A Facade of Glass

Counting Smiles

Written to "Price of Freedom". I find it a good Aerith/Tseng piece... but not in the couple sense that most people would think. I'm playing Crisis Core right now on, and it got me thinking... This story is going to be on the "slow update" listing -I'm working on another long piece at the moment- but I haven't forgotten about it entirely. So here's the "official" first chapter.

Everyone wore shrouds. Shrouds and veils, cloaks and facades woven of half truths and perception. Some wore in truth true masks, masks of steel, masks of stone… others though wove the fabric of their façade until flesh and mask were one.

It was then and only then that the masks became true that they then became impossible to crack. To those rare individuals the light of her smile and the warmth of her laugh would fall short of its intent. Still she smiled at those masked and not, smiled into façade and face until it seemed her lips were weary from all the smiles and her voice was worn down to a harsh croak all her laughter.

"It's been a while Aerith."

"Aeris." She corrected gently. She didn't rise from her work, but carried on. Her hands were fondly clasping the earth and trailing up green stems. From trail to tilt, she coaxed the color tipped buds towards the thin smear of gold that penetrated past the plates and the smog to her little haven amongst the squalor.

"Of course," His voice was soft, with a caress of accent to it.

Like everyone else he wore a shroud and he wasn't even aware of it. The cloth was so long he could twine it around and around his form with the merest reminiscence, and it was thick, so thick that it could ward against any chill. It was vibrant too, but not in such a way others would think of the word. Most people thought "vibrant" and saw images of rainbows and sun drenched, but the sober hues of her visitor's veil had nothing of light to them. The predominant color was grey, slate grey, smog grey, steel grey, there were a hundred, thousand, variations. Occasionally there was a highlight, an occasional streak of black, the rare -yet vivid- splatter of red. He smelled like rust but not quite, and never mind if he was wearing cologne or still seeped with the caress of incense from the Leviathan's Temple, he smelled like fresh rust.

And he wore red. Every morning he put on red gloves without being aware of it.

That's what she had thought the first time she'd met him, and she thought it even now. Giving the earth a final pat -a tender motion filled with an unspoken promise- she rose and turned. At her motion the folds of her pink dress twirled around her knees.

"Nice dress." He murmured. His black eyes warm as he studied her with something too soft to be mere "professionalism".

"It's new; Mother gave it to me for my birthday."

"Happy belated birthday then," His announcement -though belated- was marked with a spontaneous flash of affection and she crowed with delight at the sight of it.

"And that makes it five!" She informed him.

"Five?" The slight smile fled; in its place was a particular placidity, a stillness that took the place of say... a gape of surprise for anyone else.

"Five times I've gotten you to smile." She chirped, proudly showing off the appropriate number of fingers to show that five in force.

"And when," he raised an eyebrow to convey some secret emotion. His mask was in place, held against his flesh with such vigor the edges bled a little. "-did you start counting?"

"Ohh a little while back..." She began, her tone -like her eyes- going deliberately vague.

"Aerith." He mock growled, baring his teeth just a little to show his annoyance. To that she folded. The expression was ringed round by blood; he couldn't see the blood much less guess the edge of ferocity his teasing was given due to it.

"You were seven, I think." She confided.

"Seven?" He countered, one eyebrow rising to convey his surprise.

"When we met you were seven, maybe eight. You never really count your birthdays, do you?"

"I've never bothered." Tseng shrugged. "So, you've been counting since then?"

Yep," Still smiling, she folded her hands behind her back and walked towards him. He followed her, with his eyes. She passed him by, aware of that though he didn't move he studied her from the corner of his eyes.

"Any letters for me today? Or rather, any letters for me to deliver?" He amended himself with a slight twitch to his lips that wasn't quite humane enough to be considered a smile.

"Nope."

"So, you've given up then?"

"Nope."

Lifting his gaze so he better studied the sunlight streaming through the roof the Turk let out a quiet laugh.

"You're impossible."

"How's work been?" The brunette asked, turning in her heel. Pink chased pink and the feminine color twirled around her knees at the motion.

"Work's work."

And unknowingly the Turk's laconic response set the trail of his life into vibrant motion. Grey chased grey, as images of child and half grown men all sporting the same red-blonde hair moved around him. His eyes grew distant, almost seeming to see what she saw... then he shook his head and the pictures around him dimmed.

"That's real informative." The girl huffed, setting her hands on her hips and leaning forward to better glare at her "protector's" back.

"And your views," Tseng murmured, acting as if he hadn't heard. "Those radical views you cherish so... Have you finally come to see the light of reason? Will you allow me to take you with me to join the company?"

"No."

"Well then, we are once again at an impasse."

"Like always," Aerith admitted, not letter her hands fall from her hips or her scowl to slip one bit.

The effect was spoiled since the Wutia Turk didn't bother to turn around. When she finally realized that he wasn't going to turn around Aerith heaved a sigh and let her hands drop.

"You're impossible." She sighed.

"No, merely informative," Tseng concluded his weak joke with a quiet chuckle. Letting his gaze drift down he turned and it seemed he had reclaimed the smile from before. Extending a hand he offered it to her. "Can a gentleman of dubious repute walk you home?"

"Only if he's off the clock."

"I'm on my lunch break, actually, which is more or less the same thing."

She walked towards him, he towards her, and they met halfway. Arm in arm they began their leisurely walk out of the chapel and to the slums.

At the oak doors -graffiti scarred and bullet riddled, but oak all the same and still standing besides- leading to the world beyond the Wutia Turk hesitated.

"Your mother, she is not home, is she?"

"Head still hurting form the pan applied to it last month?" Aerith asked sweetly.

"I would not dishonor your family with slander... but your mother mistrusts my motives a great deal."

"I'll protect you." Aerith promised, her eyes twinkling with a very impish expression poorly suited to an "angel". "And I won't tell Elena you're walking me home. She'd take it worse than mother."

He'd known her through the long march of years. Even before he was a rookie Turk he'd known her, and therefore was used to her oddities and acute observations... but still...

"I've never mentioned Elena to you before." He noted.

"You never tell me about your work." She countered.

To that he folded, and companionable silence descended and filled the whole walk to Aerith's home.