, then? We usually have an internal for this sort of thing."

"I wish I knew, too."

The guard evaluates him once again, then shrugs. "Sorry for you, Weight, really gotta go now. Here, make sure you use it." He’s given a nightstick; black grip, metallic body.

The impulse would be to thrust it down the man's throat and discharge. Because that's the redhead's EMR. But frying the guard would be too loud. Satisfying but noisy.

He had coffees with the redhead, bickered with him over mission plans and argued about reports. Covered his skinny ass once, in Corel, and the redhead managed to get shot anyway. Abilities. Never stood his presence for more than ten seconds straight, but this is a personal matter. Whoever messes up with a Turk puts the others on his trail.

Wait.

This is getting nowhere.

"What for?" he asks.

"It's the fucker's weapon." The guard grins. "Makes him dance gracefully. Wumig thinks it's funー he laughsーwell, actually it is. Wake him up regularly through the night. Maybe it will loosen his tongue."

He nods. This is sheer luck. One less corporate secret in the hands of competitors."How does it work?" Turning the weapon in his hands. He has seen the redhead use it, sometimes. But Rick is not supposed to know, right?

"Pull the tip and it extends. Push the button for the taser. Simple as fuck. Here, sign the change." The guard says, bending to retrieve the form from the floor.

"Sure." He slips the EMR under his belt and slides behind the man. His feet might be large, but he can be pretty damn quiet. The other jumps in surprise, hitting his chest as he straightens up.

"Hey, Rick, wha-" The guard makes a startled gasp, finding his hands clasped around the head. He makes it twist. The wrong way.

Crack. The asshole collapses to the ground; one way or another his neck got broken.

That rice will get overdone. Never marry a low-ranking guard, they're. Disposable.

Such as Turks, nowadays. Which is ridiculous, considering the efforts required to train one. As much as he despises the redhead, and he does; however much the redhead could have messed up the operation, though he doesn't know all the details.

Cover blown up, data not retrieved; the words that slipped out of Veld's mouth were scarce. Boss kept shaking his head, apparently he hadn’t considered them such serious failures as to be punished with death. Apparently, once again, Veld's opinion hadn't mattered more than a fat fuck in the decision making about the redhead's fate.

He loads the guard body onto his shoulder, turns the doorknob of room 696.

Locked.

This was to be expected.

Well, he's supposed to get inside, ain't it? To make the redhead dance under his own taser. To keep him awake for the whole fucking night.

To snap his neck and silence him for good.

He slides Griffin's badge into the reader near the doorframe.

Click.

The door opens onto a small room; the harsh light makes him blind for a moment. Stale air, reek of blood. And fear. A couple of swivel chairs, splattered in brown, are gathered in the left corner. The desk has been moved to the opposite side, computer and all, next to an orange filing cabinet with worn handles.

The redhead lies curled up near the wall, facing the entrance. His head resting on a bent arm, the other hand covering his face; he reminds him of little Joey, when Mamà lifted the covers to wake him up for school. As he crosses the doorway, and drops the guard’s body on the floor with a loud thud, that hand slips away and the redhead's eyes snap open .

Two necks broken to silence a colleague. The night is still young.

The redhead stares at him, mouth open in an o of surprise, then plants a trembling arm on the floor and pulls himself up. He coughs, head painfully bent, spits a lump of blood.

It hits the greenish no-man’s-land between them, dark as an accusation. Time stands still as the redhead straightens his back by degrees; split lips twisted in pain, breath coming in short hisses through gritted teeth. His sitting position is a conquer, as he finally slumps with his back against the wall, head tilted upwards, legs bent in front of him. His left eye is black, and so swollen that he has to keep it almost closed.

"You." His voice is raspy. As if he hasn’t spoken for too long. As if he had screamed too much.

"Me." He closes the door and walks in front of him, the redhead has to raise his head further to look him in the face. There's a deep gash under the bruised eye, right on the cheekbone, Blood trickled all the way down to the chin and crusted there, dark and cracked. Another large bruise, purplish on pale skin, along the sharp line of his jaw.

He just stands there, doesn't offer a hand to help him get up. The redhead closes his eyes, a bitter smirk dawns on his lips. "Not my exit ticket, are you?"

"Not."

That damn smirk deepens. The redhead's mocking him, even as he's about to snap his neck. Laughing, as usual, at Death's bony face itself. Can't be bonier than him.

“Too much bother, extracting me?”

“The instructions came from high levels; Veld couldn’t argue about it.” He recalls the deep lines of pain carved in the boss’ forehead, as he gave him the mission details.

But those were orders. And orders must be carried out. Like it or not.

The redhead laughs, shaking his head. "Pathetic," he hisses, making his way to a standing position, his back sliding on the once white wall. "And guess who came to silence me? I'd deem it. Appropriate. If I wasn't the fucking subject." He looks powerless out of his black suit, and just too damn weedy in some skinny blue slacks and a V neck pullover with the orange Chrysalis logo. The collar of his white shirt is stained with blood and sweat.

He has nothing to say, because the redhead is right. Pathetic. Showing up to take the life of an already half-dead man. A man who had already given up his life, to cover them all. Including those who sent Reno here earlier, and now want him dead.

Silence falls heavy between them, time keeps on ticking away. He should be sneaking his way out, the redhead behind him, a heap of dark clothes and bright hair abandoned on the greenish floor.

While Reno is still standing, his grin feral. "Scared of me?" he spits out. “Don’t sweat it, not fighting back." He snickers. It sounds fake.

The utter wrongness of all of this.

But he was ordered to silence. And silence he will, no matter what.

The long hand of the President himself can’t refuse an impulse coming directly from his brain.

He takes the last step, which brings him face to face with Reno. He’s never allowed himself to look at the redhead so closely. He’s.

Delicate.

A small, plump mouth; hollow cheeks, thin dark eyebrows perpetually bent in angry lines. Long locks, matted with sweat and grime, spilling over his slim face. Narrow eyes the color of the raging sea, although he can’t quite open the left. A glimpse of the bone through the gash on his cheek.

Wasted.

Still, beautiful.

"What the fuck you waitin' for'?" Reno drawls, with his back flat against the wall. "Suspense's killin' me." His voice trembles, just slightly. Only a trained ear would notice it. One used to catch the smallest sign of demise, during an.

