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Castle on the Sand	By : cognomen Category: Final Fantasy VII > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 718 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I AM MAKING NO MONEY FROM THIS STORY.FF7 belongs to Square-Enix and not me. I claim no ownership of it or it's characters.

Chapter List
- 1-Castle on the Sand
- 1
Castle on the Sand
1920�s
era FF7 AU. Various pairings,
mostly ShinRa oriented.

�� Everyone
scrambled to fill in that void, when alcohol meant power and anyone with a
bathtub and some grape juice could dream. It was like the gold rush all over
again, only with all the advances the Great War had brought to the technology
of killing people and the brutality that people were capable of. Advances in
technology became advances in weaponry - the Model T became one of the new
blunt instruments in the hands of those who needed to make accidents happen.

�� Rufus
ShinRa couldn't exactly say that he loved it, but rather he enjoys the way that
things fall neatly together. Prohibition hadn't made him rich; rather it had
made him richer - by way of his father's untimely and violent demise.
Amusingly enough, he hadn't even been able to raise a glass at his father's
wake, just the year before in 1928, because the police had made a laughable
appearance on the pretext of sympathy in part. They seemed to think it would
clear them of blame if they made a public appearance there. Rufus finds that
amusing, too.

�� Instead
they'd had a drink afterward, at the private memorial where only those invited
dared set foot. Just him and his thugs and his corporate
goons (equally useful in the current climate). But they didn't drink to
his father's life, behind closed doors. Instead they drank to his timely death.

�� "A
shame you won't be around to see how much better than you I do, old man."
Rufus said, lifting a glass that contained perhaps some of the last remaining
of his father's brandy. Prohibitionists had come through and smashed all the
kegs that his father had slaved so long to make perfect - his father had been
so upset about it that Rufus couldn't help but genuinely enjoy watching it run
down into the gutters like so much piss.

�� The others
raised their glasses, too. Some looked anxious at the prospect, some looked
downright excited. Hungry, the way he felt inside when he thought about
the things he wanted most. Rufus had smiled as he drank that sweet malt, just
like he smiled now when he remembered it. �� He
had taken this opportunity and made it his own.

�� It was his
father who had seized the opportunity to contract himself out for the armaments
of ships in the tentative, war-ridden waters of 1915 � after the sinking of the
Lusitania, even passenger ships were afraid to sail the waters
unprotected. A lot of seafaring captains had feared to be put out of business
while the triples � Alliance
and Entante fought it out with splash over onto the rest of Europe.
Fear could have crippled supply lines, starved nations. The seas were the
highways of trade and no one was willing to let the U-boats make it their own.

�� Protection
of course became defense, and defense turned slowly to offense � and in 1918,
Rufus� father had made a fortune contracting for the navy�s ships at Queenstown
� not only installing upgraded weapons but maintaining the finicky, brand new
long-gun technology. It was his father�s idea to equip the smaller faster boats
with rams to destroy the German u-boats that had everyone shaking in their
well-shined military boots.� It wasn�t as
successful at poking holes in submarines as it was in bolstering the navy�s
confidence again.

�� With that
fortune, his father had returned home a new man � a rich man. Seemed War
had made a lot of old men, and ruined
a lot of younger men. Rufus had seen the soldiers come home, too. They�d gotten
off his father�s boat with hollowed, unseeing eyes and marched back into real
life with no drinks to comfort them � while they were away fighting, the
politicians had passed the unloved Volstead act.

�� That was
what was currently making Rufus rich. All it had taken was a small investment �
a word in the ears of some hardworking carpenters, a few arrangements to rework
his father�s ludicrous �summer home� in downtown � a better use for it than his
father had made, meeting his whores there where he could lie unconvincingly to
Rufus about being on business.

�� With the
basement reworked, Rufus extended the efforts to make himself
appear a socialite. The other young rich all seemed to be living that kind of
life, and no one bats an eye when people start coming and going from the place
at all times. Of course the palms he greased at the local P.D. helped matters
too. It meant that only friendly officers patrolled the neighborhood, that
vigilante cops or those too loyal to the law never came close enough for there
to be a conflict. Overall, it kept things clean in town � especially since some
big names in Midgar were frequent customers.

�� That was
how he�d gotten here, lounging in the back of his own speakeasy, securely
tucked away behind a hidden passage in the basement of his father�s old
pleasure palace. It swung here, on weekends � ShinRa meant the best.
Everyone knew that the ShinRa juice joint had the hottest jazz, the coolest
drinks, and the dancers with the best gams in all of Midgar. The serving girls
weren�t hard to look at either, Rufus picked them himself as a matching set.

�� The birds
worked, the men drank, and at the end of the day everyone paid or got paid.
Things were smooth, because Rufus made them smooth. He never has to dirty his
own hands for that � he employs the equivalent of two-legged dogs. They were
thugs, but loyal for the money he paid them and the booze they got free for
helping in its transport and the security of his establishment�s prosperity.

�� He enjoys
their company, too. It�s something of a guilty pleasure. His father always
warned him never to get involved with those he employed � it was that distance
between his father and his father�s men that had allowed Rufus to secure their
loyalty for himself. What he couldn�t buy with friendship, he�d bought
outright.

�� She�s this
real sweet dame, alright?� Reno is
saying, in the middle of one of his famous anecdotes. There were four of them
officially, and the bartender and the barfly unofficially � both working when
it suited them or when they felt threatened. They�re all less talkative than Reno,
even the new girl.

�� And I
swear by Moses, I swear I don�t know she�s already got a daddy.� Reno
gestures with his cigarette, and Rufus debates internally pointing out that Reno�s
the least likely person he knows to mean
a swear on a holy name. �This fly-boy, he gets home
from the war just as I�m winning a round of struggle-buggy.�

�� More like
losing a round.� Rude is the second of a two-man team. He and Reno do the
collection work, ferry the goods in from Canada or Mexico, or even the next
town over if some basement brew house whips up something that doesn�t smell or
taste like piss. He is succinct, the big six of their two-man act. What Reno
can�t stop with foul language or a quick beating, Rude can finish with real
force.

�� Reno
shrugged, as if he were winning either way in his opinion.

�� So he catches
me, and swear to god if I didn�t feel like shit when I saw him standin� there
with his duffel and still in uniform from all his rush t�get home.�� Reno
continues, pushing a hand through his messy red locks. He�s an unusual, skinny
little fellow, with a matching set of scars that had some kind of story but it
changed every week.� �But he forgives
the broad, �cause he�s a real prince I guess. I gotta run away with my pants
around my ankles though, �cause I�m sure he doesn�t
wanna see my face twice.�

�� Nobody
wants to see it the first time.� The new girl quips.� Elena�s all business, trying too hard to make
up the fact that she�s an adorable little package that wrapped herself up in the smallest man�s suit she could find. She
wore it well, and spent a lot of her time attempting to look fierce. Rufus
thought it made her cuter, but he�d also seen her tear men who told her that
apart with nothing more than her bare hands and a few well placed kicks.
�That�s why you only go after the desperate dames.�

�� You�re
lookin� a little desperate yourself, baby.� Reno
leans over the table, pushing her buttons just to see her wind up. His eyes
flick to the fourth of their party �currently at the bar.� �When you gonna� make a move on, I wonder?�

�� Elena kicks
him under the table, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at him in a
way that confirmed everything he said. Reno
grins and clutches his bruised shin, in a way that�s more victorious than
injured.

�� Rufus
wonders when that development had come around. They�d been an unlikely
match-up, the girl he�d wanted to keep close as an enemy and the chinaman he�d
picked up for delicate work. Tseng is constantly underestimated � he looks just
asian enough and keeps his
hair long. Truth was, he was born and bred in San Francisco,
spoke perfect English, and thought very little of his �stuffy and overbearing�
heritage. In fact, he couldn�t even tell you what country his parents had
boated over from � it was entirely possible his nickname was a misnomer.

�� Still, he
was great at getting in and out of places and making the people inside
inexplicably dead. At first, Rufus had expected them to get along poorly � she
was a real bearcat, always all bristly to prove she was just as good as the
boys were.� Elena was too.� Tseng isn�t quiet, not the way Rude is, but
he�s reserved. He�s fairly dignified and thinks far enough ahead that he
never seems to say too much.

�� Currently,
he�s negotiating the next round of drinks from the bartender � another of
Rufus� acquisitions, though a less interesting one. Vincent was supposed to be
dead, and was about as interesting as a corpse sometimes. Rufus finds him
useful � he knows how to mix every drink anyone could think of and is pretty
sharp with a shotgun.

�� And Veld,
the veteran who had come back with the war in his eyes, and now had nothing in
them at all. He leans on the bar, with an attendant glass in whatever stage of
consumption and a crystal glass he�s used so many times as an ashtray now that
it serves no other purpose. He�s always smoking, usually drinking. He usually beat
Rufus to the joint� �� he comes in with Vincent when he unlocks the
place, the two had that kind of arrangement.

�� Elena just
glowers at Reno. She knows exactly
when to hold her tongue, because to protest would only make her look guiltier.
Rufus knows better, now that he�s looking. She doesn�t want what she has, but
that doesn�t mean she�s any less interested in Tseng. Rufus keeps to silence, drinking. The seven of them are the usuals �
they�re always visible because that way trouble never comes inside.

�� Rufus
prides himself on keeping his joint stress-free. The patrons never have to
worry about a raid � in fact several of the local police force frequent the place. They have an agreement � police
enjoy their alcohol as much as the next bloke. They�re also smart enough to
value their lives. Rufus can�t be tied to any of the blood in the streets � not
him nor his pack of dogs � but anyone with some sense
can see the theory of his involvement.

�� It isn�t
that there are senseless killings; just that anyone who tries to get in the way
of his rising star tends to disappear if they can�t be convinced that what they
were doing was unwise. The system works well � lately people thought before they tried to cut in on
his line of work, and usually realize it�s a bit better to work within the
existing system.

�� Tseng
returns with the drinks, carefully balancing beer mugs. He still has to make
two trips, the last with his and Elena�s drink. Rufus watchs
the silent interchange between the two and decides whatever becomes of that
partnership is for the best. They are an effective team � though he doesn�t see
any such recognition in the Chinaman. Seems Tseng has walled himself off from
that sort of emotion � or at least Rufus has never seen him express it.

�� Here�s to
another beer!� Reno exclaims, the
traditional blessing. At one point it had been traditional to toast to �another
quiet night� but that had been deemed a cursed item after trouble seemed to
break out every time they lifted glasses to it.

�� Everyone
raises their drink, even Rufus.

Cops and mobsters are half again
the same. If a guy is smart, he can get in with both. Information is just as
valuable as liquor. Angeal works both sides of the equation carefully. What he
hadn�t counted on was doing such a good job as an officer that he would be
saddled with the overenthusiastic rookie recruit that looks good enough in his
officer�s uniform to make Angeal reconsider his personal rule of not touching
co-workers.

Zack has the brightest blue eyes
he�s ever seen, and is always ready to go, ever cheerful, and has a distinct
brand of optimism that reminds Angeal � distinctly � of a puppy. He overdoes
everything he possibly can, a point which Angeal tries very hard not to love
him for.

Ultimately, he fails. So when Zack
barged into his apartment one night on oversized paws of enthusiasm, Angeal had
just resolved himself to behave as best as possible. After all he was the
senior officer, and beyond that he valued the friendship of his younger partner
too much to risk scaring him off with an unwanted advance.

Zack never seemed to notice when
Angeal looked too long, the kid�s attention span was probably too short for
that. Still he seemed to sense the hole in Angeal�s life � one that was shaped
distinctly like a personal life, something beyond work � he stuffed himself
into it because �partners take care of each other�.

Angeal hadn�t even realized the
hole was there until Zack had shown him what it could mean just to just go out to a movie theater with a friend, and watch
the latest Charlie Chaplin film. Zack was crazy about Charlie Chaplin, and
insisted on dragging Angeal to The Circus
a year earlier � while some pianist sat in the front of the theater, and the
lights were dimmed, a story unfolded in motion picture. They sat in close and
Angeal pretended he was looking at the movie, and not the way the grey tones
flickering across the screen lit up Zack�s eyes. �Every so often they would dim, when the screen
went black so that dialog could be displayed.

