Charlie is already awake as the sun rises, the muffled sounds of the city filtering in through the wide windows.
She wants to kiss him, but knows that it will only wake him, and the dream will be over. Instead, she contents herself with looking, touching very lightly, trying to make sure she'll never forget what he looked like the last morning she spent with him.
It's not like she's going to force him to stay. She knows how much the reactor bombings and the dropped plate have affected him, knows that it makes him anxious and sick and horrified, and she knows that, once he hears of her involvement, it will only intensify feelings of resentment towards her.
Propped up on an elbow, Charlie drags her fingertips across his chest, touching his ribs and the faint outline of the taut muscles in his stomach and the thicket of dark hair that trails from his navel to the waistband of his boxers. She almost slips a hand down the front of them, to wake him with a few well-placed touches, but she doesn't want to wake him at all.
She brushes her leg against his own long legs, thighs and calves hard with muscle, the coarse hair rough against her smooth skin. All she wants to do is touch him, the only man she's ever touched so intimately, a man she once thought out of her reach, when she was still a child and completely stricken by him as a younger man.
Charlie looks down upon his face, wanting to cry. By all means, he's conventionally attractive, and he's developed lines at the corners of his eyes in the past few years that are accentuated when he laughs, and sometimes she finds little gray hairs mingling with the dark ones that she privately adores.
Brushing the backs of her fingers against his high cheekbones, Charlie sighs. She can't prolong it any longer, and she's tired of looking at him instead of kissing him or talking to him. Besides, it might be kind to wake him now—his eyebrows are slightly furrowed, as if he's having unpleasant dreams, like a dream of an entire plate being dropped while he was helpless to stop it.
"Reeve," she breathes, kissing him gently on the mouth, waiting for him to stir. "Wake up."
He moans softly, raising a hand to rub at his temples as his eyes flutter open to look at her.
"Hungover?" she can't help but ask, smiling down at him when he nods. "I need to talk to you, and I'm sorry it has to be now. Can I get you anything?"
"No," he answers, propping himself up slightly against the headboard, knuckling his eyes, shadows present beneath them. She should have let him sleep longer. "Go ahead, Charlie, I'm listening."
The words catch in her throat. Why is it so hard to tell him this? Why is it so hard to confess? Reeve is the man she trusts most in the entire world, and it's been that way for ten years now, ever since first meeting him in the corridors of the sixty-fourth floor of the Shinra Building.
It's just . . . lately, it's easier to keep things from him if it will keep him happy. Anything that will keep him from possibly loving her any less is something immediately squashed and forgotten or twisted into some little lie that will spare his feelings.
It's all because she loves him, because she wants him by her side always, because she would rather die than let another woman have him, would rather die than know that another woman might be touching him and kissing him and loving him.
There's something unsettling in his eyes as he looks at her, eyes so dark that she can almost see the reflection of her pale skin in them. He watches her while she sits up, keeping a sheet trapped against her bare chest.
"Why do you look so nervous?" she asks him, her mouth impossibly dry.
"I . . . don't know," he admits sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm sorry."
"What do you think I'm going to say?"
He flushes, looking away from her. Charlie doesn't have to spend much time imagining what he might be thinking. Surely he thinks she's been fucking every man in her life since she became an adult, especially after snooping through her box of sentimental pictures and letters.
Rufus would be able to say it. He wouldn't care what anyone thought of him, so long as he believed he had been attempting to do good. He would be unapologetic and unabashed . . . but he hadn't been the reason that the Sector Seven plate was dropped. Even Rufus couldn't callously admit to something without a little bit of doubt and hesitation.
She's just going to do it. She's just going to say it, and if Reeve decides he can't be with her because of it, at least she won't be alone. She'll still have Rufus, Tseng and Reno and Rude and Elena, and maybe Cid.
"I'm the reason the plate was dropped," she says, and her throat immediately seizes up, as if willing her not to continue.
Reeve sighs loudly. "Charlie, I wish you wouldn't say things like that. You know you're not responsible for—"
"But I am," she interrupts him, watching his eyebrows knit together again. "I was passing information to Avalanche ever since I hired Pia. None of it was really damning, but I passed every shred of information I thought would hurt my father if it became public knowledge."
Several expressions flit across his face before he settles on apprehension. It makes her heart flutter and it makes cold sweat form at her hairline. "What could you hope to gain from something like that?"