Interview.

Reno has been interviewed some, bears the marks of unanswered questions on his skin. Surely his captors have never heard his voice falter like this.

Still, his split lips keep on grinning. I'm miles above you, no matter if you're about to snap my neck: this is what his stance says. But deep down in the eyes that Reno keeps glued to his, he reads a different story.

Well, not the ideal situation for the redhead. About to die, at the hands of a colleague, despite staying true to the company: Reno sealed his mouth and endured pain, waiting for someone to extract him, while he could have tried to trade intel for his life. A matter of trust, and loyalty. And got murderous hands on the neck in exchange.

That's unfair.

"Turn around," he says.

Chapter 2: Eightball

"Turn around.”

The redhead grits his teeth and obeys. Sharp shoulder blades dig into his chest through the uniform, as Reno leans against him.

A very slim neck.

He opens and closes his fists. An easy job, he just has to crush it under his fingers. The slightest pressure seems enough to snap it, with the crunchy noise of a broken breadstick.

It’s unfair.

Yet orders are orders.

Reno’s breathing goes shallow, his shoulders shake just slightly.

“Stay still.”

“Do it quickly. At least.” The redhead’s reply comes dispirited.

“Acknowledged,” he mutters, taking hold of Reno’s head and tilting it to the side. Gently. “Crack! You're dead." He rests his hands on Reno’s shoulders.

“Will you stop playing with me?” Reno keeps his face low.

“I’m not doing it.”

Reno turns just enough to look at him with tired eyes. “Stop. It.”

“I can't kill you."

“You really changed your mind?” A whisper, almost inaudible.

He makes Reno turn, until the redhead is facing him again. “I can’t do this.”

Reno looks at him, lips parted, a small spark of fire lits up in his eyes. His body is tense already, although his colleague is still flattened against the wall. "Is there margin for a double escape?" A damn warrior. Impossible to break.

"If there isn't, we will create it.” Although he's not sure of what he’s claiming, not at all.

Reno laughs, baring his teeth. “I thought you despised me.”

“I do. Nothing personal, redhead.” Fucked be his twisted sense of honor.

“Fine with me, eightball. As long as I'm alive.” The winner’s smirks curls Reno’s lips, he won, and he perfectly knows it. Over Chrysalis, him, the damn plans, Veld and the high level fucking puppeteers.

Over every fucking one.

He sighs, already regretting his decision. But he couldn't. And still. Can't.

Reno reaches forward to grab the collar of his uniform, pulls down until they're at the same head level. He opposes no resistance, the redhead's eyes find easily his gaze behind the shades, burning through to wreak havoc within his brain.

"Thank you," Reno murmurs and plants the lips on his, and they're split and dry and very hot. His mind goes blank, he growls, leans further, opens his mouth to Reno's tongue. The redhead tastes of blood and bitter fear and loneliness. He deserves everything, he takes it all in, gripping Reno’s bony shoulders to keep him in place.

It's a moan that stops him, reminding him who he is, and where they are, and that he has to haul their asses out of here ASAP. Their margin is thin enough without fucking around. He pulls back. "Getting late," he tries to keep his voice level.

Reno looks at him, short of breath. "Whoa. I underestimated you, colleague. My bad."

He steps back, savoring Reno's taste on his tongue. Bitter, and stale, and yet ー he would. "I'll get you the guard's uniform."

Reno shakes his head. "It will never fit me."

"It will. Over your clothes."

It takes him much less to undress this. Kinsky is the name on the badge. Kinsky was well built, smaller than the other guard. Still, his uniform will bundle Reno's wiry frame. It will never work.

It will have to work.

Balancing himself with one shoulder against the wall, Reno raises a foot and bends over to take off his shoe. Then makes a startled sound as he almost loses his balance, and gropes at the smooth plaster, flattening himself against the wall.

"Wait." He strides at the redhead's side. His hands encircle slim arms.

Reno frowns. "I can do it on my own."

"No. And you know it. Stable, now?"

A curt nod.

He crouches at the redhead's feet; with some pulling and tearing noises he stretches the elastic cuffs over the shoes, and pulls up his trousers.

Reno inserts an arm into the sleeve of the uniform jacket that he props in front of him. The other. Lips pressed together; his eyes are unreadable, as he lets himself be dressed.

He zips the garment closed.

Reno’s face is wasted, his hair flattened on the skull, the stiff fabric of the uniform bundles around his wiry frame.

He sighs. It will never work. And those damn bright hair will give Reno away immediately.

Reno stuffs the left hand into the jacket pocket, raising his chin with a smug smirk. "How do I look?"

"Just. Perfect. Let's go."

"Hey, what's this?" He pulls out something blue and slouchy.

A beanie.

So there's a god. Or many. They'll need all of them to get out of here in one piece.

"Sweet." Reno grins, snuffing out his obnoxious hair under the dark fabric. "The last touch."

He reaches behind his back, hands Reno the EMR. "This must be yours. Are you able to walk?"

Reno recoils, raising his arms up in front of the face.

He dances gracefully under its touch.

It takes Reno a split second to recover. "Gimme." He snatches the weapon from his grip, turns it sideways to examine it, then slides it under the belt. "Sure I can walk." His brows furrow as he moves a hesitant step. Another. "Damnit," he exhales, clutching at his shoulder, legs giving way under him.

His arm wraps around the redhead's waist. He can hug it wholly. Reno's scarce weight shifts against his side, a thin forearm hooks around his neck.

"No way we can make it, with me as the handicap. There must be potions around. They. Sometimes made me drink some.” The redhead looks everywhere but at his face.

He imagines Reno beaten up, on the verge of unconsciousness; a vial forced through his lips, his body stiffening as it heals just enough so that they can start with him again.

He closes his eyes, takes a breath. "Where?"

"I just remember. The noise of a drawer being opened."

He swoops Reno up in his arms, his colleague lets out a soft yelp between surprise and pain. "What the fuck?" he hisses. "Let me down."

"You're slow." And light. Like Joey, the night he had to take him to the hospital, after the Radicals broke his legs. He hugs tighter Reno’s bony frame and walks to the desk, then sits him gently onto its edge.

