A Rehearsed Improvisation

Summary: A story of a developing relationship between a pair of mismatched individuals. Accidents happen after all. YuffieReno.

A/N: I'm back! After a year...over a year...my writing fetish seems to have been jump started. If you are allergic to sarcasm, this story is not for you. Consider yourself forewarned. Enjoy! :D

Disclaimer: I do not own Final Fantasy VII, nor any of its prequels/sequels. All I claim right to is the 'unidentifiable bundle.'

Chapter 1:

Of Cigarettes and Alcohol

(Y'know...the stuff that makes the world go 'round.)

The common belief holds true that accidents happen. In other words, mishaps and coincidences are unavoidable. In Reno's experience, however, such a naïve belief is rather useless. After all, for a man who has orchestrated such well-prepared improvisations as accidents in his past, it'd be silly of him to trust such a frivolous thing as chance. Nothing happens by chance. All unexpected misfortunes are results of expected karma. Externalities exist for most every action, after all, and a negative externalities makes for a rather prominent adversary.

A pessimistic view, no doubt. However, in Reno's world, one that's proven true.

The only part of this man-made karma process that always boggled the ex-Turk, however, was the criteria certain individuals had for making enemies. Instead of the standard being set to matching capabilities, most ShinRa rejects acted upon a higher moral ground, involving principles that had no place within the practical world. Their goals exceeded their means, and that's why ShinRa remained standing for so long.

The former president of the aforementioned corporation, a man not well-liked but not without his own charm, certainly more charm than his son could ever possess, could only accept interruptions in his flawless operation for so long before making it a priority to rid himself of the hindrance in question. And then accidents would start happening. Car crashes, overdoses, faulty IVs, forgotten medications, random bandit run-ins. It was a covert set of assignments, and everyone knew the drill. The ex-Turk couldn't count the number of times he was referred to as 'fate,' or the 'sky's will' after yet another protester or thieving representative managed to kill himself—on accident, of course. It was true, certainly, that not everyone was that naïve. However, that was hardly a bother, as those who had the smarts to understand the connotation behind the picture, tended to avoid confrontation.

This is part of the reason why Reno never understood what it was that made AVALANCHE so special. Their fates were sealed from the get-go, but somehow, they managed to circumvent the inevitable. It was unnerving, and though he should have cared more that the corporation employing him collapsed, he didn't. The only two things he missed after the annihilation of ShinRa were the money and the reputation—nothing else.

These musings aside, however, Reno knew very well that for all his past transgressions, some bloody deity must really have it in for him, and yet, he couldn't possibly fathom just how difficult of a process his repentance was going to be. Fair is fair, though, a warning was given. And what a glaringly obvious warning it was. How unfortunate that Reno was never very perceptive. Indeed, foreshadowing and the red-head's psyche were two concepts at odds.

That is precisely why an object consisting of a pair of yellow sneakers with a matching coat, along with a black suit and undone tie, twined with pale skin and large eyes, tipped with full lips and jet-black hair, all wrapped up with a rather familiar face, didn't alert the ex-Turk. Or rather, didn't alert him enough to prevent the disaster waiting to happen.

Indeed, accustomed to the hazardous, after-work habit of smoking on the roof of the small parking garage next to his apartment building to relieve the accumulated stress of working in such close quarters with a do-gooder such as Reeve, Reno would find his eyes drawn to the only spec of color that didn't fit the monotonous gray scale of the street below: yellow. It was cornea-damaging, overly happy, overly vibrant, overly everything yellow.

'Who, in their right mind…?'

There was no need to finish that thought. Aquamarine orbs sliding up the petite form hidden under the cheerful burst of color would soon land on a familiar pair of full lips, engraved in pale, smooth features, which happened to bring out a familiar pair of mischievous, large eyes, which then led to Reno quietly accepting that there was absolutely nothing strange about that particular individual preening about in canary-yellow. She was not, by any standard, in her right mind.

There was no mistaking her. The unladylike lady of the Kisaragi house, the single White Rose of Wutai, the self-proclaimed Greatest Ninja, the brat and mischievous imp extraordinaire, the one, the only, Kisaragi, Yuffie. Granted, a ninja she was. She was good at what she was trained to be, despite her innate clumsiness. Also granted, a Princess she was. She loved Wutai, no matter how much she protested such a preposterous claim. The little lady was childish, however, which overshadowed her good qualities, and though she had the mental faculties, assuredly, to constitute her heading the Department of Espionage and Intelligence, she was never serious. Quite a ball of contradictions Kisaragi was, and yet, that seemed to be part of her charm.

