#alt 5

“I think we should stop for the night.”

“Why?” Eddie let out a yawn.

“That’s why,” you let out a yawn of your own, “Eddie, the concert was amazing, we had the time of our lives, but it’s almost two in the morning. You are exhausted, I am exhausted, we still have two and half hours until we get back to Hawkins. Let’s find a motel and get some sleep.”

Eddie was about to argue that he could power through, but released another loud yawn, “Okay, you’re right.”

You gave him a small, satisfied smile, “Thank you.”

~

You’d been in nicer motels, but this was the only one that had a vacancy and wasn’t making you think of Psycho, so it would have to do.

Eddie unlocked the door to your room and turned on the light, “Uh oh.”

“What?” Your voice was strained from screaming at the concert and from exhaustion.

Eddie turned around with an embarrassed grin, “Looks like we’re gonna have get super cozy with each other tonight.”

“Eddie, I’m tired and I just want to go to sleep. What are you talking about?”

He stepped into the room, and you followed, stopping short when you saw.

“There’s only one bed.”

The two of you stood by the door just staring at the sole bed in the room. You thought maybe if you stared long enough, another bed would magically appear, but it never did.

“Maybe, um…maybe there’s like a cot or something in the closet.”

Eddie shook his head, “There is no closet.”

“Oh…well…”

“I can sleep on the floor.” Eddie finally closed the door, then grabbed a couple of pillows off of the bed and tossed them on the floor.

“No, you can’t sleep on the floor, and not just because the floor looks kind of gross.”

Eddie glanced at the floor, “Eh, I’ve slept on worse.”

“Eddie, please, we’re both adults, we can sleep in the same bed. It’s not a big deal,” you climbed into the bed, thankful that the sheets felt clean, “I’m going to sleep, you should too.”

Eddie hesitated, but he felt like he was ready to collapse, and the prospect of sleeping on the floor really didn’t appeal to him. He released a sigh and climbed into the other side of the bed.

“Goodnight.” You mumbled out sleepily.

“Goodnight.” Eddie replied.

~

You woke up with the feeling of something around your waist. It was strange but nice. You slowly blinked open your eyes and gazed down at your waist. Eddie’s arm was draped over you. Maybe you should have freaked out, maybe you should have bolted out of bed, but you didn’t. You brought your hand up to trace your finger along his bat tattoo.

You felt Eddie begin to stir. For a moment, you hesitated, unsure if you should stop and pretend to still be asleep, but Eddie slightly tightening his hold around your waist made you release a gasp.

“You like tracing my tattoos?” Eddie’s voice was thick and rough from sleep.

You’d heard his morning voice before plenty of times, but having him right next to you, his arm still firmly around your waist, sent a flutter through your chest, “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” He teased back, “I guess we should get up and start heading back to Hawkins.”

“I guess.”

Neither of you moved.

“We’re gonna have to move if we want to get back.” You said.

“I know.” Eddie replied.

“Then move.”

“You move.”

When Eddie nuzzled his head into the back of your neck, your stomach erupted in butterflies.

“I’m still a little tired,” you turned around in his hold, now facing him, “maybe we could wait on leaving for a bit.”

A knowing, but sleepy grin spread along Eddie’s face, “I’m fine with that, Sweetheart.”

He kissed your forehead, and you nearly combusted. He pulled you closer, chest to chest, and you felt dizzy.

As soon as you woke up, you would be having a chat with him about all of this, but for now you allowed yourself to drift back to sleep in the comfort of Eddie’s embrace.

“It’s not that bad,” you reassured Clark, the two of you walking side by side. Your feet sunk into the patterned hotel carpet that was clearly from the 90s.

Clark pushed his glasses up his nose for the fourth time since you two spoke with the receptionist, his jaw tight. “It won’t be bad, just… not what we expected. I thought the Daily Planet would have had this sorted. Or maybe that Perry would have helped.”

You snorted at the idea of Perry helping at all with this situation, but he didn’t even answer the phone when Clark called him. Clark, who now gripped his bag like he wanted to strangle it, tried to kindly reason with the receptionist about the mixup but to no avail. The place was booked up with people attending the same journalism conference the Daily Planet sent you to.