He catches Reno’s smirk softening, as he turns to the orange cabinet. The drawer are blocked. Obviously. He wrenches the handle; the metal frame distorts, the lock comes undone. Their reward clinks merrily.

Reno reaches out for one of the amber bottles. He stashes six more. Griffin's uniform has a lot of pockets.

"Some help?" Reno's voice is tense, his lips pressed together. His right hand is loose around the vial. There are bloody crusts where his fingernails should be.

He grabs the potion, snaps it open and pours the content over Reno's fingers. The redhead tries to jerk back, like it's molten lead being dripped onto his wounds. He wraps the hand around his wrist as new skin eats away at the injuries, Reno's fingers are so tense that the tendons seem about to snap.

"Damn-it." The voice dies in his throat, sea green eyes roll back in their sockets, body flopping like a human sized plushie.

He grabs him by the arms, Reno winces. "Focus, Reno!"

Time's ticking away. A glance at the timer. 4.37 minutes since he's gotten into that office, repurposed as the redhead's cage. An eternity.

Reno's head sways sideways. "Hn." Lips curled in disdain. Eyes closed, brows furrowed.

He props another open potion in front of him; Reno wrinkles his nose then grabs it and swallows the thick liquid to the last drop, head tilted backwards. It's like lightning shakes him, making his back arch. Red hair flies wildly, the bottle shatters to the ground. Reno bites his lower lip, eyes slitted, a drop of blood swells under his teeth.

He still remembers his own first potion. His body shaking, out of control, raw fire racking through his nerves.

This might be too much for Reno, already close to his limit.

Reno lowers the head, pushing it hard against his chest; a bony hand clutches at the fabric of his jacket. He can see the bump of every sharp vertebra under the skin of Reno's neck.

He strokes circles on his shoulders, Reno's muscles feel like tensed ropes under his palm.

"It's ok," he whispers against stinky red hair. "It's ok. You're getting through it." And he keeps on caressing Reno's back, as the tension seeps away and the fibers of his body relax one by one.

Reno lets out a shaky laughter. "Thanks. It helped." His voice comes suffocated, through fabric and hair. His panting breath is warm against the chest. “Another?”

“It might kill you, and you know it." If the redhead could just stop playing the hero.

“They always gave me two.” Reno raises the head, there are tear marks on his dirty cheeks.

“They weren’t interested in your survival.”

Again, Reno’s mouth opens in that small o of surprise. It lasts a heartbeat, morphing into a smirk.

“While you are?” Reno lets go of his jacket, straightens his back. The gash on his cheekbone half healed.

“That’s gonna leave a scar.” He hovers a finger over the offending crust.

Reno shrugs. “Another.”

“It’s on your face.”

“My pretty, pretty face? Hope I will look more manly, at least.” The redhead pushes him back, jumps down the desk. “I'm feeling better. Let’s go.” Dancing steps by his side.

From zero to full throttle in less than one minute. The Gods know what kind of fire runs in the redhead's veins. Well there must be some blood, too; he saw it, crusted on his face.

They'll have to wash that off; so many things, so little time.

"Wait behind the door."

Reno nods and steps aside, left arm at ready behind his back. The playful smile that curls his lips clashes with his furrowed brows. The enraged sea in his eyes got darker.

Out of the room the hallway stretches forward, empty and dim; it's that dead hour when most of the daily workers clocked out, already. His timing was well calculated.

He snaps his fingers and Reno appears by his side. They exit the office and walk down the corridor, through the blue light of the night lamps embedded into the dark floor. Every time the redhead steps over a bright circle, his gaunt face becomes the mask of a monster.

"Any plan?" Reno asks, voice low.

"We get the lift at the end of the hallway, reach ground zero and clock out of the main entrance. Simple as fuck." He's still regretting he hasn’t fried that damn guard. What was his name then? Breaking his neck hadn't been remotely enough; he should have inflicted more pain, the same pain thatー

Oh, fuck with it. "We have to wash your face, before.”

"Sure?"

"We must cross the main hall and you're a mess. Inconspicuous is our word."

He puts a hand on Reno’s shoulder and steers him inside a restroom as they pass by.

That restroom.

As Reno bends over the sink, he thinks to Griffin, he remembers the name of that one, sleeping forever in the middle stall. Two dead men. To extract a colleague. The night is almost as young as before, yet the partial assessment sounds much better now. His nerves stopped stinging.

Reno is scraping away dried blood from his cheek, muttering obscenities under his breath. Finally the op is back to some sort of normalcy. He, and a foulmouthed colleague, beating together their path to freedom.

The door swings open.

A nerve-wracking pang of adrenaline runs through his veins; Reno curses, lowering his face over the sink.

A suit. Middle aged, balding, heavy bags under the eyes. Merely considers them, as he goes directly for the farthest stall. Finds the door locked.

Reno raises his head, just enough to look at him in the mirror.

He shrugs.

The suit goes for the middle stall, the faint click of the lock.

Time to go.

The paper towels ruffle like heavy winged birds taking flight; Reno blots his own face dry, rubbing away the last obstinate crusts. The cold light of the restroom turns his skin a bluish shade of pale; the extent of damage is more apparent, now, without the grime masking it.

At least the potion faded his bruises and reduced the swelling of his black eye.

Maybe it will really work.

"Gone," he mouths. Reno nods and they're out in the shadows, again. At the end of the hallway, as small as the fake badge in his pocket, the lift doors gleam faintly. A mirage, a promise. He has to be. Good. As good as he can.

Reno's steps fall in pace with his, or the opposite. It doesn’t really matter: they're perfectly in sync as they stride down the corridor. Reno's gait has a limp, maybe the second potion was really due. But he was afraid that the redhead's fast, reckless heart could shudder to a definitive halt. It was an output that he couldn’t risk.

And still can’t.

Sure, it would make things easier for him; a mission accomplished without spoiling his hands. Keeping his facade incorrupt, his conscience guiltless One less nuisance in the workplace. But he’s unable to trick himself to such an extent.

He grabs Reno by his waist again, pulling him against his side; Reno clings to his shoulder. So easy. Their groove-and-tongues line up, as they were carved to fit one another.

Human contact. Usually torturous. Not this time.

