The Uninvited
Feb. 11th, 2021 02:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seleniasTitle: The Uninvited
Characters/pairing: Reno/Elena
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Rating: T
Word Count: 868
Notes: For Final Fantasy Kiss Battle! :D
-
The juice pools on the carpet. The waiter grabs the pitcher before it joins the mess on the floor, but it’s imitation silk, and not-easily dyed though it makes Reno wonder how anyone keeps a clean parlor -- it’s a mess their host won’t appreciate, who invited lovely men and women, not animals. The threat of removal makes him giddy though, if he’s honest. This has been a boring ass party up until now. Should've sent Rude.
He steps backward into a green arm chair and wipes the blur out of his eyes.
The only casualty here is the suit. And cover. And dinner, though Reno took fistfuls of those little mini quiche things, prosciutto and spinach and red pepper flakes and something else he couldn’t name. His fingers are still greasy.
(He wasn’t paying.)
“Looks like your box dye,” Elena says. “What’s it called -- Manic Red? Whatever. Guests have been double-dipping all night.”
Reno’s laugh turns into a grimace. His lips are tingling and his jaw aches when he leers, or tries to, fingers unbuttoning the sticky fabric where it’s trailing water trails down his pants and shoes and dripping in uncomfortable places.
This is easy to salvage. He makes eye contact and holds it; Elena dries her hands with the fabric napkin, the silver of her watch winking in the warm glow of cheap bulbs. Her glass sits empty on the coffee table.
“Woah,” Reno says. “Back-up, honey. Don’t step in it. Don’t get it on your dress.”
Elena drops the napkin in the mess and steps over it, reaching for him.
She’s not considering the options here, nor is she watching their client exit through the front quarters, gently plucking a long brown coat off the brass hook by the double doors. Reno’s hands stop at the top of his pants. He flicks juice into the upholstery.
“You messed up my lipstick. This brand’s expensive. I hate waste.”
“Huh,” Reno says. “Let me see.” He holds his hand out. Elena digs in her purse and drops a heavy black cylinder into his palm. Certified Shinra office girl product, Reno thinks. He’d watched her wipe it off her teeth with a piece of toilet paper from the crack of the bathroom stall thirty minutes ago. Special only to her.
“You,” Reno continues, “like playing dress-up.” He sniffs. “Perfume, too? Man. Kind of nice for women, actually. Grooming’s important.”
“Su Varani. Earthy tones. Not floral. Gives me a headache otherwise. Requested it for this.”
“Aw,” Reno says. “No one likes floral. Same with candles.”
Elena sizes him up from head to toe. “Your clothes are ruined. We can’t stay here,” she announces. “We need to go to the laundromat.”
“Dry-cleaners,” he corrects. “Of course we don’t wash our own clothes, speak the language.” He catches her arm in his and hangs right through the crowd. Guests are only starting to notice the pool on the floor and the waiter is grumpily flooding the spill with water. Reno’s clothes are uncomfortably sticky and where Elena leans against him blooms with warmth.
“I wouldn’t get any ideas,” she says. “I don’t like your suit. Or your mouth. Better closed.”
Reno clicks his teeth. “Heard. Meant no disrespect. Most people like a little tongue. You just had a little something.”
She nods her head.
A pocket of cold air, slick with exhaust wheezes into their faces on the street. VIP lines stretch North, couples in identical pairs stare longingly at their exit. Reno imagines what nest a nervous rat may escape to; I’d walk up the street before taking a taxi. I’d turn off my phone. I’d go lower plate.
“Now,” Reno says. He drops his weight into her shoulders. Rain floods the sidewalk and turns the hems wet. His sketchy appearance winks back. “This isn’t a failure yet, but Tseng will have words for you. Here’s a lesson: don’t get distracted. And don’t distract me.”
Elena pulls an umbrella out of her purse. Cars blow past on the street, headlights streaking into the city. “You just have to show your face,” she says, “for him to know.”
Reno drags his hand over his fat lip, tongues the swelling in his cheek, considers; he saw a chance and he took it. “Maybe Tseng’s into that,” he says. “Shit. Don’t assume things.”
Elena doesn’t even look at him. He holds the umbrella while she reapplies her lip stick with the hand mirror.
“You were watching,” she says. “The best man.”
“Yeah,” Reno answers. He thinks she's asking something else. “Nervous disposition. Around one-hundred-seventy-five centimeters of baloney. Something else spooked him first.” He looks hard at her. “You done? I don’t want to be out in this shit weather.”
“Yes.” Elena inclines her head, hair tilting away from her face. Her mouth’s a smooth red line, even under the miserable awning lights, and Reno’s got to hand it to her -- some of their kind can clean up real nice. It makes him feel weird.
“Clear?”
“Clear,” he says breezily. This is one curiosity he's not sure he wants answered. Maybe later. Maybe never.
They merge into the sidewalk crowd, oil and water and cigarette smoke swirling into the night. Their client won't have a head start for long.