Charlie shrugs, feeling like a child again, being scolded by Veld for doing something she had been told several times not to do. "I just wanted my father to suffer," she finds herself saying, as if the words come naturally to her, long buried feelings, "like he's made me suffer all these years."
A muscle jumps in Reeve's cheek, his teeth clenched tight, eyes never leaving her face.
Perhaps it's guilt that forces her to continue, even with her brain screaming for her to stop, to drop it forever, to never mention it again and go on living her perfect life with her perfect husband and whatever perfect children they may have.
She tells him everything, speaks her truth to Reeve's stony and pale face, telling him about the bomb instructions she'd given to Avalanche and telling him about the bomb she had built herself. She doesn't shy away from what she's done, acknowledging in full that lives that were lost in the bombings, how she never intended it to be that way, pleading with him to understand, apologizing tearfully for destroying his reactors, apologizing for making his life a living hell for the past two weeks or so.
And all the while he listens, not speaking a word, not asking a single question. Charlie can't deny the look of contempt in his face, the look of pure disgust and horror, and to know that it's directed towards her is the worst part.
By the end of it, she's sobbing, and Reeve is getting dressed quickly in clothes that don't quite match, throwing things into his gym bag even as she pleads with him to stay, to get back in bed and enjoy the only day they might have together for weeks.
Charlie has never felt so weak before in her life, half-naked and clinging to his hand, begging for him to love her just as much as he did before, begging him not to leave her. If Rufus could see her now, he might put her out of her misery and chalk it up to sympathy.
Shinras don't beg. That had been life lesson number one. Shinras don't beg for handouts, for forgiveness, for permission, for anything.
Yet here she is, begging a man to stay and love her, begging him to get back in bed, begging him to kiss her.
When she attempts to undress him, hoping that it will slow him down a little bit, trying to seduce him right back into bed with her, Reeve drops his bag, clutches her wrists gently and lowers them back to her sides.
He is exasperated and angry, very angry, even if he doesn't want to admit it. But even in his anger and rage and betrayal and hurt, when he puts his hands on her cheeks to cradle her face, he's still gentle and soft, and up close, his eyes seem watery.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, knowing that it's not enough. "Please don't leave. I love you. I don't want you to go. Tell me what I can do. Tell me how to fix it."
Reeve doesn't answer right away. Perhaps he knows there's no fixing it. Perhaps he knows he won't be able to keep away from her forever. That's how it's always been, and Charlie thinks that's how it always will be, but she doesn't want the image of her to be tainted in his eyes.
"You can't fix it, Charlie," he says desperately, his grip on her face tightening, but not enough to hurt, never enough to hurt. "Those people are dead, and you can't change that. Hundreds of thousands of innocent people are dead now because of Avalanche. The entire city is in mourning, there are infantrymen digging mass graves on the outskirts of the city, and the survivors are being rounded up in public buildings with no idea what the future is to bring. How can you fix that?"
Charlie wishes he would yell at her. Anything would be better than this.
"How could you think that associating with terrorists could ever result in anything good?"
"I only wanted to help—"
"We could have done something together!" he protests, pulling away from her and groaning, breathing very hard. Reeve turns away from her for a moment, stooping to pick up his bag again. "I told you, Charlie, I told you that your desire to rebel was going to eventually backfire on you. How could have lived through that first explosion and been satisfied to go back and build another bomb?"
"I didn't mean for it to happen—I don't know what went wrong, but I never intended for that to happen—"
"But it did happen," he counters, looking completely distraught and broken when he glances over his shoulder at her, shoulders slumped, a man defeated. "I just . . . need some time to think."
He leaves Charlie crying in their bed, walking out without turning back once, and it's only then that she realizes, maybe, that Rufus has been wrong all along about Reeve's lack of a backbone.
Reeve doesn't come home that night, nor does he attempt to contact her at all throughout the day.
She tries to catch him the following day at Headquarters before she makes for her office, having overslept and arriving hours after she usually does, but when she approaches Reeve's assistant, she's met with another disappointment.
"I'm sorry, Madam Vice President, but Director Tuesti had planned to inspect the remains of Sector Seven today. I could leave a message for him, if you'd like, ma'am?"