The redhead's smile is tight, as he turns his head to look at him. "I really needed that potion."

"It would have been apointless risk. You have me." Wait. What has he just said?

Reno gapes at him, which is some form of victory although t doesn't last much. Unfortunately

"I thought that they had sent Rude to silence me. I thought that was ill luck, because Rude is just the right person for this kind of job." Reno’s eyes turn quite soft. "But you're not Rude, are you?"

"I am Rude, indeed, and I'm already regretting that I didn't follow the orders."

Reno snickers. "Are you serious?"

"Not."

A very low fit of laughter. "Ok, it's final. You can't be Rude."

"Maybe you don't know Rude that much."

Well, how could Reno?

He has always chosen to barricade himself behind long silences and dark shades once enrolled in the Turks ranks.. Hidden from everyone, especially the aggravating red menace.

Reno leans further against him. "Apparently not."

The contact distracts him, while he should remain focused. Each of his efforts, of his moves, of his breaths must be used to take them both out of here.

"Sst." Reno freezes for a moment. "Steps." His voice becomes a quick whisper, a nod to the left.

Now he can hear them, as well. Too poised to be some late worker running the last errands. "Two or three. Probably security. Just keep on walking."

"Three. Do you have spare Materia for me?" Reno disentangles from his hold, pulls out an expectant hand, face tensed in the effort of walking straight.

He rummages in the pockets of the uniform, hands him an ice Materia. The small orb paints Reno's hand in blue light, as he inserts it into his EMR slot.

"You?"

"I have Fire."

"It should be the opposite." Reno snorts a hoarse laughter, sliding his baton up the left sleeve like a cheap magician. "Ready to go, colleague?"

"If we hasten, maybe—" The lift is very close and he’s not keen to engage in close combat against more Chrysalis minions, with his colleague injured this way.

“No such luck,” Reno grumbles as the guards appear from a corridor to the left, cutting off their way to the elevator.

There are three of them for real, dressed in the same blue uniforms as he and Reno: two men and a woman, the shorter one raises two fingers to his forehead when he becomes aware of their presence.

“Everything fine?" They don't even stop, heading towards the opposite end of the corridor. He and Reno must evaporate before they can reach room 696.

He just nods, returning the salute.

"Yessir," mutters Reno and holy shit that's exactly what they don’t need. For real.

The guards stop on their way, the one who just talked gets closer, inspecting him then Reno.

“Are you new? I’ve never seen you around.” The man’s eyes linger upon his badge.

“Yes, we were called for a substitution from the Southern Offices.” He tries to obscure Reno as much as he can, hoping that in this low light the differences between Reno’s face and the photo on his inherited badge might go unnoticed.

“Hey!” The woman came closer to Reno, her voice makes him turn abruptly. “Wait.” She reaches out and tears the beanie off Reno’s head. His obnoxious hair springs up in every direction.

“The intruder!”

She turns to her companions, he elbows her in the face.

Hard.

A wet crunch and the bitch drops to her knees with a scream, hands pressed to her nose, blood drips between her clenched fingers. He kicks her in the chest, sending her flying backwards, her head hits the floor with a loud thud.

She remains motionless, lying on her back, her arms limp at her sides. Blood stains her face and her blonde hair.

Beside him, Reno is using the taser like a nightstick on the tall guard.

The third starts screaming incoherent words into the microphone of his mobile, voice broken.

He kicks it out of his hand, slamming it against the wall, then lunges at the man. He wounds one hand around his flabby neck and presses him against the glass, until long cracks cross the polished surface and the guard's hands lose their hold around his wrist.

He loosens his grip. The man's body slips to the ground.

The last guard is slamming Reno against the wall, landing punches on his injured face.

A broken grunt, a trickle of blood slips out of Reno's mouth.

Not again.

He strikes the man in his side, over and over, his fingers burn of the same fire that is devouring his brain. Not enough, he grabs the man by the collar of his uniform, his fist impacts his face until the other falls to the ground, vomiting blood. The dipshit stops wiggling only when he kicks him in the head, hard. Just to be sure that the fucker is not getting up again.

Then he bends over Reno, who slipped on the floor. His colleague’s arms shake as he tries to get up.

“Come.” He picks up the redhead under the armpits, to set him on foot. Reno leans against the wall, panting, then wipes the blood that stains his mouth with the uniform sleeve, looking up at him.

“You alright?” It’s a pointless question: obviously not: Reno’s face is swelling in new places. Smears of blood still stain his chin, dark in the bluish light.

But Reno nods with a small smile.

He bends to retrieve the beanie, by the tall guard’s boot, and hands it to Reno.

“Fuck.” The redhead’s voice is low, as he pushes the hat over his head. “Let’s go.” He takes a shaky step, leaning heavily against the wall, another.

It hurts to look at him.

He puts his arm around Reno’s waist. His colleague clings to his neck without saying anything and lets himself be dragged in front of the polished doors of the lift.

He presses the down button, looking at their reflections on the metallic surface. His uniform is torn, his knuckles scraped. Reno’s worse. Much worse, swimming in garments obviously too big for his lithe frame. A big bruise is darkening on his jaw. His mouth is stained with blood, his face ashen. He hopes it’s just the lights. Then a hand rummages in his pocket, the clinking of glass against glass and Reno’s holding a potion. “Open it,” he snarls, putting it under his nose. “And shut the fuck up.”

“Renoー” He grabs the bottle and opens it, nonetheless.

“Fuck,” Reno’s brows furrow as he raises the bottle to his lips. “I told you. Now I’m taking it anyway, and only to heal new wounds.”

“Sorry. You’re right.”

The lift opens with a ding, he drags Reno inside and almost smashes the damn 0 button, although it won’t make their descent faster. The doors close, the sudden acceleration makes his stomach jump up in his throat.

In the harsh light of the cabin, Reno looks even worse. His battered face is reflected everywhere, as if the lift were plastered with bounty announcements on his head.

”I’m always right.” Reno’s lips curl in a smug smile then wrap around the bottle neck and tilts the head backwards, drinking the content all at once.