Reaching your room door, you held up the keycard to the scanner. With a soft click and green flashing light, it unlocked — opening up into the situation in question. 

The room was nice enough, plain but neat. Generic artwork hung on the walls. The large window overlooked the parking lot. Oh, and there sat the singular bed for you and your coworker to share.

Now, you had to be careful here. One wrong move and Clark would make some excuse to bolt out of there. He’d probably sleep in the rental car or out in the hallway.

“Do you want the bathroom first?” you asked, unzipping your bag to pull out your toiletries and pajamas. It was easy, a lob for him to hit.

“I can sleep on the floor,” Clark rushed out, standing in place near the door still.

You bit back a sigh, your shoulders sagging a little. Well, there went that idea. “No, we’re both going to sleep in the bed. I will not attend a conference with an exhausted, grumpy Clark Kent. Okay?” 

With raised eyebrows and a pointed look, you waited for his answer. After a moment, he nodded. “Yeah, okay. That’s fine. Good, I mean.”

“Great.” You gave him a grin and allowed no further discussion before grabbing your things and walking into the bathroom. With tired muscles and deep bags beneath your eyes, you took one of the faster showers of your life — happy to put aside any awkwardness if it meant you’d get to sleep quicker. 

The water washed over you, wiping away the grime from traveling. Only once you were fully alone did you pack away the facade. Holy Christ you were going to share a bed with Clark. The Clark. The man who made you stutter just by looking at you for a second too long, who made your face heat up when standing so close to you while editing your articles, who brought you coffee every morning just how you liked it.

Yeah, you wanted him to sleep well. But selfishly, the thought of falling asleep next to Clark made a giddiness course through you.

But, of course, you had to play it cool, like you hadn’t been harboring a crush on him for months now. With soft pajamas on, feeling clean and fresh, you exited the bathroom — suddenly finding it very hard to play anything cool. 

Clark stood in the center of the room, dressed in a loose shirt and flannel pajama pants — much more casual than anything you’d seen him in before. You paused in the doorway of the bathroom, a hard swallow going down your throat. The two of you locked eyes, frozen, the air in the room shifting to something… different.

You blinked, a soft smile covering your face. “You look…” Adorable, domestic, breathtaking? “Cozy.”

Clark nodded, averting his eyes. “You too. Look nice,” he uttered, almost beneath his breath.

Finding the focus to move, you walked to the side of the bed you’d secretly claimed as yours. You tried not to pay too much attention to the way Clark’s attention followed you, or the way you itched to brush against him as you passed by.

Even as you both climbed into bed, a respectable distance apart of course, and shut off the lamps, the tension didn’t ease. You could feel tiny tendrils of that warmth always rolling off of him, begging you to come closer. 

In the dark, you could sense how tense Clark was. His body lay far too still and rigid. You were sure he’d only wake up grumpy and exhausted this way too. 

So, with your heart beating wildly, you did what any respectful and caring coworker (with a raging crush) would do and whispered, “Do you want to come closer?”

Your question was met with silence, making you squeeze your eyes shut, hoping you didn’t just completely embarrass yourself. It stretched long enough that you thought he might have somehow fallen asleep, or was at least pretending. But eventually, his voice spoke into the night.

“What?”

Your jaw ached from clenching your teeth, the bedsheets suddenly feel all too itchy and suffocating. “Did, um, you want to come closer? To me? If it’d help.”

“Oh.” More seconds passed, your eyes blinking rapidly. “I’m… not sure we should.”

And maybe Clark could feel the way the rejection crawled down into your body and took root in your ribcage, because he then added, “You know, company policy stuff, probably.”

Though he couldn’t see it, you nodded, your mouth turning dry. “Yeah, of course.” It made sense, and it likely wasn’t personal. But still, some part of you twinged with rejection and embarrassment. 

Neither of you would likely mention it again, and you could go back to being coworkers. Probably. Clark would at least do that.

And so, you focused on your breathing rather than the ringing in your ears. You closed your eyes, willing yourself to shut out your reeling mind. Maybe just minutes had passed, but it felt like an hour at least before your muscles unclenched — as you realized Clark wasn’t making fun of you for this. And when you finally forced yourself to think about anything else, the exhaustion took over you.

