Chapter Text
Cid whistled a tune as he ambled down the hall, clipboard chock full of supply request documents within his line of vision. He flipped through them leisurely, licking his finger between each page turn.
One may think he was deeply intrigued by the smudged ink upon the pages, but he was more focused on staying in tune than trying to calculate how much gil this latest proposed endeavor was going to cost the ironworks, or how they’d allocate funds to pay for it. They always found a way (all without selling their entire souls to Rowena, no less!).
Normally he left the bookkeeping number crunching to Jessie, but she’d been in workshop C, arguing with--helping?--Biggs and Wedge clean up some disaster or another for the better part of the day now. Workshop C barely had room enough for three mid-size folk, what with that large project hanging off the table in there. Cid wasn’t about to cramp them any further. Problem-solving without their company president around was a good teambuilder, certainly.
Anyroad, he doubted she’d be running back to sign forms anytime soon, so he’d swiped the clipboard on his way past her station. With a spot of free time for once, and with the deputy president’s hands full, he might as well help out.
Despite the boredom that surely awaited him once he actually stopped to peruse the papers, the song he whistled could only be described as cheery. His steps practically bounced. If his life were a theater production, perhaps he would burst into dance and song right about now.
Luckily for him, his life was not sung about by the local minstrel, at least not directly (Omega got all the spotlight). He was just in a good mood. Was that strange? What could the reason be…
The weather, maybe? It had rained for a week solid; muddy footprints covered up the usual oil. Today was the first day of solid sunshine they’d had in ages. Spring was ending–a cause for joy?
He’d also made good progress on personal projects lately, including a grand epiphany a few days ago that caused him to accidentally work through the entire night in an excited fervor, something he hadn’t done so enthusiastically since he was a boy. That had been rejuvenating, despite the crash the day after.
The Warrior of Light had visited the team recently as well, regaling them with wondrous tales of her latest travels, and she had even brought souvenirs that sparked the crew’s creativity.
Plenty of reasons to be in a good mood. Maybe he didn’t need a reason at all. Best to just enjoy the pleasantness while he had the chance.
Of course, the universe had an interesting sense of humor when it came to Cid’s life.
Just as he was settling into the idea of accepting a happy attitude for the rest of the day–maybe even the week!--the Twelve or some other unseen force had to remind him that the good times cannot last, not when demons from his past conveniently decided to make a home of his own domain.
As he was about to finish his song, he passed a doorway that opened to a supply closet that was rarely used. A low traffic area any day of the week, any time of day. He paid no mind to the fact the door was open, because he could not see it. He was too busy whistling a charming tune while reading a supply request sheet for–for–well, for something. The point was that his mind was fully preoccupied with duty, emotion, and ponderings...
There was no reason to be looking for traffic in this extremely and obviously empty hall, especially not when his whistling acted as a warning of his presence. If anything, others should have been looking out for him.
As the universe would have it, this area of ironworks wasn’t empty today, at this time, because that was Cid Garlond’s luck. No, someone just had to be making their way out that door at the same time as him, crossing paths in a most indelicate way.
At this point in his life, Cid should have evolved to have an internal alarm system for obnoxious buzzards, something that would warn him ahead of time when he was about to get hit with a headache in the shape of a person (literally, this time). Unfortunately, it appeared to be broken.
The whistling stopped abruptly, replaced by a shout. The supply requests went flying, once-thought-to-be-sturdy clipboard hitting the wall and separating into one board, one clip, and a million and one papers scattering the lengths of the hall.
To top it off, the damn paper he’d been flipping at the time had given him a nasty papercut when he was interrupted, and getting t-boned by a tree of a person had him falling, falling, falling sideways much more quickly than a piece of paper.
Well, there goes the day.
Luckily, the drowned weasel known as Nero Scaeva was stronger than his stick-like limbs would suggest. With an annoyed growl (why did he sound annoyed, he was the one who got steamrolled here, main hall goers have right of way to unused side closet exiters!), the man who got him into this mess grabbed Cid roughly by the waist, stopping his descent to the hard floor below, just barely.
He felt the muscles against his back straining, fingers trembling slightly. Cid was pure muscle, and Nero was pure hot air; he just wasn’t meant to be lugged around, he’d outgrown that at age two. Best not bring that up, though, or Cid would end up face down on the floor after all.
“Why don’t you try watching where you’re going, Garlond! You’re too old to have your head in the clouds like some school child.”
Actually, Cid was fine falling to the floor if it meant he got to take Nero with him; then he could throttle him soundly. He struggled, trying to turn that dream into reality, but Nero was used to their physical altercations and saw it coming. Nero held on, muscles straining harder, and pulled Cid the rest of up with a small grunt. Cid got a single lucky hand swipe in, skewing those damned sunglasses a few ilms down his face, one arm completely lifted from his ear.
Once Cid had steady footing, Nero took a nimble step back. He straightened up his clothes and shades again, like Cid had been nothing but a minor inconvenience, and waited for the rebuttal that was sure to come.
Cid narrowed his eyes, prepared to deliver.