"Um," Charlie stutters, feeling a lump forming in her throat again. The last thing she wants to do is cry in front of Reeve's assistant. She might never live that down. "Do you know when he's planning on coming back?"
"He has a meeting at three, ma'am, if that helps."
It doesn't, but Charlie thanks the woman anyway and heads up to her office. She's completely moved in now, her magazine covers framed and hanging behind her desk, her favorite pictures of she and Reeve on another part of the wall, along with pictures of she and Rufus. Even the furniture is arranged nicely, gifts from Rufus as a 'congratulations' on her vice presidency.
Without an assistant to bother her (she doesn't quite ready to hire another one, not after Tseng had informed her of Pia's horrible fate), Charlie is able to get quite a bit of work done, unable to escape Reeve even on her computer, who has sent her some vague information needed to prepare a new budget for the department very early in the morning, earlier than he usually gets to work.
She takes a certain vindictive pleasure in preparing to cut the budget of Scarlet's department, and Hojo's, which she's sure Rufus will put his stamp of approval on.
It's not long until she's interrupted, a few curt knocks on the door before it's opened boldly, but it's only Tseng, and Charlie smiles weakly at him as he lets himself in, returning to finish her work.
"I've been looking everywhere for you," he notes, standing in front of her desk with his hands held behind his back before taking a seat. This statement makes Charlie curious, and she gives him her full attention, hating how obvious it likely is to him that she's been crying. "The president has just given us an assignment, and I wanted to tell you before we left. There have been whispers that Sephiroth was seen making for the Mythril Mines, and we've been tasked with following him."
"All of you?" Charlie asks, her heart breaking all over again.
"Reno will join us later, when he's fully recovered, but until then, yes, the rest of us."
"Oh," she says stupidly, clearing her throat. "Well, be careful."
Tseng hesitates, nodding very slightly at her. "Of course," he replies, and there's something in his tone that Charlie doesn't think she's ever heard before. She can't quite place it—it's not really fear, nor remorse, but something genuine that she knows Rufus has likely never heard from him before. "I haven't given you your birthday gift yet, and since we'll be leaving tomorrow morning, I'd like to give it to you tonight."
Charlie gives him a tired smile, shaking her head. "I was only joking, Tseng, really," she answers. "We can just go out for dinner when you come back or something."
"Very well," he replies carefully. "I had something else in mind, however, if you're willing to hear me out."
She looks away from her computer screen to glance up at him again. "Oh? What is it?"
He opens his mouth to answer, closing it at the last minute. "Is it safe to assume that the director won't be coming home tonight?"
"How do you know about that?"
"You're the one that asked me to keep an eye on him," Tseng explains, the corners of his mouth twitching, as if smiling too obviously would be his downfall. "I suppose it's only natural for him to need space after the confession you made, Charlotte."
Charlie tenses, every muscle in her body tightening painfully. "You bugged my apartment."
"I did."
She looks at him for a long time, almost daring him to say something about it. If he's angry or upset with her, he hides it very well. "And?"
"And I can assure you that none of it was your fault," he continues, though it doesn't make her feel any better. "If you hadn't commissioned your . . . talents to them, it would have been someone else. Perhaps someone a little less skilled or practiced, or perhaps someone slightly more overzealous."
Charlie averts her eyes, fixing them upon the e-mail sitting unread on her computer screen. She had been halfway through typing a reply to Reeve (with absolutely nothing to do with the budget) in the hopes of hearing a reply. He might ignore her texts, but a professional e-mail will certainly be opened.
He can't ignore me, she thinks, I'm the vice president.
Tseng braces himself on her desk, knuckles against the polished and smooth wood, snapping her out of her reverie. "Anyone who really knew you would be able to see that you were conspiring with Avalanche. Your motivations were laid bare in front of us all after seeing the way you were treated. It was only the director's willful blindness that kept him from coming to terms with it."
"Why didn't you stop me? Why didn't anyone try to stop me if it was so obvious?"
"Would you have listened if we tried to confront you?"
Charlie doesn't have an answer for him. The answer would likely be no, she wouldn't have listened. She would have carried on as she had before, onto bigger and better things to exact revenge on her father, too afraid to go after him directly.
He raises his eyebrows as if her silence proves his point, which it absolutely does. "Will you be alone tonight or not?"