It was on the way home that everything
had changed. Zack stretched out as they left the theater and grinned up at
Angeal with his bangs hanging over his face in a way that made Angeal�s heart
twinge in his chest. He was grinning, Angeal remembered, he�d laughed like an
idiot through most of the movie and almost loudly enough to be embarrassing,
but the good spirits were infectious when Zack was involved.

�Hey!� Zack had said, pointing,
still smiling. �You�re grinning!�

Angeal realized he was, and arched
his brows. �So what?�

�I just don�t think I�ve ever seen
you smile before.� Zack pulled his features into a comical grimace. �Usually
you�re Mr. Bluenose.�

�Says you.�
Angeal felt the smile fade quickly from his features � if only Zack knew what
his evenings had usually involved before Zack had overlapped into them.

�Hey don�t quit smiling � it suits
you!� Stepping into Angeal�s path, Zack lifted his arms behind his head and
walked backwards, looking earnest. �I mean it, it�s the berries.�

Angeal had scowled further,
reprimanding himself for relaxing so much. Of a sudden, he�d really wanted to
scoot down to the speakeasy and get thoroughly ossified. Why couldn�t
Zack just get it, he wondered.
The kid just couldn�t keep his distance, had no concept of the way that people
sometimes lied to each other or used each other. The kid didn�t seem to realize
that not everyone could be taken at face value. Even Angeal�s interest hadn�t
been purely in friendship, though he thought himself decent enough to never act
on it. The kid was going to get himself into real trouble that way.

�Hey, come on. I�m sorry, Angeal.�
Zack stopped suddenly enough that Angeal bowled into him. Zack�s hands dropped
to Angeal�s middle and steadied them both as they tripped on each other. Angeal
had just lifted his hands to Zack�s wrists to pull them away, too occupied with
where the kid�s hands were going to see what was coming next.

Zack leaned up and kissed him. It
was sudden enough that it took Angeal a moment to wrench the kid away by his
arms. For a moment, they were both quiet � Zack looked genuinely worried, his
blue eyes getting bigger. Both of them were breathing faster, and after a
second, Angeal at last realized what had actually happened.

�� The hell with it, he�s decided.
They�d sort it out later if it genuinely needed sorting. Angeal pulled Zack
back in, and the kid leaned into it,
as the spark came back into his eyes � some little victory bell sounding in
Zack�s mind. Somehow, Angeal thought, Zack always got what he wanted. It didn�t
really matter with his mouth under Angeal�s, willing and enthusiastic in this,
too.

�� Zack�s
hands came up and gripped at Angeal�s shoulders when he let go of the kid�s
wrists, refused to let Angeal draw back before he was ready to finish. It went
on long enough for Angeal to know it wasn�t an accident, wasn�t something that
Zack would reconsider later and decide it was a mistake. The kid had planned this, somehow. Taken all the
steps leading up to it, maybe driven Angeal just crazy enough so that he had
the least likely chance of being rejected.

�� It worked. He
couldn�t have said �no� then even if he�d wanted to. Zack�s mouth was soft
under his, but not completely yielding. His tongue pushed against Angeal�s,
sliding under, and then against the roof of his mouth, to explore everything it
could touch. The kiss tasted like popcorn, faintly. It was that, partially,
that made Angeal remember that they were standing in the middle of the street
in front of the movie theater � even if it was late enough that no one was
really around.

�� He drew
back, and Zack sighed, eyes closed for a second longer before he let them open
again, long lashes sliding back to reveal the blue beneath. It was painfully Zack, the expression enough to get
Angeal�s blood going.

�� Kid,� He�d
said, and they were both panting. �We gotta get out of the street.�

�� Yeah,�
Zack said, grabbing Angeal�s wrist as they drew apart, dragging him forward.
�Let�s get a wiggle on.�

�� Zack was
smart enough not to let Angeal have enough time to change his mind. He hadn�t
let things slow down at all once they made it back to Angeal�s pad. He was
pushy for a kid, more than Angeal would have expected � Zack always gave off
the impression that he was innocent and inexperienced, but his were the hands
doing all the major advances.

�� It was Zack
who pinned Angeal back against his own apartment door after the older man had
finished locking it, and Zack who�d kept kissing him until he had no idea which
way was up or down, save that he was pretty sure Zack�s hands were headed south
faster than he was really comfortable with.

�� Angeal
pushed them away from the door, and Zack�s hands locked on his belt.� Zack refused to surrender his momentum to
Angeal�s slower and steadier pace � it seemed like the kid realized that giving
Angeal a chance to think could shut this whole thing down.

�� Finding
himself with his knees backed up against his own couch, and then his balance
forced to the point where he had to sit, Angeal finally found the break he needed
to get hold of Zack�s hands. Their eyes met, and this time instead of
hesitation, Zack�s shone with azure victory. He knew he was going to get what
he wanted � and that he genuinely wanted it
was what stalled the question in Angeal�s throat. He didn�t have to ask �are
you sure�, because it was written all over Zack�s expression. Zack was positive.

�� Alright.� Was all Angeal said, finishing the conversation
that hadn�t taken place. Zack�s smile turned into an
outright grin, and he stripped off his suit jacket. Angeal watched him, hands
turned upright on his knees. His own pinstripe pants
were starting to feel a bit restrictive, despite the generous cut that was
fashionable these last few years.

�� Zack didn�t
stop looking at him, pinning him with his gaze. His hands traced his suspenders
up to his shoulders before he shrugged them off and began to pull on his tie.
Angeal felt his patience actually begin to strain as Zack began to slow down �
he looked smug. He was trying to get to Angeal � to cause the older man�s
patience to break at last.

�� I thought
you�d never let me do this, old man.� Zack said, fondly. His fingers were
clever on the tie�s knot � he actually untied it rather than just loosening it
and pulling the loop over his head. Angeal might have bet that Zack didn�t even
know how to tie a Windsor in the
first place but he was beginning to learn that a lot of what he�d thought about
Zack was probably wrong.

�� Kid,�
Angeal answered, and he could hear the heat in his own voice. �All you had to
do was ask.�

�� Zack seemed
satisfied � pleased, even with that
answer.� He�s out of his shirt fast after
that, then slides up over Angeal�s lap. Angeal let his hands finally wander
where they�d wanted � over the plane of Zack�s stomach and the round of his
thighs.

�� From there,
it was a rush. Zack was in a hurry to get Angeal�s clothes undone, if not off,
while their mouths met again. The kiss made Angeal forget his resolution to
take things slow. Zack drove them both with his enthusiasm, his hands almost
everywhere at once.

�� Angeal
broke the kiss with a wet sound when Zack�s warm hands cupped his groin,
finding how ready Angeal had become and giving an encouraging squeeze. Choking
back his hiss, Angeal reached down, intending to slow the pace. Zack wouldn�t
be dissuaded.

�� Hey,� He
said, forehead resting against Angeal�s so they could look into each other�s
eyes. �Let me. Please?�

�� Zack must
have realized the effect that had on Angeal since the kid�s hands were on his
cock as it jumped in response. He didn�t comment, just went for Angeal�s zipper
and Angeal let him. There was probably no way he could have convinced himself
to slow down at that point, not with Zack so close and so ready.

�� It had been
a long time since someone else had touched Angeal � long enough that he leaned
his head back along the top of the couch as Zack coaxed, controlling his
breathing and focusing on the slow build of warmth that moved toward his
center. It helped that Zack�s touch wasn�t completely inexperienced. He was
sure of what he was doing and eager.

�� When Angeal
was sure he wasn�t going to last much longer, he went for Zack�s zipper. By
then the kid had his mouth fixed on Angeal�s exposed neck and he didn�t stop
Angeal from undoing his pants.

�� Zack was
just as hard as he was, just as ready. He groaned into Angeal�s shoulder as the
older man worked his length free to touch. Their hands were a confused tangle
in the proximity, and Zack started to make pleading noises.

�� Zack
hurried his pace in encouragement, ignoring the warning that Angeal hissed.

�� Close.� He tried again, his hips shifting up into the firm
hand. His voice had sprung free from him without real thought, somewhere in his
mind he hadn�t wanted Zack to rush this to an end, but he couldn�t have stopped
then.

�� Yeah?� Zack sounded pleased, breathless. Satisfied
that he could do this to Angeal. He made an encouraging noise, sped his
pace up to tip Angeal over the edge and Angeal couldn�t have said if it was
Zack�s voice so close to his ear or his clever, insistent fingers that finally
did the trick.

�� When he came,
Zack didn�t complain in the least or draw back from the sticky mess. Instead he
kept stroking � the slide much eased now � until he�s sure Angeal is done. The
older cop found himself more relaxed than he had been in a long time as he came
down, gathering his breath and his wits.

�� He didn�t
even realize he�d closed his eyes until he opened them again, to see Zack�s dark
eyes right there. All that was left of their brilliant blue is a thin rim
around the black of his pupils. Angeal realized his own attentions had stilled
and he had a flash of impatience with himself.

�� Pushing
until Zack shifted his weight off of Angeal�s lap and leaned back against the
arm of the sofa, he resumed the motion to keep Zack
from protesting, following Zack down until he could get his mouth on Zack�s
cock.

�� Zack sucked
in a sudden breath; it locked in his chest for a long moment. Angeal could feel
the kid�s hips shifting against his flattened palm and felt his own victory
when Zack�s breath escaped in a loud, encouraging groan. The kid sounded more
than ready, and Angeal pressed his tongue into the underside of the shaft as he
drew his head back.

�� It didn�t
take much; Zack encouraged him with his voice whenever Angeal found something
he liked � honest and easy to read even in this. Taking the encouragement,
Angeal focused his attentions until Zack cried out that he was ready � at the
same time his cum spurted along Angeal�s tongue. He swallowed, sat up.

�� Zack
stretched smug along his couch like everything was still the same. Angeal
realized it was more than that � everything was okay, too. He could stretch out
and Zack knew everything, but curled up beside him anyway. There was barely
enough room on the couch, but neither had any complaints.
��

�� Tijuana.
You can get anything if you can get there. Thing was, no one really wants to
live there. Sometimes, the boss sends them down to bring all the amenities back
- once a year they have a Tijuana
party. There wasn't much to celebrate, so any occasion that was out of the norm
was a big hit. They almost always ran out of tequila.

�� Still the
fastest way to get around anyplace outside of the city was horseback. They don't
get stuck on holes, don't need to go on roads where
cops patrol. They are quiet, go where you tell them, and could also go all the
places flivvers went. Sometimes faster, with no winding or where the traction
was bad.

�� That
was how Reno and Rude wound up
riding back into town late that night, though the sound of hooves clopping
along on the cobbled streets is loud, it really isn�t any match for the fact
that Reno is complaining with every
step. Things had gone sour at the border, and he cradles his arm close to his
chest and Rude hovers just behind at a distance that keeps threatening to bump
their horses together. It�s wearing on the nerves of riders and steeds both.

�� Reno�s
horse � dark hide splashed with irregular white spots like spilled milk
crawling snowflake patterns over the floor � is pinning its ears and threatening
to kick. They get back late, and Tseng sees everything in how flustered they
are. Reno is too loud, Rude is too
quiet.� He reaches up to take the reins
from them.

�� Rude.�
He says, and the darker man looks down at him, brows arching over his sunglasses.
�Get Reno to the hospital. I�ll get
it inside.�

�� Thanks,
man.� Reno says gratefully. He�s
obviously not dying, but his arm is broken, and Tseng thinks the quicker that
gets set the better it will heal. �Tell the Big Cheese we made it back, too,
okay?�

�� He�s
starting to turn his horse, tired.

�� Hey.�
Tseng says, and they both look at him. He can read how long the last few days
have been. Even the usual synergy they have has worn thin. They�re sick of each
other, sick of things going wrong. They both could use a drink. �Take the car.�

�� What
a pair they would have made, trying to find some place to hitch their horses at
the hospital. Reno looks at Rude.
Rude looks at Reno, and they both
chuckle. �Tomorrow� - later today, technically � is Cinco
de Mayo. There�s tequila in time for it now, and everyone�s OK. In the end,
Tseng thinks, that means a job well done. It was only when someone didn�t get
to enjoy a drink they�d worked hard to have because they were left holding the
bag that Tseng started to worry.

