Prompt: Make Me

It was a lazy Sunday night, and Tifa was sprawled out on the couch with her legs draped across Sephiroth's lap. The curtains were closed and the rest of the world wasn't invited in.

The credits of some predictable B movie scrolled by on the TV. They had talked through most of it, laughed at the bad acting and goaded each other over the fight scenes. They were picking at plates of leftover food she brought home from the bar, and getting through a little more wine than usual for the two of them. She'd brought home already opened bottles of the good stuff and she didn't like to see it go to waste. Neither had anywhere to be the next day, they could afford to indulge.

Her cheeks felt pleasantly warm. She'd gone through her giggly mood a couple of drinks back and come out the other side to something incredibly comfortable. She could have gone for another arancini but they had cleaned that plate off hours ago.

Sephiroth idly massaged her calves as he expounded on why Genesis was wrong about something. She was half listening, half watching the faint colour lighting his cheeks and the unconscious smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth: a sure sign that he was verging on tipsy. He made for a slightly silly drunk. Bossy too. It entertained her to no end.

"I think Genesis might be right," she said, after he'd completed his thesis.

That got her a frown. "You do not."

"No, I do, I think he might be onto something."

"Traitor," he said with that cruel smirk of his. It had lost its bite somewhere along the way.

She flashed a smile back at him, and got a squeeze to the ticklish spot under her knee in reply. She yelped and he laughed, before they settled back down. His hands on her legs were so nice and warm.

Once, they had hated each other. They'd relished it, burning in the fires of their rage even as they found understanding in each other's arms. Sometimes they still burned, but mostly they just simmered. Winding each other up from time to time never lost its appeal though.

She decided they ought to clear the mess so they got up, dislodged from their comfortable little nest.

"Don't overfill the dishwasher," he said, as she carried a stack of plates into the kitchen and he followed with the glasses and bottles.

"I never overfill it. I own a restaurant, you know."

"You always overfill it," he decreed, looking down at her. "Stop it."

She raised an eyebrow. Then she put one hand on her hip and, maintaining eye contact, she wedged a plate in.

"Make me."

He narrowed his eyes. He pulled himself up to his full height.

"I'll put your shirts in the same washing loads as the towels."

She gasped in horror. "Then I'll throw out your busted old Tupperware!"

"It's perfectly functional Tupperware," he snapped, putting himself between her and the relevant cupboard.

"It's all stained and warped, they don't even fit their lids anymore."

"What happened to saving the planet, Tifa? Don't you care enough to reuse your plastics?"

"Consumer goods have no bearing on the environment compared to industrial waste, and you know it!"

He loomed over her. "Then why did you insist we change all the light bulbs?"

"Swapping to LEDs was subsidized," she hissed, pointing very decisively.

He opened his mouth, then paused and frowned. "We're getting off topic."

She blinked, the air going out of her sails.

"What were we arguing about?"

"The dishwasher."

"Oh." She looked down at the two racks of dishes. "You overfilled it."

He gave her such a dirty look that a laugh burst out of her.

He swept her up over his shoulder and marched off with her like a sack of misbehaving potatoes. She laughed the whole way to the bedroom.