She scoffs, suddenly irritated with his presence. Who is he to ask such a personal question? Who is he to bug her apartment, to listen to what she and Reeve do after hours? "What is this? Why do I have to be alone to receive a birthday gift?"
Tseng seems irritable now, as well. It's subtle, but Charlie has known him long enough to know when he's angry. "I'm giving you a choice—blissful ignorance, or the truth."
She doesn't really know what she's agreeing to, but she says anyway, "The truth."
"Then I'll be at your apartment at nine."
Charlie watches him go, wondering if it was wise of her to agree to whatever Tseng has planned, hoping her decision doesn't come around to bite her in the rear.
"You promised!"
"I did, before we were left a massive disaster to clean up in the wake of our father's murder. The fact remains that we don't have the budget to refund the space department, nor do we have a reason to do so, and unless you can recommend someone competent for Palmer's job, then I'm not giving him any more power over his pathetic department than he deserves."
Charlie is quiet for a moment, fuming in front of him, nostrils flared and her cheekbones tinted pink.
"If you want your pilot back so much, then by all means, hire him on as a construction worker for all I care," he says, hoping that appeases his sister, but it only serves to make her angrier. He only regrets that Tseng isn't here to take the brunt of her anger—that's something he's always been relatively good at. "We could use the help, and it would probably pay better than whatever he's working for now. Though no guarantee he'll be treated fairly by the director."
"This isn't about Cid," she snaps, hands curled into fists at her side. "This is about making good on the promises you've been making since you were made vice president."
Rufus signs his name on the paper in front of him, admiring the way the ink gleams on the bright paper. President Rufus Shinra. He'll never tire of it. "Maybe in the near future we can discuss it in more detail," he continues, with no intention of changing his mind. "But it's a moot point now, Charlie. We have things to do today."
"Like what?"
Rufus considers her, the sight of her looking so flustered positively endearing. He thinks she's prettiest when she's mad.
"I'm taking that ridiculous statue of father down in the museum," he sneers, and he can tell that Charlie hadn't been expecting that. "And we're replacing the portrait, as well. You're very practiced at being photographed now, aren't you? Mind you, it's not a naked photo shoot, so you may feel slightly out of your element."
It pleases him to see her blush heatedly.
Those photo shoots she had done were enough to get his blood pumping—his sister, showing her tits to the entire world, even with her cunt covered in lacy lingerie, hardly leaving anything to the imagination. His sister, whoring herself out to the public. Their father had been irate when the first magazines had hit shelves, sold on the street with the daily papers.
One of the more recent magazine covers had even featured Charlie with a golden, jewel-encrusted crown upon her head and a fur-lined, velvet, crimson mantle around her shoulders, sitting upon a golden throne with her legs spread, wearing nothing but a strapless, transparent, dark-red corset and heels that would put her several inches above him. Her left hand had been held lazily between her legs to hide the more savory bits, her massive engagement ring swallowing her thin finger.
LONG LIVE THE QUEEN, the cover had read. He couldn't believe the audacity.
Tseng had blushed when Rufus presented the cover to him, hoping that someone might share his own anger and humiliation. He had never seen Tseng blush before.
That had been the first time Rufus noticed something odd, his suspicions confirmed just at the beginning of the week. It hadn't made him feel very good, the knowledge that Charlie and Tseng might be friends outside of the company, the knowledge that there might be a separate relationship between the two of them that didn't include him.
Hoping that her anger has abated after sitting in silence for a few minutes to think, he continues. "Tonight, we're supposed to meet a photographer at eight-thirty. I know it's late, but I want this done as soon as possible—"
"I can't make it tonight," she interrupts him coolly, crossing her arms over her chest. "I'm meeting Tseng tonight, so he can give me my birthday gift. It's your own fault for sending him away."
Rufus scowls. "Why can't he give it to you now?"
"I don't know. I suppose he wants to keep it a secret."
"I want to know what he got for you."
"That's none of your business, Rufus."
He purses his lips. Sometimes it seems like every single thing that comes out of his mouth always ends up offending her in some way. "This weekend, I'm taking you to Junon. That's where they're going to hold the inauguration parade, where we'll be participating. We'll stay there until we receive any intelligence from the Turks about Sephiroth's whereabouts." He makes sure to give her a very intimidating look, in the hopes of frightening her into submission. "But make no mistake. You will have nothing to do with the hunt for Sephiroth."
