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“Hey.”
Biggs doesn’t look up; his attention’s elsewhere, hyperfocused on the end of the room he’s been walking for the past ten minutes. And it's an important part of recovery, Cloud knows. Getting Biggs to ease back into a day-to-day will be hell on earth itself. For being the levelheaded one, he’s done nothing except express his concern for the people of Sectors Six and Seven, and wanted to get out and help.
Cloud gets it. He does. He’s out there dawn to dusk, when he’s not here, when he’s not running hunts for Wymer. And then he feels compelled to keep a weather eye on Jessie, who’s been up and about for a while now, apparently. And if he’s not doing that, he’s with Aerith, tracking down herbs for the sick and wounded. He can’t stay still. Not right now.
This is as close as he gets, supervising Biggs’s recovery from the safety of his room in the orphanage.
Biggs staggers forward another step, and another, probably aiming to stare out the window again. But he’s still healing, still unsteady on his feet, and he stumbles, has to catch himself against the desk lest he fall to his knees.
Not that Cloud would let him. That’s what he’s there for. “Biggs.”
Now he looks up, around at Cloud, chagrined at being caught. “Sorry, you said something?”
“Yeah. Don’t push it.”
“I’m not.”
“Your hands are shaking.” Hands, arms, where they’re braced against the desktop. His whole body, probably, stressed to the point of extremes after a death that should have been certain.
Biggs flashes a smile– barely there, exhausted, in pain– but his voice doesn’t waver when he replies, “you get used to it.”
It barely registers in Cloud’s mind: they’re the words he’d said to him after bombing Reactor One ages and ages ago. He probably wouldn’t even recognize it if Biggs wasn’t looking at him like he should recognize it. But he does, just because of that look.
“Or you crash and burn,” he says shortly, and uncrosses his arms. “And get yourself laid up for another two weeks. So take it easy for now.”
“Easy for you to say,” Biggs mutters, and Cloud doesn’t answer. Yeah, it is easy for him to say. He’d gotten out unharmed. He gets to do what Biggs is desperate to, right now. He knows, and he knows he can’t change it. The only way Biggs gets himself out there is Biggs taking care of himself now; so maybe he can’t help in that regard, but at least he can cut through the bullshit and make him rest when he needs to.
Like now.
“You need to rest,” Cloud says, no nonsense. “I’ll have–”
And then– there, Biggs’s legs give out as he takes a step from the window and Cloud has to lunge across the distance to steady him. A hand at his elbow and the other catching his fingers to pull him upright again.
Biggs looks pale and sick and pained, and holds onto Cloud’s hand and against his bicep. And then has the audacity to make light of it. “Whoops,” he manages, and smiles thinly. “Guess you were right, Cloud.”
He wants to be angry– and he’s definitely on his way to being annoyed now– but it’s hard to stay mad at any of them, anyway, let alone when they’re injured. Even still, this ends now. “Back to bed,” he orders.
“Yessir.”
He doesn’t stumble again, but Cloud keeps a hold of his hand just in case, and something prevents him from letting go immediately even after Biggs is sat safely back on the edge of the mattress, looking exhausted. He doesn’t know what, but he doesn’t want to let go.
“Happy now?” Biggs asks, but he’s still breathing a little unsteadily, a little uneasily. The lines of discomfort creasing his face don’t smooth out just yet.
Cloud holds on.
“Do I look happy?” he asks, dry and witless, but Biggs wheezes a laugh anyway.
“Like to think you’re smiling sometimes… deep down in there.”
“Hm.” He takes the empty seat next to the bed, and this time, Biggs notices that he hasn’t let go.
“You can probably let go.” Biggs squeezes his fingers. “Probably not gonna trip and fall or something now.”
“Dunno. You’re pretty unpredictable.”
Biggs blinks. A little miffed. Well, that’s fine; Cloud doesn’t get it, either. But it’s an all consuming urge, and not one he’s liable to ignore when it’s so easy. And it’ll keep Biggs where he’s at to boot. It keeps the strange look on his face, too, right up until where it morphs from confused to taken aback, and puzzled, and then… timid, he supposes. Coming from Biggs right now, it isn’t a bad thing.
“Or not,” Biggs says carefully. “That’s cool, too.” He breathes out, a gust of air Cloud feels on his knuckles as Biggs stares at their hands. He wonders what he’s looking at. Calluses? Scars? Madame M had said your hand held your whole life story. Cloud wonders if Biggs can see that. He has always been… astute.
… for Biggs’s sake, he hopes not. He thinks his life doesn’t make for very good storytelling.
Whatever he sees, Biggs squeezes his hand again. This time his hand, and not just his fingers. Something like the hand massage. Something wholly different, too.
“Should hang around more, Cloud,” Biggs says shortly.
Cloud thinks it wouldn’t be so bad. “Maybe,” he agrees-and-doesn’t. But maybe more downtime is what he needs. He’s sitting still with no desire to run away. So, maybe.
He doesn’t let go. Biggs doesn’t either.