�� Yeah.�� Rude says,
tossing Tseng the reins of his horse. �Tseng�s right, we better take the other
hayburner.�

Rufus bet the filly in the race, a
fact that Elena knows is rare. She's grateful for it. She also remembers the
day in 1915 when Regret won the Kentucky
derby and showed all the boys how it was done. She thinks Rufus probably
remembers that, too.

�� She was a
distant cousin of Capone's, a black sheep in the family, though she knew
exactly how to keep her mouth shut when it was important, she refused to play
ball when it came to the matters of becoming some docile female trophy wife to
be married off to cement some family friendship. Capone had sent her away from
Chicago as much so he wouldn't have to look at her as his excuse to do so, which
was so that she could spy on the ShinRa family. Rufus had bought her for a tidy
sum and some respect, and she'd never looked back.

�� "My
first love was a tommygun," She confesses, after they've all made it
several drinks in. Reno sits back
with his arm in a cast and assumes his best listening pose. It involves
slouching and looking vaguely interested while he keeps his drink dear at hand
to chase off boredom should she bore him. Thinking back on it, she recalls how
the smooth wooden grip mounted at the front of the gun had practically begged
to be touched.

�� Her father
had caught her rubbing her fingers over the knuckle-spaced ridges at the front
of the grip, and he'd picked it up and took her out back to show her what it
could do.
��
�� "He
showed me how to use it, but he had this look on his face, like he thought it'd
scare me." Her father looked at every girl like a dumb dora,
especially her mother. Elena hated her a little for putting up with it, hated
her sister for letting Capone marry her off like a trophy, but her father she
couldn't hate at all. "The boys laughed when I creamed a target with it,
and I laughed too."

�� "Doll,
you're one in a million." Reno
says, half mocking, but it�s alright. It�s just ducky, in part because no
matter how much Reno talks, he
still looks at her like she knows which end of the gun to hold. As much as he
goes on about how much he loves a flapper in a tiny skirt, he never tries to
tell her that she should be one.
"He let you keep shooting after that or did he realize his mistake?"

�� "He
thought it was harmless. I remember one of the goons, McCoy - used to call him
Real McCoy - he'd call me 'little Capone'." Elena had always loved that,
she can't remember why exactly. Thinking about it brought up all the other
memories she hadn't considered. Her family wasn't her family anymore, now she
was paid to be in the ShinRa's pocket, and all those people from her past don't
matter.

�� McCoy had
been shot up by the cops, she remembers. They'd got it in their heads to take
out one of Capone's torpedoes, or that they might get him to sing if they could
take him, but they couldn't. Real McCoy had been quiet, she remembered, but a
better shot than her father and better at listening too. Her dad and one of the
other goons had come home in a whirl one night - she remembered all the
shouting. Remembered that Real had been slung between them and there were all
these funny red blossoms on the front of his shirt, like painted flowers with
dark oozing centers. Her dad had made him lie on the tile so they could mop up
the blood after he died, and he -had- bled, but hadn't made a sound besides a
low, wet chuckle when he saw her at some internal irony he saw. 'This's what
happens when you set your boyfriend on people, kiddo,' were some of the last words
he'd said before her father made her go to her room. She hadn't liked the
tommygun nearly so much afterward.

�� "Poor bastard." She says aloud, and the others
know what she means without having to ask. To a man, they raise their glass and
drink, even Tseng who barely ever drinks a drop.

�� "The
old man's a tragedy," Reno
says, not quite yet in his cups so much as he would like. "He was married
before the war and when he came back turns out old man ShinRa had use for
someone who could kill. Wife says war's changed the man - as if war wouldn't.
Bullshit reason to leave him. She was fuckin' around; leaves just him and Dead
Vic as companions. She's gone, he lets everything human about him go away with
her."

�� "He
didn't need it anyway." Tseng says, pushing his hat down over his eyes and
leaning back like the smug Chinaman he is. His drink's barely touched. Rude
keeps quiet on the matter. Might be a million versions of Veld's story but they
all ended wit him at the speakeasy long before and long after the rest of the
crowd.

�� Rude sees
the way he measures his drinks, strings himself along on that razor-fine line
of just-in-control and wondered just what Veld needed. It�s either to give up,
get sloshed and toss off with someone he'd never see again and surrender
completely to self destruction or to clean up,
straighten his suit, and try again.

�� You are
one cold bastard.� Reno says,
gesturing with the arm he�s got in a cast, and then wincing. Rude thinks that�s
a bid for sympathy � Reno�s had
enough to drink now that it can�t bother him very much. In fact, earlier Reno
had said that the cast made him feel like a real sheikh, he was sure all the girls would want to hear about his
daring caper.

�� Dry up.�
Tseng answers, dry himself. �None of us really need
any of that stuff � it just gives you a weakness someone can exploit.�

�� Rude
doesn�t miss the way Elena�s eyes slide toward Tseng when he says it, like her
heart might be breaking a little. Rude spends as much time as he can watching, rather than talking. He thinks maybe that he knows
the most about the way things go between all of them because he knows how to
just shut up and listen.

�� For
example, there are three girls up on stage, dancing away to the delight of most
of the drunken patrons. Almost all the eyes are on them � except for the small
circle of patrons at the back table. Rufus� table.� The boss had put in an appearance earlier in
the night, with that book keeper of his that could make some kind of magic on
paper so all the profits looked legal.

�� All they
have to do is sleep in a warehouse on weekdays and answer the phone the right
way � if it ever rang. It rarely does. Reno
and Rude share that duty, when they weren�t running supply lines � a fact that
most knew. What most people didn�t know was that just last week before they�d
left, all three of the girls up on stage had spent the whole day keeping the
two company there. The phone hadn�t rung in the
middle, a fact that Rude was grateful for.

�� The girls �
they often dance at the joint, long legs and no shame � were equally interested
in seeing Reno and Rude entertain
each other as they were in entertaining the boys. Reno
was happy to oblige, he�s more of a showman than Rude, in some way that always
makes Rude feel less awkward about that sort of situation.
He doesn�t have to show off or try to make more out of it than the basest of
acts. Reno does all that for him.
And it usually means the girls fell into his
lap instead of Reno�s.

�� Reno
makes a big show out of hating that, but in private he�s said he�d rather have
Rude�s mouth on him than any of the girls.

�� There are
two other sets of eyes that aren�t on the girls. Vincent and Veld are talking
to each other � Rude�s never seen either of them so much as glance at the
broads that come into the place. They both enjoy the jazz well enough, but not
the women.

�� Then there�s
Elena, she�s all eyes on Tseng. She�s always all eyes on him, and Rude doesn�t
know how the guy hasn�t noticed it yet. Tseng seems to want to be Veld, but
didn�t have it in him to gut out everything in his core and throw it down the
gutter like so much upchuck. Rude is pretty sure he�s got it just as bad for Elena;
he just doesn�t know it yet. The girl�s easy on the eyes, even if she�d shiv
you if you said it to her face. They were centimeters from figuring each other
out, Rude thinks.

�� It�d be
explosive when they did, he was pretty sure. He drinks again, and the bull
session seems to have moved on from Veld.

�� I hear
tell that Reeve�s been making eyes at that Sheba
up on stage.� Reno goes on, knowing
full well that it�s a lie. The book keeper was property now, Rufus� signature
all over him like so many checks deposited in the bank.

�� Baloney.� Elena says, she has a
good nose for sniffing out Reno�s
bullshit. �He�s into blondes, they�re all brunette.�

�� It was a
more delicate way to put things.

�� Doll, you
think hair color matters when they got gams like that?� Reno
uses his one good arm to make a round shape in front of his chest. �The one in
the middle�s got it.�

�� Tifa.� Rude says, he remembers her name. Reno,
he thinks, genuinely doesn�t. That�s part of listening, too. Remembering.

�� Absolutely!� Reno
agrees. Elena looks vaguely disgusted with the pair of them, but it won�t last.
She likes them all well enough. Rude knows she wouldn�t just stay for the money
Rufus is paying her. Elena likes the respect.

�� Rude wishes
she�d have left her book open just a little longer before she closed her bank
to anyone but Tseng. He�d have liked to see how fierce she was in bed. She was
such a live-wire, and he�d never admit it but that makes him all weak in the
knees. It�s part of what he was so fond of in Reno.

�� You boys
are real pieces of work.� She says, but she knows Reno�s
just razzing her now. She�s smiling. Tseng�s back to being quiet.
Reno is finishing his drink.
Everything�s good. Rude thinks there�s only one place to go from here � up.

"So what'd they find when they
got there?" Tseng sets himself up for a punch line well enough, even if he
was a bastard.

�� "Umbrellas." Reno
says, grinning hugely. "Boss wanted to make sure they knew they were gonna
be all wet. Show 'em he understood."

�� Everyone is
several drinks in. The hoofers have quit, the jazz is slowing down and losing
quality as the musicians enjoy rounds between songs. Tseng�s still on his first
glass, still keeping his clear head.

�� Umbrellas!� Elena snorts, past her limit now. She knows
she�s drunk though, has cut herself off before she gets totally tanked. She
giggles into her water, both hands wrapped around the glass as it sloshes
dangerously.

�� You slay
me.� Tseng says � he�s heard the story before. Reno
thinks it�s funnier every time, even though Tseng sets it up the same way. It�s
one of the signs between the four of them. �Means the night should start winding down �
drink wise. There�s still enough patrons in the bar� - it is a party after all � that they
can�t all knock off and leave the protection to Vic and Veld.

�� Hoss,� Reno
says, fried to the hat �Let a guy have a little fun, huh? I mean I broke my arm
gettin� the stuff here.�

�� Yeah.� Tseng says. �Elena and I will stay today.�

�� He glances
at Rude, and behind his sunglasses, the other man seems to agree. Rude stands
up, and hooks his hand under Reno�s
good elbow to help him out of his seat.

�� Whoa, hey.�� Reno
scoops up his glass before he goes, makes sure to empty it of the last sip.
�Swell.�

�� He leans
heavy on Rude, one arm slung around the taller man�s shoulder even though it�s
a bit of a reach for the redhead. When the glass slips in his fingers, Rude
catches it barely. They both look un-coordinated.

�� We better
walk, huh?� Reno says, peering
owlishly up at Rude. Rude rolls his eyes at the obvious statement, and Elena
has to shove her hands over her mouth to stop laughing.

�� Beat it!�
She encourages them, as they head out of the bar. No one pays any
attention.� She�s recovering well, and
after they leave she just sits grinning and having long sips of water.

�� Hey.� She
says after a moment, when Tseng�s attention has wandered to where one of the three
dancers � Aerith, he was pretty sure her name was � was flirting her way into
free drinks in one corner of the bar.� He
glances back at Elena.

�� How�d you
get here?� She asks, and he can�t help but be wise.

�� I took a
Jitney.� He says, and feels his mouth even into a smile. He has another sip of
the same warm alcohol.

�� She shakes
her head, propping her chin in her palm and leaning her elbow on the table to
look at him intently, refusing that answer.

�� Baloney.� She says. �You know what I meant.�

�� If you
mean to Midgar, I took a train.� He never cares to get into his past � it�s not
as interesting as everyone assumes.� San
Francisco wasn�t the best memory. He didn�t fit in
with the people that looked like him � he didn�t speak Chinese. He didn�t fit
in with the people that didn�t look like him either, despite a common language.

�� She�s still
looking at him. It�s one of those demanding looks Elena gets, and he resigns
himself.

�� I met old
man ShinRa when he was traveling around shipyards selling his u-boat spikes. He
tried to hire me as a translator, and I just took his money and made up
nonsense. Didn�t take him too long to see through the trick, but when he
figured out I wasn�t too shabby with a gun he figured he�d gotten a bargain
anyway.�

�� Elena
arches her brows.

�� That�s it,
honest. You know everything else.� Tseng doesn�t know why everyone seems to
assume there�s so much more to him. He lets them, usually. It was useful. Elena
should know better by now � she�s spent enough time with him.�

�� What saves
him from further questions is Rufus coming back downstairs with the book keeper
half an hour prior to last call. When there are patrons in the bar, Rufus is
always there for the end of the night.�
He sits down, and Reeve takes the chair beside him. Tseng notes that the
book keeper�s collar looks rumpled, the knot in his tie isn�t as precise as it
had been before they�d left.