He can see the gears turning in Charlie's brain, and then her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. "I want Reeve to come with us."
"What?" he can't help but hiss. The idea had been to get Charlie away from him for a few days. "No, he can stay here. I think he has bigger priorities than warming your bed for a few days."
She frowns, pouting. Gods, he hates it when she pouts, just like a little girl, and completely fucking irresistible. It's always been difficult denying her things, but he can't seem weak now, not while he's sitting in the president's chair.
"Be serious, Charlie. There's no reason for Reeve to come with us, when he could be planning reconstruction efforts. It will be just the two of us. I'll have our photographs rescheduled to tomorrow night. Does that work with your calendar, Madam Vice President?"
Charlie only frowns deeper. He's done it again, offended her with a simple question. "Can I please go now?"
"Well," Rufus replies, shrugging his shoulders and opening his arms wide, scoffing at her, "since you asked so politely."
She leaves without another word, and Rufus almost feels sorry when she closes the doors behind her.
He'll make it up to her when they're in Junon.
To be completely honest with himself, he had thought she was going to confess to an affair.
Reeve isn't entirely sure if he would have preferred an affair to . . . that.
While her confession had certainly come as a shock, the more he thought about it, the more sense it made.
It would explain her jumpy behavior recently, and it would explain the crushing guilt that she's been dwelling on. It would explain why she felt the need to go running into the Sector Seven slums while the plate was about to come crashing down. It would explain her cryptic comments alluding to something terrible now beyond her control, and the sleeping pills.
"Hey, I just wanted to say I tried to catch you before your last meeting, but I guess we must have just missed each other. I'm probably going to head out for the day, so call me if you want to talk." There's a long pause. "I love you. I wish you'd come home. I hate being away from you."
He's listened to it several times now.
It's the only voicemail she's left, but she had called him three others times in the afternoon, they had exchanged a few business-related e-mails in regards to damage costs, and his assistant had let him know that Charlie had asked after him an hour or so after he had left to inspect what was left of Sector Seven.
It had taken all his strength to stay away from her, even for a few hours. Every time Reeve felt a pull towards her, just needing a small bit of comfort (her fingers curling around his bicep, a sweet smile flashed in his direction, soft lips against his forehead), he had forced himself to remember how the plate had looked from his office, falling three hundred meters to the ground to crush the people below and break the people atop.
Is it fair to blame Charlie for it, though?
No matter what Avalanche had done, it had been President Shinra who gave the order without a single shred of sympathy towards the people who would lie dead in the aftermath.
It had been the Turks who completed the task, without a moment's hesitation.
It had been Avalanche that started the whole thing, though, by blowing the reactors, and before that, wreaking chaos across the city and making attempts on the late president's life. If they hadn't been so careless, the Sector Seven plate might still be intact, and this horrible guilt might not be weighing so heavily on his shoulders.
He hadn't been able to help himself. He had to leave the apartment. The moment he had heard Charlie claim responsibility for the botched bombings, all he could think about was the weight of the rubble on his legs, the heat of the fire against his face, the piercing and deafening sounds of screams.
It was overwhelming, too much to hear all at once, and the thought of hearing any more was something he couldn't bear.
It was impossible—it couldn't have been his Charlotte. His Charlotte wouldn't have built a mediocre bomb. He wants to believe that her intentions were pure and good, but Reeve isn't stupid. He knows where good intentions always lead, and hadn't he warned her something like this would happen if she wasn't careful?
She had gone too far, and she had lied about it.
Like I'm one to talk, he thinks bitterly. If she knew what I've been keeping from her all these years, she would leave and never look back.
He doesn't want to think about it, pacing the kitchenette of the cramped room he'd quickly rented at the nearest hotel. It's not quite the upscale living situation he's grown accustomed to, but he's able to see the front of their apartment building from the window in the bedroom, and though it makes him feel sorry for spying, it's not like he's the only one doing it.
Reeve knows, deep down, that Charlie meant well. Having been able to do as she pleased as a child has affected her, has blinded her to the weight of her actions and the consequences that follow. It's a terrible excuse, considering the scope of things and considering the fact that she's plenty old enough to realize she can't just do whatever she wants, but he can't deny that, even if she can be considered responsible for the plate drop, she's the least responsible of all the people involved.