This time he’s ready, and catches the vial as it falls from Reno’s tensed hand, before it crashes to the floor. What he’s not prepared for is the sound of the lift stopping again. Reno is slouched against the mirrored wall, head stretched upwards, lips pressed together; his pained face is reflected in every direction as the door behind his back opens with a hiss. He pockets the empty bottle, bends over Reno and kisses him.

His lips cover Reno’s, he tastes the bitterness of the potion on his tongue. Reno arches in his hold; he wraps him tighter in his embrace, keeping him upright, hoping to shield him as much as he can from whoever is about to enter.

It’s a woman in a pale blue dress. He sees her reflected in the mirror in front of his eyes. A muffled sigh from Reno makes her look warily at them; she positions herself in the farthest corner, clutching her notepad to the chest.

He strokes Reno’s back, dipping the tongue into his mouth, and the moan that escapes the redhead’s lips is undecided between lust and pain. He kisses him harder, a hand on the nape of his neck, until Reno’s body loosens in his hold.

The kiss doesn’t break, not until the lift stops, and the woman gets out, mumbling something to herself.

“Hey.” Reno’s voice is soft. “You’re not a bad kisser, you know? I was sure of that.”

His ears become very hot. “Huh.” Really. He’s never kissed a man before. He would have never thought it was so similar as with a woman. There are lips, although Reno’s are rough and split, there’s a tongue in his mouth, soft and hot and demanding, making his breath quicker. There’s a warm body pressed against him.

There are Reno’s arms hooked around his neck, and his small frame up on the tiptoes to reach him. He bends and pushes the redhead against the wall again, holding that slim face in his hands, thumbnails slipping under the brim of the beanie, and into dirty hair.

A different league. No less enticing.

The damn lift dings again and stops with a shudder, he raises the head. The polished doors open on the entrance hall.

He pushes the hat lower on Reno’s forehead, tucking a couple of stray bright locks under the dark fabric.

“Let me do the talking.”

Reno snickers and slides sideways from under his body. “Let’s go, orator.” He puts his hands in the pockets

“Shut the fuck up, redhead.”

Reno steps out with a throaty laughter that sends a shiver down his back. He turns around and follows. The room is almost empty, safe for two hostesses in dark suits behind the white desk at the side of the entrance, and an usher in red standing by the door. All of a sudden he extracts a walkie talkie from his pocket and puts it to his ear. He says nothing, only nods, then shifts by the side of the door, pushes a lever and the metallic protection starts to roll down with a whine.

As he is putting the first foot on the marble covered floor, a shrill alarm goes off, deafening his ears. Then a metallic voice takes its place. “Red alert! Red alert! To all employees, clear the common areas and return to your pertaining zone. Please be careful and do not panic. I repeat—”

“Ok, colleague,” Reno nudges him. “Don’t panic.”

“...”

The silly son of a bitch makes everything look like a funny game, while they’re fighting for their lives. They stride across the hall, he wonders what’s happening in his damn life, if it’s real that he found some kind of soulmate in this scraggy redhead.

He sighs, torn between worry and elation.

Damn redhead.

His shoulder brushes against Reno’s as they stride, focused on getting out alive from that damn main door. But the metal cover is descending inexorably. They must be out before it’s down. Being trapped here means death. A painful one. He has to be very convincing

Not his best ability.

They walk together towards the exit, he hopes they look just like two guards with a purpose. Their steps synchronize again, without effort; Reno keeps the pace, pushing forward those long legs of him.

Maybe they can make it out, there’s still room to slide under the rolling shutter.

“Ahem.” He stops behind the usher.

The man jolts before turning around, but doesn’t remove his finger from the lever. “Where do you think you’re going?” Shorter than him, light built. Easy to take down.

He straightens to his full height, the other recoils just slightly.

"Our presence was requested in the outside perimeter." He declares, keeping his voice level.

"I have precise orders not to let anyone out." The usher waves the walkie talkie he’s still holding in the other hand.

He puts the fingers over the other's, on the lever, bringing it up to a neutral position and stopping the shutter descent.

“Sorry, sir, but we were assigned to the outer perimeter of the building.” He tries to sound professional, Reno huffs briefly and he knows that the redhead is laughing at him. He’s risking his ass for the damn bastard.

The man doesn’t even look at his face, arm tensed in the effort to make the shutter roll down again, "I told you I have orders."

"We have, too. Let us get you to our superior. Maybe he can explain it to you."

“No way.” The usher considers them with disdain, Reno just offers his best shitface grin. In the harsh light of the hall the half healed cut on his cheekbone looks really bad. Disfiguring.

He wonders how the usher didn’t get suspicious about it.

“You ok, guys? That’s a nasty cut - he squints to read the name on his badge - XXX? Hey but you’re not-“ his speech breaks into a yowl as Reno pushes his EMR against the man’s neck and presses the button.

The usher falls to the ground, convulsing, he grabs Reno by the arm, yanks up the shutter and runs.

Out of the door, down the entry lane, to the left for the big parking lot. The night is silent, greenish street lamps light their steps. It won’t last long.

An ear splitting howl of sirens explodes at his back; blinding searchlights start sweeping the surroundings of the building.

“Run,” he growls as Reno’s steps falter behind him. They take cover behind a line of cars, running with their backs bent in half to make the snipers’ work more difficult.

He’s sure they’re preparing their rifles, hidden within the deep shades of the roof turrets.

“Wait,” pants Reno, slowing down

“Run, goddamnit!” He pulls the redhead, almost dragging him along the endless line of parked vehicles. Theirs is at the farthest end, it seemed a good plan when he arrived, now he’s not really sure.

Not really.

Reno falls on his knees, panting as if his heart is about to explode. “Can’t. Can’t do. It.” The redhead doubles in half, clutching his own chest, trying to free the arm from his hold.

He tightens his fingers on the slippery fabric of his stolen uniform.

“Just go.” Reno sounds almost calm.

He snarls, drags him forward and picks him up, holding him tightly against his chest. “Never.”

It’s impossible to run like this, a bullet whistles too close to his head too close for his liking.

“Fuck.” He stops, and kneels to the ground, still keeping Reno in the safe circle of his arms. His colleague buries the head against his chest, trying to catch his own breath.

“Going nowhere. With me.” Reno’s words come broken among heavy breaths. A salvo of bullets pierce the car they’re hiding behind, punctuating his words.