“Me? Watch where I’m going? What about you, you careless brute?” He would have enunciated his words with a nice finger jab to that bony chest, but the bastard really had calculated his steps. Nero was just out of reach. “I was whistling! A sleeping grandmother could have heard me from a mile away, and you’re wearing those ridiculous tinted shades indoors, in the dimly lit supply closet. Any fool with half a gil worth of sense would have avoided me.”
“I knew I should have just let you get a concussion, maybe then you’d be tolerable” Nero sighed, putting his hands on his hips. The shades were fully covering his eyes now, but Cid could tell they were rolling in the most annoying manner possible. “As you might tell from the wreckage around us, I was carrying some heavy boxes, stacked three high. There wasn’t exactly enough room to look both ways before crossing the street and get the door. My fashionable eyewear has nothing to do with it. We all know how Garlond gets about not shutting the doors behind us when we’re not using a space anymore, hmm? Your incessant nagging isn’t a favorite of mine. Besides, you were supposed to be in your workshop the rest of the day!”
It could have been anyone in his hall, not just Cid. Did Nero really plan his meanderings around Cid’s schedule? Doubtful.
The other words caught up to him then. Boxes? Ah. There had been a loud crashing noise that Cid filtered out as he’d been falling in slow motion. The contents of the boxes were scattered amongst the papers; nothing appeared to be broken. It was mostly books, a few cleaning supplies, an extra tool box, empty containers, and adhesives. A very good thing the boxes didn’t fall on either of them, or they might have been looking at more than a bruised ego or two.
Still, Nero should have easily been able to hold onto the boxes. They looked much sturdier than a short Garlean and his clipboard’s walking power. On the ground they lay, though, almost like they had been thrown to the side. Why…?
Nope. No. He was not doing this line of thinking.
Nero was a selfish idiot, and Cid shouldn’t have to deal with him. There’s no way Nero dropped his precious cargo just so he could stop his sworn enemy from falling on his arse. Nero would have laughed at the sight, gleefully. Another thing to hold over his head, some comment about his clumsiness, and how that makes Cid unworthy to run this place–
Instead, Cid was perfectly safe, and Nero’s eyebrow was raising, wondering what was taking him so long to respond.
Cid shook himself out of his reverie. He was already having an annoying conversation with Scaeva, he didn’t need to be imagining a new one in the middle. “Just–! You should be even more careful, if you’re carrying heavy boxes! What if it had been someone like Wedge or Luvon that was walking past, huh? It’s a hazard!”
Nero groaned, unimpressed. “Oh, please, we both know how strong Wedge’s flight reflexes are, and Luvon would have sensed me from ten yalms away, unlike some old grouch who can’t even keep his whistling in key. Stop thinking in hypotheticals, Garlond, and just admit you had a lapse in judgment. Happens to the best of them. Not me, of course, but nobody could fault you for some weakness. Speaking of…” Nero gave a mean grin, nodding downward.
Cid followed his gaze. It was his turn to groan. The papercut, in addition to stinging in that burning, distracting way only a tiny cut can do, was a real bleeder. Drops of red were getting over the papers that still littered the ground. Jessie was not going to be pleased about that, and neither were the suppliers who needed to handle the same forms.
He cursed, quickly jamming his finger in his mouth to stave off the bleeding. He was disgusted at himself for a moment as the tang of iron filled his mouth. This seemed more like something Nero would do; it was unclean and made himself look foolish. It’s certainly something he would have commented on, had their positions been reversed. He just didn’t want the blood on his clothes or on the papers (more than was already there).
Nero chimed in again as expected. “How boorish! Though I suppose that’s one way to make you shut up. Who knew it was so simple.” He chuckled, then reached into one of his vest pockets, clearly looking for something.
Cid decided it wasn’t worth it to speak with his mouth full,that would only increase the taunting. He leveled Nero with his best glare instead, pure venom, the promise of comeuppance at some later date writ across his face.
Expectedly, Nero ignored his gaze with practiced ease. Having found what he wanted, he stopped rummaging in his pocket. Unexpectedly, Nero then went on to gently grab Cid’s hand. Specifically, the hand attached to the bleeding finger that was still in his mouth. With the lightest of coaxing, the finger popped out.
Cid was so flabbergasted, he let him do it without a fight. Mostly, anyway. He could feel his face lighting up with heat. “Nero, what in the seven hells are you doing, you–”
Nero had the gall to put his unoccupied hand over Cid’s mouth to stop him mid-sentence. He removed it again and began talking just as Cid contemplated biting him.
“The sensible thing, Garlond, what do you think. Did you hit your head before knocking into me? I simply can’t stand watching you lick your finger like some injured dog any longer, it’s embarrassing, and I’d like to leave this dreary hallway. This is above my pay grade, having to take care of the owner of this business like some newborn babe, but seeing as the alternative is him bleeding over everything in this hallway…” Nero trailed off, waving a small, flat, papery item held between middle and forefinger in front of Cid’s face.
A plaster, meant for small wounds (in a bright cherry red color! Fun for the kids! Of course even the plasters Nero carried would bear his signature color.).
