SIN
XXX
"It's getting late."
XXX
He hates to hear her. He hates how her voice---strong, beautiful, clear---echoes in his mind. He also hates how often it is right.
Cloud holds fast to the haze surrounding his vision. The sense of relief---yes, relief at the numbness of himself---it's the only thing holding him sane. To keep him from battling every monster from here to kingdom come, waiting until he meets his bloody end.
It's right, he justifies to himself that night, settling in (such a laughable concept now. Only . . . only she cold use that term for their one night camps that had to expertly broken down every morning. She was the only one who could make them all brave.)
But now she's gone.
'She did what she had to do.' Tifa tried to comfort him. Cloud set up his barriers high then. Now, now he's just cold, and not because of the chilling winds of this tundra.
I let her die. I let her die.
Everyone's settled in now. Cloud can hear them snoring---those who do, anyway. How much he learned about each one of them since the journey began. How many of them he picked up along the way.
Barrett would never have been his first choice as a traveling companion. Not even the millionth choice for an acquaintance. But over time, the hard-headed, loud-mouth, foul-mouthed brute had grown on him. Like fungus. Now Cloud was just enough of a masochist to keep him around.
By now he'd figured out Tifa was destined to have flown to Midgar, destined to have found him on that train platform and offered him the job. That stupid, bloody job for AVALANCHE. He'd have to thank her. If . . . if she could ever forgive him, he'd . . . thank . . . Tifa for offering him the job that let him meet . . . her.
The tent they had found for sale so long ago it feels, all those weeks ago in Junon, never felt so closed in as if did that night. Snow piles against the sides, though they had been wise and had crowded into a nook offered in the rocks. All---Not all! Cloud screams at his mind. Eight of the original nine had climbed into the tent from the cold. He refuses to completely forget her.
Soon he'll work on saying her name.
Not for the first time, Cloud's thankful the flickering flame of Red's tail can't burn. Just gives heat. Everyone's clustered their sleeping bags as close to him as they can. If Cloud weren't so numb, he'd probably laugh.
Even though they made camp as far out of the way of the storm as they can, the snow's high around them. Cloud leans into the wall it makes, contemplating the chill on his arms, the hot air of the tent.
It's a coffin.
Banishing that train of thought, Cloud curses as his ears attune to the sound of crying. He knows who it is—he has heard her all three nights. Acting so independent from her influence, the young ninja Yuffie has cried every night since her death. He doesn't mention it. He doesn't even know if Yuffie knows. Somehow, even in his perpetual haze, he notices the small things. He's just grown to ignore them.
Cait Sith lies tumbled in the corner, the little cat curled up just like the real thing on his Moogle's head. Cloud wondered once if he leaned in close enough, would his heightened ears pick up the little gears turning around in their bodies? He tried to find out once, only to jostle everyone in the tent between him and them. From then on, Reeve had gotten smart and had the little robot spy 'sleep' on the opposite side of the tiny tent every night.
The Buster Sword metal slides under his thick shirt and coat. It doesn't cut, but the metal feels hot compared to his skin, waking him up from his half-dazed stupor. He's scooted too far back---the wrong move and he could knock Buster Sword over, causing yet another unpleasant waking of the occupants. Swiftly he steadies the giant sword, lightly shifting its tilt so he can fight anything if on the slight chance they're attacked.
By how everyone sleeps in such uncomfortable positions, clutching their weapons like life-lines, it's easy to see the effect of running as made on them. Yuffie has taken the dangerous precaution to sleep with Conformer strapped to her back, and Cid has the Dragoon Lance in a death grip, unlit cigarette clenched between his teeth. If it were lit, Cloud would have stolen it for himself. He needs the nicotine as he remembers why he couldn't sleep. As it is, he has nothing to light it with. If only Red XIII's tail could start fires . . .
The chill settles back in his core.
So close . . . Cloud trains his eyes on the flickering source of light, allowing the meditative tranquility to settle over his mind. The passive rise and fall of his breath, calming his nerves until it's juuust close enough to nod towards sleep. He's lost track of what time it is. It should be sometime around midnight is all he can guess. The wind's howl became more muffled as the snow piles on. How will they get out? He eyes the Materia bulge in Yuffie's pockets, then going around the group until he finds a total of five Fire Materias hidden in bags and cloths.
No nightmares about never escaping for me tonight.
. . . just the usual ones . . .