�� Is that
the same drink, Tseng?� Reeve asks,
looking at the suspicious lack of ice in Tseng�s glass. Tseng nods, and Reeve shakes his head.� It was strange, but Tseng has the strangest
feeling that Reeve gets exactly what Tseng is � a job in a suit.

�� Rufus chuckles.

�� Reeve is
slowly detailing for Elena exactly how the figures line up on paper to make
every bit of money legal for Rufus. Rufus doesn�t care how it�s done, to be
honest. He knows that it�s water-tight, and if there�s one thing he inherited
from his father that he�s most grateful for it�s the book keeper.

�� Once Rufus
had gotten past the man�s shy exterior, the way he enjoyed only the simplest
things in life � he�d really gotten to like Reeve. The guy had grown up in the
middle of nowhere, but if anything that made him leaner, resourceful. He was
also a prodigy with numbers, so Rufus paid him well and kept him close to his
hand like a pet bird with an invaluable trick.

�� If he�d
said that was all there was to it, he�d have been lying. At first Reeve had
been a distinct challenge � painfully shy, unsure of what even he wanted. It had taken a lot of doing
for Rufus to convince Reeve that it was him. A lot of careful dance steps � a
give and take. A lot of compassion � and he found he had extra reserves of it
than his nature would have allowed for anyone else.

�� His dogs
are one thing, and he has affection enough for them. They�re all unique,
exotic. Reeve is neither.

�� I route
the money through some companies in other countries.� Reeve says, and he grabs
a napkin to detail how it works with some figures and a diagram that involves a
lot of rapid scribbling, some boxes with letters in them, and arrows between.

�� It doesn�t
make the least amount of sense to Rufus, but he looks at them anyway, as if
he�s following along. It gives him an excuse to lean over Reeve�s shoulder.

�� They�re
just some guys we pay to pick up the phone and O.K. the transfers between here
and there. Once the money�s out of the states, they can�t trace it, not that
anyone cares.� Reeve�s diagram gains two dots and a curved line in the middle,
indicating a happy face.

�� The guy is
painfully, adorably, backwater.

�� So like we have Reno and Rude pick up the phone in the warehouse here.�� Elena says, leaning
over Reeve�s other shoulder. It probably makes the guy a little uncomfortable, by the way he�s shifted his weight into Rufus
� who traps him there with some small amusement.

�� Yeah,
you�re on the trolley.� Reeve says. �But I don�t let Reno
and Rude touch the numbers.�

�� I
wouldn�t either.� Tseng says. Now that the clock�s winding down, he�s having
more of his drink. He looks over at the bar, catching Veld�s eye. Tseng holds
up his arm and points at his wrist, and Veld checks his wristwatch without any
kind of expression.

�� He
holds up three fingers.

��Last call!� Vincent
agrees, in a ringing tone across the bar. A number of chairs scrape backward on
the floor, voices exclaiming on how it�s gotten so late all of a sudden. Some
walk out easily, some shuffle up the stairs and then keep going up at the
landing to sleep it off face-down in one of the beds upstairs. They know better
than to try to make it past the front door obviously plastered.

�You want
anything before Vic throws us out?� Rufus asks, amused, and Reeve glances up at
him as he stands up. He nods, but doesn�t have to elaborate. Rufus likes that
in Reeve � he�s easy to please.� Lean
farm living had stripped him of any pickiness he might have once had.

�You need
a ride home?� Tseng asks Reeve, as Rufus is heading to the bar. Rufus can
practically hear the guy blush.

�Nah.� Reeve answers, surprisingly without stammering. He�s
getting better at the whole game. �I�m staying.�

�I could use a ride home.� Elena stuffs
herself into the conversation � either eagerly seeking any excuse to get Tseng
within fifty feet of her apartment, or genuinely trying to put the attention
off of Reeve before the accountant turned an even deeper shade of red.

Vincent
uses two of the glasses that match the ones upstairs when he pours Rufus and
Reeve�s drinks � brandy, and not the coffin varnish variety.

�Have a
nice night, boss.� He says, as he passes the glasses over, knowing Rufus will
be taking them upstairs with him. Veld gives a faint salute, and Rufus knows
that any of the lingering patrons will be escorted out by the pair in the next
twenty minutes so that the place can be locked up behind.

Elena�s
getting up as he gets back to the table, and Tseng�s shrugging on his coat. He
pauses to make sure both of Rufus� other dogs are at the bar before he�s ready
to go. Veld isn�t on the payroll � Rufus had offered, but Veld had declined on
the reason that he didn�t want to have to hold himself back for duty (Rufus
couldn�t imagine what else he actually
held himself back for instead) � but he�d protect this place and Rufus just as
loyally as if he was.

�See you
tomorrow.� Rufus says, and Reeve crumples up the napkin as he takes up the
glass Rufus passes him.

�� Reno
wouldn�t lie. Life before ShinRa had been pretty shitty. The warehouse he and
Rude lived in now wasn�t exactly ace,
but it was a roof. There were beds. Even an area walled off in back for a
kitchen. Best of all there was Rude there, all the time.

�� Until Reno
was ten, he�d had six sisters. Six constantly working mouths,
six family members who could spend an hour in front of the bathroom vanity
dolling themselves up or dolling each other up. He was the oddity, and
while they all had their arguments with each other or their moments of
obsession with each other�s attentions � as it went in all families � none of
them was in so much demand as he was.�
He�d have told you he hated the attention, but he loved it.

�� The problem
was that any time enough girls got together, it reminded him of his family �
they were chatty, dames. Each one reminded him of one or another of his
sisters. They�d grown up in Boston,
all Irish immigrants with hair in various flavors of red and neighbors with the
same brogue, the same origins.

�� They were
all dead. In 1919, Reno had been
home with the measles, and then something as ridiculous as a giant wave of
molasses had swept through the North End where his sisters and mother were
bringing their dad his birthday lunch. He worked at the paving yard in north
end, and they�d all drowned in a sweet, sticky wave.

�� He wasn�t
sure what had really happened, just that his life had practically ended and he
had to get out of there. He still couldn�t stand the smell of molasses, didn�t
like it when people other than him got too loud or chatty. It made him think of
home, which made him think of the girls, or his mother.

�� Hey are we
there yet?� He�s not looking up as Rude half drags him
home. The bigger man�s pace is patient with Reno�s
stumbling and fumbling. Reno is looking down at his uncooperative feet and
wishing they�d just go straight and stop tripping all over each other.

�� No.� Rude
answers. He�s succinct, he�s not anything like any member of Reno�s
family, and with a family the size that Reno�s
had been, that�s hard. Reno likes
it that way.� Rude�s his new �home�, his
new �family�, so distinctly different from the old one that he doesn�t have to
worry about old memories or any shit like that getting in the way of it being
jake again.

�� Mmfh.� Reno
groans, feeling his stomach shift suddenly. �Hey, quit.�

�� He gags,
feels himself getting ready to throw up, and Rude just
stops still, letting him work through the nausea without complaint. The cast is
so awkward to work with, and Reno
has his good arm around Rude�s shoulders so he can only kind of lock his knees
and press the round of the plaster to his stomach as he wills it to calm down.

�� Rude is
patient and quiet. He�s not girly at all, and Reno
wishes he could tell the guy to his face how much that means to him, but he
can�t even really explain it to himself. Reno
talks a lot, but he isn�t so hot with words � but Rude understands him anyway.

�� Okay,� Reno
says, wetly, but even as he says it he realizes it�s no good. He�s going to
upchuck, and Rude can tell too.

�� Unpleasant
business, Reno thinks distantly as
he empties the contents of his stomach into the gutter. That done he shifts to
pull his arm down off of Rude�s shoulder so he can wipe his mouth with one
sloppy, open palm. Rude keeps his arm down by Reno�s
midsection.

�� Okay.� Reno
says again, and this time it�s more confident. He feels a lot better,
ironically, with nothing in his stomach. �Yeah alright.
Let�s get home.�

�� Tseng is so
used to seeing her in the suit, that when he turns and sees she's changed into
a nightgown - if if one could call it that � he�s genuinely surprised. He
schools his expression into neutrality, but feels like he�s scowling. She isn't
even looking his direction, fussing around inside her icebox while he waits for
his water to boil and stares as if he�s still a teenager.

�� It�s mostly
sheer, that�s what catches his attention straight off - that and how very
little of it there is. Not that Tseng has never seen
legs before, just not -hers-. Flappers wore things shorter than this, and yet
they don't capture his attention nearly as raptly - because he�s finding out
something new about someone who his life had depended on more than once. He feels
a little like he�s intruding.

�� "Do
you take milk?" She asks, looking up at last as she latches the icebox
closed. She�s apparently satisfied herself that the block of ice inside is
sufficient enough that missing the iceman today wasn't a tragedy.

�� "In... tea?" It seems an odd question. He�s never considered
it -he's never had a lot of milk. He hasn�t picked up the habit on his own,
preferring tea or beer where the situation allowed. The thoughts are slow to
come, he feels distracted.

�� "Yeah,
you add it with the sugar." She says, smiling a little. Elena has a way of
making him feel distinctly alien at times - mostly because she�s so comfortable
with him that when she seems to think he was doing something strange, he feels
it too.

�� "No
thank you, I'll take it plain." His eyes refuse to stay on her face. The
light shines through the hang of the nightgown, outlining her curves. She�s
compact � mostly legs, but those were well formed. She isn�t heavy up top, but
curvier than he�s expecting from the way her suit sits on her. He keeps
looking, and she catches him.

�� Elena cocks
her hip and tilts her chin in a way that�s more feminine than he�s ever seen.
�What?�

�� I didn�t
expect your nightgown.� The sentence wants to continue somehow, but Tseng clips
it short. He isn�t sure what he had
expected � he�s never thought about Elena in pajamas before honestly. Maybe a man�s
set, the same way she wears a man�s suit. He decides he likes the look on her �
on any other girl it might have been over the top, but on Elena it is exotic.

�� "Just
because I want you boys to forget I'm a woman doesn't mean I've forgotten
it." She shifts her hips a little, silk subtle. Tseng thinks he might be
getting the hint at last.

�� Slow
realization dawns on Tseng that she�s wearing the nightgown for him. What it means after that is
undeniable. He feels distinctly foolish for not realizing sooner. How had he
come to be so blind or uninterested that he�d missed all the clues, forcing
Elena to resort to this elaborate setup? She can�t guess, he supposes, that all
she has to do is ask and he�d be more than willing.

�� The
nightgown begs investigation, his mind wryly observes. Tseng thinks it�s sexier
than complete nakedness � he imagines how it will feel in his hands, sliding
over Elena�s skin. Suddenly the tea doesn�t seem very interesting. He turns and
takes the water off, working the knob until the flow of gas stops and the
burner extinguishes.

�� Elena pads
up behind him and she understands what�s going on in his mind � or dares enough
to risk it. Her warm hands come around his waist, her body against his back in
a suggestive press of curves. Tseng�s body pays attention in a way that hasn�t
woken in him for a long time.

�� You get it
now.� She purrs, half laughing and he turns around in her grip.

�� Yeah.� And Tseng knows he�s had been blind, but what does
that matter now? �I get it now.�

�� He has to
lean way down, but she goes up on tiptoes, too. When their mouths meet, he
knows it�s right somehow. His hands
slide over her back, and the sheer fabric is silky,
but with some catch under his fingers. He can feel the definition of the
modesty panel that�s sewn in to the top, and further down the lacy thin
embellishments on her underwear.� He can
feel how heated her skin is underneath, how ready she must be already.

�� Elena�s
hands are everywhere � first on his lapels, then loosening his tie or working
on his buttons. She yanks his suit jacket, and it slides off his shoulders, but
catches on his elbows. She keeps pulling on it until Tseng drops his arms and
his expensive jacket tumbles to the kitchen floor. He doesn�t have time to worry
about it.� His shirt follows in a rush,
and she�s starting to yank at his belt buckle when he finally breaks the kiss
to push her backward toward the kitchen table.

�� The space
was small, cramped. It was a one-person place and the table was wedged into a
corner of the kitchen. He slid his hands under her thighs and helped her boost
herself up onto it. She�s practically wiggling in anticipation, her eyes never
leave his, but there�s so much here to learn, he won�t let himself be rushed.

