ffvii: liabilities
title: Liabilities
series: Final Fantasy VII (BC/CC)
characters: Zack & Reno
count: 775
summary: (K+) Post-battle, some medical attention is in order. (possible implications, if you are so inclined)
notes: Based on Wasteland. Gifted to knockout_drops and rawri, because their pups inspire me so. ♥
"...I really miss potions."
"Yeah, tell me about it. 'M not even the one bleeding, yo."
"...a little sympathy wouldn't hurt."
"Haha," came the very dry, very sarcastic reply. "Now shut up, SOLDIER, I'm trying to concentrate and you aren't helping at all." A damp cloth dragged down his back, presumably to wipe away the blood and dirt and whatever else came with being hauled, bodily, across the asphalt for a street or two. Zack flinched when it scraped the edge of one particular gash, between his shoulder blades. From what he gathered, it was less than beautiful; but on the bright side of things, it could make for awesome bragging rights.
"Hey, I'm the one hurtin' here," he grumbled, half heartedly and half into his pillow. "Aren't you supposed to be distracting me?" Reno just snorted and continued to tend to him, the motions quick and careful, but not necessarily gentle.
"Maybe next time you'll look out for yourself better. I ain't your nurse, yo."
"But you're so good at it," Zack grinned, already half gone.
"Tch," the other man gave an annoyed cluck, scooting down to straddle his hips. Soft, scratching and tearing sounds filled the room, and after a minute, Zack wondered what it was all about. "Medical tape," Reno replied, distractedly, "-protecting my fingers. I gotta stitch this up, yo."
"You... what? With what!?"
"With whatever we got. Stop being a baby."
"-help me."
"That's the idea. Now... here we go..."
Never let it be said that the Turk didn't have a heart. Or that the SOLDIER couldn't take it like a man. Or that a good, fluffy pillow didn't have its uses.
For his part, Zack did a good job of restraining himself. It was more discomfort than actual pain, really, but the situation itself made it hard to stay still. "C'mon, Turk, have a little pity," he gritted, as cheerily as one might grit, "Couldn't you... at least give me a bottle of something? This sucks."
For his part, Reno did a good job of helping to maintain Zack's dignity as he worked, which was no small feat, but sitting on him made things a whole lot easier. He hunched over, squinting slightly as he drew the needle through the torn edges of flesh and pulled the threads tight. "Just a few more minutes," his fingers laid slowly across the stitching, temporarily relieving some of the pressure. "If I use alcohol, it's going in these cuts, yo. Not toward thinning your blood. You lost enough."
"Reno..."
"ZACK."
A lot could be said, between them, whenever they exchanged those two words. In this case, it was like compressing another fifteen minutes of bickering into a single, verbal slap. Defeated, the SOLDIER went limp into the bedsheets, his expression drawing into a pout as he waited for the other to finish up.
"If you don't like this, don't make me have to do it," the Turk said, at length, his tone still scolding, if somewhat pensive. "Don't make me look like the jerk when it's really you, y'know?" He didn't say anything else, just tugged the last of the stitching so that it could be knotted and snipped off at the ends. Zack refused to comment, knowing fully well what he meant and that Reno knew he knew it, anyway. He closed his eyes, fingers curling into the bedding when the other swore under his breath-no scissors, where had they gone-and then clenched his teeth at the ticklish brush of hair along his spine, the burning warmth of a mouth as the red-head bent to bite the strings loose.
"Don't do it again," Reno was demanding, into his suture. Maybe pleading. His voice was so low, it was almost like he was talking to himself. "Next time, I'll make this hurt, yo. Turks' Honor," he threatened, the faintest tremor in his hands. Something in the SOLDIER empathized, shaking with that veiled bit of honesty, but he swallowed it down, forced it to the back of his mind, and let out a small, battered chuckle instead.
"Yes, Dear."
The blow he got, to the back of the head, was worth it, he decided. The bullet in the mattress beside his face, though... was a little much. He laughed it off though, knowing he wouldn't really be shot, and complained of domestic abuse. He was promptly gratified when Reno forgot all else except for trying to kick his ass, wrestling him halfway across the bed with no seeming regard for his brand new stitches. It was rough. It was familiar. It was safe.
