is your blood 𝑎𝑢𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑐 ?

something you're used to— it's sour implication hooks into the meat of him and tugs at the fetid edge of something still foggy enough to remain unnamed. detached, far out of focus to provoke him into complacency. opting for the path that'll spare another headache in favor of a hard-lined stare damaen knows will land better than any half-nurtured, unrealized rebuttal. that place his clenched jaw can't avoid forever, but steers him away from intentionally. " ..something like that. " faced towards the fire, he stokes the hiccupping embers with the tip of a sword still stained in blood he's chosen not to rid it of. pretty, rust-colored, it's a spiderweb no child of lolth could spin with more skill than what stipples incidental and chipping.

" i'm hardly sulking, " that'd require he feel more than this confused hunger, absent and unsure of what it yearns to be filled with. if a log, impaled, charred and sparkling when raised from the flames, can function as substitute for.. something more.

and your ghoulish thoughts ?

astarion may not chastise him for them, but they are his ghoulish thoughts to do with as he pleases. pretend the snarling face of a yapping goblin was aloft ahead of him. pretend that pretty little tiefling girl, song slit from her tongue, swallowed the length of his blade instead. pretend there was anything but this lifeless, silent hunk of lumber to toss back into the pit. he'd thank him for his distance if he knew how often his lovely visage was there, at that other end, as well.

his boots drag over squeaking floorboards and tifa hears the stagger in his steps before she sees what leaks red through gloved fingers. he needn't say a word, needn't even make eye contact for her to rush forward. because she knows cloud — knows he'd hide the wound if he didn't want her help, knows he'd turn to mask the severity and slouch away somewhere hidden if he'd hoped to avoid her often-offered aid. so of course she's here ( always, always ) and only sighs quietly as she gingerly reaches to regard the wound herself, brow knit with the worry bunched up tight for him ( always, always ).

he's not sure which dirties up the place worse ; the mud on his boots or the blood leaked between his fingers. neither seem to bother tifa and though he's not surprised, there's an undertow that whispers he'll need to make it up to her. adds it to an ever-growing list that will never find an end so long as he repeats the same mistakes over and over and over again. walking into a mirage. listening to voices that aren't there. this time, the fall was short, just a few stories. but next time ? he'd lie, if asked, and say there'd not be a next time.

" wasn't paying attention, " dull, listless, his voice is distant and the stool up under him whines where he doesn't. moves as she instructs, back to bare what met the business end of twisted rebar and a shack's rusted roof top. it'll heal, quick, too, probably. turn itself into a reminder that heights deserved better than his wandering mind and careless pursuits. no matter how tall they towered or how hot the flames in their wake could seem. illusion or memory, it's tucked away beneath his tongue and a frown. " ..i don't know. "

exhaustion tugs his shoulders forward, leans his crown into one of hers for a second to catch breaths that aren't coming quite as steady as he needs them. a side effect of forgetting his limitations, maybe, but she'd recognize his idling for what it is. in the absence of words, cloud confesses he's tired. spent. he's a barrel what's bottom has been scraped clean and the only blame to be had is his alone.

it happens fast, too fast — a blur in the last-minute catch of peripherals swung with the sudden turn of his head. he hears it more than he sees it, too. a low grunt, the shuffling of a struggle, the startled gasp of a stranger's voice bunched, gargled, in a damaged throat desperate to gulp down air. chris even stumbles back, shoved by the hard invasion of a body inserting itself between him and whatever ambush had been meant to split flesh. the same flesh that spikes alive with adrenaline, with surprise of his own as he realizes what's happened.

the assailant has been dealt with in the sliver of a second, it seems; sprawled back on the concrete in this unfinished construction site of a hideout. but that's not as important as what had pushed between chris and the knife carving for redfield's blood. wesker had moved between them in the blink of an instant, must have snapped the attacker's neck or crunched his windpipe with a jab so deadly precise. either way, chris is grateful ( if flustered, if embarrassed that he'd needed the assist enough for such personal interference ) and exhales a low whistle of praise as he reaches for his captain's shoulder, squeezes his appreciation and means to prompt him to turn so he can look him in the face. "shit, cap. nice catch. can't believe i didn't even—"

that's when he sees it, the knife still sunk into albert's side. he'd begun to wonder where the weapon had skidded away to and sees now it had found paydirt after all. wesker hadn't just interfered for efficiency's sake and chris blinks stunned with the discovery, the realization. "—the fuck?"

