Title: Grumpy Guts (Yes, I realize that it's a terrible title for a story. What else was I supposed to call it?)
Rating: T
Pairings: Vincent/Cid
Warnings: No spoilers. Swearing. Very mild yaoi.
Summary: Though the sun was shining, birds were chirping whimsically, clouds were floating in the sky, and the grass below gleamed a bright green, Cid Highwind was grumpy.
Notes: This was thought up when I was trying to go to sleep one night and I decided to write it down. It's a very quick drabble and it probably doesn't make any sense, but I thought someone might appreciate it. And yes, the ending sucks drastically. I don't get it myself, but it was the only way I thought to end it. So, enjoy.

Though the sun was shining, birds were chirping whimsically, clouds were floating in the sky, and the grass below gleamed a bright green, Cid Highwind was grumpy. He didn't find himself caring about the pleasant breeze on the wind, the gorgeous temperature outside, and the invitingness of the ocean waves. He didn't even care that the Highwind was humming joyfully like nothing was wrong. He was grumpy. He wanted a bottle of tequila, a pack of his favorite cigarettes, some lively music, his space in the Captain's Quarters, and dammit, he wanted a comfier chair!

The pilot found himself sitting on the deck of the Highwind, slouching on the floor with his ass aching and his cigarette pack freshly out. Not to mention that he was missing the warmth of his bedroom and this alleged bottle of alcohol that he so kindly asked for. He didn't even get his music, for Leviathan's sake! Someone aught to get it, and it'd be by the hands of the infuriated, pissed, grumpy, PMS-ey, mad, agitated, not to mention achy, distressed, Cid Highwind. Someone on this ship was going to pay. Maybe the next person who opened the door to the deck, saw him, apologized, and left, not bothering to cheer the pilot up. Well, at least Cloud and Barrett did the above. Yuffie, instead, laughed at him and took a picture with her PHS. He barely had enough to hold in a disturbingly sexist comment and throw whatever was in his hands at her; which happened to be his lance. The bitch had the nerve to take another picture before running off. That made his mood ten times worse.

He sat on his ass, staring at the dainty clouds casting shadows over the ground below him, and grumbled, wishing that he could control the weather and conjure up a world-wide blizzard and a hurricane and a thousand tornadoes. Maybe then, he'd be happy enough to go back inside and tend to the Highwind as if nothing was wrong and he was his old, grinning, chain-smoking self. Bah, like that would happen.

It all damn well started last night. Everyone had hushed up and gone to sleep, leaving Cid to do his nightly "chores" and then hit the hay for the big day ahead. Of course, nothing was wrong in the world of engines and motors and electronics, so he continued on to send his hired help to bed. But when he reached their lunchroom, he saw every single one of them either half naked or completely skyclad. His third-to-last cigarette dropped out of his mouth when all eyes turned on him and poker hands were set on the tables. He wasn't surprised to see about eight of the naked ones in the corner, doing various things to one another that Cid didn't even want to think about nor join in to. And hell, he usually loved orgies! Seeing the decks of cards on the table, a giant pile of clothing in the corner, opened bottles of beer that Cid knew were his, ashtrays filled with butts and smoked joints and the familiar smell of marijuana in the air, the pilot did what everyone is expected to do. He threw a tantrum, ripped the beer bottles from their puny hands, threw various items of clothing at them, screamed at them to get dressed and rip up the card decks and stop fucking around, and then stormed out of the lunchroom, lighting up his second-to-last cigarette.

He grumbled curses loudly and flipped off the people who opened their doors to look outside; which happened to be all seven of his comrades. As he stomped down the long hallway to the Captain's Quarters, inhaling his cigarette like it was the last one on Earth and discarding the filter carelessly, he ripped himself out of his clothes like the Amazing Hulk and flopped onto his bed to try and sleep. But it didn't come, so he turned onto his side and tried again. Still, no avail, so he let out a scream of agony and pounded against the lumpy mattress. Gritting his teeth, laid on his back and stared at the ceiling until sun filtered through his blinds, indicating the morning was starting.

After his steamy shower, dressing into brand new clothes, and stalking to the Highwind's wheel, he was assaulted with various glares from his comrades, blushes and nervous looks from his crew, and a disappointing look from Vincent, Cid threw his gloves to the ground and left the cockpit. If only he could have made it to the deck without interruptions! He had to go into the lunchroom to grab a coffee and a muffin. Alas, when he got there, shreds of playing cards littered the floors, the ashtrays were overflowing with ashes, beer bottles were askew, and there was still the DAMN PILE OF CLOTHING in the corner of the room! He growled fiercely, snatched a cup of coffee and a fresh blueberry muffin, and slammed his feet to the ground every step until he found his spot on the deck.

As if that weren't enough, after his display of annoyance, Cloud came out and asked him what was wrong. He just growled into his coffee cup, flipped him the bird, and continued to eat. Barret soon followed, and Cid did the exact thing to him as the blonde, with no worry about what would happen next. But when the ninja-teen poked her head out, grinned, and snapped a picture, Cid threw his coffee, muffin, and, accidentally, his last cigarette (which he placed between his fingers only two seconds before she appeared) off of the deck and to the ground, a couple thousand feet below. She laughed again, took another picture, giggled, and ran away.