But, it felt like it had taken you under. 

Vivid dreams played behind your closed eyelids, saturated images of moments in your past — ones that usually kept you up at night. Losing your job, that nasty high school breakup, a fight with your best friend. In all the dreams, you ended alone — yet always felt like someone was watching, just waiting for you to fail again in the next memory. 

You tried running, but your legs moved so slowly. Your breath came fast, your heartbeat thundering in your chest. You screamed, but no noise came out. Sweat covered your skin.

And then your eyes shot open. You gasped awake — the only sound in the room before a familiar rumbling voice said, “Hey, hey, it’s okay. You’re alright.”

The panic you’d felt suffocating your limbs eased a fraction as Clark’s hand landed on your arm. You held onto it like a lifeline, feeling his fingers curl around yours and squeezing once, twice, three times.

“Clark?” you uttered, the word sounding rough and almost unrecognizable.

“Yeah, I’m here. You were having a nightmare.” You heard his purposefully deep breaths, following suit until your body finally relaxed once again.

It was only your jaw unclenched, your teeth aching, that you realized the position you were in. You pulled your hand away, shifting away so Clark’s hand didn’t touch you. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

The sheets rustled, and you could make out the shape of him propping himself on one elbow. “What? It- it’s okay.”

“Thank you, for helping. But we can just go back to bed. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“No, you’re not. I just thought…” He raised a hand to run through his hair, a sigh escaping his mouth. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. We’re coworkers and all, and you didn’t ask to share a bed with me. I’m okay, really.”

You softened at that, a warmth filling your chest. You weren’t sure where you got the courage to try again, but something in Clark’s voice gave you hope. “So if I were okay with it, would you want to come closer now? You know, as coworkers. Just so I don’t have any more nightmares,” you said, a wry smile covering your face.

Your body somehow eased even more when Clark gave a breathy laugh. “Just as coworkers, huh?” He lay down on his back, his head softening into the pillow.

“Of course. Platonic cuddling is all the rage right now.” You scooted closer, your movements slow and careful as your leg lay on top of his. Your palm came up to rest on his chest, and you silently prayed that this wasn’t some dream.

His hand covered yours, encompassing it in that warmth of his. He cleared his throat. “And what about nonplatonic cuddling?”

It’s definitely them, there’s gonna be no denying it.

Lando’s curls are too easily identifiable, but there are also the moles on his left cheek. Unfortunately, because of the decent quality of the video, you can even see one of his nose scars shining when the spinning colourful lights catch his face.

Then there’s Oscar. From the back, other than his broad shoulders and slim waist, it could really be anybody (although definitely a man). But as they turn around, Oscar’s cowlick is visible, as is the size of his neck popping against his shirt, and his own noticeable mole beneath his left ear.

Lando’s face buries against Oscar’s neck, and Oscar smiles, rubbing Lando’s back as they rock from side to side. Lando’s slightly smaller than Oscar, in both height and broadness.

It’s actually a really sweet video. If it wasn’t posted publicly on the internet for the entire world to see.

Fuck.

Already five million views on TikTok, and no doubt countless more across social media platforms as it gets shared around.

The video is innocent enough, really. They’re not kissing, or worse, they’re just two friends hugging in a club after celebrating another one-two. They’re bringing their team success, another championship secured (maybe two come the end of the year), and they’re still high off adrenaline and endorphins.

And more than a couple of drinks. Lando loves hugging people when he’s drunk.

It’s the comments that are getting them in trouble.

***

🏳️‍🌈🤔?

It’s improper for them to be scenting in public!

Omg stop they are so in love! 😍

I understand papaya rules more clearly now…

We been knew, they’ve been together this whole time.

Get that knot, Lando!

Are they mated? Does anybody see a mating bite?

Delete this. Leave them alone!

This explains their team dynamic so much.

Oscar heart eyes Piastri strikes again!

Fuck this team!

Ofc Lando is bouncing on that.

So papaya rules is code for fucking your teammate now? Got it…

Mclaren wtf separate them now!

