Just a very short one this time but I LOVE this scene. Also I'm so excited for the next scene I cannot even :PP
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“A gun?” Gladio says, scrutinising Prompto from the other end of the sofa. The movie plays on, temporarily forgotten, and Noctis rolls his eyes as Gladio leans across him, waving a hand under Prompto’s nose. “Come on then, show us.”
“This is a civilian neighbourhood,” Ignis reminds them, but the glow of the TV against his glasses fails to hide his curiosity as Prompto shrinks in a swirl of golden light.
“Relax, I’m not gonna fire him,” Gladio says, inspecting the silver gun with a gentle hand. Prompto is by no means the most impressive weapon that any of them have ever seen, but Gladio considers him with the same reverence that Noctis still feels whenever he handles his Weapons. He can only imagine how it feels to be handled; as a Meister, he will never know. But he could take a wild guess and assume the experience is not unlike how ecstatic and inappropriate he feels watching Gladio appreciate Prompto’s firearm in his hands.
Gladio only rarely wields Ignis’ lance, and Noctis cannot think of a single time when Ignis picked up Gladio’s shield. Neither man are particularly suited to wield the other, but they have never expressed a desire to do so anyway, both preferring to transform at Noctis’ command instead.
But a handgun is a weapon that Noctis can imagine them all wielding.
“D’you even have a magazine?” Gladio muses, and Prompto squawks loud enough to overshadow the TV as Gladio flips him over in search of the release switch.
/H - HEY! Of course I don’t have a magazine! I don’t need to be reloaded./
“Wait, does that mean you’re live?” Noctis asks, just as Prompto yelps, can you stop GRABBING ME?? and the ceiling shatters in an explosion of light and sawdust, the crack of the bullet slicing through the light-fitting scattering glass across the apartment. Ignis leaps half out of the armchair before the sawdust has time to settle, and though nobody is hurt, Noctis’ heart is pounding against his chest.
“Okay, that was not me,” Gladio insists, holding the firearm at arm’s length as though only now seeing it for the weapon it is. “No way I touched that trigger.”
“Prom, you okay?” Noctis asks, brushing sawdust from his hair. Only Weapons and Meisters that are bonded can communicate when Weapons are not in their human forms, and as such, all three men in the room can hear Prompto’s whine loud and clear:
/I’m so so sorry, oh my god, holy Astrals, I didn’t mean -/
“I didn’t hurt you did I, kiddo?” Gladio asks, moving excruciatingly slow with the gun. “Didn’t mean to be so rough.”
/No, no, you were just poking me - I was a just a bit weirded out that’s all. I’m so stupid -/
“If you would be so kind as to transform back, Prompto…?” Ignis encourages, gaze darting between the men on the sofa and the hole in the ceiling with a sigh.
/Can’t you let me just die of embarrassment like this?/
“I’m afraid not.”
“Nope.”
“Sorry Prom.”
“I hate you guys,” Prompto mumbles, chocobo-butt hair, freckles, pout and all reappearing with another burst of light. He is squished between Gladio and Noctis now, but this only works to their advantage as they scrutinise him for injuries.
“I guess it’s weird being wielded, huh?” Noctis says once satisfied that Prompto is merely embarrassed, not hurt.
“Yeah, it’s been a while,” Prompto grumbles, swatting Gladio’s hand away instead of elaborating. “Seriously, I’m fine! The only thing that’s been hurt is the ceiling - which I’ll fix, or pay for, or something. I’m sorry. This is so embarrassing. I’ve ruined the movie, haven’t I? I can go home.”
“You will do nothing of the sort,” Ignis says, his stare freezing Prompto in place. “Instead, you will help sweep up this mess while I make the necessary phone calls about mending the ceiling, and then we will put the kettle on before continuing the movie.”
His tone leaves no room for argument, so nobody dares. Gladio yanks the TV remote from the depths of the sofa. Ignis dials the phone at his ear while hunting the cupboards for a broom.
Noctis leans into Prompto’s shoulder and whispers, “Feather duster,” and Prompto fails to suppress his laugh.