simple missions are rarely simple. one day, he'll question himself why he prefers it that way. savors the kick of adrenaline when a plan need pivot and his timeframe gets cut in half. quartered if they're unlucky. out from under the glare of bright lights, his hands are steady on the grip of his pistol. another corridor scanned meant they could move on. leave the pit of this warehouse and another den of drug mules carting off the property of what stretches broad over the whole of the city. umbrella had a certain vested interest in this going according to plan. and he.. albert had interests of his own.

three feet from a hatch door, he sees the glint that redfield doesn't. weighs the worth of intervention against the long-term payout of an experiment that's still many, many months away. beneath that, even, however, is something untouched and deliberately reburied. its part in his decision is for his eyes only, the initial sting of impatient steel all the motivation he needs to forget fascination and opt, instead, for the fluid lean of strong arms and a torque that severs a scream from wide lips. he doesn't see their face, both darkness and balaclava keep them a mystery he isn't moving to unearth. allows the body ( all that remains ) slump slowly beside unimpressed boots that further nudge for distance. space to decide his next move.

only.. chris does that for him. hurries to cup a steady pressure at either side of a deceptively long blade while his hands choose their own targets. the left ; his holster, gun seated and safe. the right ; a thick wrist, squeezed but not jerked away.

" hn, " his grunt isn't damning, though it rises from somewhere deep. pushes itself against a pulse he feels quickening under the pads of bare fingers. a sidekick for his concern, blatant and loud, doing their placement, there, in the belly of enemy territory, no favors. " quiet, " through teeth, it's a quiver he hadn't expected. the waver that pulls his subordinate from the doorway, back nearer the stock they'd marked already. someplace his shoulders can lean into while the damage is assessed and all that panic in hazel eyes garners the momentum to dull his reprimand. blunt it into another measured exhale. another glance whether blood runs slick between their hands. why did he do it ?

the news blares nonstop, an incessant boom of fear mongering and ass-kissing rufus has witnessed since boyhood. but rather than bloom his gaze wide, wondering, worried, there is only the dimmed dullness of disappointment within the pale eyes that scrutinize the screen. another failed assassination attempt on his father's life, another reason for heidegger to bulk up security and leave less to hope for within each morning's emails sitting far too smug within his inbox.

the turks, though. the turks hadn't risked what truly matters — what is shinra's future, what is shinra's only way forward out of inevitable decay. rufus had almost resisted the order, though. had insisted he deal personally with any assailant waiting to spring a second strike all the way here in junon. it would've been a farce, after all. any attempt at his own life would have only had the president asking if his VP had put the problem down himself and scoffed at either answer.

the king does not dirty his hands with what lesser men and hunting dogs are meant for.

stand strong, be a man. letting your battles be fought for you is a coward's move!

the old man's voice swinging either way pulls his son's lips into a sneer, even when it sits imagined in his own head. and shames him for letting reno take him by the shoulder, tell him he's got orders and they gotta ditch his office for his penthouse. fine, he'd huffed.

now that's where he stands, finally rolling his eyes and turning away from the news footage of the sniper's poor shot and the president's head getting ducked down by his military escort. the circus bores him, has him shucking off his long white coat to throw over the sofa. he wants a drink, also needs to clock where reno's decided to lurk. there's movement in the living room, where a lanky shape cuts distinct against so much expensive marble.

something something, tighten his circle. the ins and outs of the orders are second-hand and he's quick to wave them off as they situate. he knew how to do his job. he knew when to bow his head and bite his tongue, albeit something done without the illusion that he enjoyed it. that's what rufus preferred. had said so from the start. he liked his turks with their teeth bare and their grins sharp. liked how they knew the hierarchy of the company in mind.. liked how they disregarded the expected and differed to him instead. even now. when when his own head was between crosshairs. again. like always.

