final fantasy vii. reeve & tifa. set somewhen around dirge of cerberus. pg. characters belong to square-enix. for kinneas.
wait
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The sky seems permanently overcast.
Tifa sits in the back of the Shadowfox; the wartorn truck has stalled. She hears Reeve turn the ignition again and again, feeding it archaic gasoline in a mako-starved world.
It's not the first time this has happened. She knows that much. The abandoned wasteland between Kalm and Edge has seen its share of exhausted vehicles and desperate people. Nature could care less about mortal struggles... usually.
These clouds are as indecisive as one she's far more familiar with, she thinks. She wishes they'd drift away, allow the sky to clear, or just rain already, let it all out and move on. Seeing it stagnate like this, though? She's had enough of it, but there's nothing she can do.
Reeve gives up. Tifa listens as he climbs into the back of the truck, slamming the door with defeated frustration. A half hour ago the sun sort-of set; dwindling daylight reaches them over the cliffs and canyons, reddish beams carried further by the endless smog. Anything that could've been accomplished today has been placed officially out of their grasp.
Tired, he sits down next to Tifa and idly crosses his legs; hers are outstretched.
"What do we do?" he asks, voice muted and unsure. He fears he's let her down, he's let the team down, the WRO, the planet; they'll be late, they're not safe, they--
"Talk," Tifa says, shrugging calmly despite the way her heart is racing. "Sleep." She looks at him; a few stray brown bangs block her view. "What else is there? We can't expect to save the world in the dark."
Reeve tries to smile, he really does, but it still seems forced. Thankfully, Tifa doesn't comment. Maybe she didn't see it; the light is pretty dim, after all.
"Yes. Let's do that, then." He moves to steal a tarp from atop a pile of ammunition -- for lack of a better blanket. Reeve removes his coat, folds and wads it into a makeshift pillow, and offers it to Tifa. He hopes she doesn't mind the dirt; he's been meaning to have it drycleaned for a week. Grateful anyway, she accepts it, folding her arms underneath it and resting her head atop as she lies on the bed (...two meanings, now) of the truck. Only now does he realize she's unzipped her vest. Sleeping... confined with such an outfit would be uncomfortable, sure, but... He doesn't want to invade her privacy.
The Shadowfox can only provide so much space. Reeve hesitates, uneasy, even when Tifa pats the area beside her and motions for him to lie down. He wonders if she got any splinters or gravel in her palm, touching the floor like that. He wonders if she's noticed he's only wearing a loose undershirt and dusty pants. He wonders if she cares.
Reeve settles himself next to her, facing away and leaving at least a foot or two between them. Tifa frowns to herself, worried for him and worried for his comfort (the commissioner has a distinct lack of a pillow, despite one being fashioned from his own coat), and touches his shoulder. He doesn't respond, other than tensing slightly -- what is she doing -- so she tugs more forcefully, until she's convinced him to roll over. Reeve stares at her, wide-eyed and wide-pupiled in the darkness.
Ignoring social norms that would apply had they not been stranded in nowhere, she pulls him into a gentle, reassuring hug. She smells like inexpensive shampoo and homemade soups; he smells like hair gel and gunpowder. Reeve starts to say something, to interrupt this moment of utterly consoling, innocent intimacy; Tifa cuts off his interruption with a swift, chaste kiss to the cheek. Sleepily, she rubs the back of his neck with her fingertips.
"Shh," she murmurs, as if to Denzel or Marlene. "It's okay. Sleep. I'm here for you."
They drift off, safe and still for a few moments in a world of chaos.
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under a blackened sky, far beyond the glaring streetlights, sleeping on empty dreams; the vultures lie in wait.
you lay down beside me then.
you were with me every waking hour, so close I could feel your breath.
when all we wanted was the dream -- to have and to hold that precious little thing.
like every generation yields a newborn hope, unjaded by their years.
- sarah mclachlan, "wait"