milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

cavilo,
xaldin

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Someone's at a table in the corner, feet propped up on a nearby chair and a drink in his hand, looking pretty friggin' predatory. He takes his time and sips his drink and surveys the room like he might as well own it and face it: he might as well. At least that's what he tells himself, 'cause he's got enough self-confidence for a whole bunch of people.

It's Friday night, he just got paid -- handsomely -- and he's got a butter knife in his pocket. That last item's probably only of interest to him, but as much as he hates to admit it he has to thank Axel for the tip on that one. This is the second time he's held it and opened a door thinking about this place, and it's the second time it's brought him here. Yeah, yeah, yeah, it might be simple coincidence.

Nah: he doesn't think so. If he has to pick one word to define himself (which is something he tries hard not to do), he'll pick determined. He was determined to get here both times, and that, he's decided, speaks for itself. As he sips a drink as orange-red as his hair, his eyes travel from person to person like he's keeping track or some shit like that.

He is.

[Tag: Cavilo, Reno, Xaldin]

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"VIII...nnoooooooooooooot VIII." Xaldin pauses in mid air. He'd been on his way past and has no reason to talk to Axel without Xigbar but certainly wasn't going to ignore the traitor.

Xaldin has not WTF icon. He needs a WTF icon.

With a shrewdness that doesn't show up on his face, Reno eyes the guy, all the while holding the orange drink at his lips. It makes a halfway decent barrier, and shit, alcohol friggin' burns if it gets in someone's eyes. Yeah, yeah, yeah: everything's a weapon.

But didn't Axel tell him to be careful of people who dress the same stupid way he does? This guy does.

"Not ate? What the fuck? You hungry or somethin'?"

"You. You're not VIII. Axel, VIII, Flurry of Dancing Flames, traitor." Xaldin waves one hand in the manner of the very, very, very drunk, "Sorry, dude. Totally mistook you for someone else."

If his feet touched the ground he'd be walking in a wobbly line. As it is he's drifting in a wobbly line. The fact that he's drinking straight from a mostly-empty bottle of Atlantean has something to do with that.

Oh, that shit again. That Axel shit.

"No, I ain't him. First of all, one of us is good-lookin' and the other looks all wrong and dresses stupid." It might occur to him that this description really could go either way, depending on who's listening, but he's already started it. What definitely does occur to him is that he's just done something a little bit stupid by acknowledging he even knows Axel, but he ain't worried.

This other guy's drinking Atlantean and fuck if he knows how anyone could have more than a glass of that shit. He's been drinkin' for a lot of years, and even he can't stomach much of it.

The "traitor" bit is something he tucks away for later, and for once he's grateful he's only nursing a tequila sunrise instead of something stronger.

Xaldin looks Reno over from hair tips to shoes and then, "You're both funny looking. Weird ears." says the guy with the pointed ears the fold over at the tips. "Xigbar's a lot hotter. Anyway. Like I said; sorry."

Weird... ears?

That's a new one. He almost lets loose with a yeah, yeah, whatever but that thought gets pushed away by another one.

"Who the fuck's Xigbar?" Shit, he's never been at a place where so many people who dress alike have names that start with the Z sound.

"II of XIII, the Freeshooter. I'm Xaldin, III, the Whirlwind Lancer." Xaldin says with a shrug and another long, long pull from the Atlantean.

Oh, that number shit again. Now Xaldin -- another friggin' same-soundin' name -- gets the line he almost said before, but with more.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. What the fuck's a whirlwind lancer?"

These fancy friggin' titles are startin' to annoy him. That's why he likes the term Turks. It's just one word, just one syllable at that, and it doesn't cost a lot to say it.

Xaldin doesn't have to be sober to summon his lances. Six thin tornadoes spark up around him, black air shot with lightning, and then they form into his lances which shoot toward the ceiling to be caught right, left - spin the one in the left hand (which still has the alcohol bottle), catch another in the right, and the other three hover in the air. "Me. I am the Whirlwind Lancer."

"Hey. Lightning."

That's so pretty and plus, it was cool, even if this Xaldin guy's a friggin' show-off. He can feel the electricity all around, and if there was just a little more of it, he could...

No, wait. He ain't supposed to do that shit here, he's decided, based on some shit Axel told him. It ain't good to be mistaken for his almost-but-not-quite twin, especially by people who dress like Axel. Still, his hands buzz with the potential of it all.

"Side effect. XII, Larxene, was Lightning. I'm Air. That's why I'm the Whirlwind Lancer." Xaldin says, frowning slightly. It's his way of honoring XII.

"Side effect or not, it's still cool."

He likes lightning: he can't help it. It's his own personal element and it sure as fuck doesn't get enough friggin' press around this place. Then he remembers people who dress like Axel are supposed to be all dangerous, so he shuts the fuck up and takes a sip of his drink before saying anything else. And the something else is actually pretty good once he says it.

"But whirlwinds are cool too." He knows better at this point than to ask about Larxene but shit, he's just glad the name sounds different. "Maybe even cooler."

Nope, no whirlwind lance-wielding asshole at this place is gonna kick his butt.

"It's what I am." Xaldin says without pride. It's an emotion, and he lacks them. "Xemnas is Void, Xigbar is Space, I'm Air, Vexen was Ice, Lexaeus was Earth, Saix is Moon, Axel is Fire, Demyx is Water, Luxord is Time, Marluxia was Life, Larxene was Lightning, and Roxas was Light. Haven't the faintest fucking clue what, like, Zexion was. Can't ask, either."

