Disclaimer: Not gonna, can't make me.

Warnings: Not gonna, can't make me. 'Cept, this ain't nuthin' but a free meal.

Notes: Reno is pretty. I mean, I always knew he was pretty, but now he's, like, über-pretty. Pretty to the power of yum. Drool on the keyboard from the AC trailers, drool from the BC site… and how Cloud and Seph and Zack work into that, I really wanna know. And none of this has anything t' do with the interlude. I just thought I'd give ya a head's up over my state of mind. Which is stuck in the absolute prettiness that is Reno. Pretty, pretty Reno.

Ad Nauseam
this is not the chapter you are looking for

There was no ham. There should have been; he distinctly remembered taking it out of the freezer to thaw -- not on the counter, since he had no counter upon which to thaw it -- nor in the fridge, since he was likewise lacking that most common of conveniences in his dreary cavern prison. That he had a freezer was more a matter of opinion, since anything left out unattended froze in short order, a not uncommon side effect when one took into account that he lived on the bottommost level in a subterranean maze smack dab in the middle of the glaciated northernmost continent. But he had had ham. Of that he was sure; Jenova had brought it home with the rest of the groceries -- milk, and eggs, and bratwurst -- the last time she'd gone out shopping and Cloud-baiting.

He'd ask his Mother where it was, if only she weren't so many oozy little moieties at the moment. The condition was transitory, but she could be such a bitch while trying to piece herself back together that he didn't feel it worth the bother of ascending his crumbling yet still fashionably functional spiral staircase to ask her about his missing lunchmeat.

Now sandwiches were out of the question, unless he wanted to make peanut butter and jelly on sourdough, but the peanut butter always stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he wanted to give Avalanche as little ammunition as possible to harass him with; he'd gotten enough lisping mockery from Zack during the war. There was always spaghetti -- but that presented its own hazards, for no matter how fastidious he tried to be, he always ended up with a smear of marinara across his chin, which would rather defeat his main objective: Getting through a meal without his sadistic foes laughing heartily at his expense.

So he settled on meatloaf, because everyone expected meatloaf to be terrible and chock-full of mystery meat. And while he had no refrigerator, nor any counters, he did have a handy-dandy self-cleaning, self-regulating, self-aware oven he fondly called Feedo. He set his puppet to chopping onions, and bell peppers, and mushrooms, and olives, because vegetables were an important part of every meal, and damned if he was giving Avalanche the chance to criticize his AA in home economics. And he brought out his oatmeal, and a few eggs, and the last of his milk -- after sniffing the top, for the expiration had passed a few days previously.

And into the mystery meat he mixed in ketchup, and catsup, and mustard, and BBQ sauce, and seasoning salt, and garlic salt, and a dash of this and that which Hojo had always sworn would grow hair on the most contrary of chests; yet another one of the scientist's many failures, for Sephiroth had yet to see the smallest hair sprout from anywhere other than the top of his head.

Cloud had some difficulty chopping up the vegetables, but that could have been attributed to his insistence on using the jagged edge of Apocalypse; Cloud swore that the triple growth slots on the blade could only be beneficial to the vitamins and minerals contained within the fresh produce. And Cloud may have been on to something, for by the time he was done slicing and dicing and making pretty little radish roses, the pile glowed a positively healthy green, and was chanting Vegan slogans to itself.

Sephiroth mixed it all together into a meatloaf of epic proportions, and he dumped it from the bowl into a roasting pan and nudged it and slapped it until it vaguely resembled an Adamantaimai. Then he kindly asked Feedo to open its maw, and he stuffed the meatloaf in before it could crawl out of the pan and start demanding compensation for its pain and suffering.

He was great, and he was feared on all the major landmasses, and quite a few of the smaller ones, but even he was respectful of the skills of the howling main course. Once it solidified during the baking process, it might even be able to wield a dinner knife; if such an incident were to occur, he'd shove it in the bar maid's direction, and let them battle it out, and the winner could dine upon the loser. It seemed only fair.

The timer was set -- kindly donated by Cid, who'd confiscated it from the railroad, which had never been able to keep its trains on schedule -- and the minutes passed by slowly, while his enemies played a variety of card games and party games. And when Vincent, having chosen dare over truth, came over and smooched him dryly on his cheek, he bore it with amazing fortitude, and only Dein'd the crimson-cloaked man twice. Because no one stole anything from the great General, not even a kiss -- but if someone was going to steal a kiss, there were lots worse folks than Vincent around to do it.

Vincent was lucky; Cait Sith, upon whom had fallen the dare of kissing Cloud, was treated to a Shadow Flare and an upgraded Doom, followed by a series of tentacle slaps which left the cat reeling dizzily, and the mog with a small tear from which stuffing was fluffily peeking out.

Cloud, as oblivious as ever, washed and cut several stalks of broccoli into bite-sized florets. Or, perhaps his puppet wasn't as oblivious as he'd first feared, as Sephiroth watched Cloud repeatedly whack the whimpering mog/cat with each backswing of his sword, while bits of flayed greenery flew through the air.

