AN: Originally written for Sixth Night's prompt: "It just died? Won't even turn over? Cid! You're the mechanic...kind of. Fix it!"

Dead birds aren't just punchlines.

A fly buzzed around his ear, despite his best efforts to swat it. There was at least ten days' worth of itchy stubble on his face. His shirt stuck to his back and reeked of sand and himself. But the mess at his feet, more than anything, reminded him of why he hated deserts.

"It just died? Won't even turn over? Cid! You're the mechanic...kind of. Fix it!"

And why he now hated chocobos.

"Mechanic, Tifa," Cid said, "not fuckin' bird vet. And even if I was, there ain't no fixing this." He kicked at the unmoving body with the scuffed toe of a boot. Not even a wark.

The frown on Tifa's face said she might argue, that she might spout some nonsense about Cloud knowing what to do in this situation, and Cid braced himself for a lengthy and assuredly asinine debate. But Tifa merely set her jaw and steered her frown to where the sun was melting into the horizon.

Cid's eyebrows raised, but he put aside his surprise to follow her gaze and train of thought. It would be at least ten miles, according to his estimate, until they reached the Gold Saucer. Also, night was coming; temperatures were dropping. Tifa's skin—more than adequately exposed, thanks to the cockamamie outfit she insisted on wearing—was already getting a goosepimply look to it.

"So what are we going to do?" Tifa asked, eyes still locked on the horizon.

Cid shrugged. "We walk, I guess. Unless you can summon a goddamned ship."

"Of course I can't, so let's get going," she said, so matter-of-factly and business-like that Cid's brows rose again, then she bent down to the chocobo to fumble with the straps of their pack. When it was clear she was having a tough time with the buckles trapped under the heavy body, Cid knelt to help her, and what followed were several awkward incidents of bumped sides and tangled fingers.

Tifa finally stood and said, more breathy than exasperated, "You do it, Cid. I'm only getting in the way!"

Cid held his grin until the pack was free and he was shouldering it. "Damn thing's a thorn even when it's dead, isn't it?" he said.

She glared down at it as she rubbed her bare arms. "I've always hated chocobos," Tifa admitted.

"Cold?" Cid untied the jacket from his waist and held it open to her. "Here, take it. I don't need it."

Tifa threaded her arms through the sleeves with a "Thanks!" then lingered with a shy, almost-flirtatious glint in her eye and said, "But, you know, unless you have an extra pair of pants, I might have to steal some heat from you. Do you mind?"

"Course not," he replied, tucking her under an arm as they started their hike toward civilization. When her hip bumped his leg, Cid told himself the heat in his cheeks had to be from a sunburn—goddammit, he was too old to be blushing. But with any luck, maybe it would be fifteen miles to the Gold Saucer.

AN: Yes, I'm a Python fan.