[FF7] Apropos of Nothing
[FF7 Game canon] Apropos of Nothing
Rating: PG-13 - Status: One-shot, complete - Warnings: Chara death, if you don't believe in happy endings
Characters: Rufus/Reno
Timeline: In-game
Summary: Sometimes, things just don't work out.
For wannabeking.
A/N: Was looking for a different manuscript (Turtledoves, actually, That Abyss Fic), when I came across this instead. I started it about a year back or half a year, couldn't seem to write the second half of it, and abandoned it for later. Later was apparently today, where I slapped together something and decided, ah hell, let's just post this (even if it's not very good) or it'll languish forever on my harddisk. Sadly, work has mangled my brains severely over the last month or so, so I have no idea what I just wrote, let alone whether it works.
The first time he’d almost kissed Reno, he’d stopped when he smelt Tseng’s cologne on the Turk.
There had been a long pause, and this close -- so close that their noses brushed, and he could feel the tickle of Reno’s exhale -- he could see the surprise and confusion in those wide, wide green eyes.
Then fingers at the nape of his neck had tightened in his hair and coaxed him forward. But Rufus Shinra was good at giving people the slip, and between one blink and the next, he’d gone from Reno’s arms to across the room.
“New orders,” he said, voice cool as the glass before him, and just as smooth. “I’m leaving for Junon tomorrow. The Turks are to proceed to Fort Condor. Tseng has the details.”
He could hear the scuffing of footsteps on the carpet. The pause as Reno went from horny to confused to angry. Two seconds. Three.
“Why?” the Turk demanded.
He could see the shimmer of his reflection in the tall windows of his office. It smiled the same smile - razor sharp and humourless.
“Ask Tseng,” he said, half turning. He had the satisfaction of seeing Reno slap at his neck, where the collar of his uniform shirt had moved to reveal the barest hint of red beneath. To give credit where it was due, Reno never, ever backed down.
“Fine.” The spark in the Turk’s eyes was unreadable to him - whether it was mortification, or a remnant of that anger, or something else... he wasn’t quite sure. And there wasn’t enough time to tell, when Reno whirled in a flash of red, and was gone.
And Rufus stayed by the window, listening to the doors slam in the antechamber and the storming of heavy footsteps all the way down the corridor. And brushed a finger over his lips, the smile long gone.
The second time wasn’t even close. Reno stormed into his office, preceded by the reek of cheap whiskey, and slammed his hands down on the surface of the large Presidential desk.
Rufus didn’t look up.
“You owe me,” Reno slurred, the words swaying almost as much as the Turk was.
Rufus’ pen scratched across white paper as he affixed his signature to a letter. “Really.”
“Owe me... ‘n expla....explation... reason.”
“Whatever for?”
Reno’s fingers had twitched, and Rufus marvelled inwardly at the fact that the Turk, newly returned from Wutai after chasing Avalanche all the way from Fort Condor, still had enough good sense or self control not to do anything stupid. “For... for whatever Tseng didn’t ‘xplain.”
Rufus exchanged one piece of paper for another. “You did a good job in Wutai. You’ve earned a few days of leave and a bonus.” He paused, thought about the pretext under which they had sent the Turks to Wutai. “Actual leave, that is. Now go home, Reno.”
Long, callused fingers curled into fists. Rufus watched them, making sure that they did not crumple any important correspondence that needed to be dispatched. The secretary had gone home for the night, and to print those documents would be a waste of time. He had better things to do. The siren song of the Promised Land still sang to him, haunted his nights, his dreams, his waking hours. Soon, he thought.
But the paper was safe, and his own jaw was safe, as Reno suddenly lost whatever was fuelling him and flopped bonelessly into one of the chairs before the desk. “Geez, boss. You’re such an asshole.”
“That would be the first time I’ve been called that after giving people leave and money,” he said calmly. “Shall I withdraw them, then, since you seem so opposed to it?” The threat hung in the air between them, only thinly veiled. And although there was no trace of mockery in his words, the stillness that gripped his writing hand was a whispered hint of the deadly anger brewing beneath the surface.
Once again they locked stares that lasted just a minute too long. Once again there was that tension in the air, that one precarious moment in time where even breath was suspended-
--then Reno flipped him the bird and left. As the door slammed behind the Turk, Rufus chased away the whispers of regret with thoughts of the Promised Land.
The third time, he couldn’t tell who really backed down first.
It was just the two of them now, in the darkness of the Turks’ lounge. Elena and Rude had left, and in the haze of the vodka he had inhaled over the course of the last hour, he couldn’t remember when or why. And Tseng…
Tseng was never coming back, because he, Rufus Shinra, had been a fool, too blinded by a lie to see what he had before him. Tseng was gone, and he supposed that was why he was here instead of in his office, because the commanding officer was supposed to break the news, and other Turks were the only family that a Turk had.
