AN: This is the first part of a super fun, challenge-esque thing that I am taking on with Le Requiem who is, incidentally, my best friend in the entire world and my twin soul. No biggie. Anyhoo, the way this goes is that each week for the whole summer we send each other a prompt. We have one week to write up something for that prompt, send it to each other for initial comments, and then post it here. Also, if any of you readers are into Naruto (or just want to read some AWESOME, KICKASS and FAN-EFFING-TASTIC fanfiction, go check her (Le Requiem) out. She's awesome, promise.
Disclaimer: Square owns FFVII and Utada Hikaru owns Sanctuary. I get nothing from this except immense pleasure and joy.
Prompt: Temperature
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My Heart's a Battleground
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"If you fucking touch me again, I'll kill you!" The words tumble from her mouth like lava as he watches her from across the room with hooded eyes. Something stirs in his gaze, something smoking and dangerous behind the blue-green irises. He shoves off from his place against the wall, and before he has even taken one step, a ninja star streaks by his cheek, just barely grazing it with a cool kiss of metal.
A fine trail of blood slithers, wet and sticky, from right beneath one tattoo, and a grin splits his face. "Not if I kill you first, babe."
Suddenly he is there, pinning her to the wall, lean sinew and muscle holding her in place as she twists and snarls like an angered alley cat. Her head cracks against the plaster behind her, showering them with white flakes as she spits in his face. One bright boot meets the tender place between his legs with a strong thump, and he releases her to double over in pain. In a flash of ivory skin and charcoal hair, she is across the room and glaring, sharp steel flickering between her nimble fingers like moonlight as it filters through a forest. She tumbles her limbs forward, cartwheeling gracefully before him, hardly pausing in her acrobatics as she delivers a roundhouse kick to his ever-smirking face. Yet even as he careens from the impact, he backhands her with a clenched fist, sending her flying across the room.
There is only a moment of stillness, one second for their eyes to meet, and then they are dancing. It's brutal and beautiful and only they know the steps. He kicks, she dodges, she punches, he parries, and it goes on and on and on in an endless circle of red and black until their veins are on fire, blazing and molten. His fist puts a hole in the wall, and she spits blood onto the pristine carpet, Pollock in red-on-white.
Their fury and ferocity steers them from the living room into the tiny kitchen. A ceramic plate materializes in her hands and she throws it, shuriken-style, right at his head. He ducks just in time, and jars her feet out from beneath her with a sharp swing of his foot. She rolls away before he can pin her to the tile floor, and punishes his hesitation with a swift kick to his chin. By the time he straightens, she has flipped herself up to stand on the counter, imposing even with her slight frame. Before he can blink, she is gone, wings on her heels, across the room and out onto the balcony.
She waits for him this time. He makes his way to her slowly, caging her in against the railing as the day dies behind them. She stares up at him and he gazes down at her and time turns to water, slowing everything around them.
The moment they take this time is longer.
They have never been defined by anything other than heat and fire. His temper, her passion, it all knits together into a miniature sun they keep between themselves, and then explodes, like a supernova engulfing them as it sucks the earth from beneath their feet. And in those explosions, as gravity collapses and abandons them, they cling to each other.
She grips his shirt and pulls him to her fiercely, fusing their lips together until neither is sure where their own self ends and the other begins. And then her mouth leaves his as she leaps atop the railing. One last, heated look, a thousand messages furled in its depths, and then she falls backward into the night sky.
He sighs as he trudges back inside to survey the damage, before fishing his cell phone from under the remnants of their coffee table.
One ring, and a deep voice answers. "Well?"
"Target escaped, boss. She's on the loose."
There is a crackling sigh from across the line. "That's the fifth time you've let her get away, Reno. Get your shit together."
"You got it."
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When she crawls into bed with him, hours later, she is freezing. He immediately curls around her, tickling the back of her neck with his breath until she squirms playfully.
"Were we convincing enough today?" The question is asked casually, yet he can sense the tiniest sliver of fear behind her nonchalance.
So he lies. "'Course, babe. Boss-man doesn't suspect a thing, yo."
She nods and he knows she doesn't believe him. She knows that he knows and they just keep pretending.
The room is dark and she is finally warming to match his temperature, the chemical fire igniting between them once again. He watches shadows play across her skin, pretending the bruises he sees there aren't of his own doing.
"How long do we have to keep this up?" Her voice is small, and in its vulnerability he loves her more than he thought he ever could.
"We keep it up…. Till one of us is dead."
.Fin.
Non-spoilery AN: I love writing about these two. And I especially love taking a look at the darker side of what their relationship could be. And I'm trying to work on my fight-writing, because I feel like it could definitely use some work. Any comments or critiques you have would be greatly appreciated, so get to reviewing, foos!
Fun fact: the title refers to a Jackson Pollock painting. He's briefly referenced in the story, and I think his style sums up the messy, beautiful relationship this pairing has to offer.