the penthouse is one more pitstop in his opinion. it's warm lighting and fancy flasks half-emptied their expensive liquors he's been offered a time or two but never indulged in. always with the tests. always with the want to know where his professionalism began and end. would've humored the question on its own, but there's an entertaining facet that can only come from paced words and his own amused explitives.

so when rufus wanders ? he seeks his distractions elsewhere.

lured by the sprawl of frames.. the half-tucked albums coated in dust, lacking any sentimentality in a hardly creased spine. could've put a bullseye on it and been less obvious. reno's fingers are thin and deft. they're quick on the draw and tap a rhythmless beat atop aged photographs, all different hues of sun soaked. they'd sat out, once. on a mantle, probably. some make-believe attempt at normalcy that the shinra name couldn't function alongside. the old man ? still old. more hair, perhaps, but he's thick in the middle, a cigar between his lips and the sour expression of a man who'd rather be anywhere else.

the woman though.. he's not met her. could gauge some relation in those pretty blue eyes that mirror the boy held close to her breast. that.. now that's different.

" maybe, " good was arguable. there's nothing good about a child with red cheeks and the obvious signs of a tantrum. tucked into a tiny suit, reno's snickering as he flips ahead. " go ahead and give him a reason, i'm sure he's dying to chew my ass. " make up for a handful of missions that might have seen fulfillment, though he'd been sure to leave several dents on several cars in the process. man had to make his own fun when work dragged on. " lookin' for a tub pic i can run off with for the press, obviously. bare-assed baby smack dab on the front page. " reno wasn't looking for anything. that's what made finding it so much sweeter.

what is ada if not sharpness and ice, the serrated edge of a blade that will shred even when it's pulled free from the stab wound? she knows this, embraces this, lives this; breathes this completely cool and composed, unbothered by the mess always spattered so much scarlet truth in the aftermath. and yet… leon kennedy keeps coming back. keeps finding her in the dark crags of this ugly world, keeps softening tired looks that should stay steeled for the inevitable cold front and the mauling bite and the twist of that goddamn knife.

but here he is, all the same. here he is when she tries to show him in so much ghosting and silence that maybe, just maybe, he should reconsider when she leaves him an invitation to finally find her.

there had never been an alternative. never had an urge to fly back home and pretend there wasn't this bottomless cleft grown wide in his belly. that chasm she'd filled in the dark, quiet interlude between bouts of gunfire and shouting. ada posed her invitation like a threat. a warning. told him how and where to find her when this was all said and done and, now that he has, she's as evasive as ever. haughty gaze turning elsewhere.. arms folded, then not. she's standoffish and he knows better than to step into space occupied and uninviting.

but..

" yeah, probably not, " it rattles earnest. conjoins with the brush of his thumb and a pensive exhale that sinks his shoulders and begins the slow, ambling curl of a half-hearted smile. " but i've always been a slow learner. " and the shallow morose that pulls the sly edge off her features is enough incentive to convince him he'd made the right call. there's no space left. nothing but a breath held for her sake and the first nudge from his brow to hers is glancing. just contact. just reassurance. she's coiled tight, spring-loaded and always ready to make her exit. maybe his want, then, is greedy. maybe leon's lips, chaste in their landing, have no right to deprive her of that escape. maybe he'd have cared more if he weren't such an idiot.

jill jolts only at first, tense with the instinctual urge to thrash, escape, flee. but she knows that only makes muscles clench harder, encourages jaws heavier where they've trapped their catch. army training isn't the only thing that reminds her of how men expect the game be played and wesker is not like most men, or any at all she's ever known. so her heart pounds and her blood drums loud in her ears. though fear, doubt, and stress are hardly to blame for the heightened beat or the heat that's pooling again in her gut; her senses awake and alert and wired so damn alive in a rush she feels tingling between the shoulder blades pressed into the hard shape of him behind her.

the 'whys' are not worth her attention right now. she has a job to do, a self to salvage, a point to prove. and an ego to topple where it would be better suited disheveled upon the floor beneath her, scuffed and panting.