He drank, moving on autopilot. Tasted nothing but the burn of alcohol on his tongue and down his throat. It was too quiet now, and for once the silence made him uncomfortable. He glanced across, to the other occupant of the couch, but Reno was turned away from him, and in the glow of the city lights from the window, all he could see was the Turk’s silhouette. His imagination filled in the rest - the blame, the chill of resentment - products of a newly discovered sense of insecurity born of discovering that he was fallible after all, and that there were some things that even money couldn’t fix.
I’m sorry, he wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t get past his tongue. Maybe they couldn’t. He didn’t know how to apologise, not in any way that counted; the only apologies he had ever uttered were plastic, fake things murmured to the press, said for the mere formality of the thing.
Apropos of nothing.
“You should head to bed, boss.”
The words made him look up, to find Reno glancing back at him.
“I should,” he replied. But he didn’t move, and neither did Reno, and suddenly, somewhere, there was a flash of light - a helicopter’s search light, or a strobe from a nearby building - just a flash, which illuminated the Turk’s face. Red and green, he thought, and there were lines in that face now, grief and pain, but…
…no hint of censure.
“Reno,” he said, and he didn’t know who moved first, but suddenly they were too close, so close that he couldn’t see Reno’s eyes any more, could only feel the soft exhale of breath against his lips.
I’m sorry, he still wanted to say, but the words withered to dust, and perhaps that was why he faltered - or perhaps Reno faltered too, and in the sudden, awkward pause, he almost fancied that he could smell Tseng’s cologne.
The moment stretched, suspended in time … and then fell, shattered.
Lost beyond recall.
“I should go,” he said, and he was standing, and so was Reno, turning away from each other.
“You should,” Reno echoed.
The silence followed him out of the door and back to his own office.
The third time was the charm, the saying went, and he found himself reflecting inanely on this as Weapon rose from the sea. Reflecting on how he had missed his chance, and how the old wisdom was right - you only ever really got three chances. And as his death arced towards him, he stared it down, the same way he always did. But the red was the wrong shade, he thought, too bright and too yellow.
“And not half as attractive,” he murmured.
He touched a finger to his lips as the world went too bright around him, then plunged into darkness.
Rating: PG-13 - Status: One-shot, complete - Warnings: Chara death, if you don't believe in happy endings
Characters: Rufus/Reno
Timeline: In-game
Summary: Sometimes, things just don't work out.
For wannabeking.
A/N: Was looking for a different manuscript (Turtledoves, actually, That Abyss Fic), when I came across this instead. I started it about a year back or half a year, couldn't seem to write the second half of it, and abandoned it for later. Later was apparently today, where I slapped together something and decided, ah hell, let's just post this (even if it's not very good) or it'll languish forever on my harddisk. Sadly, work has mangled my brains severely over the last month or so, so I have no idea what I just wrote, let alone whether it works.
The first time he’d almost kissed Reno, he’d stopped when he smelt Tseng’s cologne on the Turk.
There had been a long pause, and this close -- so close that their noses brushed, and he could feel the tickle of Reno’s exhale -- he could see the surprise and confusion in those wide, wide green eyes.
Then fingers at the nape of his neck had tightened in his hair and coaxed him forward. But Rufus Shinra was good at giving people the slip, and between one blink and the next, he’d gone from Reno’s arms to across the room.
“New orders,” he said, voice cool as the glass before him, and just as smooth. “I’m leaving for Junon tomorrow. The Turks are to proceed to Fort Condor. Tseng has the details.”
He could hear the scuffing of footsteps on the carpet. The pause as Reno went from horny to confused to angry. Two seconds. Three.
“Why?” the Turk demanded.
He could see the shimmer of his reflection in the tall windows of his office. It smiled the same smile - razor sharp and humourless.
“Ask Tseng,” he said, half turning. He had the satisfaction of seeing Reno slap at his neck, where the collar of his uniform shirt had moved to reveal the barest hint of red beneath. To give credit where it was due, Reno never, ever backed down.
“Fine.” The spark in the Turk’s eyes was unreadable to him - whether it was mortification, or a remnant of that anger, or something else... he wasn’t quite sure. And there wasn’t enough time to tell, when Reno whirled in a flash of red, and was gone.
And Rufus stayed by the window, listening to the doors slam in the antechamber and the storming of heavy footsteps all the way down the corridor. And brushed a finger over his lips, the smile long gone.
