Author's Notes: She WANTED something happy. I'm not good with happy endings. Trying something vaguely satisfying at that.

Theme: Blue

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Coat Fit For A Commissioner

It was a beautiful thing really. The shade he'd picked was reminiscent of the uniforms of the Turks back in the glory days of Shin-Ra(after the fall of Midgar they had opted for black). The style was as unique to him as the Fenrir was to Cloud and the Shera was to Cid. All of them had been such big heroes back then, and to appease the masses they had indulged in some of the hero worship that came with the role. Tifa had accepted a refurbished Seventh Heaven in Edge. Barret had that amazing bionic arm slash gun installed. Their stoic gunner had a gun made of the best materials and had dubbed it the Cerberus. Yuffie? Well, Wutai was thriving now, which was all she could have asked for. So Reeve had asked for nothing more than a coat.

He loved the thing, not nearly as much as Cait, but it was love none the less. For five hours he had stood there, measured over and over, waited as various fabrics were held up against his shirtless torso, as edging colors were selected, as a collar was sketched up. Of course he'd said nothing about the whole thing, not putting one piece of criticism in. Tailors could handle their own jobs right? Who was he to tell them how to do it? It wasn't as if he'd had taste anyway. Look at the giant mog Cait had ridden around on for no reason other than the comedy needed for the spy.

When at home the thing was sent out for overnight dry-cleaning, and when he had the chance every tooth of the zippers were cleaned, and the buttons were polished lovingly. It would be a lie to say he'd walked into work only a handful of times looking like shit but with all the metal gleaming on that coat. More than once Cait had to slowly work the beloved garment off of the boss so that he could sleep at his desk. Reeve could not forgive himself if wrinkles worked their way into the coat. And Cait was amused at the fact that Reeve had taken to wearing only a wife-beater under the coat, but considering how warm it was, he'd allow it.

But right now nothing amazed Reeve about the coat as much as the way a pale, ungloved and clawless hand looked against the navy fabric. The way the light glinted from both golden claw and silver zipper as the former pulled the latter down was delightful. And the way the crimson of the tattered cape looked against the flawless seams of his coat was a thing to inspire sins. Or, more accurately, encourage the sins that were already trying their best to force themselves to the front of Reeve's mind. Needless to say they didn't find much opposition.

Despite all of his love for the garment, silly as it was, Reeve did come to one conclusion. Damned if the coat didn't look so much better on the floor, tangled up in the crimson pool that was the cloak Vincent had tossed aside hours before. Of course, he was more than sure Vincent would agree with him on that point.

And who knew, maybe a few wrinkles from being ignored wouldn't do the thing too much harm.