The crackle of the fire and the humid glow of the embers fill the room and make it seem just a bit warmer than it really is. Outside, Vincent can see the snow dance against the window pane, sticking to the glass and splattering it with a white blanket that glows orange and yellow with the fire and the reflection of the room on the glass.

It's the middle of winter. He's shed his cloak for just this moment, and is perched on the end of Cid's couch, and Cid is sitting next to him, silent other than the rough breathing that has come to him with age and years of smoking and illness. In his hand he grips a tiny, floral-print teacup, and from it raises a mist of moisture.

The tea is nowhere near as good as Shera's used to be – it's far too watery and far too bland – but it's the best Cid can do, and without Shera around any more, there's been a lack in good tea around this house. Vincent doesn't mind, and he sips at it and smiles into the cup and at Cid as if it's the best tea he has ever had.

Cid knows his tea is terrible. Vincent likes to make him think it's not that bad, but he doesn't think it always works.

They're talking about how things used to be. How there used to always be good tea, how Cloud and Tifa used to come bearing presents on winter nights like this, how Nanaki would curl up on the rug by the fire, blending in with the flames behind him, and how Yuffie would sit by his side and pet his flank and fall asleep there herself. They're talking about the old days because the old days are the only days either of them has left.

They stopped reminiscing a while ago, when they brought up the Highwind and the adventures that would be taken and the things that would be done because of that ship, that embodiment of a man's dream. Cid stopped talking because he was lost in the memories and thoughts, like he is more often now, and Vincent stopped talking because Cid stopped, and he knew that it was best for Cid to go to that place of his, because it's where he liked to be.

"Vince," Cid's voice is gruff, but not like it used to be: it's gruff from illness and smoking and age finally catching up with him and reducing his voice down to this rough ghost of itself, "ya think it's gonna keep snowing like this?"

Vincent tilts his head toward the window, and watches the snow dance outside. "Perhaps. It's been snowing for so long now."

"Yeah." His voice trails off, carrying a lace of longing in it that Vincent can easily catch. "Bad night for flyin'." Vincent turns his head toward Cid, and realizes then and there that Cid's aged so much now, and there's hardly anything left, and they don't have much time left, do they? And Cid's words have a different meaning to them, and Vincent knows it, and it hurts him a little to think about it.

He sits the teacup down on the coffee table before him, and his hand is reaching toward Cid's gruff one, curling around it, before he realizes what he's doing.

He does not pull his hand away, though.

"I'm sure you could make it through this, Captain. You are the best pilot there is." Cid smiles at him, a weary, old smile, but a proud smile all the same.

"Damn right I am."

They stay like that for the rest of the night, neither speaking, holding hands all the while. Vincent isn't quite sure when it happened, but, sometime during the night, the snow let up just a little bit, and a flicker of moonlight poured through, and he heard Cid mutter "perfect night for flying" before he doesn't hear anything more.