For some unfathomable reason, Cloud feels particularly masochistic tonight. Or perhaps it's truly the numbness in his bones. One way or another, he laughs. It's not loud---he could never laugh loud, and besides, he doesn't want a bullet in his head or spear in his gut from waking someone---not yet, anyway. It's such a small laugh. Bitter, sardonic, and cynical compared to the last laugh he had. It was between him, and her, so long ago it seems.
He chokes the terrible sound back in, feeling as if already that awful, mocking laugh has replaced the last true laugh of his life it seems. His memory never seemed faulty to him before, but he can't, he can't bear to lose the sound of her laugh, and he'll only remember it right if he can remember his own. There were so few times when hers wasn't blending with his own . . .
There's movement in the tent. Cloud first thinks Barret has woken up from his noise, and if so, everyone will be up soon, regardless of attempts to palliate the inevitable temper the black man would have. To his relief, it is Vincent.
The gunman, he has found, could be the lightest sleeper or the heaviest. If someone had insomnia and rolled around too much, he would be the only to sleep through, other than Yuffie. If monsters were scuffling around outside, searching for their human meal, Vincent was ready with Cerebus, expertly blowing their heads off in single shots.
Cloud can only suppose selective sleep is an acquired ability after thirty plus years of forced sleep.
The raven haired man with crimson eyes never moves from his upright position and he and Cloud look at each other from across the tent. The gold metal of Vincent's gauntlet claw and metal boots catch the firelight and throw it throughout the tent. The chalky pallor tone of his skin nearly glows in the half-light.
Barrett snorts in his sleep.
"Cloud." There's no question, barely any confirmation. Just a brief nod and his name. From Vincent, it's the same as a merry salutation. Both sit and watch their companions, their friends, the habit of night guards still kept in the frozen wasteland. They haven't run into any monsters since their boots crunched the snow, but it's not a creature they guard for.
It's Shinra that keeps one lone member of AVALANCHE awake every night, for half a night. It's Shinra that keeps everyone on edge. It's Shinra Cloud gets to thank and curse, the constant threat that killed her, the omnipresent claw that gives him a reason to avoid sleep. It's Shinra whose gastly claws brought him to his angel, and Shinra that created the One-Winged Angel that killed her.
He wonders if Vincent will need any convincing to give him his shift. For the last three days, Tifa was the only one to refuse that request. Barrett, Cid, and Yuffie had no qualms with a full nights sleep. Cloud had no qualm with sleep deprivation. No sleep. No nightmare.
Vincent fixes him with a hard stare, but says nothing after a minute and the gunman sweeps his gaze over the rest of the party. Cerebus glints in the light as Vincent turns his focus on the dark triple-barrel gun, repairing every feasible detail.
In spite of himself, Cloud finds the distraction of the monotonous clicking as the metal claw dismantles the gun peaceful.
He doesn't realize he slept until he is waking up with everyone else. He can't help noticing the condition of Cerebus from its holster at Vincent's hip. The gun's scratched metal gleams like new.
Someone opens up the tent---Tifa, he supposes. The wind from the night hadn't wholly been blotted out by the snow. It seems more as if the storm died down. Hearing Barrett groan, Cloud knows. It's walking weather.
As they pack up the tent, Cloud thinks back through the night.
Not once can he dredge up an old memory of a nightmare from the night.
He's punishing himself. He listens to the usual night sounds, grimacing at Barrett's monstrous snore. The first camp out, he'd nearly killed the man thinking he had been one of the predatory creatures.
Barrett sleeps with his gun-arm in GUN position now . . .
I let her die.
Cloud winces at how easy he let himself forget. The familiar knife in his stomach plunges in, twisting, an appropriate feeling considering what he forgot. Tifa, Barret, Yuffie, Cid, Red, Cait, and Vincent are asleep. That he counts as one ounce of good luck in his sea of bad luck as he pins back the scream of frustration, grinding his teeth until he's sure he's taken off ten years of their durability. The guilt will kill him. He's sure of that. Now he's just counting the days until it does.
I let you die. I . . . let you . . .
. . . I'm so sorry, Aerith.
XXX
"I never blamed you. Not once. You came for me. That's all that matters."
XXX
Somewhere in the dark abyss of an unknown place at an unknown time, Cloud looks away from the road, not sure whether the words he wanted to hear are the words he really wanted to hear.