"You have literally the most perfect ass I have ever seen.”
Cid takes the cup back from the end table, rolling it with his hands because he needs to keep them busy.
"Twelve weeks," he mutters, and nobody should be surprised that something has finally gave way. "Her body—-it’s been through a lot. It’s amazing she made it this far, really. I mean, if he has to come out now, it’s not the end of the world. You want your kid to have the best possible start, but I mean, babies live when they’re born this early.”
It sounds like a whole lot of wishful thinking, like the older man is trying to encourage himself to have some hope. And not necessarily succeeding.
"You were six weeks early," he says aloud what Seifer was just thinking. "And look at you now. If that’s all it is, I’ll take it. I just wish I knew for sure that that’s all it is."
He’s tempted to find a doctor and beat the information out of them, but sits there with his cup of shitty coffee instead, a furrow in his brow at the news the only indication of how worried he actually is.
Twelve weeks is a long time— too long, it seems like. And he’d had some issues as an infant, if he remembers right. What the hell is a kid born double that time frame early going to be dealing with?
For a guilty-relief moment, he is glad that any talk about kids between himself and Quistis has just been that. Talk.
"Go ask," he tells his father. "Demand some fucking answers, then. Don’t just sit here.”
"I wish I could tell you," Cid leans back in his chair, impatiently. "One minute she was fine, next thing I know, we’re here." He drains the cup and sets it aside.
The coffee here is mediocre at best, and it doesn’t stop Seifer from crossing to the vending machine, dropping in a couple of gil coins and receiving a burnt, bitter cup of the brew in exchange.
"How early is it?" he asks, because, look at him, he showed up six weeks ahead of schedule, and he was fine.
my muse is dead. tell me how yours is dealing with it.
Seifer isn’t the only one who takes the time to pull himself together. Marissa has to pause at the toolbox, refusing to look down so gravity won’t aid the tears threatening to fall. Her hands are gripping the handle with a tightness it doesn’t need and she’s glad for the moment alone.
'Time heals all wounds.’ She’s heard it before but she doubts it now. When one has the option to view time themselves, can walk its currents and knows there will come a time when the ‘past’ and ‘present’ may become blurred, saying that time will heal wounds is like an insult.
Time took her mother from her.
A deep breath, a quick but loud punch against the old toolbox, and she blinks back her emotions to carry them outside. She can do nothing. It’s done, and she could view it again if she wanted but never alter. All that’s left is for them to move forward.
But how? When one singular, smiling face had always been the glue of their little family?
"Sorry, took me a bit longer than I thought. Guess gramps doesn’t use this thing often anymore."
She won’t put more on his shoulders than she has to.
He looks up at her from where he ended up, sitting against the wheel of the truck and trying to pull himself back into some semblance of order, and studies his daughter, tall and graceful and proud, twenty-four and a far better person than he will ever be.
When she was born, they didn’t sleep for a week, working in shifts to keep a constant eye on her, afraid they’d break her, afraid they’d fuck everything up if she was alone for a minute.
But time had slipped by, and she had grown and blossomed and become the best of both of them, and her own person.
God, how could they have screwed up this badly, ripped her mother from her because her parents couldn’t maintain a balance they had perfected for thirty years?
He hauls himself to his feet, feeling every inch his age right down to his very marrow, and pops the hood of the truck.
"I’m surprised there’s not cobwebs all over it," he says, and his voice is hoarse and rusty and defeated. "Keys should be in the ignition. Turn it on, okay?"
Those rp partners who can take a rp from this:
to this in less than a hundred notes:
When you’re that rp partner:
"Yeah. Sure." It’s something easy. Something familiar that wasn’t as riddled with memories of her mom. It’s a distraction. Plain and simple, it’s an excuse for neither of them to talk about a subject they both would rather forget.
It also gives her a reason to rein in her emotions. It’s hard to remember that her new powers can react to her feelings. She’d hate to fry the computer this time.
She can already feel the tingling at her fingertips.
"You want me to grab his tools and meet you outside?"
He needs the few moments it’ll take his daugher to collect the tools, and nods briefly.
The truck is an ancient thing, riddled with dents and dings from rocks and dust and the constant storms that plague the Centra coastline during certain parts of the year.
He is astounded he holds out long enough to make it to the back of the house, in the vicinity of the vehicle, before he is overwhelmed, a ferocious noise ripping out of his throat, his boot slamming into a banged-up section of sheet metal so violently that it crumples.
He can’t do this alone, can’t do this without her, and she is dead because of him, because even thirty years later, he still trained with Hyperion, still made sure he could deal the killing blow.
It will never come to that, she murmured, and why the hell wasn’t she right? She was right about everything else— why not that, why is she gone?
The rough gravel of the driveway is hard underneath him, and his face is in his hands, and he needs to pull himself together before Marissa finds him like this. She doesn’t need to see him weak and bowed and broken.
He has to protect her. Now more than ever.
Please preface questions with “Truth”
If 18 or 20 palettes wasn’t enough, I present to you: my 100 Palette Challenge! This is a collection of some of my favourite palettes from color-palettes and Adobe Kuler and I thought it would be really fun to have a huge variety of palettes to chose from
If you would like to participate in this challenge, I ask that you DO NOT repost this anywhere else, including deviantART; please REBLOG this instead! I have the challenge uploaded to deviantART as well, so please check it out there if you want to do it on deviantART!
Here’s some of the drawings I’ve done with a few of these palettes c:
❝N-No you couldn’t have...❞ her tone was merely a whisper as she had hardly woken up from the depths of her thoughts. Her tone was extremely monotonic. ❝I-I c-could tell you all the reasons why but—…❞ She suddenly stopped there as she finally woke up and looked up at the man who faced her with a murderous look on his face. The young woman flinched and shook her head.
❝Y-You… S-Seifer I am sorry.❞ She was not evern sure what she was apologizing but those were the only words she was able to think of right now.
The sneer warped, downturned into a scowl, and he heard the rustling through the bushes of something attracted by their conversation.
Seifer lunged and slaughtered and brought Hyperion back streaked with another layer of monster gore. “Seriously, if you’re going to fucking brood, at least have the decency to do it in the Secret Area, where no one’s going to accidentally run you through.”
"I want to spar with you sometime. I’m curious about how well you fight for a three-thousand year old dead guy."
"Do go easy on me, boy, these bones don’t move as well as they used too… you wouldn’t believe me if I said something like that, would you?"
"Not a chance in hell, man."