if angeal missed anything about the lower ranks, it was that they were kept well away from the turks. seconds and thirds just didn't have the clearance for anything the suits got involved in. even the possibility of classified information falling into the hands of a soldier meant only the firsts could be trusted. SOLDIER and shinra's administrative research department were from two different worlds, ones that didn't collide often — but angeal would prefer it if they never did at all.
it wasn't as if he had a problem with them — in his short time as first, angeal had met tseng a handful of times, finding him nothing but professional and polite, and he'd shared several pleasant elevator rides with rude. it was when they got involved with his missions that he began to feel uneasy. under no obligation to share their objective, the turks made him feel small, stupid, like a child who couldn't be trusted. even at the highest ranks, soldiers didn't get paid to think, he was beginning to understand. it was his job to be the company's sword, to look big and strong and scary, while their eyes and ears did all the real work.
shinra's secrets dressed in black and living reminders of his own naïvety aside, he couldn't shake the dread that gnawed at him around the turks. angeal felt their sins piling on his shoulders, as though just allying himself with them made him complicit. as if his own hands were slick with the blood they shed. not that he was innocent; but where angeal spilled blood, the grass grew back greener. it was quick, mostly painless, and absolutely necessary. there was no honour in assasination, in blackmail, in extortion. in choking out information so the company can make a few extra gil, in beating a man to a bloody pulp—
you had to be real sick to join the turks.
or desperate.
angeal was curious by nature—some might call him a busybody—and the turks were no exception to that. where had the boy in front of him come from? how did he end up here? was it already too late to save his soul? this turk couldn't be more than sixteen. everything about the boy was sharp, from his pointed face, to his sea-green eyes, to the canines that flashed between his lips as he spoke. his hair was a shock of artificial red spikes, almost the same colour as the twin razor-sharp slits under his eyes. even his voice was ostentatious, brash and grating, with seemingly no volume control - it wasn't one angeal had heard before, through comms or otherwise. he was sure he'd remember it. weren't spies supposed to be subtle?
“ you're thinking of sephiroth. ” angeal snorted. infamous? there was nothing remarkable about him. sephiroth was... well, sephiroth, and genesis was making a name for himself as something of a spitfire, always causing some kind of commotion — but angeal was obedient, level-headed and professional. certainly nothing worth gossiping about. “ there's a pretty big difference. five inches or so, i'd say. not to mention the hair. ”
the boy was draped loosely over the staircase's banister, lacking all the stiffness usually found in the suits. a cigarette smouldered between his fingers, dangling dangerously close to the hem of his jacket, as though it had slipped his mind. despite his languid demeanour, angeal couldn't help but squirm under his sharp gaze. it was as though he was scanning him, cataloguing every detail. what could the turk want with him? lazard certainly hadn't briefed him on any missions. angeal had simply been on his way to the cafeteria.
“ you should put that thing out, you know. people will complain about the smell. ” he deflected, a desperate effort to settle the crawling under his skin. “ better yet, quit altogether. it's a dirty habit, and you'll need your lungs in your line of work. ”
checking his watch, he sighed. this had better not take long. no doubt genesis was already waiting for him upstairs. she could be so impatient. “ sorry, did you need something from me? ”
What is this, week seven? Cloud lines up the shot at the dartboard, squinting with an eye to kill his depth perception as he mimes throwing the little object at the target on the wall. Week seven of being too much of a coward to ask Reno hey, what's going on with this and us? Sometimes Cloud thinks he's come pretty far from who he was when he followed around Zack like he was the sun and he stared at propaganda-filled magazines outlining SOLDIERs as if they were heroes... and sometimes he thinks he's the same as he was before. Well, in Cloud's defense, it's scary!!! And he hasn't exactly had the best track record with developing crushes on people, what with two-out-of-three of them ending up in the Lifestream. Not that this is a crush or anything.
Another thing: getting used to throwing the Buster Sword around does not make one good at throwing darts. The dart sails from his fingertips and bounces uselessly off of one of the small metal pieces separating square from square. It falls, rather boringly, on the ground. "...Damn." The pinch of his brow creases for a moment. Cloud stands fully upright, rubbing the hand that had just been holding the dart over his mouth, chin, jaw. "...I dunno how I'm still so bad at this."
Reno says something back but Cloud doesn't really hear as he turns back around to grab his next dart from the little tin bucket--not that it matters because it's probably some taunt anyways--as the redhead circles around behind him to grab Cloud's elbows and mime lining up a shot. "Hey, what are you--," he flinches beneath Reno's touch but it's because he wasn't expecting anything like this, such direct immediate contact, because, hey, it's week seven and they still haven't had a real talk--eyes going wide against Reno's smug but indifferent ones, Reno who just kinda shoots a 'don't kill my vibe' look as he acts like this is nothing because it is nothing. Cloud wills himself to relax which is nearly impossible given who he is as a person and given that Reno's chest is so close to his back as he pushes Cloud's elbows together and moves his stance a bit. The blush shoots straight into Cloud's cheeks and it's embarrassing as he can feel the warbling of his chin as he presses his lips down together furiously into a thin line, willing himself to be normal. Embarrassing, embarrassing! Cloud Strife is nothing but embarrassing.
This is why he tells himself Reno is just doing this because Cloud's thrashed his sorry ass in a fight every time the Turk -- ex-Turk? what's going on with THAT now too? -- tried to get in his way. That it's an easy leg up on one of the so-called heroes of the planet as the redhead moves a hand as if to cup the opposite side of Cloud's face and not-so-gently tilts his face towards his own, the distance zeroing impossibly fast, their lips pressing together. It's more like a smak! than a proper kiss. And Cloud feels kind of ripped-off as the warmth in his cheeks colors him as red as a tomato, mouth hanging slightly ajar, like Reno just told him some scandalizing secret about Rufus Shinra and not like Reno just unceremoniously kissed him. Reno just unceremoniously kissed me.
Cloud's confused; which was probably Reno's goal, because if they're not going to talk about it Reno can weaponize it like he does with all other things that are chaotic and Cloud's not very good with unknown variables. As Reno pulls away he gives the swordsman a sort of 'go get em tiger' kind of clap on the back. We're not going to talk about this either? Pathetically, Cloud tries to zen-his-focus back to the dartboard, knowing it's a lost cause, that he's not going to play well at all anymore. The dart lobs forward like a dying bug--
--And it collects a perfect bullseye as recompense for whatever the hell that was.