There was broccoli to steam, and a delicate cheese sauce that needed built, and he wondered if he should go through the trouble of making crescent rolls, or if the starch course of the meal should be a potato dish instead. But then he reminded himself that he didn't like any of the people he was fixing dinner for; that, in fact, they'd already pulverized him on numerous occasions, and had given every indication that once they were unpaused, they'd continue their campaign of abuse.

Yet if Jenova had taught him anything -- besides the virtue of homicidal rage, and the need for an annoying villainous laugh -- it was that there were few things better in the world than a good host. Of course, being a virus could have certainly skewed her opinion away from total objectivity. But Mother's advice had come in useful in the past, so he decided a pan of brownies wouldn't be amiss as dessert after an uninspired meal.

He was great, and multi-talented, and had been awarded several certificates of achievement by the Turks for his treatise on multi-tasking. Along with his puppet -- now protected by an apron emblazoned with the warning "Kiss the Cook's Minion and Die!" -- he baked, and steamed, and flambéed, and set the slab of rock doubling as his dining room table with the good china and the linen napkins that Yuffie enterprisingly turned into cloth Tonberies courtesy of her finely-honed origami skills.

And together they sat down, and enjoyed a meal of slightly scorched meatloaf -- which only put up the smallest of fusses when first cut into -- and mushy broccoli in coagulated cheese sauce, and stale sourdough bread liberally smeared with butter only marginally rancid. Salt and pepper were passed from hand to hand, the shakers shaped into remarkable facsimiles of key Shinra personnel, and apricot jam was scooped from subdued Magic Pots, and all in all, dinner was a rousing success.

Then Sephiroth served the brownies, à la mode, because ice cream was one of the few dietary staples that kept well in the cavern's frigid environs. And while Avalanche finished eating, he ordered his puppet to clear the table -- then asked sweetly, with the point of Apocalypse hovering far too close to his throat, if his puppet could help him clear the table, since the good china needed to be washed before mystery meat crumbles started dissolving holes through the plates.

Cloud washed the dishes -- not speculating on the appearance of the hot-water filled basin, for he valued his somewhat shaky sanity, and had also experience Hojo's lectures on subspace -- while Sephiroth dried, and the rest of the group ate brownies and vanilla ice cream and discussed the remarkable healing qualities of honey roasted peanuts.

They ate, and Cloud scrubbed, and Sephiroth dried, and Tifa sat down her fork, and chewed her last mouthful, and swallowed, and laughed at the cozy scene of domesticity. "You know," she said, hands crossed daintily across her lap, "you brag on, and on, how evil you are. But, what's so evil about drying dishes? Isn't that more along the lines of a good deed?"

Sephiroth sneered, and held up the platter he was working on. "Shows how much you know. See?" He tilted the platter, letting the light coming from the halogen lamps shine across its surface. "Streaks. Streaks on the plates, and the crystal glasses, and spots on the forks and knives."

Barret laughed, and licked a dribble of ice cream from his spoon. "Yeah, that's evil! Right up there with helping old ladies across the street, then leaving before they can tip you. Evil like," he gave a small burp, then looked down at his stomach, which had begun to grumble unhappily. "Evil like…" His stomach gurgled, and he poked at it hesitantly, then scowled. "Evil, evil like…"

"Evil like the laxative I laced the brownies with." His sneer twisted into a full-fledged maniacal leer. "Don't bother looking for your Digestive; I stole that before we sat down to eat. And as you've already had the chance to discover, my cavern is sadly lacking in the facilities you'll soon be needing. So you'd better trot yourselves back up to your save point; a simple escape spell from there will put you within running distance of your airship, which, really, is for the best, wouldn't you agree?"

He was talking to thin air, his enemies having already dashed out of his lair.

Cloud draped the washrag across the colander, and gave the General a Look hard to interpret. "You bask in your evilness, don't you?"

"Do I even need to answer that?" He was great, and he was the brilliant mind responsible for the strategies that had won Shinra the Wutai war, and he floated three feet in the air and performed his victory dance which included the flapping of his wing, and the clapping of his tentacles, and the brushing of his hair with the necessary 100 strokes to keep it shiny and soft.

It was a temporary respite, for he knew Avalanche would be back after their unscheduled visit to the little terrorists' room, but it gave him time to plot, and plan, and scoop him and his favorite failed clone dishes of ice cream smothered in hot fudge and liberally sprinkled with crushed honey roasted peanuts. Strictly for the health benefits, of course.

Both of them wisely skipped the brownie. Likewise for the health benefits.

.oO0Oo.
the chapter you're seeking
will one day appear
when least you're expecting
rightly you should fear
.oO0Oo.

I am so up to Advent Children speculation. The WCM? Palmer. Really. Reeve finally talked him into going on a diet, and ever since that semi hit him, he's been having trouble wheeling himself over to the lard bucket. Would I lie?

Well, yes. But I'll smile sweetly atcha while I do it.