Reno: Hey, Rude! This chapter has you in it!
Rude: ...
Reno: Oh no. Not this again.
Rude: ...
Reno: My brain is unable to cope with your superior form of communication!
Rude: ...
Reno: Arg! God! My fragile cranium!
::Reno runs away screaming like a little girl::
Reeve: You know, that was worth the twenty bucks. Here you go, Rude.
Rude: ...
Reeve: Oh no, don't you...
Rude: ...
Reeve: Stop it! Stop it, I say!
Rude: ...
::Reeve snaps, collapsing to the floor, a gibbering mass of insanity::
Reno: Ahhhh!!!
Rude: Tyramir doesn't own the rights to Final Fantasy.
Chapter Three
Morning Musings
Sleep was fuzzy. Tifa's head felt like it was packed with a very big wad of fluff, fluff that ached. She despised this feeling. Being a bartender for a few years in the Slums had given her many opportunities to sample the shelves -- and sample them she did on quite a few occassions she did. Whenever Avalanche had won some minor victory, always a celebration followed. But always in the morning she regretted the merry making.
So she lay in bed, head buried in her pillow, covers completely wrapped around her. She was going to sleep in today. Absolutely, positively going to sleep in. She would not allow anything to wake her up. Not even... well, maybe just a peek.
Slowly lifting her head from her pillow and opening her blankets only just enough for one eye to see through, she cast her glance over the open area of the inn room. There, she saw Rude, wearing only a loose pair of black pants, moving through a series of fluid, graceful movements. His hands, arms, legs, and even torso were forever in motion, twisting, arching, and stretching out, a series of combat moves that were put in a pattern of serenity and peace and less of one of violence. A small smile came to her lips as she watched him, taking in her morning ritual of the voyeur, watching him at practice. He was an excellent fighter, although not quite as good as her. She found the tiny errors that no one but a martial artist of her skill would see cute, almost endearing. Sort of like how a kitten would practice at pouncing, not quite getting it right, but always trying to match up to the adult cat. The smile widened at the thought. Rude would probably stiffen his back and assume his normal stoic expression if that had been voiced aloud, and would more than likely be a little offended. He took his abilities as a martial artist very seriously.
For a moment, she forgot her aching fuzz-filled head, but then it returned to her and she groaned. Rude abruptly stopped his practice, turning to a dresser and reaching for his sunglasses. He immediately put them on, and turned to face her. Always so self-concious about those Mako eyes of his. She didn't know why. She found the soft glow of the amber in his eyes to be quite attractive.
"You may continue," she said, a mocking tone in her voice.
He didn't respond verbally, but immediately set back to his practice. At one turn, he moved his hand just a few centimeters too far. On another, his balance shifted too much on one foot. She couldn't help but giggle. Stopping again, Rude turned to frown at her. He didn't have to saw it aloud. She couldn't read all of his little nuances yet, but she knew what that one meant. Am I amusing you?
She giggled harder, then began outright laughing as his expression changed to say, What's so funny? It wasn't obvious. No one else would be able to see it. Always a shifting around the mouth, a twitching in the cheek. Almost imperceptable. But there.
She laughed at the little expressions on his face, and then stopped, groaning. She muttered darkly about the pain-fuzz in her head, and made sure to pull the blankets completely over her head. She heard Rude's soft footfalls on the floor cross the room, and then a liquid pouring into a glass. A second later, Rude was pulling the covers off of her and holding out a glass for her. She winced at the light, and mumbled something about Rude's impolite manner, then laughed. Rude acting rude.
Then the foulest tasting liquid was being poured down her throat, and she couldn't help but sputter and spit most of it out.
"Drink it," the Turk urged. "It'll help with the hangover."
She mumbled, then took the glass and drank it. It tasted absolutely awful, but anything that would help was appreciated. When she was done, she handed the glass back to Rude, nearly gagging.
"How is that supposed to help?" she asked hoarsely.
"It won't. But you'll remember it every time you think about drinking too much from now on."
She would have laughed if not for the absolutely foul taste in her mouth. Nearly vomiting, she flipped herself onto her stomach with a grunt.
"I am never drinking again," she stated, entirely meaning it.
After a moment, she heard Rude walk away, feather-light on the floor, and go back to his practice. Sulking, she refused to move the covers to look at him. She would not succumb to watching him as he went through his patterns. No. He made her drink that disgusting 'cure.' She would not look at those flowing muscles, rippling in motion as they... well, maybe just one peek. Just one look. He wouldn't know.
She moved the covers again, taking in the sight of him once more. If not for the headache and taste of bilge in her throat, she'd be tempted to leap from her sanctuary, grab him, and drag him back to the bed with her.
"Rude, can I ask you a question?"
The Turk stopped his routine again, turning to face her. He nodded.
"A personal question."
A moment of pause. Hesitation. Rude nodded again.
"What was it like being in Soldier?"
An eyebrow quirked at her, and she felt a little embarrassed about the question. She had always wondered. There had been an appeal to it for her, for almost everyone, when they were a child. Not many actually persued the dream, though. Only Cloud, that she knew. Cloud. Rude would naturally assume that's why she was asking. She inwardly winced and decided to add, "Why did you leave?"
"By the time I was a full Soldier, the war was over. I joined to fight. I like combat, it's something I'm good at. So I put in a request to transfer to the Turks."
There was something about the way he said it, the way he held his weight. Something not right. He wasn't telling her the whole truth. She wanted to ask more, find out what he was hiding. But he was very private. Solitary. A loner who wanted to belong in a group, but couldn't ever fully join because of something that had happened to him in his past. She decided to respect his need for privacy and secrecy. For now. She'd get back to it later.
"Get over here," she said. "You're keeping me up with your clumsy practicing."
He gave her an offended look, and she laughed. She winced again, but noticed the headache was fading. And the horrid taste in her throat was gone. "Get back in bed."
"I need my practice and excercise," he responded. "Not all of us are perfect fighters like you."
"I promise you that if you get in this bed right now, you'll get lots of exercise," she said with a seductive smile. The startled and amazed look on his face made her laugh again.