And here he was. His face was permanently pouted, arms crossed, goggles falling down his forehead which he cared not to push up again, legs splayed out in front of him, and his cheeks puffed out in annoyance. He missed his damn cigarette and he had every intention of going after it when he accidentally flung it over the edge. But something in his brain made him re-think his idea, and perhaps it was for the better. He didn't feel like dying today. He was close to it, but…

The door to the patio opened again, which brought Cid's attention to it. When no one peeked their head out or showed any sign of life behind the metal door, an eyebrow on his face perched curiously. But it slowly receded when a crimson cloak was spotted through the ajar door. Vincent Valentine slowly crept out of the airship and closed the door quietly; only a small sound of the click of the handle falling into place again. The gunman turned around and spotted Cid on the farthest corner of the ship, sulking in the shadows. Cid let his cheeks soften and the pout on his face dissipate when the gunman took six quick strides to the fallen pilot.

The cloaked man kneeled down in front of Cid, tilting his head curiously, a new muffin in one hand, a coffee in the other. "I thought you might appreciate a pick-me-up."

The pilot let out another grumble. "Maybe a bottle o'vodka would be better."

"I have reason to believe that all of the alcohol is gone." Vincent smiled softly, pushing the goods in his hands closer to the pilot. After hesitating slightly, the pilot took the warm muffin from the plate and took a small bite of it. He couldn't help a small grin across his face when he stomach growled for more, and he devoured the muffin quickly, taking sips of coffee when his throat constricted from eating too much of the muffin.

Cid relaxed back and leaned against the railings when he finished up. He sipped at his coffee, a heavy load suddenly taken off of his head because of the cloaked man. "Thanks, Vince."

"I heard from Yuffie that you tossed your meal over the edge of the airship. She had told me that you were in a sour mood this morning, and even Cloud and Barret agreed." After taking a small pause from his speech, the cloaked man sat down and rested his back against the railings. "What happened last night, Chief?"

Cid grunted in response. "Fuck all, that's what happened." Another tilt of Vincent's head let Cid know that he didn't understand his meaning. So, after a long, pissy sigh, he told Vincent about his "adventures" the night before and that morning.

The gunman couldn't stop a laugh that floated to his lips. When Cid finally finished with his story and hung his head, Vincent let out a soft chuckle. Cid's head snapped up and his blue eyes narrowed. "You laughin', Vince?"

Vincent's hand pressed against his mouth. "No." He couldn't stop the smile on his lips, and soon after, he let out a louder snicker, which soon turned into a full-blown laugh. Cid, again suddenly pissed, and a little shocked, growled and grasped the cloaked man's hand to pull it away from his face.

"Fuck you! You're laughin'!" The pilot snarled again, grabbed the front of Vincent's cloak, stood, and pulled him up. He fiercely whipped the gunman around and slammed him against the metal wall beside them.

Vincent immediately stopped chuckling when his cape was grasped. His crimson eyes blinked in surprise at the sudden force of his back meeting the metal, and he felt nervous about being pressed between an impenetrable wall and Cid. His fists clenched tightly, head pushed against the wall, bottom lip being attacked by his teeth. The pilot had his face just inches from the gunman, eyes taunting no-nonsense. His grasp on the cloak hadn't weakened, instead, it got tighter and came close to strangling Vincent.

"First it's Yuff, now it's you? I don' need this, Vince." Cid growled again.

"Chief, I'm sorr-"

"Don' say yer sorry! You don' ever mean it!" The pilot spat. Vincent's eyes became crimson slits. Before Cid could acknowledge it, it was him who was against the wall, Vincent's claw tightened around his neck, and his wrists in a death grip between Vincent's other hand. If the pilot had a cigarette in his mouth, he was definitely sure that it would be on the ground right now. His mouth was agape, and his eyes were on Vincent's, full of shock and disbelief. "How'd you-?"

"Don't you dare ever say that I never mean it." The cloaked man tightened his grip around the pilot's neck, allowing his words to sink in quickly and properly. "You don't know me." Cid felt his hands being brought up above him and felt Vincent pin them against the metal. The pilot tensed when the other man placed a knee between his legs and Vincent's stomach and chest met his. Cid could feel the other man's soft breath on his lips and his eyes digging further into his. He let out a soft grunt when Vincent's gauntlet left his neck and he cast his gaze downwards.

"Vince, I-"

"Cid."

Blue eyes met crimson again and the breath hitched in Cid's throat. He felt the other man's lips brush against his ever-so-gently, but it was faded enough that Cid had to register what it was that touched his mouth. But before he could try to close the gap between their lips, Vincent withdrawed, taking his hand off of the pilot's wrists and backing up a couple of paces. A flush settled on his cheeks when he saw Cid lower his arms and hang them by his sides.

"Here, I brought you these, too." The gunman pulled a new pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and placed them gingerly into the pilot's hands. He nodded curtly, twisted around, and headed for the door.

Cid stood there, staring down at the new package of his favorite smokes. It looked almost ornate in his hands, the expensive cigarettes too much for his pockets. If he was lucky, he only got the brand once a year to spoil himself, while he wasn't dolling out the money to fix his Tiny Bronco or pay his workers. He had to settle on his second-best; the cheap, tacky smokes that barely passed as nicotine to him.

And suddenly all the thoughts of last night and early morning washed away when he eagerly ripped open the package and pulled out a white stick. He inhaled the scent of it, relished in the exquisite glory for a moment before placing the cigarette between his lips, bringing his Zippo to the tip of it and lighting it up. And for a moment, once what was the infuriated, pissed, grumpy, PMS-ey, mad, agitated, not to mention achy, distressed, Cid Highwind, was the shiny, chirpy, floating, gleaming, pleasant, gorgeous, invitingness that nature had enveloped into the man's mood and showed him the way to walk on clouds; as he savored his smoke stick and pondered silently about his newly acquired view on Vincent.