The person most responsible is dead now, and Reeve had personally watched the coffin be buried, in a plot of dry land with a marble gravestone to contrast the mass graves that are currently being dug up outside the city.
Heads up!
The words come through clearly, and upon closing his eyes, he can see the front of the building in his mind's eye, through Cait's eyes.
A car has pulled up to the front of the complex, but when he closes his eyes to focus more clearly on it, the sight makes him sick. From the backseat of the car, Tseng steps out, brushing off the front of his suit and looking up at the apartment building for a moment.
In one of his hands, there's a lone flower (where did he find a flower in Midgar?), and in his other, he carries a black leather briefcase. He waits for the car to leave him before walking into the building. Won't he need the car to wait for him? Why would he send the car away in the first place?
Reeve's eyes snap open. He shouldn't be spying on her, he knows. She wouldn't be happy if she knew, but he's not happy with the situation, either. Besides, what is Tseng doing at his apartment so late at night with a flower for his fiancé?
The very thought is almost enough for Reeve to go back, to interrupt anything before it begins.
Looks like Tseng is going to take your woman, too, Reeve.
Damn Scarlet for filling his head with such childish thoughts. Tseng wouldn't dare, would never think about sweeping Charlie off her feet while she was engaged. It sounds so unlike him, so horribly cruel, so horribly insolent.
It takes him ten minutes to work up the courage to call her, just to hear her voice, just to make sure she doesn't answer breathlessly, just to make sure that speaking to him is still a priority for her. He silently berates himself as the phone rings, berates himself for breaking so quickly, for giving into her.
When she answers, on the sixth ring, she hardly gives him a chance to speak. "I'm so glad you called, but I'm in the middle of something important. Can I call you back when I'm finished?"
"Um," is all he can think to say. She's fucking him, she's fucking him, she's fucking him. "Sure."
"Okay. I love you."
She hangs up before he gets a chance to say good-bye, and doesn't call him back the rest of the night.
"What is this?"
Charlie lifts her eyes from the manila folder in her hands, labeled CLASSIFIED. She's afraid to open it, unsure if she wants to continue reading. Perhaps she should have chosen blissful ignorance, because this definitely seems like a decision that's going to come back to haunt her.
Tseng looks down at the folder uncertainly, sitting stiff-backed on the sofa. "I'm under the assumption that you've read the official reports about what happened to Angeal?"
"Of course I have," she replies, suddenly very nervous. Terror rips through her body, her heart quickening. "It took me hours to find it in the archives." When she opens the folder, her eyes are drawn to the stiff, formal handwriting that adorns the pages and pages of paper, passages that she's never read before, and other paperwork that isn't handwritten, information on something that's called Project G. "What is this?" she asks again, thumbing through it all, her heart leaping in her throat.
"The truth, like I told you."
I should have chosen ignorance, she thinks. I don't want to know this. Whatever it is, I don't want to—
"It's all right, Charlotte." Tseng touches the file she's holding to keep it from moving. She hadn't realized that she was shaking so badly. "The report is one I wrote myself, when I had returned from Modeoheim. It was presented to my superior at the time, Veld, with Lazard having disappeared, but several changes were made to the official copy before it was placed in the archives."
She remembers that, the attack on Headquarters and the abrupt disappearance of Lazard, a man who had always been rather kind to her. Tseng had been the one to find her hiding under her desk in her office, knees pulled to her chest and crying. She had thought she was going to die that day.
"You knew this whole time," she breathes, slightly dizzy, like she's drunk a whole bottle of wine. Does she want to know? Does she really want to know? "Why didn't you say anything? Why did you lie to me?"
"I did not think it was my place to tell you."
Charlie stares at him, shaking her head. "Who else should it have been?"
He doesn't answer, but doesn't look very abashed about it, either.
"Why are you doing this?"
"Because I have felt, ever since assuming Veld's position, that you were the most deserving of the truth that I had deliberately concealed from you," he answers, looking too at ease on her sofa. It's not like he should be surprised—he's known this information for years, harbored this secret close to his heart despite the amount of times he could have confessed. "And I may not have another chance."
She closes the folder, unsure if she can continue. She'll just have to leave it with the unread letters from her father that she's been too frightened to look at, afraid they might drag up unwanted memories and feelings. "Wait here. I have something I want to show you."