�� Tseng runs
the flats of his palms over her shoulders, down the sheer-silk covered arch of
her back, and around to her soft belly. His thumbs brush just against the
undersides of her breasts, and her nails slide against his neck as she pushes
her hands into his open collar.

�� First he
touches through the fabric, rounding his hands against her breast and feeling
her nipples harden against the foremost part of his palm as he shifts fabric
over them. She makes a noise, impatient, and flexes her fingertips high at the
center of his shoulders, trying to push him.

�� Instead, he
lifts the lace-weighted hem of her negligee, pushing it back over her thighs
and then sliding his hands up beneath. His palms are callused from gunwork, but
her skin is smooth enough to make up for it. Elena�s hands leave his back and
trap his wrists just as he�s beginning to circle her breasts. She pushes them
downward, opening her eyes and demanding with her expression. He obliges � but
at his own pace, far slower than Elena would like.

�� She�s
wearing this lacy, thin pair of underwear that barely covers her. When Tseng
brushes his knuckles along the center of it, he can feel how wet she is. When
he pushes it aside and finds there�s not a trace of hair it brings a thought
foremost in his mind. Working his tongue along the roof of his mouth, he pushes
Elena up onto her kitchen table and she sits obediently. Tseng drops to one
knee and she looks down at him sudden, alert.

�� Elena�s
eyes are hungry, ready, and that�s all the encouragement he needs to put his
mouth on her. He holds the underwear to one side with his thumb, the angle
awkward but not impossible. She�s slick already, clean and hot and ready, the taste of close pressed cotton
from the lingerie. He knows what he�s doing � tries to remember if he�s ever
hinted at how much he enjoys this. At first the tastes he takes are broad,
exploratory. His tongue slides over her cunt to help wet it � not that she isn�t already.

�� She doesn�t
make a noise at first, biting her lip and arching her back instead. One of
Tseng�s hands curls around her thigh, which slides further out to give him
encouraging access. One of her hands is in his hair, and when he lets his
tongue circle her clit, her fingers tense sharply.

�� Yeah,� She
pants, encouraging. His cock goes rigid at that, from its slow wakening
interest to something much more ready. It was something about being so intimate.
Tseng might say he enjoys this sort of control � this ability to give pleasure
and retain a clearheaded attention � more than he even does intercourse. He can
feel every twitch he causes in her muscles through his fingers, has a finer
control over stimulation and pace.

�� Listening
to her wind up slowly is the biggest turn-on he could have imagined. She seems
impatient, in that way she usually does. He realizes she�s holding herself
back, attempting to behave herself and let him take the lead. When he keeps his
place slow, she begins to roll her hips and he resolved not to break before she
makes him.

�� It isn�t
very long at all before her voice rises in encouragement, and her free hand
slips down between them to help hold herself open to
his mouth. Tseng leans back at that and she makes a noise that was half a snarl
until he starts to help her get her underwear off. She followed it with her
top, so he�d have no excuse to stop for it later, he thought.

�� When he
leans back in it�s with intent. She keeps her hand in place to guide his mouth
and works her hips to his rhythm Elena certainly isn�t as slow as some he�s
done this for � she won�t let herself be, shifting and pressing or pulling on
his hair until he�s where she wants him.

�� She comes
in a rush of gasps and the broken rhythm of her rolling hips. Tseng has to pull
back and finish with his fingers, his jaw aching and scalp a little sore. He�s
not complaining about either. �He stands up, planting his hands on either
side of her on the table, and though she�s panting and glassy eyed she doesn�t
even let him get all the way to his feet before she wraps her legs around his
midsection.

�� Elena takes
what she wants, and Tseng can�t believe how much drives him crazy.. She�s got her hands on his zipper � on him, and she won�t be refused. He�s not
sure where she gets the condom from� -
might have been curled in her palm the whole time but she knows what she�s
doing with it as she rolls it on. Then she curls her hand around his length,
shifting her hips up as she guides him home. The glide is easy, and he�s ready
for it � faster than he would have thought, he feels his control unraveling as
she demands a quicker pace, sitting up with the table to balance herself on and
wrapping her arms around his neck to moan in his ear.

�� He lets her
set the pace � fast, unrelenting, and he can feel his release in the tightening
of his muscles, the way his hands slide down to her backside to help her lift
and thrust, then finally brace on the table as he leans forward into it.

�� Don�t you
even think about stopping,� She warns, just as he�s considering slowing himself
down, and he takes that order, too. It�s so easy just to topple, his motions
turning jerky and unsteady as he goes over. His whole body sags as he finishes,
and he�s glad for the table, and her warm, satisfied
curves against his chest.

�� Finally.� She hisses into his ear, as she unwinds too, and
he hears himself chuckle in a wry way that he doesn�t feel.

�� Yeah.� He agrees. Finally.

�� When it�s
over, they both cram into her tiny shower stall. It�s intimate, which is good
because she can only wrestle water she called �barely warm� out of the tap. It
isn�t unusual for her place. He scrubs her back, and it feels heavenly. Just to have someone else there touching her, even something as
simple as that.

�� "You..."
It�s was hard to find words to thank Tseng, without feeling like she might undo
something.

�� He stops
her, lifting a hand.

�� "Sweetheart,"
He says, and it should sound odd, wrong
even from him - he looks so foreign. Except, Elena knows he'd grown up in
'Frisco, regardless of what he looks like. "I'd rather have you at my back
than any man I know."

�� She feels
good in a way she can't describe. Yeah she�s a misfit, so is he, but there is
at least enough place in the whole misfit nation of America
for the two of them.

�� You�re
going to have to play it cool, kid.� Angeal isn�t entirely positive the best
way to go about this. He knows he has to show Zack the ropes � on and off duty.
Midgar is a city with balance. Things stay under the table, a careful house of
cards. �Just promise me you won�t get loud.�

�� Naw,� Zack promises, looking as solemn as he can with excitement
written all over his features. �I promise I won�t embarrass you, sir.�

�� Quit with
the �sir� stuff.� Angeal warns, without any malice. It�s a little awkward � a
reminder that he�s let his work and social life overlap. He knocked on the door
and it was Rude stuck upstairs doing the front man
work tonight. He doesn�t look too happy about it � not that he ever looks
particularly happy.

�� Officer
Hewley,� He greets coolly. Zack is stretching up on his tiptoes to look over
Angeal�s shoulder and see deeper into the house. Rude fixes him with a long
look from behind his sunglasses, and Zack grins winningly.

�� My new partner.� Angeal explains, hoping Rude will take the
whole meaning without further prying. �I�m showing him around town.�

�� Rude doesn�t
say anything else, just stands aside and holds the door
open for them. Zack steps inside just as Angeal is shrugging out of his
overcoat.

�� I�m Zack
Fair,� He says pleasantly, and offers his hand to Rude. The taller man looks
first at Zack�s hand, then up at Angeal, as if wondering if the kid was
serious. Angeal can only offer a shrug.

�� This is
Rudolf.� Angeal introduces, and Rude shakes Zack�s hand with an almost amused
expression. �We all call him Rude.�

�� Nice to meecha!� Zack says, giving Rude�s hand an
enthusiastic shake.

�� Rude takes
their coats and Angeal leads the way to the back of the house.

�� Kind of quiet for a party.� Zack says behind him, obviously
looking around for other signs of life.

�� Everyone�s
downstairs.� Angeal answers, pushing open the door at the top of the stairs.
There�s a landing there, one set of stairs ascending to the back bedrooms, the
other leading conveniently down to the juice joint below. Angeal�s heard that
the setup was the failsafe against anyone leaving the house obviously
spifflicated.

�� Faint jazz
drifts up the stairs from below, the band starting the night with something
quieter in the early hours of business. Zack perks up, following Angeal
downstairs practically on top of his heels.

�� It�s at the
bottom that things go sour. Angeal steps out of the stairway, pushing open the
last door into the main room of the speakeasy to look for an empty table.

�� In the far
corner, Rufus and his security boys sit like relaxed cats. Vic raises a hand in
welcome from the bar and is turning to pour Angeal�s preferred drink when Zack
� against his promise � gets loud.

�� Holy!�
Zack exclaims, causing Angeal to turn around rapidly in mortification. Zack�s
eyes are huge. He goes for his badge with a sudden motion and it�s a miracle
that no one shoots him then.

�� You�re all
under arrest!� Zack thunders, before Angeal can stop him. Zack lifts his badge
to the sound of scraping chairs and Angeal throws himself between Zack and the
crowd. He seizes Zack�s shoulders in a grip that pushes the kid back off
balance, and squeezes enough to show he needs Zack�s full attention.
��
�� This for real?� Reno�s
voice comes from behind him, and he hears the click of a hammer being drawn
back on a revolver.

�� Ow, hey!� Zack�s attention is on Angeal now, and he locks
eyes with the kid long enough to make a silent threat of bodily harm should
Zack keep opening his mouth.

�� No,�
Angeal answers Reno, turning around
into the angry glares. The musicians had stopped, and he holds up his hands
apologetically. �The kid�s a little confused. And an idiot.�

�� Rufus is
the only one at his table not standing. Vic still has a half poured shot of
brandy in his hands that Angeal would have killed for right then.

�� Put your
badge away.� He tells Zack tersely, turning back around again. �Upstairs.�

�� He shoves
bodily, not giving Zack any chance to refuse. Zack backs through the doorway
with a thoroughly confused expression. Angeal lets him turn around at the
stairs so he doesn�t have to go up backwards, but he keeps shoving.

�� Hey �
what�� Zack keeps trying to start talking, to protest, but Angeal pushes harder
whenever he opens his mouth or tries to stop. At the landing, the older man
wheels Zack by his shoulders so that he continues up into the more private
areas of the guest bedrooms above. By now he�s more or less silent, finally
starting to understand that he�d committed some error.

�� When they stop moving, Angeal�s anger and embarrassment catch up to
him. He sets his hands on his hips and huffs out an angry breath.

�� What the
hell was that!� It�s not the most intelligent thing
Angeal has ever said, but it�s the closest to how he feels at the moment. How could anyone be that na�ve, have that
little regard for their own safety. The kid had been seconds away from death,
walking into the hornet�s nest and kicking up the bees. �You said you weren�t
going to get loud.�

�� That�s a
speakeasy down there!� Zack said dumbly. His eyes were cloudy with confusion
and betrayal. �Did you know that it was there?�

�� Yes, kid.�
Angeal can feel his voice turning cruel, upset more at himself, but he still can�t
believe that anyone � anyone could be
this na�ve. �This was where I spent time before I��

�� He trails.
The end of the sentence is �met you�, but Angeal can�t blame Zack for that. It�s
a conspiracy of fate that Angeal is the worn down cop that everyone thinks would
be the best � because he�s been hammered so flat that he was the model of how
to get along in Midgar. Angeal forces himself to take a deep breath.

�� Kid.� He starts, but it doesn�t feel adequate. It isn�t
sincere enough. Not personal. �Zack.�

�� This is
Midgar.� Angeal says, but it makes him feel a little sick inside now, to look
into Zack�s eyes and try to make excuses for himself. A lot of the things that
are wrong with the world are a result of a lack of kids with the ability to not
get worn down. The world is cruel to people with eyes like Zack�s, because
everyone lets it be. �This is the way it works.�

�� Zack looks
hurt, crosses his arms over his chest defensively. He sits in disappointed
silence, waiting patiently for the rest of Angeal�s lecture.

�� ShinRa
runs this place � a known quantity, and one that�s easy to work with.� Angeal
keeps his breaths even, lets his posture remain as challenging as Zack�s was.
He wasn�t going to feel bad about saving the kid�s life, down there. �We let them stay because if we take them out,
that means a void forms.�

�� Zack still
looks hurt, like he can�t really understand. Angeal lets his hand drop, and
then pinches the bridge of his nose. Not because Zack is stupid, but because
the kid has never seen what the power struggle was like. He�s never stood over
the bodies of bystanders, shot in the crossfire as two factions struggled to
win all the customers, all the booze, all the guns to protect it.

�� ShinRa
came in and they hit hard and fast � with money and violence both, but just
enough.� Rufus took over before anyone could say otherwise. He�d just
instinctively known where to hit, who to pay. Neither price � blood nor money �
had been unacceptably high.� �Before that
there was chaos. People died in the streets, kid. Everyone wanted this spot,
but no one could hang onto it.�

�� The splash
over hit indiscriminately. Women, kids, anything was fair game when there were
no rules. Rufus had made rules, made the game civilized. Angeal wasn�t
sure that it was entirely an act of kindness or out of an aversion for blood,
but because it made Rufus look completely in control. It discouraged further
messes.

