Author's Notes: A day in Reeve's life to the theme of Circle. Got to be interesting right? Well, there are no quotations because nothing is actually SAID, but it is implied that talking happens. And I haven't used Reeve's name once.
Theme: Circle
A Day in the Life
He gets up, knocking the alarm to the floor in the process and cursing softly under his breath, half at himself, half at actually waking up alive yet again. A pathetic mewl comes from the protesting kitten as its owner rolls, knocking it from his stomach to the bed. The beep of an automated coffee machine turning on in the kitchen proclaims it really is that time. The beck and call of a shower cuts through his sleep fogged mind.
A shower wakes him enough for nostalgia. His heart yearns for yesterdays, an end to the todays, for tomorrows to never come. His body cries for some heated touch more than a shower and wash cloth can provide. A voice that really doesn't seem like his own, because the jaded pain would not come into it until the first cup of instant coffee, moans lightly at the pleasure of the heat and the touch.
Soon a robe of the finest fabrics covers his bare skin. He walks to the kitchen and pours a cup of the instant brew, letting the bitterness seep into him because he needs it to get through the day. The kitten rubs against his ankles and purrs, begging for its breakfast. He chops up some ham from the fridge to feed his little Cait. This done, he and his coffee head for the bedroom.
Mindlessly he goes through a closet full of suits until he picks one identical to yesterday's. He wonders for the millionth time why he has to many others if he always wears the same ones, yet he knows he would never get rid of them. That would just be too big of a change.
Carefully he puts it on, finishes his coffee, and heads towards his door. Suit case, keys, phone, and gun all go to their proper places, then telling the cat not to wait up, he leaves.
A car ride lasting thirty minutes brings him to his same reserved parking lot. An elevator ride lasting a third of that time brings him to his floor. Five more minutes and exactly thirty-four paces bring him to the door of his office. Two minutes are wasted removing his heavy outer coat, gun, and putting his suit case away. Five minutes later he's on his way to the 40th floor, the private floor of the Turks. A quick change in their locker room finds him in the pool.
After a while his muscles ache and he climbs out. His second shower of the day is followed by a third changing of clothes so he can use the weight equipment. More time passes and another shower comes and goes. This time he is back in his suit, and heading up the elevator, ready for another day.
His cup is refilled five times between eight when he starts and one when his lunch break starts. It is always five refills, once an hour. For lunch he orders another cup of coffee from the cafeteria, and the standard lunch order of a salad, no meat. It comes up twenty minutes later, right on time. The woman brining it grins, warns him that he should eat better then leaves the room.
The food is pushed around a bit, less than half eaten, before he turns his attention back to his work. Some of the time he types. Some of the time he signs. Some times he read papers. All of the time he is busy like a good boy. Occasionally his secretary comes in to collect or drop off things. Other than that is it a normal day.
Then it happens again, the only thing that varies in his routine. A Turk enters his office. The red-hair, the messy clothes, the unmistakable desire for the lovely body, all mark this as Reno. They launch into their normal conversation. It is habit now that cause him to refuse Reno's offer to join the Turks for 'post-slaughter drinkies'. He wants to say yes though, he has always wanted to say yes. Yet he couldn't, because the cycle that is his life won't allow it.
When all is said and done Reno leaves him to the mounds of busy work. He is thankful for this, because it is what is supposed to happen, and he doesn't think he can handle the change at this point. So until eight he works, a cup of coffee every hour, and all grows silent. Few people are still around after five, and he is one of them.
Finally it is nine. He puts his gun in its holster, pulls on his coat and then picks up his suitcase. Five minutes and thirty-four paces carry him to the elevator. A ten minute elevator ride carries him to the parking garage. A car ride lasting thirty minutes returns him to his house.
Keys and phone are left by the door with the suitcase. His gun is returned to its place. A coat is hung up. Quietly he moves to the kitchen and takes some leftovers out for himself. While the microwave warms the food he goes to the bedroom to change.
Jeans and t-shirt are his choice. Both are dull and plain: no bright colors or silly saying or logos. Slippers go on after this, and he shuffles about, waiting for coffee and food to be done. The leftovers come first, so he leaves them in the microwave. More ham from the fridge he uses to feed his kitten. Once the coffee is ready he takes it and the food to the living room to watch the Shin-Ra News Network.
He knows all of the truth though. Very little of the real news shows up here. One has to go to a Turk for real news, and he wasn't about to do that at all. Doing so would threaten the monotonous cycle of his life.
As he eats he thinks back, like always, and wonders why he lives like this. Sure, there is security in this manner of life, but was it worth it? Now he was only like a machine going about his basic life. Nothing, he realized, was going to change that.
When he is done eating he goes through the normal order of washing the dishes. A shower is next, the fourth of the day, and changes for the final time. Carefully he sets his alarm, crawls into bed, and stretched out, willing for sleep to come.
And the morning comes, as it always does.
He gets up, knocking the alarm to the floor in the process and cursing softly under his breath, half at himself, half at actually waking up alive yet again. A pathetic mewl comes from the protesting kitten as its owner rolls, knocking it from his stomach to the bed. The beep of an automated coffee machine turning on in the kitchen proclaims it really is that time. The beck and call of a shower cuts through his sleep fogged mind.
A shower wakes him enough for nostalgia. His heart yearns for yesterdays, an end to the todays, for tomorrows to never come.