[FILL] Re: Any pairing or gen, the bros are Noct's weapons (6/?)
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“A gun?” Gladio says, scrutinising Prompto from the other end of the sofa. The movie plays on, temporarily forgotten, and Noctis rolls his eyes as Gladio leans across him, waving a hand under Prompto’s nose. “Come on then, show us.”
“This is a civilian neighbourhood,” Ignis reminds them, but the glow of the TV against his glasses fails to hide his curiosity as Prompto shrinks in a swirl of golden light.
“Relax, I’m not gonna fire him,” Gladio says, inspecting the silver gun with a gentle hand. Prompto is by no means the most impressive weapon that any of them have ever seen, but Gladio considers him with the same reverence that Noctis still feels whenever he handles his Weapons. He can only imagine how it feels to be handled; as a Meister, he will never know. But he could take a wild guess and assume the experience is not unlike how ecstatic and inappropriate he feels watching Gladio appreciate Prompto’s firearm in his hands.
Gladio only rarely wields Ignis’ lance, and Noctis cannot think of a single time when Ignis picked up Gladio’s shield. Neither man are particularly suited to wield the other, but they have never expressed a desire to do so anyway, both preferring to transform at Noctis’ command instead.
But a handgun is a weapon that Noctis can imagine them all wielding.
“D’you even have a magazine?” Gladio muses, and Prompto squawks loud enough to overshadow the TV as Gladio flips him over in search of the release switch.
/H - HEY! Of course I don’t have a magazine! I don’t need to be reloaded./
“Wait, does that mean you’re live?” Noctis asks, just as Prompto yelps, can you stop GRABBING ME?? and the ceiling shatters in an explosion of light and sawdust, the crack of the bullet slicing through the light-fitting scattering glass across the apartment. Ignis leaps half out of the armchair before the sawdust has time to settle, and though nobody is hurt, Noctis’ heart is pounding against his chest.
“Okay, that was not me,” Gladio insists, holding the firearm at arm’s length as though only now seeing it for the weapon it is. “No way I touched that trigger.”
“Prom, you okay?” Noctis asks, brushing sawdust from his hair. Only Weapons and Meisters that are bonded can communicate when Weapons are not in their human forms, and as such, all three men in the room can hear Prompto’s whine loud and clear:
/I’m so so sorry, oh my god, holy Astrals, I didn’t mean -/
“I didn’t hurt you did I, kiddo?” Gladio asks, moving excruciatingly slow with the gun. “Didn’t mean to be so rough.”
/No, no, you were just poking me - I was a just a bit weirded out that’s all. I’m so stupid -/
“If you would be so kind as to transform back, Prompto…?” Ignis encourages, gaze darting between the men on the sofa and the hole in the ceiling with a sigh.
/Can’t you let me just die of embarrassment like this?/
“I’m afraid not.”
“Nope.”
“Sorry Prom.”
“I hate you guys,” Prompto mumbles, chocobo-butt hair, freckles, pout and all reappearing with another burst of light. He is squished between Gladio and Noctis now, but this only works to their advantage as they scrutinise him for injuries.
“I guess it’s weird being wielded, huh?” Noctis says once satisfied that Prompto is merely embarrassed, not hurt.
“Yeah, it’s been a while,” Prompto grumbles, swatting Gladio’s hand away instead of elaborating. “Seriously, I’m fine! The only thing that’s been hurt is the ceiling - which I’ll fix, or pay for, or something. I’m sorry. This is so embarrassing. I’ve ruined the movie, haven’t I? I can go home.”
“You will do nothing of the sort,” Ignis says, his stare freezing Prompto in place. “Instead, you will help sweep up this mess while I make the necessary phone calls about mending the ceiling, and then we will put the kettle on before continuing the movie.”
His tone leaves no room for argument, so nobody dares. Gladio yanks the TV remote from the depths of the sofa. Ignis dials the phone at his ear while hunting the cupboards for a broom.
Noctis leans into Prompto’s shoulder and whispers, “Feather duster,” and Prompto fails to suppress his laugh.
-xv-