�� That suited
the police fine. That and the money they were paid to not pay attention too
closely.

�� So you
just let them break the law.� Zack is looking at him critically. �You let them
get away with whatever they want.�

�� Don�t be
like that.� Angeal says, reaching out and putting his hands on Zack�s
shoulders. �God, kid. You can�t solve every problem. You shouldn�t even try.�

�� Only the
ones I see, Officer Hewley.� Zack shrugs out of his grip angrily. �I can only
stop what I know about.�

�� Kid.� Angeal stops him again, meets his eyes with as much
honesty as he feels he can muster. �I wouldn�t ask you to come into this part
of my life if I thought it would make you less of a good person. This is just a
part of life. You have to��

�� Angeal stops
himself.

�� You don�t have to do anything. I�m wrong. But
don�t run in there and get yourself killed.�

�� You
really� I mean you really spend time here?��
Zack is calming down a little. �I mean, even though you�re a cop?�

�� Yeah.� Angeal rolls his shoulders. �They�re decent people
down there. Funny. And sometimes a guy who works hard
just wants a drink, some decent music.�

�� Zack looks
like he�s thinking about it. He�s not so young that his family hadn�t had
probably had wine at the table on holidays. He knows alcohol isn�t the root of
all evils, like the government had decided. And the kid�s just adventurous
enough � Angeal hopes � to give this a shot. Angeal knows this isn�t just for
the kid�s sake, either. It�s a part of his life � one he hopes he won�t have to
hide. Honesty was a better way to build a relationship.

�� I probably
screwed things up pretty bad down there, huh?�

�� Yeah.� Angeal says, with good humor. �We can fix it,
though.�

�� Zack looks
a little skeptical, but his enthusiasm is returning. He nods once, pumping his
fist in determination to make things right.

�� Yeah. I�ll apologize.� He says, and Angeal can�t resist
putting a hand on Zack�s head to muss his already disheveled hair. When the kid
made up his mind at least he was too eager for pride to get in the way. An
apology would go far.

�� Good.
Let�s go downstairs and enjoy some jazz.� Angeal found himself smiling in
response to Zack�s grin.

�� Wait.
While we have some privacy.� Zack leaned up on his
toes suddenly and kissed Angeal by way of forgiveness.

�� Vincent is
sort of an enigma himself. Consensus is that he slept in some back cellar of
the bar, among the casks and kegs. He serves double time as a tender and guard
for the goods. Seems like for all he'd never cut a guy off, he never has a
drink himself. Veld knows better. The slow nights, just him and Valentine, Vic
puts two shot glasses on the bar and a bottle between them.

�� "To Marriage." He starts, pouring them both
spirits as ferocious as the deed itself. Vic had never been married, but he'd
proposed once. He had been the best man at Veld�s wedding � before the war, in
happier times. His own proposal had been rejected, and it had turned him bitter
� cynical. Different. Before, Vincent had been deeply
interested in family. Now he wasn�t interested in even looking at women.

�� Veld likes
him better this way � they�ve both learned their lessons, and found each other
the only company without the intolerable platitudes or assurances that someday
love would find them and make their lives whole. They keep each other�s
secrets, both equally armed in that war and so it never erupted.

�� To women.� Veld agrees, as they finish the first drink and
Vic pours again. The tradition stems from one long evening when both had
wondered what the use was toasting things that one enjoyed. Neither drank to
celebrate, or else they would never drink at all.

�� Tonight was
one such. All of the other patrons have jumped ship early, even Angeal and his
overenthusiastic tag-a-long. Veld isn�t sure what to make of the kid. Zack had
stars in his eyes and rocks in his head
by Veld�s best definition. He also had an overdeveloped faith in the law � a
dangerous combination. It doesn�t matter now, but Veld has seen some of the
things Angeal lets the kid get away with. It isn�t a good recipe.

�� Love.� Vincent ups the ante again. It was nearing 3 am, but neither have any
place to be but here or alone or both. Vic sleeps in the back, one room
away from the booze. The secret is Veld sometimes does, too.

�� Neither
would call it desperation. It�s not some sappy need for comfort or a matter of
lonely hearts or any shit like that. It�s about trust, familiarity. Both know
enough about each other to wound � and badly. There is a security in that, and
the fact that they aren�t vulnerable to each other.

�� Veld expects Vincent to try to hurt him. He
knows Vincent does the same.

�� With armor
like that, guards can be lowered enough for them to really understand each
other. They are basically compatible. Veld is solid, emotionless. Vincent is
naturally driven to avoid the dramatic, and practical. Both are patient. Both are
dangerous.

�� Both can
hold their liquor.

�� The fourth
shot is �house, kids, yard�.
��
�� The fifth is
to Volstead.

�� The rest
descend into various dislikes, neither truly impassioned on the subjects.
Veld�s body feels lighter. When he closes his eyes, he can feel the faint
gyroscope of intoxication spinning behind them unevenly. The last two shots
will only half-fill each glass. Vic pours one whole shot when he realizes.

�� He takes
half, then Veld picks up the glass from the bar top and puts his mouth where
Vincent�s had been on the glass a second before. He drinks the last of it and
it�s not as vile when he�s had enough of it (enough of life) so he doesn�t
really care.

�� Vincent
leans down on the counter as Veld lights another cigarette. The crystal-glass
ashtray is near overflowing with half-gone corpses of its elders. Veld knows
that Vic is watching the hands run on his wristwatch. Vic refused to wear one �
said they were for women. He hates his pocket watch, too, dislikes the constant
winding and fussing it requires.

�� The
wristwatch is a habit Veld picked up in the trenches � one had to carry the
time with them as there was never really enough. His pocket watch had been
stolen when he�d been taken P.O.W, and he�d stolen the wristwatch in turn when
he�d cut his way free again through a careless guard and his girlfriend. Seemed
no one could argue with the practicality of not having to dig in a pocket for a
watch.

�� Last call.� Vincent says, after a long silence while Veld
smokes. He knows better, knows that Veld won�t put himself past the limit of
control. Vincent glances around, nods once at the empty bar and then lets himself
from behind the counter and locks the door. Upstairs, whoever was on door duty
was turning out the light.

�� Veld gets
to his feet and helps Vic clear the last dirty glasses from the bartop, and run
a wet rag over the tables. It�s old habit. As they finish, Veld looks up and
Vincent is looking at him strangely. This isn�t routine.

�� What.�
Veld doesn�t make it a question. Of a sudden, he�s itching for another
cigarette, but he refuses the urge because he is in control of himself.

�� Has it
been more than ten years?� Vincent asks, and he�s already moving for the bar
again. None of this is routine, and Veld doesn�t like the look on Vic�s face.
He doesn�t need to ask what Vincent means. He�s thinking about 1917, the
trenches. It�s taboo between them. Not worth thinking about. Another secret
they shared, but one unspoken.

�� Vincent.�
Veld warns, just one word.

�� That kid
of Hewley�s,� Vincent continues. �We were that age.�

�� That kid �
the dumb one with the big mouth and too much hair. Kid was made of the stuff
that t he world crushed up and spit out on the pavement. Angeal thought he
could protect Zack. Maybe he could. In the end, Veld wasn�t sure if that was
better for the kid.

�� Vincent.�
Veld says again. They look at each other over the counter, Vic with his hands
flat on the top, and Veld doesn�t have to think about the threat in his own
posture.

�� It�s a
natural response � they both instinctively become threatening instead of
letting themselves feel threatened. Vic�s eyes look almost red in the overhead
light, dark save for one place where the light shines through the iris.

�� Vincent
reaches below the counter, pulls out another bottle. It settles on the bartop
with a challenging thunk and he has a
dare written on his features. Veld shakes his head.

�� Drink.� Vincent orders, though he�d never had the rank that
Veld did. He pulls the cork, his lip pulling back at one side of his mouth to
show his eye teeth.

�� I�ve got
an edge already.� Veld says, reaching for his cigarette case.

�� Drink.� Vincent states again, watching Veld�s hands on the
case, and letting the contempt come through his expression. He knows Veld�s
crutches, his vices. �I�m sick of your game.�

�� The
transfer of ownership implies it isn�t Vincent�s game, too. Veld knows better.
The rules belong to both of them. He snaps shut the cigarette case without
pulling one free. This is about the kid, about how everything could have ended
today � all the uneasy truce between cops and mobsters broken by one death.
When the shooting finally started, Veld and Vincent both knew it would never
end.

�� It�s not
over yet.� Veld says, evenly. Vincent takes a drink straight from the bottle, then puts it back on the bartop, hard. Veld hisses faintly
between his teeth. He can�t back down now.
He claims the bottle from Vincent, has his own measure from the neck. He knows
it�s a bad idea. He doesn�t do this. Vincent
doesn�t do this.

�� It could
have been.� Vincent comes out from behind the bar, sits down on the stool next
to Veld. It changes their dynamic, makes something different in the
relationship. Their shoulders are close, but not touching. �And neither of us
would ever have gotten out of this time loop.�

�� He drinks,
pushes the bottle at Veld, who hesitates. But if anyone knows him, if anyone
understands what�s right for either of them, it�s Vincent. Veld never let
himself get over the edge, because that would have given him an excuse for
anything. Given them both an excuse.

�� You really
want this?� Veld says, letting it be a question, as they push the bottle back
and forth. He�s miserly with his grasp of control, unwilling to release hold of
it without a fight � or perhaps he simply tells himself that when he�s just forgotten how to let go.

�� Yeah.� Vincent says, after the bottle has scraped across the
counter several more times. This time, when it slides back to Veld, Vincent
leans over and their shoulders touch. He puts his hand under the bottle as Veld
tips it up to drink, pushing up on it to deepen the draft. �Attaboy.�

�� It�s vodka
they�re drinking, the long drink makes Veld�s throat first feel raw, then warm
and numb. His fingers are starting to feel clumsy, it�s hard to focus. Once
he�s stepped past that ledge, it�s easier to leap.

�� Vincent
jumps with him.

October had crawled around slowly, with
things going more or less the same. Zack has become the biggest fixture in
Angeal�s life, with everyone too busy enjoying� how well things were going in the city
for anyone to notice that two cops are living together.� The summer had stretched long this year, and
the night was still warm enough for them to be sitting comfortably in Angeal�s
kitchen with the porch door open to admit the evening air.

Angeal spent less time in the
speakeasy � to be honest he felt less like he needed to drink with Zack around.
The subject is still careful between them. Zack had made a good enough
impression to be allowed inside without incident, but everyone still remembered
that his first words had been the biggest faux
pas committed within the joint itself.

Instead, Zack has forced Angeal to
see The Cocoanuts at least four times
in the theaters. Angeal isn�t nearly as fond of the Marx brothers as Zack was,
but he is fond enough of Zack to
enjoy them more than he would have on his own.

�We could go to the movies.� Zack says,
brightly. What he means is, they could go to Cocoanuts again, and Angeal isn�t entirely sure he could stand to
sit through the dance numbers again. Girls in scandalous bellhop outfits
floozing around to big band music.

�I�d rather have a beer.� Angeal
says, frankly. He�d rather stay home, he thinks. The bed was closer that way.

�You mean out at the ShinRa joint?�
Zack says, still surprised any time Angeal mentions it. �We haven�t been in
like� forever.�

�Yeah we should get back sometime.�
Angeal muses, but it�s more or less just thinking out loud. �Keep up
relations.�

�Oh I get it,� Zack says slowly, as
if enlightenment is creeping into his thoughts on cat�s-paws � slow and
deliberate. �You�re undercover. Gaining their trust for the big bust, right
Angeal?�

�� Much as he
loves the kid, sometimes Angeal is seized with an overwhelming urge to strangle
Zack. Angeal�s patience always wins, in the end, but there is a long enough
silence after Zack speaks for his enthusiasm to deflate.

�� It�s not like that, kid.�
Angeal says at last. �No point in busting �em, just means there�d be a big
power struggle over who gets that top spot. We�ve been over this.�

�� Zack looks
like his morals are warring against his respect for Angeal. It writes itself
all over his features, before he finally decides the debate is too much, puts
it away in his mind. Angeal knows he won�t let it go, though.