Now that she was brought to his attention and scrutiny, Reno had to wonder why it was that their meetings were so sparse during the course of the past four years. The last lengthy encounter he's lived through, with her as company, was aboard an abandoned submarine almost the full four years ago. Then, she was sixteen, she was loud, she was boisterous, and not confident in the least. The latter fact seemed to change, apparently, as from what Reno could see, her stance straightened, her walk initially reminding him of a feline-like grate. That, in itself, was strange, making the red-head do a double take. She was only ever graceful in battle, he remembered, and looking now, the ex-Turk could still observe remnants of the damage her leg-brace has done. Light on her feet though she might have been, she was still leaning heavily on her right leg, which, upon closer inspection, gave her steps a childish, stalking type quality. So much for the feline-like grate.

'I'm loosing it,' was the only prominent thought Reno could pick out of his head by the time his analysis was complete. It was pathetic how unoccupied his brain actually was to resort to studying some little brat who should have caught the red-head's attention for no longer than a fleeting glance.

Tearing his eyes away, however, proved a feat, and, despite their owner's most vehement protests, those Mako-enhanced orbs would continue moving in sync with the petite figure below.

'Where is she going, anyway?'

If curiosity were a sin, Reno would have yet another vice to add to his long list of transgressions.

Granted, however, he could very well be acquitted in this particular case. Midgar, as any other industrial giant of its kind, could never boast a safe environment. After Meteor, especially, the risk one was running wondering the quieter streets past dark was much too high. Not to insinuate that her Royal Highness could do naught in defending herself, of course, but the odds were not necessarily in her favor.

At the very least, he supposed, he could tell Reeve where to search for the Princess' body the following morning.

As apathetic as Reno's thought process was, however, his actions were hardly on par. Unable to bring his limbs under any semblance of control, the red-head would soon find himself on his feet, his cigarette's smoldering cherry crushed mercilessly under his boot. He either sourly missed the excitement of his Turk days, or Reeve's angelic tendencies were rubbing off on him. Either way, he was none too pleased to find that he was fully prepared to trail that pompous irritation of a brat. Though the good deed would doubtlessly be for Kisaragi's sake, Reno somehow manage to morph the goal of his surveillance into covering his own ass. After all, no matter the circumstance, Reeve would manage to find a way to blame the ex-Turk for Yuffie's untimely demise, the red-head was sure of it!

Overly dramatized?—yes. But unless the ninja's resilience was on par with that of a cockroach, she had no business parading about quiet alleys after dark.

In reality, however, Reno wasn't acting on his self-preservation instincts, and he was only mildly concerned with the fate of his self-assigned target. The reason behind his willingness to trail Kisaragi, in all actuality, was a much simpler one:

He was bored.

A high-class ShinRa assassin one moment, Reeve's go-to guy the next, Reno went from covert operations to crime clean-up duty—more commonly referred to as a form of police—within the course of two years. Needless to say, the red-head was not happy. Not only was he not happy, but his paranoia of being asked to walk old ladies across the street and to find homeless puppies homes was an ever-present bother at the back of his mind. Thankfully, he had his fill of exhilaration every now and again, but knowing Reeve, the elderly and the abandoned puppies could very well, and very soon, become his top priority.

That is, of course, what eventually introduced Reno to the wonders of regular alcohol consumption.

Allowing the digression,

Alcohol consumption, as to be expected, is commonly considered a vice, the severity of which is determined by the amount of depressant consumed and the potency of negative actions taken once intoxicated. Murder, on the other hand, is commonly viewed as a sin, paid assassination more so. The unfortunate effect is that once engaged in the latter, engagement in the former becomes a trivial and almost automatic matter.

Yes, Reno drank.

To elaborate, Reno drank, as had been mentioned previously, because he had nothing better to do.

Ennui, however, didn't seem to be a sufficient enough excuse to justify engagement in such an activity for anyone except Reno himself. To make matters worse, over the years, the red-head developed an admirable immunity to all forms of logic that didn't coincide with his own—arguably—insane variety, leaving his company with naught to do but watch as the man's crude caprice turned into a pastime, became a habit, and, eventually, entered the ex-Turk's, more or less, regular routine.

Reasonably worried over such misguided reasoning, soon after Reno's bar visitation became a regular occurrence, Elena firmly decided that change was in order. Not able to talk any sense into her co-worker, who was as much at odds with the concept of sensibility as a cat is with water, it soon became clear to the blonde that help from an outside, more respected, source would be a necessity. Though the woman's superiority complex was all but nigh and dead, she had no misconception about just how much Reno valued her opinion—which was, not at all. Not able to recruit Rude for the task, however, seeing as the man accompanied his friend on more occasions than not, Elena would quickly sink her perfectly manicured nails into the naïve and unsuspecting Reeve, instead. The process, though, admittedly, wasn't all that smooth, and a few more or less absurd threats had to be implemented to make Reeve see it the blonde's way. Still, when an employee—figurative foam at the mouth and all—promises to max out a few company credit cards only to write the purchases off as a necessary renewal of important company equipment,—fully capable of and intent upon carrying out the threat—it becomes difficult not to listen.

