Handle

What happens in Wutai stays in Wutai. He never thought he'd thank any god for that, but as he pulls his goggles back onto his head and makes sure he's dressed properly—but not too properly—he's definitely thanking whatever gods may be.

He wouldn't even have been there if she hadn't already been running. He wouldn't have agreed to tea if she hadn't been so obviously vulnerable. And if there's one thing Cid Highwind has always hated, it's watching little girls cry.

(She will always be a little girl to him, even though he knows she's not a child anymore).

And he would never have kissed her if she hadn't looked so coyly up at him, her hands fixed firmly on that cylindrical cup while she whisked that bamboo whatsit through green syrupy tea.

"Not like we ain't gonna miss you," he'd said and she'd laughed and cried and pushed that weird little teacup at him.

How the fuck did Wutaians go around calling those glasses teacups if they didn't have any goddamn handles?

So he drank with both hands and felt rude. And she whisked herself some tea and drank with both hands and gnawed the lips he'd kissed and he felt dirty.

Until she set her tea down, pushed the tray out of their way, and put one slender finger on his teacup. "Aren't you gonna finish what you started?"

He very nearly said 'no.' But he didn't, because she was running and needing and he had time and he never did like to watch a woman cry.

Her shoulders were slender; he could have broken her arms like twigs if he'd wanted. She bounced a little as he pushed her down onto the tatami and he liked the startled, slightly dazed look on her face.

She put one hand on his cheek as he kissed her again, rubbed her palm against the stubble while she kissed him back.

Her clothes never had left much to the imagination. Mostly, what was new was the colour. All her skin was that same olive as her face, her stomach, her arms. Her nipples were a dusky pink, hardening when he touched them. She made a soft, breathy sound when he pressed his lips to those small breasts, flicked his tongue across her nipples.

One thing to be said for those damnable shorts: they never did hide the fact that for all her lack of height, she is—always has been—one of the leggiest creatures he has ever seen. She has great calves, great thighs, and now he could see even more of those legs. He ran his hand along the flat of her calves, then under her knees, while she stripped his shirt and explored the scars on his chest and arms with fingers and tongue.

One more thing to be said for those shorts: they came off easy. And her underwear wasn't much more than a wisp of a cotton prayer. He teased at the elastic, then moved in between her legs, watched the pale fabric darken with moisture.

She stretched upwards, back arching, and he kissed her again.

There were no more questions.

She was the one who unbuttoned his pants, fingers fumbling, pulled down his boxers while he helped her shimmy out of her underwear, or at least get it to a more manageable place, like, say, her ankles.

She wasn't a virgin, and he couldn't say for sure if that surprised him or not. But she was warm around him, hot and tight and perfect and he smiled, brushing kisses against her neck. He smiled wider when she squirmed even as she bucked her hips.

"Fucking stubble," she hissed when she could catch her breath.

"No," he said and laughed, too distracted to finish the joke.

Not that it mattered anymore; he closed his eyes, listening to her weak, mewling cries. Her entire body tensed and then shuddered once, relaxing. Not long after, he shuddered too, gasped at the warmth in his blood, at the way she left him limp and dazed.

"This didn't happen," she said even while she curled her head onto his chest.

He'd agreed then, and he agrees now.

What happens in Wutai stays in Wutai.