but her frustration is still palpable and steeled within the hard line of her jaw, the gritted line of teeth she bares briefly. because he's still so calm there, still such a level voice and now it washes hot against the shell of her ear. raises gooseflesh up the side of her captive neck, prickles a clawed touch feather-light to the nape. smug bastard.

jill tests his grip, jerking just enough to find where best to use his weight against him. and to give the impression that she aims to thrash and kick and squirm when instead she wills her lungs to slow, her head to keep thoughts precise like he himself has often reminded. much as his closeness threatens more of that distraction alive and hungry the further this unfolds and stokes a fire she should've stamped out weeks ago.

his voice sinks through her skin, settles down deep past it and coaxes that heat needling and gnawing into her insides. also taunts her, tests her like the vibrations from his chest firm and flush behind her as the sound resonates through her own ribs like a growl. one that unspools her own for a moment; some low sound more instinctual than anything strained from effort huffed in frustration. because now he does have all of her attention. now it is just him — rock solid, unmoving and unyielding and unimpressed — and her, whose hand latches to one of his thighs where her nails dig in and drag.

slowly, just slowly, that hard touch pulls up the length of that strong slope of leg almost sensual, ghosting intimate. and her head, wrenched back as it is, rocks further just once as though to boldly offer more throat to the squeeze of his bicep, but more so to hiss words to him through her teeth in the huff of a labored growl. "ever think… you're right where i want you?"

her hand squeezes at his thigh before dropping, the other reaching back to actually swipe for his shades just before he guides their roll. a hard fling is meant to send them flying before she gives a firm, bucking thrust with her pelvis — an abrupt push of her lower center of gravity meant to jostle his higher one, to try and use her grounded advantage against him to budge open even the smallest sliver of space in his hold for her to slip free. which she's ready for, prepared to twist to the side out from under the crook of his arm as she fights to bow her head down in spite of his heavy clutch to try and maneuver any tiny shift of weight, of power, of torque she can manipulate against him in the sharp seconds of action she's trying to finesse as fast as she can. is determined, one way or another, to throw him onto the mat to stake a pounced claim atop whenever the chance opens. if she can't use this moment efficiently, he'll just clamp down harder and that'll be that.

her brow furrows, her body moves lithesome, sleek, with stern purpose. because jill has to prove herself, has to make this count. otherwise, she shouldn't be here. and… she wants to be here.

between the initial grab and this newest cinch, there've been ample opportunities to end this. some are simple. just, even. the twist of his hips to plant her face down on the mat. sink his fingers further into the crook of his arm.. squeeze until she stops quivering. he considers it with the careful calm of a man unpressed for time. this isn't his point to prove. albert will walk out of this room with the same stride he walked into it with. his chin will remain high, his gaze an intrinsically appraising one, veiled and cold. he'll put distance between himself and the precinct, a wayward mission more due for his focus than the scraps someone, eventually, would scrape from the mat.

under that, however, is something more. primal in the exhale fanning her nape. jill's pulse, thrumming against his forearm, it pleads in wordless struggle, bleating for an end that could be dredged from the bottom of him. pulled forward with the muck and the brine of it all.. his cheekbone nestled near the base of her skull ; she'd fight it, but he could find the torque. he could twist until that savory pop! told him he'd done well. a limp body, still warm, rolled into whichever corner suited her. there'd be uproar. an investigation. there would be fallout and too many lines drawn for one man to tiptoe between. for all the option that it may be, he's turned away from it, quick as it rose.

" no, " pointed and quiet, her jostling rocks the both of them, the hand on his thigh failing to go unnoticed as it seeks refuge high and deep. digs for a pressure point he turns away from desperate fingertips and allows the momentum to veer in her favor. fun as it'd be to truly test her, there was ample justification in keeping her around. intact. on his side.

jill's want is to roll them one way, thrusted hips insisting the left and, for her trouble, he gives her the right. relents so as to revolve as far as an outstretched arm allows. not so much to boast freedom, but enough to say she's on the verge of it. would taste fresh air in desperate gulps while he, on his back, grins at the ceiling and gauges his want to return. see if that satisfaction can maintain itself under the tutelage of damning hands still in control of a wrist that, so thin, could be snapped with the right momentum.

to her credit, the angle is odd. not ideal. a swipe for his glasses might have skewed them briefly, but gravity and a nod ( jerked with necessity ) reseats them.