He could almost forget that naked moment of understanding. Almost.
series: Final Fantasy VII (BC/CC)
characters: Zack & Reno
count: 775
summary: (K+) Post-battle, some medical attention is in order. (possible implications, if you are so inclined)
notes: Based on Wasteland. Gifted to knockout_drops and rawri, because their pups inspire me so. ♥
"...I really miss potions."
"Yeah, tell me about it. 'M not even the one bleeding, yo."
"...a little sympathy wouldn't hurt."
"Haha," came the very dry, very sarcastic reply. "Now shut up, SOLDIER, I'm trying to concentrate and you aren't helping at all." A damp cloth dragged down his back, presumably to wipe away the blood and dirt and whatever else came with being hauled, bodily, across the asphalt for a street or two. Zack flinched when it scraped the edge of one particular gash, between his shoulder blades. From what he gathered, it was less than beautiful; but on the bright side of things, it could make for awesome bragging rights.
"Hey, I'm the one hurtin' here," he grumbled, half heartedly and half into his pillow. "Aren't you supposed to be distracting me?" Reno just snorted and continued to tend to him, the motions quick and careful, but not necessarily gentle.
"Maybe next time you'll look out for yourself better. I ain't your nurse, yo."
"But you're so good at it," Zack grinned, already half gone.
"Tch," the other man gave an annoyed cluck, scooting down to straddle his hips. Soft, scratching and tearing sounds filled the room, and after a minute, Zack wondered what it was all about. "Medical tape," Reno replied, distractedly, "-protecting my fingers. I gotta stitch this up, yo."
"You... what? With what!?"
"With whatever we got. Stop being a baby."
"-help me."
"That's the idea. Now... here we go..."
Never let it be said that the Turk didn't have a heart. Or that the SOLDIER couldn't take it like a man. Or that a good, fluffy pillow didn't have its uses.
For his part, Zack did a good job of restraining himself. It was more discomfort than actual pain, really, but the situation itself made it hard to stay still. "C'mon, Turk, have a little pity," he gritted, as cheerily as one might grit, "Couldn't you... at least give me a bottle of something? This sucks."
For his part, Reno did a good job of helping to maintain Zack's dignity as he worked, which was no small feat, but sitting on him made things a whole lot easier. He hunched over, squinting slightly as he drew the needle through the torn edges of flesh and pulled the threads tight. "Just a few more minutes," his fingers laid slowly across the stitching, temporarily relieving some of the pressure. "If I use alcohol, it's going in these cuts, yo. Not toward thinning your blood. You lost enough."
"Reno..."
"ZACK."
A lot could be said, between them, whenever they exchanged those two words. In this case, it was like compressing another fifteen minutes of bickering into a single, verbal slap. Defeated, the SOLDIER went limp into the bedsheets, his expression drawing into a pout as he waited for the other to finish up.
"If you don't like this, don't make me have to do it," the Turk said, at length, his tone still scolding, if somewhat pensive. "Don't make me look like the jerk when it's really you, y'know?" He didn't say anything else, just tugged the last of the stitching so that it could be knotted and snipped off at the ends. Zack refused to comment, knowing fully well what he meant and that Reno knew he knew it, anyway. He closed his eyes, fingers curling into the bedding when the other swore under his breath-no scissors, where had they gone-and then clenched his teeth at the ticklish brush of hair along his spine, the burning warmth of a mouth as the red-head bent to bite the strings loose.
"Don't do it again," Reno was demanding, into his suture. Maybe pleading. His voice was so low, it was almost like he was talking to himself. "Next time, I'll make this hurt, yo. Turks' Honor," he threatened, the faintest tremor in his hands. Something in the SOLDIER empathized, shaking with that veiled bit of honesty, but he swallowed it down, forced it to the back of his mind, and let out a small, battered chuckle instead.
"Yes, Dear."
The blow he got, to the back of the head, was worth it, he decided. The bullet in the mattress beside his face, though... was a little much. He laughed it off though, knowing he wouldn't really be shot, and complained of domestic abuse. He was promptly gratified when Reno forgot all else except for trying to kick his ass, wrestling him halfway across the bed with no seeming regard for his brand new stitches. It was rough. It was familiar. It was safe.
He could almost forget that naked moment of understanding. Almost.