***

Sophie, head of comms, sits before them. It’s an emergency PR briefing, with all the necessary team representatives in the room as they discuss what to do about it all.

The video is barely 36 hours old, spreading around like wildfire. Journalists were waiting outside the MTC for them this morning, and they’re no doubt still there for when they leave, desperate for photos and comments. Lando had just acted like he was back in the paddock. The factory is one of his safe spaces, and he wasn’t about to let them ruin it for him.

“Now, I don’t think I have to tell you both how serious this is,” Sophie says, her soft and cheerful voice carrying a note of disappointment.

Lando huffs. “We’re not even doing anything! It’s just a hug. Everyone is doing what they always do and making a huge deal out of it and finding problems where there aren’t any.”

He feels Oscar place a hand on his thigh, and he slumps back in his seat with a deep sigh.

“It may be just an innocent hug between you, but with the FIA etiquette and your being an omega and an alpha, this may well be risking a punishment.”

“Fucking stupid rules,” Osc grumbles, and Lando raises his eyebrows. Oscar rarely swears in front of the team. “They try and manufacture rivalries and make us look like we hate each other every chance they get, and just because this destroys that curated image of theirs, now it’s a problem? We’ve never behaved that way! Nobody had a problem when it was Lando and Carlos getting close? So why is it a huge problem?”

“Carlos and I weren’t fighting for a championship, Osc,” Lando kindly reminds him. “The team had nothing to lose back then. It was just some harmless fun, and we were encouraged to keep it going.”

Oscar pinches the bridge of his nose as he sighs. “Sorry, that was rude of me. I’m just so tired of playing their game. We’re fighting for the driver’s championship our way. Fair, clean, and respectable, because that is how we want to go racing. We’re not gonna turn ourselves into dickheads just to please the higher-ups.”

“Oscar, be careful,” Sophie warns.

“If the FIA want a punishment, let it be me.”

“Osc, no! I’m clingy when I’m drunk, this is all literally my fault!”

Oscar turned to face him. “As if I would ever not wanna hold you. You need a strong recovery weekend after Zandvoort anyway.”

“Wait, no, now who’s trying to manufacture things!” Lando gestured wildly with his hands. “How is that clean and fair!”

“Boys, please.” They immediately shut up and look back at Sophie. “There might not even be a punishment to be dealt. I’m just trying to cover possible scenarios that might come from this.”

“What, they gonna ban us from shaking hands and spraying each other on the podium next?” Lando huffs. “Are they gonna force us to keep five feet apart ‘cause we’re not gay for the rest of the season?”

Oscar growls at that, and Lando purrs automatically, taking his hand in both of his, stroking his thumb absently across his freckled skin.

“Sorry,” Osc apologises again.

“I understand this is stressful for you both. We just want to discuss the best way to deal with it when it inevitably comes to your future interviews.”

“There’s nothing to deal with,” Lando insists. “It was just a hug. I get clingy when I’m drunk and like to hug people I consider friends. Nobody’s outed us. There’s literally other videos out there of me hugging other friends when partying. It’s not our fault if our public friendship and respectable rivalry doesn’t fit their narrative. People can say what they want, they always do, and they always will.”

“So you won’t deny it? Either of you?”

“There’s nothing to deny, Soph,” Oscar says, kissing Lando’s hands. “Let people talk. We’re respectable, and none of you has an issue with us. If the FIA want to punish us, we’ll deal with it.”

“Together,” Lando emphasises, and Osc rolls his eyes with an exasperated smile.

“Yes, together.”

“Okay, if you’re happy with that. It certainly makes my life easier not having to prepare a statement. Everybody, if you’re all happy, we can conclude this briefing.”

Lando winces. “We are sorry about all this.”

Sophie smiles kindly as they stand to leave. “I’m used to it by now. Life isn’t fun without a little chaos every once in a while.”

“A little?” Osc asks sceptically, his eyebrow raised.

Lando shoves him as he giggles.

