(closed) april catch-all

[judgmentbolts]

Who: cid & anyone who can put up with him
Where: around panorama
When: april/maybe may
What: april catch-all

Warnings: n/a for now!

Comments

lune

[judgmentbolts]

[ For all of the work and expense that went into clearing it out, the inside of Cid's workshop is neither well-equipped nor impressive. It's not something that he usually minds. It had taken him years to get the Hideaway halfway functional, so he's long since learned to take his expectations, crumple them up, and toss them into the nearest bin.

If one's expectations are low enough, it's really come along. Cid's managed to hide the entrance at the back of an abandoned shop, even rigged up a secret door to deter any troublemakers. They've got heat and electrical, access to tools, access to takeout. It's just, well. He's seen the Sanctum. He's expecting to lose the few good hands he's managed to find now that they've got the option of steadier work and better pay. That's just how it goes.

Not that he's said anything about it to anyone, of course.

Instead, he'd carried on as usual when Lune had gotten in with her arms full of new books and her head full of new ideas. It's easy enough to get swept up into it, the two of them leaning over a wide sheet of parchment, annotating each other's sketches. Lune helps him take their prototype apart for what feels like the hundredth time, replacing some of the heavier metal supports with steel cables arranged just so, according to one of her books.

By the time they look up again, hours have passed. They're both sticky with sweat and dirt, and while his shirt's unbuttoned nearly to the navel at this point, he hasn't seen fit to roll up his sleeves. He doesn't expect that she'll notice. Just like she hasn't noticed the smudge of dirt on her cheek. Cid starts to reach for her, catches himself, pauses— ]

Hold on, you've got something there. [ If she doesn't move away, he finishes the gesture, and brushes his thumb briefly across her cheek. ] ...I think I've made it worse, actually.

[savante]

[ After the blackout, so many people have been aggressively pursuing a sense of normalcy, and for Lune, that means work.

There is an order to this: every time she arrives, she brings an offering (croissants, coffee) as thanks for letting her use the space. And she stops to fastidiously remove all of her rings (one on almost every finger), setting them aside in a tray which once held an assortment of sprockets. Her work clothes usually consist of a white men’s shirt, sleeves tidily rolled up and pinned back, suspenders keeping her hardy black trousers in place. She ties her hair up into a bun, which tends to unravel over the course of the day and turn messy, loose strands escaping.

And there is something so achingly familiar about their time together; the ebb-and-flow of collaboration, hours vanishing into load-bearing tolerance and conductivity measurements and steady iteration. Disappearing into the work with a partner, but this time without a perpetually ticking deadline crawling down her spine and prickling the back of her neck. The sort of place where she’d almost been happy, once. The sort of intellectual cooperation she’d once had with Gustave.

Lune’s always surprised by how much time passes in the workshop without her noticing. And as often as they’re on the same page, she also happily argues with Cid whenever she thinks he’s on the wrong track, and there’s a kind of honest cheerfulness to it: she seems to enjoy the bickering.

It’s when they pause that the rest of the world comes rushing back with a jolt, the man’s thumb unexpectedly skimming across her cheek. It hits her at inopportune moments, like this: suddenly realising how close Cid is, and how ridiculously unraveled his shirt has become (has the man never heard of buttons??), and that he’s looking at her for once instead of their sheets of metal or the dull gleam of the chromatic ore. Her skin feels like it burns; not from the dirt, but from the remembrance of the contact, even brief as it was. Heating in a faint blush, perhaps. ]

You need real plumbing and a sink in here, [ Lune says, archly, because of course the safer thing is to teasingly nitpick. ] Alternately, a mirror.

[ She reaches for one of the cleaner rags, and with the flick of a hand, casually materialises some water floating in midair, which she dunks the cloth into. Once it’s damp enough, she tries to blindly scrub at her cheek, missing the smudge entirely. ]

[judgmentbolts]

[ Arguing with Lune isn't quite like arguing with his dear daughter; there's a different kind of warmth and familiarity to it, one that he thinks he could get accustomed to, if he isn't careful about it. (Something he's already become accustomed to, if he wanted to be honest about it — which he doesn't.)

Time rushes to a stop as he watches a faint blush spread across her cheeks, catches the direction of her gaze. For someone who's so ferocious about insisting that they adhere to proper procedure, testing every step of the way, she's not seen fit to voice her thoughts on the subject of fraternizing in the workplace... Not that Cid had brought it up. It's always a bit of a gamble, wondering if he might lose someone he's come to think of as a friend, if he decides to be too forward, himself.

Now's the best time, he supposes. He's going to lose her to the Sanctum anyway. ]

What's wrong with water in a bucket? [ Without missing a beat. ] It could be a mirror, too, if the light's good.

[ Just one elegant gesture and she's summoned water, letting it hang effortlessly in the air, as if gravity was a suggestion denied by her whim. (Cid doesn't think he's ever going to get accustomed to the casual way she tosses her magic around; it's always going to trigger the same dread in the pit of his stomach, as if she's going to wake up one day to the beginnings of lithification.)

He watches her struggle with it for just a moment before he reaches for one of the cleaner rags to wipe his own hands. ] You'll not get it like that. Come on, let's have a look. [ He steps forward again. This time, he cups her face with one hand, and lifts the damp rag from her fingers with the other. It only takes a moment to clean the spot, but Cid lingers where he is, his eyes meeting hers again. He brushes a thumb across her cheek, his gaze falling to her lips before he drags it back up again. ] Looks good.

[ A too-long pause. ] You'll fit right in at the Sanctum.