Characters/pairing: Reno/Elena
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Rating: T
Word Count: 868
Notes: For Final Fantasy Kiss Battle! :D
-
The juice pools on the carpet. The waiter grabs the pitcher before it joins the mess on the floor, but it’s imitation silk, and not-easily dyed though it makes Reno wonder how anyone keeps a clean parlor -- it’s a mess their host won’t appreciate, who invited lovely men and women, not animals. The threat of removal makes him giddy though, if he’s honest. This has been a boring ass party up until now. Should've sent Rude.
He steps backward into a green arm chair and wipes the blur out of his eyes.
The only casualty here is the suit. And cover. And dinner, though Reno took fistfuls of those little mini quiche things, prosciutto and spinach and red pepper flakes and something else he couldn’t name. His fingers are still greasy.
(He wasn’t paying.)
“Looks like your box dye,” Elena says. “What’s it called -- Manic Red? Whatever. Guests have been double-dipping all night.”
Reno’s laugh turns into a grimace. His lips are tingling and his jaw aches when he leers, or tries to, fingers unbuttoning the sticky fabric where it’s trailing water trails down his pants and shoes and dripping in uncomfortable places.
This is easy to salvage. He makes eye contact and holds it; Elena dries her hands with the fabric napkin, the silver of her watch winking in the warm glow of cheap bulbs. Her glass sits empty on the coffee table.
“Woah,” Reno says. “Back-up, honey. Don’t step in it. Don’t get it on your dress.”
Elena drops the napkin in the mess and steps over it, reaching for him.
She’s not considering the options here, nor is she watching their client exit through the front quarters, gently plucking a long brown coat off the brass hook by the double doors. Reno’s hands stop at the top of his pants. He flicks juice into the upholstery.
“You messed up my lipstick. This brand’s expensive. I hate waste.”
“Huh,” Reno says. “Let me see.” He holds his hand out. Elena digs in her purse and drops a heavy black cylinder into his palm. Certified Shinra office girl product, Reno thinks. He’d watched her wipe it off her teeth with a piece of toilet paper from the crack of the bathroom stall thirty minutes ago. Special only to her.
“You,” Reno continues, “like playing dress-up.” He sniffs. “Perfume, too? Man. Kind of nice for women, actually. Grooming’s important.”
“Su Varani. Earthy tones. Not floral. Gives me a headache otherwise. Requested it for this.”
“Aw,” Reno says. “No one likes floral. Same with candles.”
Elena sizes him up from head to toe. “Your clothes are ruined. We can’t stay here,” she announces. “We need to go to the laundromat.”
“Dry-cleaners,” he corrects. “Of course we don’t wash our own clothes, speak the language.” He catches her arm in his and hangs right through the crowd. Guests are only starting to notice the pool on the floor and the waiter is grumpily flooding the spill with water. Reno’s clothes are uncomfortably sticky and where Elena leans against him blooms with warmth.
“I wouldn’t get any ideas,” she says. “I don’t like your suit. Or your mouth. Better closed.”
Reno clicks his teeth. “Heard. Meant no disrespect. Most people like a little tongue. You just had a little something.”
She nods her head.
A pocket of cold air, slick with exhaust wheezes into their faces on the street. VIP lines stretch North, couples in identical pairs stare longingly at their exit. Reno imagines what nest a nervous rat may escape to; I’d walk up the street before taking a taxi. I’d turn off my phone. I’d go lower plate.
“Now,” Reno says. He drops his weight into her shoulders. Rain floods the sidewalk and turns the hems wet. His sketchy appearance winks back. “This isn’t a failure yet, but Tseng will have words for you. Here’s a lesson: don’t get distracted. And don’t distract me.”
Elena pulls an umbrella out of her purse. Cars blow past on the street, headlights streaking into the city. “You just have to show your face,” she says, “for him to know.”
Reno drags his hand over his fat lip, tongues the swelling in his cheek, considers; he saw a chance and he took it. “Maybe Tseng’s into that,” he says. “Shit. Don’t assume things.”
Elena doesn’t even look at him. He holds the umbrella while she reapplies her lip stick with the hand mirror.
“You were watching,” she says. “The best man.”
“Yeah,” Reno answers. He thinks she's asking something else. “Nervous disposition. Around one-hundred-seventy-five centimeters of baloney. Something else spooked him first.” He looks hard at her. “You done? I don’t want to be out in this shit weather.”
“Yes.” Elena inclines her head, hair tilting away from her face. Her mouth’s a smooth red line, even under the miserable awning lights, and Reno’s got to hand it to her -- some of their kind can clean up real nice. It makes him feel weird.
“Clear?”
“Clear,” he says breezily. This is one curiosity he's not sure he wants answered. Maybe later. Maybe never.
They merge into the sidewalk crowd, oil and water and cigarette smoke swirling into the night. Their client won't have a head start for long.
