She'd left the building by the time he'd managed to catch her. The woman moved with damned purpose when she needed to. Reno jogged to keep up; his lanky stride was no match for her shorter gait, and he easily caught her wrist.
First mistake. She pivoted, face furious.
If Reno had been a poetic man he might've noticed the way her dark hair cascaded around her shoulders as she turned, given life by the speed of her movement; the spark in her warm eyes, or the heated flush to her pale skin.
Reno was not a poetic man. Instead, he saw the unbridled anger in her expression.
Tifa didn't need to tell him; he dropped her wrist. It wasn't an act of kindness on his part; more so an act of self-preservation. She was furious and should, therefore, be approached with caution.
His self-preservation instincts didn't extend as far as his brain; the words snapped from his lips before he could apply a gentler filter.
"I get that you're pissed but I'm not the bad guy here."
"You don't get it, do you?" Her voice trembled. "If anything happens to him..."
"Nothing's gonna happen to him," he assured her, holding his hands up in an attempt to placate her. "You're not thinking straight. I get it."
Second mistake. He'd seen that look in her eyes before, as they'd squared off in the dust above a ruined Midgar, just before her knuckles had laid into his jaw. Just before he'd kissed her. He saw it mirrored in the way her stance shifted; her left shoulder popped forward slightly, fingers curled into tight fists. She was fighting the urge to lash out.
Interesting.
"You don't get it." To his surprise, she forced her fingers to relax. "I left him. He's not safe because I left him."
The anger was clear in her tone, but she'd denied him a more physical reaction. He'd happily take a fist to the face if that was what she needed; it wouldn't be the first time, after all. He was used to this type of carefully restrained fury; it was Rude's favourite go-to. Reno didn't care for it personally; when a person like that finally did snap it was usually suicidal to get involved, and impossible to temper.
"He's probably safer than we are," he replied flippantly, unsure how best to engage.
She needed an outlet; that much was obvious, but the lifeless eyes of the security team were still fresh in his mind. The grim discovery had soured his earlier good mood, and adrenaline left him restless and on edge.
Three men shot dead. The hit had been messy—a barrage of bullets fired until the targets had been extinguished. Effective, but not skilled; Reno had seen plenty of bullet-riddled corpses like those in his time. The shadow behind the gun was often five cards short of a full deck, twitchy and wild eyed; far more dangerous than a trained assassin who'd put a mark out of their misery with consummate professionalism at least. This shadow would laugh as it gunned them down, taking pleasure in the kill.
It was a shadow he recognised. There'd been a time when it'd frequented his bathroom mirror, though less often these days, born the day he'd stood on the edge of the plate, wind whipping through his hair, and tossed his deck of cards into the burning slums below. For a short while, he'd found solace inflicting his pain on others, as though the suffering of another criminal could somehow disinfect his bloodstained conscience.
It couldn't.
"How can you know that?" Her tone demanded his attention, dragging him out of the reverie he so often sought to avoid.
"The Turks arranged the cover," he said, as though the answer was obvious. "We know what we're doing."
"So I should just accept that he's safe because Shinra is looking after him?"
The disdain in her voice riled him more than it should have. "The fuck is that supposed to mean?"
"You know what it means," she snapped.
"Do I?" The question oozed sarcasm.
He knew, a little too well; Tifa's scepticism towards the company came from a place of bitter experience. The Shinra name still inspired fear in the masses, bred from the pain and lies that had gone before. Rufus could've stripped naked and flagellated himself on the streets of Edge and somebody would've stood on a soapbox spouting rhetoric about the angles he was working. The man could've been a saint and it wouldn't have made a shred of difference.
Rufus would always be Shinra. By extension, so would they.
Of course, he hadn't been a saint. Far from it, and the Turks had all been tarnished by the same broad strokes, although it'd been their fingers holding onto the brush. Reno had cast aside his own corroded halo a long time ago and he doubted he'd ever see it again. Sometimes he thought he caught a glimpse of it, but he could never be sure. The struggle they faced to redeem themselves slanted too sharply uphill.
When she didn't reply he rolled his eyes. "I thought we were friends?"
Unsure how he felt about her tone he forced spite into his words, clamouring to drive the memory of her lithe body from his mind. Friends, what did that even mean? A rare moment of calm, his arms wrapped around her, his face pressed into the warm curve of her neck. Peace. That respite seemed so long ago when in reality it'd been mere hours.
That flicker of something sweeter than his desire for gratification didn't warrant further exploration. It felt too much like a complication and Reno preferred to keep things simple. He'd seen an opportunity and had seized it with both hands, and little consideration of the aftermath; she'd cried breathlessly against his kisses and he'd left with a satisfied smile on his face. An uncomplicated transaction that they'd both profited from, though the high he'd craved was already waning. It never lasted long.
Would he risk it again, given the chance? Hell yes. If the fates turned out to be conspiring against him he'd walk away unscathed, as always.
Would he?
"Friends?" There was a hollowness to her tone that he didn't care for. The follow up was a sharper and far more loaded question. "How are we meant to trust you?"
He fancied he knew her intended meaning but abandoned the idea; he'd already exposed more of his guilt-ridden conscience to her than he should've. She knew exactly what he was. Past misdemeanours haunted him, but over recent years the situation had evolved somewhat, their black suits no longer quite as synonymous with their reputation as Shinra's dirty hands. They'd swayed public opinion in the fight against Bahamut; Rufus had congratulated them on the candid photos that'd circulated the press. Turks carrying kids to safety, who'd have thought it? And Reno had arranged the chopper to get Barret back to Edge after the accident; not because it scored him cheap points but because it was the right thing to do. He knew all too well what right and wrong looked like, and her questioning his loyalty was a low blow.
