Fandom: Final Fantasy 7
Category/Rated: Slash, M
Year/Length: 2005/ ~900 words
Pairing: Reno & Rude
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, only having fun.
Warning: Language and references to sex. Nothing graphic.
Summary: Set at an indeterminate time in the past, very far pre-game, even. Reno/Rude slightly, ok, actually a lot...
Author's Notes: I am such a fraud...and I blame AC for that. Never played FF7, because when it was around I wasn't into my gaming stage yet... But I saw AC and got bit by a plot bunny...and I'm sorry. Forgive me in advance.
Everything about him is inappropriate.
You think about this the first time you see him, as he swaggers in like he owns the place, jacket thrown over one shoulder, cocksure grin kicking up the corners of his lips. He is a rumpled mess, clothes wrinkled, tie backwards, hair a rats nest of tangles and knots. You remember your first day on the job and scowl a little bit deeper. He can't be more than seventeen, can't weigh more than a hundred and twenty pounds, the way his suit is hanging off of him. He certainly doesn't cut the most intimidating figure you've ever seen. You think it's all highly inappropriate for a Turk.
He's assigned to be your partner...because the higher ups aren't to sure about him either and they want you there in case something goes bad. He offers a hand for you to shake and when after a moment you reach out to take it he ducks under your guard and wraps his arms around you in a fast hug before he's gone again, waving your wallet at you as he swaggers away. Elena laughs at you and you put two fingers against the side of her head as you stalk past to retrieve your wallet. At least he didn't take your glas-you swear under your breath when you realize that he did, in fact, take your glasses. Highly inappropriate behavior for one's partner.
Your first mission together is...interesting. He talks non-stop on the way there, and you barely listen. He swears a lot. You begin to see a pattern through the profanity, and before long you can almost identify what he's talking about by the expletives he's using. When you move to get out of the car he is whistling...and obviously tone deaf. The mission brief said this would be easy so you're almost sure it will be anything but, and you surprise yourself by telling him to stay close-just in case. For a moment he looks like he considers not laughing at you, but then he decides against it, and giggles up at you, white teeth flashing. Completely inappropriate when preparing to kill a dozen people.
You think he will stop talking when you get inside, but he doesn't, though he does drop his voice to a whisper. He comments on their the shade of the carpet, on the paintings on the wall, on the small trinkets that he is pocketing. He says 'bitching yo' a lot and you know from your earlier observations that he is happy. Behind your glasses you roll your eyes, and ease open the door to the master suite, which if Intel is correct will be guarded by ten men...none of whom will be as dangerous as the good doctor and his wife. He is bitting his lower lip and bouncing on the balls of his feet in anticipation and at least he shut up finally...and then he pushes past you into the room and blows into your ear as he goes. Fucking. Inappropriate.
Afterwards, you don't remember the fight...just the sting of your knuckles and a dull throb in your knee that is covered with gray goo that you are almost certain is someone's brains. You do remember looking up to see a gun pointed at our face, and raising an eyebrow, and being ready to die, and a blur of motion as something strikes the gunman's hands and the shot fires wide and you kill the man because that's what you do. He is waiting for you when you're done, his insane hair wild and loose around his face, and he gets in your space, leans close to your ear and says, " You owe me a rubber band." And then he is walking away, your glasses making the fall of his hair down his back look like blood red silk. You don't even bother thinking how inappropriate it is.
Rubber bands rip hair up, and you decide, in the secrecy of your own mind, that you like his hair, so you don't buy him a new one. You find a steel clip, which looks a bit to you like a wolf's head, and you leave it on his desk, thinking your should leave a note but not really knowing what to write. He finds you later, at the dinner table, sits across from you but manages to be in your space nonetheless. He is smiling and stealing your food and you sigh long sufferingly and only choke a little bit when his foot runs up your leg. All the way up your leg. He foot-molests you with two dozen people sitting around and you barely consider how inappropriate it is.
It takes something less than three days before he is sharing your bed. And your booze. And your clothes. And your money. There is a lot of sharing in your relationship, and you do a lot of long-suffering sighing and eye rolling. The first morning you are showering and thinking about this when arms encircle you from behind and he is murmuring in your ear, "Wash my hair and I'll wash yours..." You point out that you're bald and you don't have to see his face to know that he's smiling that shit-eating-grin that he likes to smile so much. "Not everywhere," he points out, and you concede...there was a time when all of this would have been highly inappropriate.
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