Thanks, Axel.

Really.

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And while his eyes travel from person to person, they may encounter a person they've seen before.

The green jumpsuit's new, though.

The fuck's the matter with this place? Where's all the good-lookin'... hello.

He knows her. They slept together, although he's pretty friggin' sure there wasn't much sleeping involved.

She looked good in red last time; she looks good in green now. Idly, he sips his drink and wonders if her nails match her jumpsuit again. He doesn't get up -- there's an art to this whole thing, right? -- but he does give her a private little smile, a nod, a half a gesture. If she had fun last time, she might want to join him.

And he's pretty sure she had at least as much fun as he did.

Oh look who it is.

Cavilo pauses when his glance catches hers, and returns the smile.

And saunters toward his table.

(No, her nails aren't green; they're gold, matching the gold threads running through the green fabric.)

"Hey. Lara." He toes out a chair for her, still not getting up. In fact, he leans back, arms over the back of the chair, all casual nonchalance.

It isn't even an act: it's just who he is. Yeah, he likes her, but he's not the kind of guy who does the whole one-fuck-and-it's-forever thing. No one's ever tied strings around him, and he ain't gonna let it happen now any more than it's happened before.

One thing he likes about her is he's pretty friggin' sure she's the same way.

"How you doin'? You want a drink?"

She can tell it's not an act. This is not the kind of man who thinks sex means he has a claim on you; she can spot that kind easily. Not that she finds that intolerable -- oh, it can be tedious, but it's not as though she has to put up with the possessiveness any longer than seems convenient.

But it's nice not having to deal with it at all, on occasion.

"Hey, Reno," she smiles back at him, arranging herself on the chair. "Maybe. What's that you're drinking?"

"Tequila sunrise." He rattles the cubes in his glass, offers it to her: they've been naked together and that tends to make a guy a little more lenient when he thinks about what's his and who has a right to share it. Anyway, it's just a drink.

"You want it, it's yours. Or I could get you a brand-friggin'-new one if you want your own." Money's not his worry, not tonight. Apparently he's supposed to be worried about that Xemnas asshat, but he hasn't so much as seen the guy. And what he doesn't see doesn't bother him in the least.

"You been up to no good?" It's said with more than just a hint of admiration mixed with affection; she's as mercenary as he is and they both know it.

And they both like it.

She accepts the glass from his hand, and takes a slow, delicate sip; it's an intimate gesture, deliberately so.

(You want it, it's yours. Got that right, Red.)

"Oh, I've been up to all kinds of things. Including a possible job."

"Yeah? That's cool." the way he leans forward isn't some calculated flirtatious move, although it might be some other time. No, he's actually interested: he likes it when a lady can take care of herself. "Around here?"

It's a friggin' bar: Tifa works behind it, so there have to be other things to do here. He knows there's a cathouse on the second or third floor -- he'll get around to it one of these days if he feels like it -- and sure, she might take up work there, although she doesn't strike him as the type to be satisfied with that for long, unless there's a hidden opportunity to it.

"What kind of job?"

The gold on her fingernails looks rich and perfect and adorns her slender fingers real nicely: he makes a mental note of that. Hands like that are usually skilled at a whole lot more than helping themselves to a guy's drink. They usually know just how to also help themselves to his shirt, his weapon, his wallet, and sometimes, his heart. Lucky he ain't worried about none of that.

"My old line of work," she confides. "There's a woman here who's recruiting for a combat mission. One-man extraction. And she's offering pay, so ..."

Cavilo leans back in the chair with a graceful shrug. "Sounded like a way to pass the time. See the worlds, make a little money, meet interesting people, and shoot them."

HEY.

She's definitely a woman after his own heart. "Sounds like a great friggin' way to pass the time. Where do you have to go to find the guy?"

Now he's interested: this is exactly the kind of shit he's trained for. It ain't like he wants to go along and it ain't like he's gonna offer her advice -- that'd be insulting 'cause it's obvious she's perfectly capable of doing this as well if not a fuck of a lot better than him -- but he likes hearing about these kinds of... uh... opportunities.

It's cool.

And she can keep his drink, too, just for having the balls to do things the way she does.

His interest is obvious, and flattering; he gets a full-wattage smile for that.

"A 'hostile military base.' We haven't had the full briefing yet, and probably once we do it'll be classified."

She sets down the glass and leans forward a little. "Should be fun. I'll tell you all about it when we get back."

"Shit, it sounds like fun." He almost wishes he wasn't stuck doing the same old same old, but he knows that what's routine to one person can be exotic to someone else. For all he knows, Lara does this kind of thing every day.

At Shin-Ra now, they're in a little bit of a holding pattern. It isn't that he wants to go around wiping out entire sectors of the city every day -- or even at all; that was his city too -- but babysitting a guy with Geostigma gets old fast, even if he is the boss. Soon, though, he's taking Tseng and Elena in at the crater. Now that'll be fun; he likes those kind of covert ops.

"Classified's cool. Especially when there's a chance it could get messy." He knows no one would know by just lookin' at him that he's part of an elite and very exclusive force, but that's just part of his innate sloppy charm.

"When do you think you might go?" Probably, he won't be able to keep track of the time anyhow; it passes different here than it does when he's on the clock, he's sure of that. But it never hurts to find out what he can. And besides, her eyes are so pretty.