Marriage!verse AU fic: The Bang
Title: The Bang
Characters: Sephiroth.
Word Count: 694
Rating: PG
Summary: Sephiroth, terrified, shaking. He'll never admit it.

It's too much too fast and far too sudden. It galls him in a way. He never did like being taken by surprise, has been known to spend hours or days on watch, drawing plans, to not be caught unprepared.

Steady.

And he isn't unprepared this time either, can't be after all the waiting, planning, counting down to this day. Except he feels so lost and adrift and unsure. What to do, what to do?

Breathe.

It's out of his hands and he's powerless and his life is not ever going to be the same. He grips his sword, his steady support. The screams around him are shrill and he can't block them out this time. He should be giving orders, or directions or something but he's like a raw recruit now.

Hold on.

There's no command left in him for this. What gives him the right? It feels like he had nothing to do with this, but he knows he did and almost, almost wishes he didn't because Gaia, he doesn't know how to deal with the outcome. Prevention better than cure, and it's too late for both now.

One more.

He tries to take a stand, get in position, or stay out of the way at least. His legs won't move at first. Knees shake. He's afraid.

It's okay.

He wants to laugh now, can feel it building up in him, sheer hysterics. He would cry if he could. He's afraid. This is something bigger than all of him and he knows it and he is afraid.

You're doing fine.

He can't ignore the hands clutching at him. He lets them grab on and he holds on too. Can anyone notice that he is taking support instead of giving it here?

One more, come on.

He thinks he might fall, he thinks he might faint, but he's frozen in place, held there by fear. There's suddenly more sympathy for those poor boys he's had under his command before. He understands now the hesitance the first time they stare down the barrel of a gun. Like them he stops. He breathes. He waits for the bang.

I see it.

He sees spots before his eyes. The hands on him tighten, keeping him from the floor. No. No! He will not fall here, not now.

Would you...?

A stroke of the sword and it is done and the screams are filling the air, ripe curses meant just for him, but he can't hear them now.

Here!

He wants to say no, to scream it, protest. This can't be happening. No, wait, let him sit, let him rest, don't pass that here, he doesn't know what to do at all.

Support the head.

He braces himself, arms rigid. It's on him now, he's holding it in his very arms. Only it's not an it, it's a she, still wet and red, hastily wrapped in a blanket. He can't move.

Let me see.

He'll need to turn for that but sweet silence, he can't. What if he drops her, or shifts her, or rubs her wrong? She's tiny. She's tiny and she doesn't cry.

They don't always.

He can't stop staring because she's right there and he can't put her down because he doesn't know how. She's tiny. Beneath the pink wetness her hair seems moondust pale. She's strangely wrinkled, anything but old.

Let me see!

A tiny fist emerges from the blanket and he can't breathe. It's close to his face, reaching. He's trapped and pinned. Eyes open. Bright. Lifestream. Feline.

And the world falls away.

He sees her.

She sees him.

He feels the formless touch inside. The fist opens. The fingers sprawl and grasp at his hair. The small mouth breaks into a toothless smile. He feels the change in her. Recognition. They are not strangers, not these many months. But today he sees her and she sees him.

His heart trips and resumes its normal rhythm. He feels himself loosen, able to move. Eyes close again but the smile remains. Trust.

He's careful when he turns, when he bends low, but it's not so scary.

“Look,” he says, “she has your smile.”