~

Tim gasped for air as his heart jumpstarted and his eyes flew open, only to squeeze shut against the harsh lights above. He groaned in pain as blood rushed back to all the previously lacking areas of his body, bringing with it the world’s worst case of pins and needles, and tried to shake out his arms, but came to realize they were both strapped firmly down to a cold metal surface, as were his legs and neck.

“Subject is awake.” Not good. He forced one eye open, then the other, and realised the metal beneath him was a steel table and the blinding lights were– yep, an operating theatre. Dread started to seep into his chest like the cold into his bones, and he pulled against the leather straps around his wrists to no avail.

“Hello, Red Robin.” Tim froze briefly, then looked around to the sides, then tilted his head up to see a man in a white lab coat standing behind a glass window above. “I’m glad you’re awake before we start. Here at Patchwork Labs, I take the most elite of individuals and transform them into even more. I harness their full potential. My name isn’t necessary for you to know, the work I’m doing is so much more important. But I noticed it tends to lower my subjects’ heart rate, so you can call me Doc.” He smiled down at Tim as he put one hand in his pocket, but it didn’t seem to reach his eyes.

 “Nh- What do you want? I don’t have time for this.” Tim blinked against the blinding lights, breathing starting to even out.

“Oh, I think you’ll find that all your time now belongs to me, Red Robin. You should take one last look at yourself before the transformation.” Doc took a remote out of his pocket, then pressed a button, and a large mirror on a robotic arm descended from the ceiling, stopping about two meters above Tim. He gave his reflection an unamused look, catching his mussed-up hair, broken mask, and hospital gown – how had they managed to get his suit off and how long ago – at a glance.

Tim’s neck was starting to hurt from twisting to look at the guy, so he flopped back onto the table, testing the leather restraints. “You’re going to regret this. Any minute now, someone’s going to get here and break me out, and-”

“Save the superhero dramatics. Nobody’s coming for you, subject 1289. Now hold still. All units, begin the procedure.”

There was the sound of more buttons being pressed and switches flipped, then more arms appeared, wielding scalpels and tubes and a myriad of other tools- Was that a SAW??! Tim held back his noise of dread and strained against the straps again, trying desperately to wriggle out of them and get away before any of the arms could sink their metal blades into him. But they pulled tight to the operating table, holding him down as the scalpels reached his skin and started to split it. “Ngh- Stop- Stop!” He tried not to jar the blades, but they sliced deep into his flesh, and he cried out, pulling at the restraints. One hovered up by his face, pressing up to the thin skin over his jaw, and he wanted to freeze, but he couldn’t stop from spasming and crying out again as the others pushed deeper.

Doc sighed. “I expected as much. E9, the syringe.” One of the arms swapped its tube for a large syringe, then swung itself down toward him.

“No- Shit- Don’t. Don’t-” But the needle sank into his neck below the strap pinning it down, and he felt every part of his body slowly go limp and pliant.

The pain didn’t numb.

He felt every bit of it as the scalpels sliced into his leg and side and jaw, separating skin and muscle and tendon and bone, tracing lines of sinew and cutting through at just the right places. He felt it as another needle was inserted into his hip, and as one of the arms pushed a thick plastic tube down his throat. He was wide awake, simply helpless and immobilized on the metal table. He couldn’t even breathe on his own.

Vecuronium bromide, his brain supplied helpfully.

His mouth hung open in a silent scream of agony, vocal cords immobilised by the paralytic, and his eyes were fixed on the mirror above him. He could see every movement of the robotic arms as they sliced and poked and inserted metal fixtures into his flesh. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t have looked away. Even as the saw started to whir to life and head toward his face.

He wanted to fight, to pull the straps off and tumble to the ground, to scream in helplessness and pain. He did none of that. He simply lay there like the limp corpse he’d been moments earlier as the saw sliced through his skin and into muscle.

He blacked out when it hit bone.

————

He was vaguely aware of voices – or rather a voice – echoing around him as he regained consciousness. His eyes fluttered open to see Doc standing over him in a surgical mask and scrubs, picking up a white object and looking it over. It was only when his eyes began to focus that he could see that the lumpy white thing was half of his jaw bone, most of the teeth still attached and stained with blood. Then he realised he could feel cold air against the side of his tongue. He let out a strangled sound of panic, feebly twitching against the restraints.