Charlie hurries to her office, where she places the folder onto her desk and picks up the box Reeve had brought home a few days ago. She still hasn't opened it, but now that Tseng is here, and knowing that there's a chance he might not come back from his assignment, she brings it back out to her living room.
It almost feels like she's a teenager again, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Tseng and talking and talking and talking. He had always been good at letting her talk to her heart's content, unlike some Turks that wished only for her to shut up. Those Turks never usually lasted very long.
Even Tseng chuckles lightly at the picture of Angeal she pulls out of the box, smiling in an almost proud sort of way, dark hair tucked behind his ears and his pretty mako eyes bright, a beautiful mountain range in the background.
Charlie had really liked him—she liked the way his thick muscles worked while he swung his sword around, even with another one his back, and she liked the way he could go from stoic to charming to playful in a matter of seconds. She liked the way he introduced her properly to his friends, and the way he chastised Sephiroth for teasing them about spending time together.
She hopes whatever Tseng has brought for her can at least give her some closure.
"Look," she says, reaching for another picture when she finishes admiring the one of Angeal, picking up one of she and Tseng, the picture that had infuriated Rufus so much. "Do you remember that?"
Tseng nods, looking down at the picture. Charlie remembers, too. It had been a difficult period in her life, lonely and heartbroken, and there had been a few weeks after Angeal's disappearance (or death, depending on what's in the file) that she and Tseng spent far more time together than ever before.
It had been weeks of catching each other looking for a little too long, fingers accidentally brushing while watching television together, meals taken in complete silence while unsaid things stayed stagnant between them. It had been lingering touches when she needed help putting a necklace on, fingertips at the nape of her neck, brushing her hair aside with an intimacy unexpected from him.
Charlie gives him a sideways look, lowering the picture back into the box and putting the lid back on. "How long will you be gone?"
"I wish I had an answer for you." When he looks up at her again, he smiles slightly. "Don't cry."
She can't help it. She's watched the Turks be picked off one by one over the years, an ever-revolving door until there were none left but Tseng, Reno, Rude, and Elena. The only constants throughout her entire life have been Rufus and the Turks, and Charlie isn't quite sure how much more loss she'll be able to take.
Everything had been fine, and over the course of two weeks, her entire life feels like it's been flipped upside-down.
"You promised Veld you would stay with me," she rasps, not wanting to think about him, not wanting to think about he had abandoned her, how he had left without reason, how he had disappeared without even coming to say good-bye to her. "You promised me you wouldn't leave."
"That was a long time ago, under a very different set of circumstances."
Tseng leaves her shortly afterwards, offering her little comfort. Everything is so dependent on finding Sephiroth that there are no answers to be given, and after witnessing the strength of Sephiroth, she can't help but worry about the closest thing to a real family she's ever really known, even if they're not the good guys she wants to believe they are.
Charlie watches from the window as Tseng waits out front for a car, his phone held up to his ear. It had been sweet of him to come by with a horrible truth and a flower he claimed had been growing in a church under the plate.
The thought of never seeing him again hits her as suddenly as a freight train, and Charlie runs out of her apartment barefoot and in her pajamas, pressing the lobby button of the elevator several times, unable to move quickly enough.
But when she pushes through the wide double doors of the apartment building, Tseng is still there, his car pulling up to the curb. "Wait!" she shouts, and he turns just in time as Charlie throws herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck to hug him for, as far as she can recall, the first time.
To her surprise, his arms come slowly to wrap around her middle, and she buries her face in the crook of his warm neck.
"Tell Rude I said good-bye, okay?" she cries, trying to keep from sobbing against him. "Tell him I said thank you."
"You can tell him yourself when we return," he murmurs, releasing her to hold her out at arm's length, inspecting her almost critically. His skin shines slightly underneath the yellow street light, where her tears had smeared on his neck. "And I still owe you a birthday dinner."
There's nothing she can do. Nothing she says will change anything, no amount of appealing to Rufus will change his mind. "Okay," she's forced to say, watching Tseng get in the back of the car.
She watches the car drive away, her arms held around herself in the chill winter air, helpless—as helpless as she had felt when Veld left, as helpless as she had felt when Angeal left, as helpless as she had felt when Reeve walked out on her only yesterday, and as helpless as she had felt when she watched Sephiroth drive his sword through her father's back.
It's all she can do to hope that the same fate does not await Tseng.