She doesn't know how it started. She rarely does, come to think of it. It's not that he's irrational, or menopausal, or the Vincent equivalent of that – and now Yuffie has ended up in a very bad mental place. Remarkable how often that occurs, really.
There is a clear cause-and-effect to whatever Vincent says or does. The only problem is, in the memory and observation departments, he's got everyone else beat. He looks at a woman pushing a stroller down the sidewalk, and where most people would notice her bright red sweater and her baby's noisy rattle, he'll notice how her hair is pulled into a messy bun that brings out the alluring depth of her eyes and how her son has inherited those same features. Part of the reason he was such a successful Turk.
And he'll remember how Lucrecia did her hair the same way, and how Sephiroth had his mother's intriguing, cat-like gaze – and he knows what he's talking about, because he's had, oh, thirty years to dream about it all.
Vincent's pretty good at it, most of the time, keeping the memories and the regret where they belong: deep down and as far away from each other as possible. It hurt her, to know how often he still felt bombarded by life. He's gotten much better, of course: it used to be a miracle to get through a night without crying over his quiet, sleeping whimpers, "So sorry, my love," only audible because she stayed awake to know the truth.
Still, it can't be easy with those demons loitering across the landscape of his mind. She can't imagine that they know what it means to give someone a break, much less actuallydo it, accursed things that they are. Particularly Chaos – viciously hungry, never satisfied. A moment of weakness, a stab of guilt, and they could fashion a tool out of his own psyche to pick away at the barricade that held his old life at some kind of distance. It seems redundant to damn them, but she does so anyway.
His eyes are normally brilliant and alive, even more so set in his impassive face. Occasionally, he finds himself in the grips of some powerful emotion, and his gaze positively burns. Anger was the usual reason, at first, and it took every ounce of courage in Yuffie's small body to stare back at him until he got himself under control and let his features settle into their usual infuriating calm. Still, that scorching fire is better than the lifelessness that fills his gaze from time to time, fed by self-reproach and despair that he will not give voice to but that he cannot hide from her. His eyes have that look tonight.
She doesn't know how it started, but she knows how it has to end.
His responses throughout the evening have been all that is polite and brief and, in Vincent-speak, positively screaming, Leave me be! I wish to wallow in self-pity! When will I return? That remains to be seen!
They find themselves on the bed, Vincent leaning on the headboard and Yuffie perched cross-legged at the foot. "What's going on, Vinny?" she asks after some time, used to how this works and hoping the nickname, rarely used now, will goad him into answering.
"Nothing is the matter, Yuffie, I am merely tired."
"Something tells me it's not sleep that you need, but some sort of absolution you believe you have to earn." He is silent, and she takes that as a sign that she has hit the mark.The Great Ninja Yuffie strikes again!
Fortunately, she's grown up a bit since her adventures with AVALANCHE, and she's learned the value of silence through Vincent's unwitting tutelage. Her words are unhurried. "Could this have anything to do with those marigolds I saw you lingering by earlier today?"
He looks away slightly. She's leaned something about observation from him too, evidently. "They were her favorite flower. I have not seen one since my... return. I had... hoped to forget what they looked like." His voice catches a little, and Yuffie knows he is cursing that infallible memory of his, the very thing he was trapped with and trying to escape for thirty years. Not fair, she hisses at the cosmos. "But I do not wish to burden you with these problems." He starts to leave the bed, but she stops him by grabbing his ankle.
"Don't worry about me," Yuffie says tartly, and yanks somewhat ungently on his leg to make him continue.
"I…I truly am tired. Not for sleep, you are right. But tired of… this." He makes a vague, fluttery gesture about himself. "What am I doing here? Why am I not sealed away, so that my dreams and my demons are mine alone once again?"
"Oh c'mon, share the love, Vince," she says cheekily, watching his lips twitch and a small flicker in his eyes before it is muted once again. At least it's there, she thinks with relief.
"I never expected to be able to lead a normal life," he says. "I was grateful to be a part of the team, because I repaid at least some of my debt. And most of the time, I am able to live a good life. With you." His halting words have the power to choke her up if she lets them, but she needs to at least look like she's got it together. "But sometimes… sometimes, it all rises up – all I did, and all I did not – and it feels like more than I can bear."
She bites her lip to re-focus herself, and silence blankets them for a moment. "What would you call a man who only knew of love through pain and betrayal, and suffered more than any person could even dream of, and still managed to fight his way back into the light?" she finally asks.
"A fool, for believing that he can save himself," he says dully.
"Really?" Her voice is sharp. "I think you are far too hard on people." She glares at him until he closes his eyes tiredly. "But," she continues softly, "not as hard as you are on yourself." She presses her palm to his cheek, and he can't help but lean into her touch.
It still twists something in her gut, to see him respond to these simple gestures with such abandon, as if he doesn't know when such pleasure will be snatched away but perfectly sure that he doesn't deserve it. You're wrong, she wants to tell him repeatedly. "I would call him unlucky, but also brave, and strong, and hopeful. A good man." She raises her other hand to cradle his face. "Someone I am honored to know."
He opens his eyes to look at her, inviting her to speak while the intentness returns to his gaze. She loves how he listens to her, like no one else ever does, and is thankful beyond words for the spark of hope she sees in his beautiful eyes. She sits back with a speculative look.
"So I have to wonder what you would call a girl who never listens to anybody, has few manners and even less decorum, and is just as likely to challenge you to a fight as shake your hand. 'Insolent brat,' perhaps?"
He arches one dark brow. "Would she win?"
Caught by the vivid, snapping color in his eyes once again as he focuses on her, she eventually scoots forward on the bed and says, "Let's say, for the sake of argument, yes."
His slowly blossoming smile makes her heart thump like a wild thing against her ribs. "Then I would call her my spirited Wutaian beauty and demand a rematch."
Dammit. No matter how many times she had hears him say it, she never fails to swoon at the devotion in his eyes and the subtle growl in his voice as he claims her as his own. She could no more have stopped herself from slithering into his arms – daughter of Leviathan that she is – than she could have held the tides on the shore at bay.
"So you see, my love," she breathes as she adjusts her arms around his neck and nestles her body into the space she has patiently cleared for herself, leaving the two of them hip to hip and eye to eye and with several agreeable points of contact in between, "merely different names for the same things."