“Ah, he’s awake. That’s enough recalibration, C2, continue the procedure.” Doc set the jaw down and closed a panel on one of the arms, then leaned against the wall to watch as the machines descended back on Tim. A scalpel headed down toward his leg, and he looked up at the mirror almost against his will to see mangled flesh and the edge of a bloody bone sticking into thin air where his calf should be. Another moved up to his jaw with a silver object in its grip, placing it against his face as one holding a drill tested its tool dangerously close.

“Nh- No- No no no NO, NO-” He screamed as the drill found purchase and started to push a screw through the metal into his face, kicking at the restraints as another claw floated down and started to slice his fingers open, and another began to solder something into his leg, and another peeled back the skin over his ribs, and another started to drill into the back of his skull-

He blacked out again.

————

When Subject 1289 woke up, it was only aware of a few things. The sterile smell of the room it had been moved to. The near-silent whirring of the ventilation system. The aching of its large conch-shaped ears as they swivelled under the bandages. The fresh scabs around its claws. The soreness of its whole body like a heavy weight pressing it to the ground.

It groaned softly, blinking once or twice in the darkness, then squeaked and scanned the room with echolocation. It sensed a drain in the floor, a vent in the top corner, and nothing else but itself.

Then there was the quiet rolling of a door sliding open, and every single one of its senses homed in on the scent of blood. It instantly pushed itself off the ground and bounded through the low door, claws digging into the metal floor as it charged toward the smell, every thought of pain gone in the flood of BLOODBLOODBLOODPREYHUNTKILL.

The storm broke them from the sky. Bianca's heart leapt to her throat, as she quickly scrambled to buckle her seatbelt. It was supposed to be a simple hunt: deal with the monsters attacking the village further into the jungle.

The Shinra Heli went down like a wounded hawk. Engines shrieked as lightning chewed through its conduits. Bianca remembered the white flash, and then the world folded sideways.

The pilot never screamed. The copilot’s last breath burned through the reek of oil and flames. By the time the wreckage settled among the Gongaga trees, the rain had already begun to fall in thick, warm sheets, pinging against the sides of the twisted broken tail and sides.

Bianca pulled herself from the wreckage first. Her right wing hung low. Her feathers clotted with mud, blood, and ash. Every step through the ruin left ruddy streaks in the muck. The Red Thread around her wrist flickered softly until she felt Sephiroth move behind her, emerging from the shattered cargo bay.

His coat was blackened along the sleeves, the silver pauldrons scorched to a dull gray. His long hair—soaked through—clung to his chest, the open line of his collar, and wide expanse of his shoulders, back, and waist. He should have looked ruined. He didn’t.

Lightning still rolled through the canopy, rattling and shaking the leaves overhead. Mako runoff from higher up painted the ground in veins of green light, and insects hummed in the dark, buzzing around the giant mushrooms dotting the landscape.

Gongaga’s jungle had a way of swallowing sound, except for the rain, which pressed in close enough to feel like serpent coiling around Gaia. Jungles always made Bianca feel the same way: suffocating and constricting, like a lover with its hands around her throat. No way out.

Their comms were dead. Shinra would not come tonight. So, they did the only thing they could do. They walked.

The jungle fought them with every step. Roots coiled across the path, ferns clawed at their legs, and the heat turned their armor into suffocating shells. The air tasted of rust and chlorophyll. Somewhere far off, a creature called out. A warbling, mournful note that trembled through the trees, reminding both why they were there in the first place.

“Bianca.” Sephiroth’s voice carried cleanly, even through the rain. “You’re bleeding.”

She glanced down. A gash along her thigh had already sealed halfway. The meat beneath the wound pulsed an ugly red, while the wound knitted. Skin stretched, interlacing, and stitched together.

“Not enough to slow me.” She walked beneath a branch he held up above her head.

The thread pulsed in faint reprimand. His wrist twitched once. With Sephiroth, his reactions were barely visible on the best days. On the worse? He observed and then, would take action. He didn’t speak again.

