A pair of glowing eyes was in his tent. He recognized that shade of blue, and the very particular sound of a leather duster being removed and tossed over a camp chair. He frowned, pushing himself up onto his elbows. Bangs were blown out of his face, as he'd been too exhausted from the day to bother braiding his hair back.
“Genesis, what are you—”
“I just got back into camp. Shove over,” she grumbled.
Sephiroth blinked up at her. “Isn’t there another tent—”
“Each and every one filled with men I wouldn’t trust to be such a gentleman. And I’m not sleeping on the ground. Now move over.”
He did so, awkwardly, and Genesis wedged herself next to him, her back to him. The cot was designed with SOLDIERs in mind, to be strong and durable, but he wasn’t sure how it would hold up under two.
She was lying on his arm.
With a muffled sound he extricated the limb, nearly dumping Genesis off the edge. Reproachful blue eyes flared in his direction, narrowing catlike in the darkness. “Do that again and I’ll be the one tipping you off the cot,” she snapped.
“Be that as it may, this is my cot and I also wish to wake up in the morning with feeling in all my extremities,” he shot back. With both arms free, he now had nowhere to put them, as he was lying on his back and Genesis was hogging one side.
“That’s not my problem.”
He was too tired for this. “Very well.”
They lay crunched together for a long moment, limbs poking every which way. Sephiroth was beginning to wonder if he was going to spend the rest of the night wondering where to put his arms when Genesis shifted to face him with a reluctant sigh. “Move onto your side,” she ordered. His own eyes narrowed briefly, their aquamarine glow catching on Genesis’s exhausted features. “There’ll be more space that way.”
“Arm there,” she snapped, “leg there. All right?”
The resulting tangle was far more comfortable than it had any right to be. They would have been face to face if Genesis was not a few inches shorter than he was, her head tucked under his chin.
She smelled like mud.
Like the oppressive Wutaian jungle just out their tent flap. He wrinkled his nose and blew at the choppy auburn hair tickling his face. It just drifted back and Sephiroth sank back against the thin standard-issue pillow he was now forced to share, resigned to smelling Wutai even in his dreams. Even though her hair was still damp from her shower, the infamous mud lingered. But beneath that . . . some hint of apple blossoms, delicate and out of place.
He hummed. “Do you want me to find a bigger cot for tomorrow? You like your space, if I recall.”
“Shut up and sleep,” Genesis mumbled into his shirt. But he could feel her smile, sense the tension ease from her shoulders. Tiredness crept back in. Her fingers gripping the soft fabric over his ribs eased as she finally fell asleep.
He slowly drifted off to the sound of Genesis’s soft breathing.