�� Angeal
delays any kind of further explanation by reaching into the icebox to fetch out
the sun tea. The glass pitcher is frosty in his hands, and picks up a fine
sheen of condensation almost as quickly as he pulls it free. When he puts his
hand underneath the bottom to support it, it almost slips.

�� Zack is
faster on the recovery than Angeal would have guessed. He leans his whole body
in and has his hands up under the bottom of the pitcher before Angeal even
realizes fully that it was about to fall. Angeal�s nerves had all jumped to
life without his bidding, and he stands tense and steady until he was sure that
the crisis is averted. Zack�s hands both covered his on the pitcher.

�� Whoops-a-daisy,�
Zack says nonsensically. He looks up at Angeal, his focus shifting from the
pitcher, and smiles in a way that could have lit up a room. Zack is equal parts
infuriating and adorable at times � right now Angeal might have said the latter
won out. He took his puppy paws away from the pitcher and turned back to fetch
two glasses from the cabinet and Angeal pours them both a glass.

�� You�re not
gonna flip out again if we go back, right?� Angeal asks at last, after they�ve
both had a long drink. The tea is just a little bitter, the way Angeal likes
it, and unsweetened � sugar was an expensive luxury. Zack�s sip is smaller and
he wrinkled up his nose when he discovers it�s not sweet, or perhaps at the
implication that he hadn�t learned his lesson.

�� Naw.� Zack says, and grins winningly. �But can we go to the
movies tonight instead? I gotta patrol all tomorrow night, and you can go then,
right?�

�� He finishes
his tea, and Angeal resigns himself to another night at the theater.

�� Ah, no. You�re my friend.� Angeal recalls a line from the movie, one that feels
appropriate. �I�d kill you for nothing.�

��
�� Elena
pushes the heel of her hand hard into the wound and tries not to think about
the noise Tseng makes when she leans most of her weight on it to try and
staunch the bleeding. He�s a little pale, but it doesn't look dangerous yet.
She�s pretty sure people don't really die of being shot in the arm - not right
away anyway. Between her and Reno
they get him laid out on one of the long tables in back - the one they
sometimes use for poker.

�� "Shit,
we should be taking him to the hospital." Reno
says, for all his bravo it looks like the sight of blood is making him paler. He covers his mouth after a moment,
closes his eyes. Elena realizes he�s trying very hard not to throw up.

�� A hospital
won�t care Reno, look at him. Look at us.�
She�s half covered in blood herself, the rest in alcohol from the dropped
cases. �It�ll just get him arrested, and I�m not gonna let that happen.�

�� Reno
exhales slowly through his nose, and then nods. �Okay. Okay. But we gotta call
a doctor or something, he�ll die.�

�� Go outside, Reno.�� She says, with
more authority than she feels. He looks at her, and for a moment she thinks he�s
just going to tell her to shut up, what did she know � she was just a girl.
Instead he hunches his shoulders, nods.

�� Yeah, I�ll
call the boss. He�ll need to know.� He slinks away, one last look at Tseng
enough to make him believe that the Chinaman is probably going to be O.K. if
someone could just figure out what the best thing to do about the lead in his
arm is. Tseng�s eyes are closed; she thinks maybe he�s focusing on catching his
breath, calming himself.

�� Elena berates
herself for how useless she is in this situation. She knows plenty about
killing, but very little about saving.
In a nervous motion she lifts her hand to her mouth, setting her teeth to her
thumbnail as she feels the adrenaline start to fade � panic threatens just
behind.

�� The bullet
won�t kill him.� A voice intrudes on her thoughts, and Elena startles out of
her considerations. �But the secondary infections will.�

�� Firm hands
push her aside, and she looks up to see Veld. He has a black bag with him;
she's never seen him with it before. It looks old, but not quite as old as the
surgical tools he pulls out of it. He handles them with a familiarity that makes
her stomach do a little, curious twist. It�s some combination of his steady
hands and the complete lack of emotion in his expression that causes the
feeling, she thinks. He won't hesitate to use these for anything.

�� This time,
though, he looks evenly at Tseng.

�� "You want
some alcohol first?" He says, it�s barely a
question. It isn't anything in his tone - which is as even as ever - just that
he�s looking intently at Tseng when he says it.

�� Tseng
shakes his head, and Veld shrugs a little. Vincent takes a cue that Elena
couldn�t even see and moves around to the other side of the table, his hip in
close proximity to Elena as he leans over her partner�s prone body.

�� Sit still
kid, I�m going to make sure you�ve got all of your
shirt before I do anything else.� Veld�s fingers probe along the inside of
Tseng�s sleeve, one somehow sliding up the rolled cuff along Tseng�s own arm.
He�s careful of the wound, but presses the shirt into a dozen configurations as
he tries to decide if any considerable amount of it has been carried into the
wound. The hole appears to match up evenly on either side, though there was a
tatter that looked like it had come close to tearing free.

�� Looks like it�s all there.� Vincent says, above her. Elena
glances up and pretty much all she can see is how his hair was slowly sliding
off his hunched shoulders and the underside of his chin. As embarrassingly
close as he is, she refuses to move. �Better get the bullet out before he makes
the table any dirtier.�

�� Veld
glances up, and his expression changes for perhaps the first time Elena has
ever seen it do so. His brows arch, but the rest of his features remain
immobile. It�s close to amusement, she thinks � as close as he gets. His hands
turn firm in their hold on the shirt and he rips the sleeve in half lengthwise,
starting from the hole the bullet had torn. This done,
he pulls the sleeve away all the way up to Tseng�s shoulder.

�� The wound is
dark, oozing but not pouring blood. The whole area is blotched by uneven
bruising, though the wound itself isn�t large, the surrounding tissue looks
badly traumatized. She�s seen worse � usually the exit wounds are larger and
more torn than entry, but the bullet has lodged in muscle, possibly bone, and
so Tseng is spared that at least.

�� Alright,
this is the part that will probably hurt.� Veld warns far in advance, while he�s
still shifting the contents of the bag around in a chorus of metallic clinking
that Elena would have otherwise found ominous. For some reason she trusts that
Veld is entirely on their side in this matter � that he isn�t going to hurt
Tseng any more than he has to. It�s more than he was like to get from a
hospital in these times, considering his race.

�� Elena is
fascinated by the precise movements of Veld�s hands. Veld looks up at Vincent.
The bartender wordlessly knows to restrain the arm. Vic pins it to the table,
stretching it straight at the elbow between both his hands � but somehow he
manages to lean back just right so he�s out of Veld�s light.

�� Elena takes
Tseng�s other hand but she has to look away when Veld pushes the forceps into
the wound. Tseng doesn�t make a noise, but his fingers tighten on hers. The
forceps slide off the bullet twice with audible clicks as Veld pulls at it. He
makes a noise that might serve for agitated, but the man�s expression never
changes.

�� Surgeon�s
assistant died in my platoon.� He starts talking in the quiet, and Elena
realizes it�s just what is needed to keep them all focused. His tone never changes, he never looks up from his work. One of his hands
works the spreader holding the wound open while he fishes for the bullet with
the bent tip of the forceps. �Surgeon picked me because I�ve never minded
blood. It�s amazing how much you can learn when there�s nothing to lose.�

�� He closes
the Forceps inside the wound again, and Elena sees his knuckles lighten as he
tightens his grip. Vic leans down a little harder. As he braces to pull, Elena
thinks about what it must have been like to be the one wavering, uncertain line
between life and death � when the mantra of �do no harm� took on a more
sinister meaning. She can�t imagine that Veld�s emotionless face would have been
much comfort.

�� Tseng makes
a noise shy of a snarl as Veld pulled. This time there is no metal on metal
click, forceps sure on the bullet. Veld draws free a small, twisted slug of
metal. He drops it into a shot glass that Vincent pulls out of the breast
pocket of his suit. Both of them make an amused noise as it clinks to the
bottom of the glass, the closest thing to laughing she�s ever heard either of
them do.

�� Hand me
the Kocher, Vic.� Veld says quietly. �You don�t have any fucking hemostats in
there.�

�� The worst
I�ve had in here was a few splinters.� Vincent answers, the both of them
chatting as if it�s an average night at the bar. �You�re lucky I have more than
a pair of tweezers and a bottle of surgical spirits.�

�� You should
still be ready.� Veld says, twisting a small rubber
band around the handle of the tool Vincent gives him where it is clamped on
something inside the wound. �Didn�t you learn anything before they threw you
out of the army?�

�� Elena
watches him work the needle inside the wound somehow, shifting and pulling in a
way that makes Tseng�s muscles jump against Vincent�s hold. Veld�s expression
changes faintly, into something frank, and he glances up at his patient. Tseng
is sweating now, probably regretting saying no to the alcohol. Beneath all her
worry, Elena thinks the look that goes between �doctor� and �patient� is almost
funny. Veld never had any expressions, but here he manages to look almost
matronly, and Tseng is always so damn confident � he looks properly scolded by
the look and steels himself for the rest.

�� You were
in the army too?� She finds herself asking, glancing up at Vincent � their eyes
meet at an awkward angle, she has to peer under his outstretched arm and he
twists his head down to look at her. He might be smiling but his mouth is mostly
hidden by the angle � he is just eyes and that long, messy curtain of hair.

�� I was,�
Vincent starts, before Veld cuts him off. Without looking up, Veld commandeers
the story.

�� He was
drafted. Made it through basic, but three months off dry land and he was dishonorably
discharged.� Veld glances up, for a brief second, to see if Vincent will protest.
When the bartender doesn�t, Veld continues. �Faked his own
death because he didn�t like the food.�

�� What
food.� Vincent returns. �They gave us flour, not bread. A
handful of raisins sometimes, or cold water and a teabag.�

�� There was
never enough tobacco, either.� Veld agrees, and pulls the wound closed with the
last few stitches. �But some of us were men
about it.�

�� Vincent
doesn�t answer that, he just leans back to let Tseng up. Tseng�s hand leaves
Elena�s and touches the stitches exploringly as he sits up.

�� Thanks
doc.� Tseng manages after a moment. He already looks as if he�s feeling better,
though more tired than she�s ever seen him.

�� Was it the
cops, kid?� Veld asks, wiping his hands of blood on one of Vincent�s bar-rags.
Vincent himself is looking at the blood on the table, possibly contemplating
the best way to leech it back out of the wood top.

�� Yeah,�
Tseng grits. �The new kid.�

�� He didn�t
know it was us, I don�t think.� Elena finds herself defending the kid for no
reason she could tell. He has those blue eyes and seems willing enough to
believe the best in people � so she hopes maybe she could believe the best in
him. �I think we just surprised him and he panicked.�

�� Angeal
should keep that puppy on a tighter leash if he�s going to bite people.� Veld says, his mouth firm. He pats the pocket of his vest,
leaving a faint red streak on the material as he recovers his cigarette case
from within. It�s a fluid motion � he pulls the cigarette from the case,
strikes a match on the back, and cups both hands around the flame with the
cigarette in his mouth.

�� He�s goofy
for the kid, I don�t think he�s properly teaching him
how to behave.� Vincent answers. Elena realizes that the conversation doesn�t
really include her or Tseng anymore, even though the two older men are looking
at them � it�s with speculation. She recognizes the look � they know there�s
business to be done.

�� Vincent,
pour him his victory shot and then we better let Elena get him home.� Veld�s
tone is quiet.
�
�You survived.� The bartender picks
up the shot glass with the bullet in it and fills it with vodka. The bullet
gives off thin streamers of Tseng�s blood, and the bottom half of the vodka
turns pink with it, slowly creeping upward toward the top of the glass.

�� Tseng
strains the drink through his teeth, letting the bullet clink back into the
bottom of the glass. He rattles it once, turns it back over to Vincent.

�� Not gonna
keep it?� Veld asks, exhaling smoke. �Good. Don�t remember how you could have died, just remember how you�re still alive.�

�� You�re
going to stay with him, right Elena?� Vincent asks as he passes the shot glass
on. Veld considers the contents of it as he smokes, then
tips his ashes in on top of the bullet.�
She nods, once, and helps Tseng up. He�s so much taller than her that
she can�t even properly sling one of his arms over her shoulder to help him, so
she just presses her hands to his middle, one on his belly and the other on his
back.