“You had this on you? You? Nero?” He shook his head incredulously. That really was a surprise. Since when did he carry around first aid kit materials in his pockets? Was Nero bodysnatched recently, replaced with someone just as annoying, but slightly more health conscious?
“Me, Nero. You, Garlond: that idiot who runs the Ironworks.” He smiled sharply, dropping Cid’s hand so he could begin tearing the package off the plaster.
Cid blinked. “Ha ha. Very witty. Give that to me,” he said, moving to snatch the paper away. Nero, quick as a whip, held it up and away from him, like this was some game of monkey in the middle.
“I don’t think so. This is my last one, and I don’t want you tearing it–or worse, get another cut while you fumble with the packaging. I can see it already. You’ve already proven your big meaty hands are clumsy enough today, we don’t need a repeat demonstration.”
“Hands’ve got nothing to do with it…” Cid grumbled, acquiescing. He knew he sounded petulant, but he didn’t care. Further arguing would use up all his energy. He still had a pile of papers to sort, blood to wipe off, supply requests to sign. He didn’t want to waste even more time. If someone else were around, he would’ve knocked Nero upside the head for such patronizing gestures. He certainly would have yelled more.
But it was just them, an empty hallway, and a big mess.
It almost reminded him of their childhood, when the two of them would sneak out of the dorms to work through the night in the student workshop, hands full of metal slivers after working with magitek projects for bells without rest. They’d take turns using the tweezers to help each other out, wrapping hands in gauze afterward if the holes left behind were bad enough.
Nero finished unwrapping the plaster and took Cid’s hand again, guiding it close to his face (sunglasses indoors didn’t hinder his eyesight, his arse.).
It was just an ordinary papercut, on the pad of his right pointer finger. Not the worst place for a cut, not particularly deep. Hands were notorious for bleeding a lot, was all. Administering a plaster would be no difficult feat. A few seconds at most.
Somehow, impossibly, Nero found a way to drag it out.
Maybe it just felt that way to Cid? Time slowed down as Nero reached out to hold his hand again–completely unnecessary. Those long fingers did not need to grab him by the wrist, did not need to slide down in a loose grasp, nearly tickling his pulse point. He drummed his fingers against the palm as though thinking deeply. His face was close enough that his exhaled breath caused the cut to twinge in pain.
This was all before the gauze pad made contact with his finger, and it felt like a lifetime. Cid was going to get antsy soon, would end up tapping his foot, or aim a kick at Nero’s knees, or fill the air with whistling again (not off-key! That bastard wouldn’t know on-key if it kissed him).
Nero never treated people like such fragile objects, Cid least of all. Something must be in the air today, or the water supply. That was the only logical explanation for Cid’s previous good mood, and Neros’ gentleness.
His finger twitched, the only sign of his impatience.
Time finally seemed to either move forward again, or his volunteer medic decided to get in gear.
Nero lined up the plaster to cover the entire cut, wrapped the adhesive to overlap in a perfect cylinder around his finger, not too tight to cut off blood circulation, nor too loose to fall off immediately. Immaculate work. Nero made such a show of trying to make it seem effortless, but Cid knew he prided himself on his work, even the most mundane of tasks; this could have won a contest for most neat wound dressing, if that were a thing that existed on this star.
Cid shook his head at the ridiculousness of it all. The only way this could get more out of character would be if Nero kissed his finger, gave him a lollipop, and sent him on his way.
Nero was still holding his hand, though, just staring. Thinking, still? That was strange enough on its own. With those damned shades, he couldn’t tell for sure. Cid wiggled his fingers and coughed lightly. It was about time he got to embarrass the other for a change.
Nero snapped out of it, letting go of his hand like it was on fire, and pushing up his shades even closer to his face. He smirked. “A job well done! See, Garlond, I can beat you even at this. I’ll be sure to send a bill in the mail.”
Cid snorted, bending down to finally start the tedious task of collecting the scattered papers. “Not really a competition when you were the only one with a plaster and practically begged to play nurse for me.”
Naturally, Nero angrily argued the point, seemingly back to his fiery self, but he also began gathering papers, his own boxes left forgotten temporarily.
The weird thing in the air dissipated; things went back to normal as Nero jabbed at Cid and Cid bit back, their never ending tug-of-war and game of point keeping back at full strength.
They bickered as usual while they cleaned up. Nero offered Cid some tape to keep the papers and clipboard together long enough to reach a desk. Cid wordlessly swept up one of Nero’s boxes to carry, so the fool could see where he was going. It wouldn’t do to have some other poor sod collide with him.
Jessie didn’t comment on the faded bloodstains when he handed the papers back, too grateful to have some work taken off her plate to care how it got done.
Nero didn’t comment when he found a pack of plasters on his desk a few days later, the exact shade of red Nero liked best.
Cid didn’t comment when he heard whistling come from behind Nero’s door a week later, so butchered that he could barely recognize it at first: the same song that had been so abruptly interrupted by their collision.
As he walked by, he started whistling in time with the song, obviously doing a much better job than Nero’s pisspoor attempts. He was already out of sight by the time Nero opened his door and shouted at him. Cid continued without pause, idly rubbing his finger that had already healed.
He grinned, feeling something almost like happiness.