"Why do you suddenly think you can't?" Partly frustrated, partly curious, he jammed his hands into his pockets. Fidgeting gave the game away.
He saw it then, clear as day. A flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, the twitch of her rosy lips as her breath caught. The searching questions she hid behind denied him the full story. There was more at play here than a case of cold feet.
"Somebody been chewing your ear?" he asked, tone sharp. His next words were mocking; he didn't try to dial it back. "Doesn't take a fucking genius to work it out."
"This isn't about anybody else," she snapped, her temper suggesting his words had cut to the quick.
"Oh I'm sorry," he replied sarcastically. "So we are talking about you."
"I can make my own decisions." Her eyes narrowed; her voice defiant.
He wanted her to snap; wanted her to get whatever this was out of her system. Sure, she was scared about the kid and pissed that they wouldn't let her leave, but that didn't give her the right to take it out on him. Nothing he'd done recently warranted her anger; she'd been a more than willing participant in the game. She'd been the one to instigate the chase, though he doubted she'd ever own up to it. Better to cast him as the villain; he had the form for it after all.
"You proved that last night," he growled.
"Last night…" The flush crept across her face. "Last night was a mistake."
"Too fucking right," he muttered.
"Do you regret any of it?"
"Any of what?" The question was glib; piss her off enough and she'd react off-the-cuff. Let her keep the probing questions for her introspection and he wouldn't have to dive too deeply into his.
"Any of it," she repeated.
Broken bones, broken spirits, broken lives…
"Any of what?" Frustration, his synapses firing on auto-pilot. He needed a drink.
Urgent kisses, breathless cries, warm arms…
"Anything." There was desperation in her voice now.
Dirty orders, dirty missions, dirty hands...
He shrugged. "More than you'll ever know."
Move fast, and don't get too attached. The wall he'd built around his grief was watertight now after so many years; allowing himself to care too deeply about anything risked weakening the mortar and welcoming the flood. When the desolation got too much it was better to squint at it through a different kind of lens. If women weren't willing, the bottom of a bottle always welcomed him with open arms.
And when the liquor hadn't been enough? His foray into darker vices had forced their hand, and Tseng had made his options clear enough. Get a fucking grip or get the fuck out.
Tifa nodded decisively; a sharp dip of her chin, resignation in her eyes. He didn't have the patience for this kind of scrutiny and he certainly wasn't going to beg. Let her read whatever she wanted in his words. Going down without a fight, however, was not his style. What the hell had he done wrong?
"I'm not the villain here," he stated coolly. "You came to me. You wanted this."
He'd opened up to her and she'd kissed him; she knew exactly what she was getting herself into. His frustration was warranted.
"I don't know what I wanted," she replied quietly. "I was lonely."
He laughed; a vicious sound. Her eyes widened. "Glad I could be of service."
"It wasn't like that."
"No." He held his hand up; the words died on her lips. "I know exactly what it was like. Saint Lockhart's been abandoned yet again so she decides to slum it."
That hurt; he saw it in her expression, the way her pretty lips stuttered as she floundered for a retort. He didn't care, he was angry.
He did care.
"Next time you want to scratch an itch, come find me." His lips curled into a nasty smirk, and he threw every shred of contempt he could muster into his voice. "Sure, I've had better, but you weren't the worst."
Third mistake. The words were intended to sting, to make her feel some of the bitterness her about-turn had inspired. He could see that they'd hit their mark. Her eyes shimmered; liquid in the afternoon sunlight. It made a significant part of him feel like an absolute dick.
She shook her head slightly, turned on her heel and made to walk away from him.
That wasn't how this worked.
Any other man would've backed down; Reno wasn't any other man. Rude had peeled him off enough sticky dive bar floors over the years when he'd eyed up the wrong woman or picked the wrong fight. He lived for anything that got his blood pumping loud enough to drown out the noise.
It was the rise he craved, not the tears. Tears spoke of a deeper connection, and that was a liability. He did the only thing that made sense to him and lashed out.
His fingers latched on to her wrist. When he wrenched her towards him, she stumbled, her other hand braced against his chest to force distance between them. This time he didn't let her go.
He narrowed his eyes. "Where the fuck are you going?"
"Away from you," she whispered.
Reno kissed her. It wasn't gentle and lacked passion. A firm crush of his mouth against her unyielding lips; just as effective a communication as the tears beneath her lashes. I don't give a shit what you want.
He almost believed it. The silence stretched between them; he could see the gears turning behind her eyes.
"Go to hell," she muttered.
Reno released his grip on her wrist. His voice was dark. "Already did."
She did walk away then, refusing him the fight his screwed up conscience so sorely needed. It fucked him off more than any scathing response or angry fist could have.
His PHS rang. He tore it from his pocket and slapped it to his ear, conscious all the while of the retreating figure in front of him. "Yeah?"
Another team down. We need to move. I'm sending you their last known location. Tseng's words, cool as ever, didn't fail to fuel the fire in his blood. He was wound up and needed a release. This seemed as good an opportunity as any; he'd leave Tifa to sort her damn head out herself.
"I'm on it."
Logic dictated that his next step should be to seek back-up or to at least locate Rude. Heading into the firing line alone was a rookie mistake.
His blood was boiling.
He'd go scope out the situation first, he decided. A moment's hesitation would be all their enemy needed to escape. Reno was more than capable of handling himself, and his anger gave him the determination to see it through. The reassuring weight of his mag-rod beneath his jacket promised an acceptable outlet for his temper.
He checked out the location and broke into a jog. The demons were out in force, screaming to be heard; only this time their eyes were warm and dark, wet with unshed tears. He didn't have the time or the inclination to decipher what that meant. One thing he was certain of, somebody was going to pay.
He ran; ran from back-up, ran from the voices, ran from her. By the time he neared his destination, it was already too late.
Fourth mistake…