By the time they reached the outskirts of an old Gongaga reactor village, dusk had deepened into violet haze. Jungle vines had swallowed whole roofs, pulling rusted tin down into the dirt. Drowing memories with the heart of the jungle.

Crumbled stone, twisted girders, and the faint green gleam of residual mako seepage were all that remained of Shinra’s promise of prosperity. They were like Asmodeus, her father. Always whispering what people desired and exploiting that need.

Nature was reclaiming what science had devoured, as the Planet was taking back what man foolishly attempted to tame.

They found shelter at the edge of the forest: a hunter’s lodge long since half-collapsed. Its walls bowed and roof patched with tarps that snapped and billowed in the wind screaming through buildings and their lush surroundings.

The smell inside was thick: wet soil, rotted wood, the metallic ghost of old energy. One cot remained intact. The others had been torn apart. Their wooden frames feeding the blackened, makeshift hearth in the center of the caved-in floor.

Bianca pushed the door closed behind them. Rain still dripped through seams in the ceiling. She retrieved a single lantern from her pack. Her biceps rippled as she lit the lamp, and the flight flickered to life, throwing a soft amber glow over the ruined building. Dust motes drifted through the beam like ghosts.

Sephiroth unfastened his pauldrons with practiced ease, placing them beside the cot. When he finally peeled it away, his coat left streaks of damp soot against his skin. The leather straps of his harness crossed his bare chest, dark against the pale sheen of him.

“You should rest,” he said. His tone was even, but his eyes—mako greenr—catching light like deep water and tracked her movements with a precision that made her pulse skip. His pupils contracted to near slits.

“I will.” She kicked off her boots with a grunt, thigh-highs slick with condensation. Her red turtleneck was torn at the hem, the brown harness scuffed, but the damage felt irrelevant.

Rain had curled stray strands of her hair. The black and violet waves laid heavy against her shoulders and back. The white ribbon holding the half-do had come loose, leaving it to drape along her neck and her ponytail sagged against the loose locks.

He turned slightly away when she tugged at the leather straps affixed to her belly guard, though his attention never fully left her.

Sephiroth had always been careful about that: about seeing without looking, about dressing up distance as discipline, about cataloguing her injuries and assessing her healing with a minimial glance.

The cot creaked under his weight when he finally sat. It was narrow, as it was built for one. As she looked at the thin frame, it could fit maybe two if they didn’t move much. She eyed the floor, where condensation shimmered over the boards. Steam rose faintly from the heat below. The ghost of the old reactor’s veins was still alive in the soil.

“I’ll take the floor,” Bianca spoke up first.

“No. It’s not safe.”

“Neither is that cot if you roll over.”

He gave the faintest breath of a laugh: a soft baritone sound that filled the small space with warmth, despite their circumstance. “I don’t roll. You know that.”

She sighed and sat beside him. The Red Thread curled between their wrists, glowing faintly crimson in the lamplight. Her cheeks flushed, and she quickly schooled that reactor, slipping back into her stoic mask.

“Fine. Practicality wins.” She was too tired to argue.

The rain outside deepened. It drummed steady as a heartbeat on the plastic canvas overhead. Raindrops dripped overhead, splattering against the metal of his pauldrons in pings.

Bianca stretched out first. Her boots were still on, hugging her calves, knees, and thighs. No blanket. He lay beside her after a pause. His armor half-removed with the Masamune propped within reach against the cot’s frame. The black and silver, singled-edge blade gleamed beneath the lamp light. Coat folded neatly beside it at the bottom of the cot. His body radiated unnatural and steady warmth.

For a long time, they didn’t speak.

Bianca watched the water bead along the tarps above, collecting and falling in quiet intervals. The jungle outside breathed: frogs, insects, the hiss of distant rivers. When she shifted slightly, her shoulder brushed his arm. The contact was electric. His skin cool, smooth, and impossibly still. Sephiroth did not move away.

She felt the Red Thread stir between them, wrapping like silk around her pulse, glowing with each beat of his pulse. Through it, his emotions brushed hers: emotions that he suppressed but couldn't hid from her. His emotions were controlled, steady, but with undercurrents she could never quite name. So warm that it often gave her pause, as she tried to decipher it with words that Hojo has tried to steal from them as children but couldn't beat out of them with his tests: affection, love, and friendship.