Surely it would be much simpler, to just abandon the redhead here. I’d take him a moment to reach the car, he can already see its gray rear.

It would take a moment for the snipers’ aim to find Reno’s head.

He wouldn’t. Ever. Damned be his sense of honor.

“Shut the fuck up. Going nowhere, without you, colleague.”

“Hn. You getting. Affectionate?” Reno raises his head, looking at him. His eyes are less amused than his banter would show.

“Yeah, damn redhead.” And although he’s following Reno’s mocking line, the truth in those words shock him.

He’s in danger: that’s against the main rule he set up for himself after he joined the Turks ranks. Never get attached to anyone.

Here he is.

Helping the man he was sent to kill.

“A last effort. Ready?” He pushes back Reno’s beanie, wipes away sweaty hair from his forehead.

His colleague makes a very small smile. “Born ready, eigthball. “ His breathing got back to a slower pace, maybe they can do it, they’re so close.

More bullets pierce the tarmac to their left. He lets go of Reno and grabs the car keys from his own pocket. Then he reaches out, the redhead grabs his outstretched hand and pulls himself on foot, keeping low.

Reno’s fingers are cold, and trembling, he caresses his knuckles.

“Three two one. Gone.” He runs.

Reno follows. Or tries to. He realized he’s dragging the redhead, more than leading the way. It’s ok, as long as they’re both on their feet.

The searchlights light up their surroundings as if it's full day, as they zoom along the line of parked car.

More bullets whistle around them. Most of the car is in sight now.

Then the shockwave sends him forward, sharp pain blossoms in his shoulder. “Fuck!” he hisses without slowing down, gritting his teeth as warm blood trickles down his back.

“Rude!” Reno’s voice sounds desperate from behind. “You got hit.”

Tell me something I don’t know.

Notes:

Ok, I'm the worst. It took almost a year for the next chapter.

Chapter 3: Fireworks for him

Summary:

“Do you like fireworks, colleague?”

“My fave thing, colleague.”

“Just run.”

He opens the car with the remote as they’re approaching. Reno is breathing in a broken rhythm, too fast to be good; he almost throws him into the narrow space between his car and the adjacent one; Reno falls on fours, clawing the ground. He heaves and a mouthful of vomit leaks out of his lips.

They have no more time, the bullets keep chasing them. He slips into the car, dragging Reno with him, and launches his colleague into the passenger seat

Reno wipes his own lips with the sleeve, head bent, his movements just too slow.

“Reno?” He calls slamming the door closed.

“‘Ts ok.” Broken words.

“Good boy.”

The next swarm of bullets hits the car roof; small bumps appear in the moquette of the ceiling. He pulls out of the parking, Reno sways in his seat. He puts a hand on his clammy forehead, pushes him down. “Hold on to your seat. It’s going to get rough.”

“Hn.” Reno obeys with a grimace of disdain.

“Almost there.” He strokes Reno cheek, his colleague leans into the contact for a split second, but it lasts too little.

He grabs the steering wheel with both hands and slams the foot on the gas, throwing the car into road of the parking lot. The tires screech, the vehicle bumps against a couple of parked cars, he takes advantage of the momentum and steers to get back on trajectory.

Reno is sprawled on his seat, looking very pale in the greenish lights. He’s olding tightly to his seat as he tries to slow down the pace of his own breath without really succeeding.

“Reno?”

“Huh?” Reno doesn’t open his eyes. “I. You’ve been hit, Rude.”

Not again. “I know.”

“Does it hurt?”

He sighs, jerking the wheel to the left again, more screeching, more bumping, he can hear the sound of shooting, but it’s behind them. “What do you think?

He accelerates further, hits the brake; the car spins and bolts out of the main entrance like a cannonball, devouring the narrow exit road.

“Not really, if the way you’re driving is of any indication.” An amused grumble from Reno.

It’s true. Adrenaline be blessed every hour of the day. He wonders how long he can resist, before starting to feel dizzy. “Can you cast a Cure?”

Reno turns the head in his direction. “More or less.”

“There’s Materia in the bag under your seat.”

Reno bends over. “Damn bitch!” he swears softly, fighting to pull the red bag out of its hiding.

This is when he hears the roaring of a chopper at their back.

“That can wait.” He pushes Reno up by the shoulder as the batting noise of the blades gets closer and closer. Reno regains a sitting position, looks at him with questioning eyes. He fishes the other remote and presses it onto Reno’s palm.

“Push the red button when I say ‘go’”.

Reno turns the device in his hands. “What’s that? Something against the big boy chasing us?” He’s almost smirking, and it would be maddening if he didn’t look so at ease. Someone used to dance on the thin dividing line between life and death.

Brave. Or just batshit crazy. Probably the second option.

He can’t but smirk back. “Do you like fireworks, colleague?”

Reno’s eyes widen in surprise, then his amused laugh rings within the car, louder than the chopper chasing them. “My fave thing, colleague.”

“Very well then.” Shortly they'll be pulling onto the four-lane main road. The helicopter is filling the whole rear view mirror, a shiny machine gun is armed on the front, pointing straight through their rear windshield. They might be bulletproof, but not to those bullets. He presses the foot on the gas and yells: “go!”

Reno presses the button.

Nothing happens.

“Rude! What tue fuck?” A distressed whine.

The chopper is really too close now, he can almost make out the features of the fucker piloting it.

“Down!” He yells, bending over the steering wheel, keeping also Reno down, with a hand on the nape of his neck. A swarm of heavy caliber bullets breaks the rear window, and embeds into the backseat.

The car shakes badly, he grips the steering wheel, fighting to keep their trajectory in control. “Press harder!!!”

“Fuck!” Reno yells and smashes the red button against the plank. The chopper explodes over their heads, the yellow sphere of fire casts orange reflections on the chromes of the car.

He presses the pedal, the vehicle jumps forward
“Go, fuckit! Go!!” He hears himself yelling as the chopper crashes at their back, a last curve and they bolt into the main road at full speed, hands gripping the wheel, slaloming between the cars.

“Wooow, colleague. I loved that.” Awe, excitement. Reno sounds like a kid at the fair. He barely registers Reno’s words as his eyes scan the road, calculating trajectories and speeds to slip into impossible spaces between the other cars.