The second time wasn’t even close. Reno stormed into his office, preceded by the reek of cheap whiskey, and slammed his hands down on the surface of the large Presidential desk.
Rufus didn’t look up.
“You owe me,” Reno slurred, the words swaying almost as much as the Turk was.
Rufus’ pen scratched across white paper as he affixed his signature to a letter. “Really.”
“Owe me... ‘n expla....explation... reason.”
“Whatever for?”
Reno’s fingers had twitched, and Rufus marvelled inwardly at the fact that the Turk, newly returned from Wutai after chasing Avalanche all the way from Fort Condor, still had enough good sense or self control not to do anything stupid. “For... for whatever Tseng didn’t ‘xplain.”
Rufus exchanged one piece of paper for another. “You did a good job in Wutai. You’ve earned a few days of leave and a bonus.” He paused, thought about the pretext under which they had sent the Turks to Wutai. “Actual leave, that is. Now go home, Reno.”
Long, callused fingers curled into fists. Rufus watched them, making sure that they did not crumple any important correspondence that needed to be dispatched. The secretary had gone home for the night, and to print those documents would be a waste of time. He had better things to do. The siren song of the Promised Land still sang to him, haunted his nights, his dreams, his waking hours. Soon, he thought.
But the paper was safe, and his own jaw was safe, as Reno suddenly lost whatever was fuelling him and flopped bonelessly into one of the chairs before the desk. “Geez, boss. You’re such an asshole.”
“That would be the first time I’ve been called that after giving people leave and money,” he said calmly. “Shall I withdraw them, then, since you seem so opposed to it?” The threat hung in the air between them, only thinly veiled. And although there was no trace of mockery in his words, the stillness that gripped his writing hand was a whispered hint of the deadly anger brewing beneath the surface.
Once again they locked stares that lasted just a minute too long. Once again there was that tension in the air, that one precarious moment in time where even breath was suspended-
--then Reno flipped him the bird and left. As the door slammed behind the Turk, Rufus chased away the whispers of regret with thoughts of the Promised Land.
The third time, he couldn’t tell who really backed down first.
It was just the two of them now, in the darkness of the Turks’ lounge. Elena and Rude had left, and in the haze of the vodka he had inhaled over the course of the last hour, he couldn’t remember when or why. And Tseng…
Tseng was never coming back, because he, Rufus Shinra, had been a fool, too blinded by a lie to see what he had before him. Tseng was gone, and he supposed that was why he was here instead of in his office, because the commanding officer was supposed to break the news, and other Turks were the only family that a Turk had.
He drank, moving on autopilot. Tasted nothing but the burn of alcohol on his tongue and down his throat. It was too quiet now, and for once the silence made him uncomfortable. He glanced across, to the other occupant of the couch, but Reno was turned away from him, and in the glow of the city lights from the window, all he could see was the Turk’s silhouette. His imagination filled in the rest - the blame, the chill of resentment - products of a newly discovered sense of insecurity born of discovering that he was fallible after all, and that there were some things that even money couldn’t fix.
I’m sorry, he wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t get past his tongue. Maybe they couldn’t. He didn’t know how to apologise, not in any way that counted; the only apologies he had ever uttered were plastic, fake things murmured to the press, said for the mere formality of the thing.
Apropos of nothing.
“You should head to bed, boss.”
The words made him look up, to find Reno glancing back at him.
“I should,” he replied. But he didn’t move, and neither did Reno, and suddenly, somewhere, there was a flash of light - a helicopter’s search light, or a strobe from a nearby building - just a flash, which illuminated the Turk’s face. Red and green, he thought, and there were lines in that face now, grief and pain, but…
…no hint of censure.
“Reno,” he said, and he didn’t know who moved first, but suddenly they were too close, so close that he couldn’t see Reno’s eyes any more, could only feel the soft exhale of breath against his lips.
I’m sorry, he still wanted to say, but the words withered to dust, and perhaps that was why he faltered - or perhaps Reno faltered too, and in the sudden, awkward pause, he almost fancied that he could smell Tseng’s cologne.
The moment stretched, suspended in time … and then fell, shattered.
Lost beyond recall.
“I should go,” he said, and he was standing, and so was Reno, turning away from each other.
“You should,” Reno echoed.
The silence followed him out of the door and back to his own office.
The third time was the charm, the saying went, and he found himself reflecting inanely on this as Weapon rose from the sea. Reflecting on how he had missed his chance, and how the old wisdom was right - you only ever really got three chances. And as his death arced towards him, he stared it down, the same way he always did. But the red was the wrong shade, he thought, too bright and too yellow.
“And not half as attractive,” he murmured.
He touched a finger to his lips as the world went too bright around him, then plunged into darkness.