" impressive. " albert isn't panting, each inhale as stable as its predecessors, " a strange place to want me at, however. "

distance works to jill's advantage, but his is an appeal that bathes in the shadow of her oversight. where half-gloved fingers are counting a heartbeat that dances an erratic rhythm and the first in a pair of tugs shortens the space between them. even with shoulder blades firmly squared over pads, his strength supplants hers. all the reminder needed of those braggadocios colleagues she strives so hard to impress. he is her surrogate. he is the amalgam and the obstacle. the obelisk she plants her heels and attempts to budge with grit and frustration alone. but for each inch gained, her captain snatches back two. three. takes advantage of his composure to pivot, his stance righted to rooted knees and the arm still pulled is an easy target.

a chance to breathe may seem useful, but he was bred for purposes like this. scraped soles, long legs, someone less learned wouldn't be capable without causing unnecessary damage. they'd twist wrong. they would fall victim to an overzealous aptitude and the sudden armbar he traps her in would be disastrous.

instead, it teases fondness. an almost delicate transition, his thumb taps a casual beat to mimic the pulse sat below. crook of an elbow.. curve of a bicep. for each punch pulled, so too are hers. tact and training, there came a point where survival needed to learn its worth. utilize the weapons all were born with. blunt nails wouldn't suffice, but the teeth gnashed ? what he feels grinding under the pressure of a jaw so tense ? jill would get free when she accepted that not all skills need be tactical. not every technique was in a handbook.

" what are you thinking, right now. " was she in this room still ? how far did valentine's mind wander, left to the quiet grunts of a match decided hours ago.. before she'd descended that long, narrow staircase. before he'd accepted her request. albert's tucked her hand behind the slope of his shoulder, braced his own, conjoined, at the crux of her capitellum and humeroulnar joint for an over-extension that swears worse for his mercy's limitations.

unrest had shifted enough within the air, tilted his head just a sliver toward the partner they've assigned him. suggested, more like, but he'd allowed it. she's a vague curiosity that has proven herself enough to draw his recognition, slight though it is. there is something in the scene she has glimpsed before, known firsthand. not uncommon when riots have been pushing back more frequent, spurred hot beneath the pressure of war's tight tension, but… this seems personal. even the distance she's put between them speaks where she does not.

"perhaps." languid and unhurried, sephiroth turns only enough to regard her within a stare always cutting itself stern, sharp through the space it carves into like masamune's ruthless steel. even when there is a curiosity born genuine in the way it considers her face, the mako flushed pale in her eyes.

for better or worse, she doesn't get far. can't run from a question and the observation that fuels it. the struck match that sears at already tucked edges, attempting to fold further. hide themselves out of sight. lightning is thirteen again, her sister far from her side, and the shred of gunfire does little to alter a carefully narrowed gaze. without context he can't pry further. good. there'd never been anything at the bottom of that corpse pile to begin with.

" should it ? " a whole lifetime ago. be it the weight of the sword on her hip or, perhaps, the otherness of her company, this all feels.. trivial. a tower of what-if's and shoddy memories she can't be sure are accurate. " there's nothing special about what happened then, and there's nothing special about what's happening down there. " off where she's nodded, a mother has gathered her children and hurried them from the crowd.. there's a drunkard stoking the fire, his shouts stretching upwards for an echo she doesn't bother focusing in on. " you act like you've never seen it before. "

he's of a breed who moves when he chooses. not because she's nodded towards their heading. not because some distant sycophant had wooed him off his pedestal long enough to do their dirty work. so his idling turns into hers. his perch approached. his view shared by steadier eyes than before and a thin-lipped expression that offers little. lightning recognizes more than one of them. time hasn't been kind. when had it ever ? " no one ever learns from their mistakes. "

not even you ?

fingers tease the hilt of her sword, playing for want to draw it, bright eyes at a corner that seat sephiroth comfortably in peripherals, " does it bother you ? "