�� Tseng
doesn�t complain.

�� I�ll call
you two a cab. You want me to escort you?�

�� No,� Elena
says, confident that she can protect him the short walk up the curb and into
his place. �I got it.�
��
�� On the way
out, Reno�s standing outside and smoking. There�s a pile of cigarettes at his
feet, and he rolls his shoulders nervously, eyeing Tseng sidelong as if the guy
would fall over at any second.

�� Boss says
we aughta have a talk with the kid.� Reno says, exhaling smoke when Tseng seems
steady enough. �Maybe take him for a ride.�

�� I think
Vic and Veld have that covered.� Elena says shakily. �We�re going home. You
should too.�

�� Yeah, I gotcha.� Reno looks down at himself, covered in
booze and blood, and shrugs it all off.�
�Glad you�re okay, hoss.�

�� Elena�s
glad he�s okay too, more than glad. The ride home is slow,
the cabbie wisely doesn�t say anything about Tseng�s shirt or the crooked,
oozing stitches, or the smell of booze.

�� Elena
tips him an extra nickel before she helps Tseng up the walk and into his place.

�� In the
darkness, a shine catches Zack�s attention. He looks around sharply, and two
shadows resolve themselves into human shapes. He vaguely recognizes them from the
speakeasy � one, the quiet bartender, the other the guy who smoked all the
time. Some trick of the light cause that man�s eyes to shine. His hands hang
loosely at his sides, unmenacing, but some set of his shoulders tells Zack
otherwise.

�� Hey fellas,�
Zack tries, holding up his hands. He knows what this is about � that mistake.
�Listen, tell Tseng I�m sorry. It was an accident.�

�� They wear a
matching lack of expression, moving silently. Zack finds himself backing up as
his eyes lock with the shorter man�s. He barely remembers the guy�s name � it
starts with a v, he thinks.� Something in
the depths there is hypnotic � some faint malice behind the entire nothing that
hides everything about him. That it showed at all makes Zack�s guts sink.� He keeps backing up, then
suddenly his back hit something unmoving.

�� Vincent had
taken advantage of him looking only at the other ambusher, and quick, efficient
motions of his hands locked Zack�s hands behind his back, reversing his elbows
somehow in some kind of lock. Zack froze.

�� He�s okay,
right?� Zack isn�t panicking, not yet. He regrets having shot at all, but when
he�d come on two figures slinging a body into the back of a truck he�d thought
the worst. It probably was the worst,
but he�d stuck his nose right in it and seen that the ShinRa boys were frazzled
too. Something had gone really sour, and the bruises on Reno didn�t look like
the other guy had been anything less than serious.

�� You don�t
get it.� Vincent says, in his ear.� �He�s
one of ours.�

�� The other
guy�s still coming, stops barely a step away, and that�s about when Zack starts
to panic. He knows an apology isn�t enough here, but if he�d just run off on
his patrol, it would have drawn more attention. The shorter guy has eyes that
Zack would swear were black, and he�s just looking straight into Zack like he
can see everything the kid would ever be.

�� Listen, I
didn�t mean to � I mean I�ll do whatever you want to make up for it.� Zack
says, before he can stop himself. He doesn�t want to fight these guys, doesn�t
want to disappoint Angeal like that again. At base, there�s some small comfort
when he knows at the root of it all, the law�s on his side, and how messed up was it that he had to apologize to
these guys. �There was blood everywhere; I didn�t know what to do.�

�� Should
have shut your eyes and plugged your ears, like your master does.� Vincent
says, evenly. The other guy doesn�t say anything, hasn�t said anything. Zack
dimly remembers what he�s heard about this guy, and he can�t think of one fact
aside from the fact that he�d been married once. Crazily, his eyes go to the
ring the guy is still wearing, just in time to see that his hand�s moving.

�� The guy�s
hand forms an open palm, fingers held together like a blade, and dig right into
the join of muscle under Zack�s pectoral, just beneath his heart. He never
would have guessed before now exactly how much that could hurt. The pain is
blinding, and he sucks in a breath that only makes things worse.

�� It was an
accident, we get that.� Vincent says, and he sounds almost sorry about it. �So
we�re just here to warn you � �

�� Hey, you son of a bitch!� Angeal�s voice comes as a
surprise, and then the pain stops. Vincent drags him backwards and Zack can see
that Angeal�s squaring off with the shorter guy in the alley they�d trapped him
in. He�s holding something as ridiculous as a bag lunch in one hand � and Zack
thanks his luck for the older man�s concern as he catches his breath.

�� You keep
your hands off him!� Angeal challenges again, and the other guy looks
unimpressed, but at the same time like he could murder the cop. It�s the way
the light falls on his face.

�� Your kid
shot Tseng tonight, Hewley.� The other man says at last, and when he digs in
his coat, Angeal tenses up until he sees that its cigarettes the guy is going
for. �You going to answer for that?�

�� Angeal
takes a deep breath, then looks at Zack. He can see
it�s true on Zack�s face, Zack can tell. His heart sinks way down in his chest
� he�s messed up bad, he can tell. But
Angeal can�t back off now � not now that it�s escalated between him and the
ShinRa boys.

�� They�re
backing themselves into a trap that neither side can escape,
and everyone can feel it closing around their necks now, like a noose.
Only the shorter guy, the one who was smoking now, doesn�t look worried about
it. He never looks anything about anything. Zack can feel how sweaty
Vincent�s palms are against his own wrists.

�� He�s
alive?� Angeal asks after a moment.

�� A nod
answers the question, and Vincent lets go of Zack�s wrists, shoving him forward
toward Angeal. Zack catches himself before he can stumble, and pushes his palm
against his chest with a wince.

�� I just� I
panicked.� He explains again weakly. But it�s too late now.

�� The dogs
had started to bark at each other, and now they wouldn�t ever be able to lay
down quietly together until they�d fought out dominance. Angeal�s showing his
teeth, and Vincent accepts the cigarette the shorter man passes to him.

�� Teach your
puppy some manners next time, and we won�t have to do it for you.� The shorter
guy says, exhaling smoke. �Until then, I�d be scarce if I were you.�

�� The threat
makes Angeal suck in a breath, draw himself up. It
doesn�t intimidate either of ShinRa�s guys.

�� We can
come after you any time.�

�� Just you
try it.� Vincent warns, quietly. He and the other guy turn as one to leave.

�� Watching
their retreating backs, Zack can feel what�s ending. Angeal looks at him,
disappointed. It�s a Monday night, Zack remembers it clearly. Monday, October
28^th, and it�s the night that the whole world ends.

�� No one
forgets, in the aftermath. Even in the shitstorm, no one forgets. The war
doesn�t happen right away � no, things almost get better for a while, Rufus
thinks. The crash is bad business for everyone but the bars. �For a time, even, conflicts are set aside so
that everyone can drink, but the mood turns when everyone is drinking to drown
their problems rather than because they had none.

�� It�s not
until things get really desperate, when they start to really struggle, that
things get bloody again. Rufus doesn�t lament the simpler, earlier times. He
digs in, lets things go when he gets dealt a shitty hand, and banks for later.
When the banks crash, he puts his trust in Reeve to get things together in
foreign markets where a profit can still be made.

�� Weather
it�s the cops that go for his boys, or his boys that go for the cops, it
doesn�t matter too much when people end up in caskets. Zack disappears one
night, and the cops blame ShinRa for it � and Rufus can�t get any answers until
years later when everything�s so ruined he�s going to have to build it all up
from ground zero.

�� But he has
four boys now, all loyal and quiet and tested by the ruinous times and found
able to survive. In 1933, the public realized how much blood Volstead�s act had
helped to loose and they overturned it, and then Rufus turned his attentions to
rebuilding his empire.

�� In Midgar
he hears that there�s a kid hanging around that says Zack hadn�t died there, a
kid who knows too much but is too blonde to be who he
claims. The kid visits Angeal�s grave and, Rufus goes to see one time.

�� Thank god
it�s all over.� Reeve says, next to him. There are gravestones here they could
visit too, but Rufus doesn�t bother. �I mean, now it can�t all turn on its head
again, right?�

�� Rufus
chuckles darkly. Reeve�s still an optimist.

�� Tell me
that when you see how much it�s going to cost to buy back our property from the
bank � or the government, or whoever owns it now.� He hates his wheelchair, but
tolerates it. It was easier than having to constantly lean on a cane or hobble
around on crutches.

�� Rufus.� Reeve says after a moment. �If money was the only
reason people stayed near you, you wouldn�t have any friends anymore.�

�� I have the
good looks, too.� Rufus answers. Reeve doesn�t disagree.

�� ShinRa was
stronger than u-boats, stronger than prohibition. It made the rules when there
weren�t any, and then broke them when it had to. It could outlast crashing
stock markets and rebuild after the devastation of an all-out war with the
police. ShinRa survived, and that was
the legacy Rufus had given to his father�s name.

�� It was, he
thought, a hell of a lot more than his father had ever done with it.

-End.

Author�s notes:
1. The
  title of this piece is a reference, of course to The Edna St. Vincent
  Millay poem, Second Fig:
�Safe upon the solid rock the ugly
houses stand:

Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!�
Of
course this poem itself is a reference to the 20�s on the whole, as is this
fic.
1. There is a lot of history geekage in this fic,
  and for that I apologize. As I apparently did not learn my lesson about
  AU�s with The Many Adventures of
  Walking Man, I came back for a second beating (absolutely free). I do
  love history, and I think about the only period I could have gone on at
  longer length about would have been the Napoleonic Era. As no one will ever ask for an AU fic set during
  that period (and this is not a challenge, trust me the fic would be of an
  obscene length), I suppose I shall have to be satisfied with this.
1. I know that removing the bullet from a wound is
  a film-ism, in regards to current-day medical technology. Since a bullet
  gets hot enough to self-sterilize, and modern antibiotics are what they
  are, it is no longer as vital to dig a bullet out of a wound. However,
  antibiotics were not widely used until Prontosil in 1932 � and this fic is
  set mostly in mid 1929. It was still medical practice to remove a bullet
  from a wound as quickly as possible at that point, and especially
  worrisome if the slug carried in other foreign objects such as cloth from
  one�s shirt or pieces of anything else it passed through before entering
  the body. With no available treatment for infection, often an untreated
  wound would result in amputation if it became infected. �Amputation of course being preferable to
  death.
1. There are large amounts of 20�s era slang.
  Hopefully everything is easy to figure out in the context it�s presented
  in, but if there are any questions I�ll gladly clarify. Period slang is a
  particular weakness of mine.
1. Reno�s anecdote about the umbrellas is an unabashed
  reference to The Untouchables.
  If you haven�t seen this film and enjoy the 20�s and 30�s era I highly
  recommend it.
1. The
  Cocoanuts did indeed come out
  in 1929, on May 3^rd. It was the first Marx Brothers stage show
  to be transferred to film, once the technology of sound recording came to
  exist. It made an astronomical amount of money for the day, close to 2
  million dollars and was hugely popular. It doesn�t hurt that I love the
  movie (and the Marx Brothers) in general, and so I felt I had to include
  it.
1. Entirely out of order. Reno�s family disaster is the Boston Molasses
  Disaster, a real historical event that happened on January 15^th,
  1919.
1. The popularization of wristwatches is in fact
  largely due to WW1, though they were worn by women as early as 1850 when
  advances in clockwork made accuracy possible in something smaller than a
  pocket watch.
1. October 28^th-29^th, �Black
  Monday� and �Black Tuesday�, the dates of the most felt effects of the
  1929 stock market crash, and I felt they were pretty much this AU�s
  version of Meteor.
1. �This is
  more of a personal pet peeve, but I can hardly ever understand why
  everyone seems to think that Tseng is so deeply tied to being wutaiian when he gives zero evidence of even being interested in Wutai
  or any of its culture in the game. Instead I feel that he�s not a
  nationality but instead much more loyal to his job. I apologize for
  working out some of my frustrations with a back story that isn�t so
  flowery and complicated as most give him, but I liked �I�m from San Francisco.� I probably couldn�t have lived with myself if
  he was Chinese mafia come over from the mainland after some horrible
  scandal and spoke seven languages and knew kung-fu. He�s a guy with long
  hair and an asian name.
  �Dahh, piss.
- 1
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Castle on the Sand