Horns wail and tyres screech under the grip of the brakes. Not his. He sees the cars behind him lighting up with orange reflections as the chopper burns on the ground. A red corvette gets out of control and bumps into a big truck to his left.

He just keeps his eyes glued to the road, the hands firmly on the steering wheel, the foot pressing the gas down to the pedal end, avoiding vehicles like he’s on the clandestine race simulator.

Only, it’s not, and the engine roars under his ass, the wounded shoulder throbs quietly under his wet uniform.

“Rude?”

“Hm?”

“Fuck, this was fun. We should do it again sometimes.” Reno’s snicker is bitter. “You know your explosives, don’t you?” A pause. “How could you rig their chopper?”

His lips curl up in a smug smile. “I came in under the guise of an helicopter decorator. Make every travel an unforgettable experience of luxury.”

Reno starts laughing so hard that he’s afraid he will suffocate. “Please Rude have mercy. But. Why? It was pointless. You just had to get in, silence me and go out as if nothing had happened.”

“I was feeling kinda spiteful-” He shrugs, his shoulder is hurting like hell all at once, his grin twists into a grimace. He relieves the push on the gas, they slow down, sailing steadily through the cars.

“Hey! How is your shoulder?” Reno bends quickly, searching for Materia in the bag.

“Not so bad.” Liar. “ Cast that Cure anyway.”

“Sure thing.” The materia glow makes his face green, as Reno locks it into the support of his wristband and concentrates. He feels his own flesh mend itself at light speed, a tingle that makes him shiver. The pain subsides down to nothing, he realizes at once how damn good it is taking the next breath without feeling pain.

“Great job.”

Reno slumps against the back of the seat.

“Reno!” He strokes Reno’s cheek. Cold and clammy. His face sickly pale in the glow of the plank.

“‘Ts ok.” His voice sounds weak. “ It takes some effort. This thing.” Reno lets his head loll against the headrest, quick breath through his parted lips. A snicker. “It’s the first time I really do the damn Cure. You are my guinea pig.”

He laughs back. “Fine to me. You did a good job. I’ll give back the favor, once we can stop.”

“You have completed the training to do this thing?” Reno’s eyes widen. “Really?”

He just nods, driving the car through the holes of the mild traffic. They’re four lane road, he’s almost sure they’re traveling in the opposite direction with respect to Midgar. Which is fine at the moment, since the only plan up to now was leaving Chrysalis Inc. and their troops behind. Then probably Midgar ain’t the safest place for them to be. Not for Reno, at least. And he. Well, by taking the redhead out in opposition to the orders he received, he is probably in the same position. If not worse.

Maybe they should just run away, build a different life out of nothing. He doubts, now that he thinks it with a cool head, that they will be ever welcome back in the Turks ranks.

One move.

One wrong move and he threw everything to hell.

Again.

Unless–

“Rude?”

He turns. Reno’s looking at him, eyes narrow. He pulls off his beanie, thick red hair spill everywhere, a bolt of color in the monochrome of the car.

Eyes the same color as the angry sea.

“Is there some water in this goddamn car? And a cigarette. I’m dying for a good smoke.” His face is hopeful.

“There’s a bottle in the bag. Some emergency rations too.”

“Not hungry, really. But huh, my throat feels like parchment.” Reno rummages some more, a triumphant smile curves his lips right before he wraps them around the bottleneck. He empties it halfway with a couple of long gulps. “Gods. Tastes good.” A satisfied sigh as he recaps it. “Damn fuckers.” He blurts out, out of context.

“What’s happening now?” He turns. Reno’s fingers are tightened around the plastic, it bends and creaks in his grip.

“Damn fuckers.” Reno shakes his head, places the bottle into the cup holder. “No food, no water. No sleep. Only pain. Damnit, at every hour of the day. They sure tried to break me.”

“But they couldn’t”

Another shake of the head, bright hair squished against black leather. “Nope.”

It’s a damn statement. A matter of fact. There’s no pride in Reno’s dry answer, only recognition. Of what he’s been able to do. Well he should really be proud.

“Now a cigarette.” Reno’s pleading, almost, looking at him with hungry eyes. “Tell me you have some.”

“I don’t really smoke, you know? But Devis and Ian used this car before me. If you’re lucky they forgot some.”

Reno’s face lights up. “Worth a try.” He opens the glove compartment and rummages through the papers and the plethora of useful gadgets left behind by previous users. Reno’s face is triumphant as he finally fishes a small pouch of tobacco. “Not my fave. But will do.” He grabs a paper and a filter, a pinch of tobacco and starts working, tongue sticking out in concentration.

He was sure Reno would do that, for some reason, although he’s never seen him at it, before this very moment. It’s.

Cute?

Yep. A cute, cold bloodied murderer who’s been able to resist through days of torture. But Reno is sorta cute. That scrawny-ragged-dirty kind of cute. Like picking up a stray kitten under the downpour, only to have your hands scratched bloody in the process. And, later, a purring wet ball in the inner pocket of your jacket.

Been there, seen that.

“Fucking. Bitch.” The half rolled cigarette falls again from Reno’s trembling fingers.

He locks the steering wheel with his knees and reaches out. “I’ll do it.”

Reno hands the materials over. “You’re an endless source of surprises, colleague.”

“I used to smoke. Before.” Before his life ended and started again, as a Turk, after the darkest of days. But he can’t really say this to Reno, ain’t it? It’s too early for personal confessions.

This isn’t the right moment. Probably Reno isn’t the right person, as well.

Well that’s fine with him, his secrets have been kept hidden for so long that another year, a decade, a century. It won’t change things much.

He rolls up the cigarette, muscle memory be blessed. He licks the gum to seal it; smoothens the crumpled paper. Puts the cigarette between Reno’s lips and pushes the button of the car lighter.

Reno looks at him, intently. His lips are enticing, wrapped around the white filter. He remembers them glued over his. They were rough and tasted bitter. He liked every moment of it and now wonders, and it makes his breath just a bit shallower.

If it'll ever happen again.

The silence becomes heavy, under Reno’s inquiring eyes. He’s grateful to the soft click of the lighter that averts Reno’s attention. He picks up the lighter, the cigarette fizzles against the burning surface, the aromatic tang of newly lit tobacco fills the car.

