Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Character/s: Vincent, Cid/Shera
Word Count: 598
Notes: For Pu. "Stop taking my goddamn pants!"
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"Look, all I want to know is why you gotta have them." Cid has his hands on his hips and a cigarette paper jutting haphazardly over his jaw. The tobacco is spilling out. He hasn't lit it yet. "Some kinda fetish?"
Vincent shrugs, form tall and slender in comparison to the stocky pilot. "They are comfortable," he offers simply. There is a cup of tea, elegant handle encircled by pale fingers. Cid appreciates the fact that Valentine, at least, will use a saucer. Not like the rest of the damn slobs they travel with. Aeris keeps leaving soggy biscuits on his saucers. And don't even get him started on Yuffie and drinking with both hands.
"Yeah, well, don't get too comfortable, buddy," he grouches. They're his pants, after all. Washed and softened and ironed by his housemate, goddammit. And they look ridiculous on the ex-Turk, hanging around his calves like that. He's a lot taller than Cid is, and Cid's not used to the idea of Vincent having feet.
They're pale and bony, with slight imprints from his socks, flattened cable designs. He's got what Cid, who has short, wide stub-feet, thinks of as freakishly long toes. What the hell is he, a goddamn fish?
He slouches. He smirks. "That is impossible. You share a charming house."
"That's some compliment, from a guy who used to live in a coffin," Cid snorts, fingers digging in his pockets for his tobacco, his matches. He doesn't like lighters. There's just something weird about being able to smoke no matter the weather. Vincent frowns at him.
It's tricky to tell, but they've been friends awhile. There's a little pucker that forms just above the bridge of the pale man's nose, when he's worried or irate or just angsting too hard. Cid's used to it.
"Shera doesn't like it when you smoke in the house," Vincent murmurs, eyes suddenly dark and piercing. Cid sniffs, and resumes digging in his pocket. Damn packet's stuck in the lining again.
"Ain't you the know-it-all?" He sneers. "She's never said anythin' about it t' me."
Vincent gives him a long, hard look, and straightens in his chair. He places his cup very carefully back on the tabletop - no, not on the tabletop, on the saucer, sitting on the coaster Shera bought and Cid forgets to use. "She wouldn't," he says quietly, and leaves Cid with the nagging feeling that he's a complete and utter bastard.
Shera comes in from hanging out the washing, then, and hesitates a moment before offering a wan smile. "Hello, Captain." She crosses to the far wall and opens up a window, letting in a cold wind just as he's about to strike a match. "It's a bit stuffy in here today, isn't it? Nice breeze from the south, though."
Cid blinks at her as she picks up Vincent's empty mug, immediately setting to work tidying it. Within a few moments he can see the hair rising on her arms as the chill wind wraps around her. He looks dubiously at the cigarette between his fingers, and Shera's straight back and clenched jaw as she struggles not to shiver. He finds his own teeth gritting.
"Goddammit, woman, close that damn window. Cold as Shiva's tits in here." He shoves the papers, the matches, the tobacco back in his pockets and storms to the window to do it himself. "Damn!"
Vincent finds him outside ten minutes later, huddled in the lee of the house, trying to persuade the cancer stick to catch fire. Wordlessly, the gunman offers Cid's folded, ironed pants to him. "They're yours," he says quietly. "Better learn to take care of them."
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