Hence, Elena and Reeve formed a tight coalition, the latter not fully aware of said alliance's existence, against the red-headed ex-Turk's health-deteriorating habits, on the agenda of which smoking was included as well. It should be mentioned in passing, however, that though the red-head's EMR—by default of being a dangerous weapon—bore with it a much more legitimate threat to Reno's well-being than any, more or less, trivial habit the ex-Turk might have developed over the years, the sacred man-machine relationship was not once touched upon by the unfortunate pair of do-gooders. Why? Quite simply because if the Nightstick was out of the picture, Reno's mouth, on its own, would land the red-head out of commission much quicker than if a certain visible threat was available on hand. Of course, as far as intimidation is concerned, there is no arguing that an electrically charged metal stick of approximately two feet in length does the job.

Closer to the point, however, it was not as though either one of Reno's so-called health-deteriorating habits in question presented much of a hazard. Aside from the young man's tendency of feeding his nicotine addiction in front of 'No Smoking' signs,—or better yet, at gas stations—Reno had yet to develop any sort of chronic cough. And when he drank, the purpose was hardly to reach the Ever Clear state. Admirably enough, the Turk always made sure to leave any establishment on his own two feet. But, in theory, his lungs were darkening, and his liver was shrinking, and Elena, along with her new-found cohort, Reeve, would blow the damage done out of proportion and to the tragic level of suggesting that Reno needed a kidney transplant…

Immediately.

Upon being asked why she was so unfairly picking on the red-head's kidneys in particular, the blonde would only shrug and darkly add to the gesture in a monotonous, supposedly frightening, drawl, "Once one organ fails, all the others will soon follow."

Aside from mentions of impending surgery, it should also be noted here that Reno heard his eulogy sang to him anywhere from two to four times a day, depending on how distracted his blonde co-worker was. If only the woman's voice wasn't so high-pitched, making it rather nerve-grating, Reno fancied her dramatized droning would almost be soothing.

Unfortunately, Elena was going about reforming her co-worker the wrong way. She missed the vital point that for someone like Reno, someone who had long accepted that he'd more likely than not end with a bullet in his skull by the age of twenty-five, living two years past the deadline was already a miracle in itself, and no kidney transplant could possibly scare him enough to consider those drastic measures the blonde was proposing—and, yes, just to clarify, making the suggestion to quit smoking is proposing a drastic measure.

Initially, Elena's worry was naught but an amusing quirk, rather harmless no matter which way you look at it. Unfortunately, such seemingly harmless ideas tend to form rather bothersome obsessions, and the case in question was no different. Hell, if one were to ask Reno, he'd eventually place the blonde's concern under the heading of 'frightening.' But then, the red-head's perception is a little skewed. It was his alcohol being brought under question after all!

Keep in mind, however, that Reno's perception and reality paint two very different pictures. Childish though the whole situation may seem, childish it wasn't.

Nonetheless, standing atop the parking garage and peering down into the darkness below, Reno's thoughts were quite far from all the squabbles that he's engaged Elena in within the past two years, and all he could really concentrate on was yellow. The neon color of Yuffie's coat, proving bright enough to dispel the encroaching darkness about her Highness, would allow Reno a clear enough view of the little ninja coming to a dead halt in front of his apartment building entrance. There was no longer any need to follow, apparently, as after she picked up an unidentifiable, black bundle from the ground, the ex-Turk would watch his entertainment slip into the confines of the complex. And just like that, Reno knew. He knew very well who she was there to see. The only remaining question, of course, would be 'why?'

She wouldn't be at his apartment of her own accord, he knew, and that would only lead him to believe that Reeve sent her with an assignment for him—an important one. A forgotten, almost alien-feeling smirk tugged at the straight line of Reno's lips. He made quick work of the acrobatics involved in climbing onto his balcony. From there, he pushed past the glass double doors to the interior, halting within the confines of his living room. No sooner was he inside his home than Reno would hear a playfully rhythmic knock on his door.

'Now who could that be?'

Who, indeed?

Hazel eyes, rosy lips, puffy cheeks, and an unbearably childish smile met him once the door was opened, and then...

"Got milk?"

Reno's thoughts would stop their jumbled rotation at that inquiry; the random question soon requiring all of the man's attention. The line sounded like a commercial add, and the connection between milk and Yuffie's visit was a bit lost on the red-head until he got a good look at the 'unidentifiable bundle' that she picked up upon entering the building. Looking ever so small and adorable, nestled in her arms was a small, black, Labrador puppy.

Reno sighed. Only that bloody brat!

A/N: Like? Yes/no? I apologize for the slow pick-up, but some of the information was necessary for a proper introduction :D Hopefully, reading this wasn't a very painful experience.