“You couldn’t even smoke in the company car.”

Reno’s laughter rings shrilly. “The fuck should I care. They sent you to kill me, what more can they do, if I smoke in their precious vehicle.” He takes a long drag, exhales a giant cloud of smoke with a satisfied sigh, relaxing against the back of the seat. His eyes are gleaming as Reno studies him again.

“What’s up?” Sudden uneasiness, although he should be the one used to long silences.

Reno’s answer takes some time. “They sent you to kill me. Why didn’t you?”

Yes, why? But he knows that too well. “I thought it was. Unfair.”

Reno takes another long drag, puffs out perfect circles of smoke, eyes looking at the road unraveling in front of them. “Why so?”

And here he laughs because, come on. “I saw the extent of your commitment.”

“A Turk dies with his lips sealed.” The cigarette burns, forgotten, between Reno’s fingers, and he doesn’t turn in his direction. Looking at the cars in front of them without really seeing them, he’s sure. His eyes are too still.

“Not so easy to live up to, when your fingernails are pried off,” he grumbles

Reno puts the cigarette back in his mouth, leaves it there, sharp teeth bite the filter. Then he raises his wounded hand, studies it in the low light; there’s just skin on his fingertips. It will take some more potions, or some months, to regrow his nails. He makes a tentative chuckle. “I did what had to be done.”

Reno’s looking lost. He gently grabs his chin to make him turn, until sea green eyes are fixed on him, and him only. “This is why I didn’t kill you.”

“What?” Reno frowns, shaking slightly the head, lips thinning as they press one on the other, strangling the cigarette.

“Why did you think I spared you?” He puts the hand back on the steering wheel, he really just doesn’t know where they’re directed to, now, after the last three random turns. He doesn’t care much at the moment, anyway, just content to feel the road rolling under the car, and his hands steady on the wheel.

To inhale Reno second hand smoke and look at his eyes, so soft as they look back at him.

“I don’t know. Really. I didn’t think you could even consider disobeying orders.” Reno chuckles.

It makes him laugh. He had to enroll in the Turks exactly because he hadn’t been able to follow the rules when it was needed. Not like he kept that lesson for a very long time. Here he is, up to his neck in trouble, since he followed his own code of honor instead of the orders of his employer.

But his pride is something money can’t buy, that is. Never.

For how weird his own code of honor could look, he sticks strictly to it. Although it might lead to bad outcomes, he’s still able to look at himself in the mirror every damn morning.

“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me, apparently.” He allows himself the ghost of a prideful smirk.

Reno catches it, his brow furrows. “Damnit colleague, not like you’re the easiest book to read.”

“The cover is heavy. You open it and you’re tired already. “

Reno laughs. “Kinda. And I’m not an avid reader, anyway.”

“Hmph.” He reckons that. That has been his hiding since his Midgar life began.

“Well I’m glad I got to read some pages, eventually. Although–” Reno takes a long drag of his cigarette, the orange glow of the ash softens his features.

 

He freezes inside, fingers lying lazily on the steering wheel. “Although?”

“Although you know how to make someone shit his pants, dumbass.”

Dumbass?

“Huh?” He looks pointedly at the road in front of him. They’re running through a rural area, fields and fields of corn, stretching to the horizon. The names of the towns on the street signals are new to him.

“I was sure you were about to kill me, back in that fucking building.”

“I was about to kill you, for real. I swore I would never disobey orders again, when I enrolled in the Turks.”

Reno doesn’t speak, eyes lost in contemplation of the burning ash of his half cigarette.

He has to break the silence, although that’s not his usual role. The silent one. Rude. “But then, I’m a dumbass, you know.” And that’s true, and as he hears Reno’s harsh laugh he’s sure, for the first time, that he made the right choice.

“Well, I’ve never been so glad to have a dumbass colleague.”

His ears take fire, he keeps on looking through the windshield, afraid to lose his poker face if he has to confront Reno. “For once I'm glad to be a dumbass.”

Reno smirks, opens the car window and throws out the cigarette. His eyes are half lidded as he turns to him.

“Well then, Mr. Dumbass. What now? I should be dead and you fucked up the whole op. Not that I have complaints.” The last words are an amused grumble.

For a moment he feels cold inside. Yeah. What now? He somehow planned their getaway, on the fly as it’s been, but hasn’t given a thought on the next move.

He just shakes his head. “No clue. I just know that I have to call Veld in the next half an hour.”

He can feel Reno’s eyes rolling up. “Always faithful to the director, are you? What will you tell him?”

“I will get suspicious, if I don't.” He sighs. “I will tell him that the mission was completed and that I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Reno turns abruptly at him. “For real? Are we going back to Midgar?”

“I only know that I need to crash on a bed for a couple of hours. Too many inputs. Every decision that we take now is a wrong one” And it's true. He must sleep over it. Reno as well. “Do you want to go back to Midgar?”

“I want to burn down that fucking place.” Reno grumbles.

He has a point. But for that they need a very good plan. He’s not really sure that they can succeed.

“Tomorrow.”

Reno laughs. “Tomorrow then. You’re right. We’re too fucking tired today. Plans, then?”

He doesn’t avert his eyes from the road, there’s a rest area a few miles ahead, a sign tells him. “I’ll stop there and call Veld. Then we’ll look for a safe place to spend what’s left of the night. “

“It’s reasonable.” Reno slumps in his seat with a sigh. “Damnit, I’m falling asleep,” he mumbles, raking a hand through his heavy hair.

“Sleep, then. I will keep on driving.”

“Will you guard my sleep, partner?” Reno snickers and yawns again.

“Always,” he whispers under his breath.

“What?” Reno’s words are a soft slurring.

“Nothing, just sleep.” Thankfully Reno didn’t catch his speech.

Heavy lids flutter closed on those narrow eyes, his slim body relaxes against the back of the seat in the crinkling noise of that oversized uniform. Reno’s breath slows down, to an even pace, his chest raises slightly under blue bundled fabric.

Fast asleep.

Like a damn cat.

Notes:

In my personal HC they couldn’t stand each other at all before BC, so this could have totally happened lol.

Please stay tuned for the next installment.

@Bleed4TheDancer