Sephiroth felt the sting in her thigh wound, and she felt him dull it. A trade, silent and intimate. She clenched her eyes shut, trying to block out the memories of when they shared a smaller bed—a crate and a thin, ratty blanket—in that sterile, windowless lab room.

“You shouldn’t take that pain,” she whispered.

He didn’t open his eyes to look at her. He didn't need to. “It’s automatic.”

“It hurts.”

“So do you.”

The words hung there. She didn’t know if he meant the wound or herself, but she let it rest. She was too tired to argue or figure it out. Her eyelids grew heavy, the rhythm of rain lulling her despite the ache in her muscles. She could feel him next to her. He did not touch her, except where her arm rested lightly against his. The world outside faded into sound and scent: mako, ash, smoke from their helicopter crash east of the village, wet leaves, and thunder rolling along the horizon.

Somewhere between one breath and the grief of losing their comrades, she drifted.

When she woke, it was still dark. The lantern had gone out, leaving the room washed in silver moonlight leaking through holes in the roof and the canopy overhead. The rain had gentled to a whisper.

He was holding her.

Not tightly. His embrace was just enough that her back rested against his chest, and his arm looped loosely around her waist. His coat was draped over them both. It was heavy, warm, and faintly smelled of him, burnt leather, and rain. She could feel the slow rise and fall of his breathing, the steady rhythm of his breathe where it touched against her bare back. His knees folded behind hers, and her wound long since healed in the dead of night.

The Red Thread glowed softly. Its light painted faint heart-shaped patterns across their wrists. Through it, she felt his calm: not emptiness, as usual, but peace, rare and fragile.

Bianca didn’t move. She only breathed, letting the warmth soak through her. His other hand rested just above her hip, as his fingers relaxed. The touch was unconscious.

Sephiroth never initiated contact. Hojo had trained him to regard it as weakness, as the scientist did her, as well. But here, away from cameras and command, instinct had undone the lesson. Such a curious thing.

She smiled into the dim. Her fangs caught a glint of light when she bit her lower, plump lip: a nervous habit she picked up when she was overwhelmed. His hand moved up to wrap around her chest, pulling her closer to him and his body heat. Her heart thrummed against his left palm.

You’re awake. His thought brushed against hers.

So are you.

I don’t sleep easily.

You should try.

He didn’t answer. But she felt the faint pulse of amusement. A ripple through the bond was warm but fleeting. His thumb moved, as if tracing the line of the thread beneath her skin.

Outside, the jungle sang: frogs, cicadas, and the soft percussion of droplets falling from higher leaves. The storm’s fury had burned itself out, leaving behind the smell of earth and ozone.

Bianca tilted her head slightly. Her hair brushed his jaw. “You ever notice how the world feels new after a storm?”

He made a low sound, a noise that seemed to take up the full expanse of the hunting lodge, halfway between agreement and thought. “Or perhaps it only appears cleaner because everything that survived has proven it can survive.”

“Philosopher Sephiroth,” she murmured. “Rare breed.”

He didn’t rise to the tease. He never did this early in the morning. His breath stirred her hair. “You’re warm,” he said instead.

“So are you.”

They lasped into silence again, but it was the soft kind: the kind that hummed with everything left unsaid between them.

The Red Thread flared once, as if answering for them both.

When dawn came, the first light filtered through the broken roof, washing them in pale gold. Steam curled from the ground outside, and the air smelled of wildflowers, mushrooms, and rust. Bianca woke to find his arm still around her, his hand steady where it rested. She didn’t move for a long moment. Neither did he.

When they reached Gongaga village, they would call for extraction. Shinra would send a recovery team soon. The world would close around them again—orders, cameras, telling the parents of the decease pilots, and the cold weight of their expected duty.

But for now, there was only the soft remnants of rain against leaves, the hum of life around the ruined village, and the quiet miracle of warmth shared between two people who were never supposed to need it, much less feel it.

The Red Thread shimmered between their wrists, a promise written in light. For once, neither of them looked away.

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