I do not own Final Fantasy 7 or any of it's characters, though the story is my own.
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Vincent gets attacked one late summer night, and Cloud helps out. NothingM rated happens in this chapter, but it's rated M anyway as most of the other chapters are.
Please review!
Your friend Madeline
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Chapter 1- Vulnerable
Vincent Valentine liked cold nights huddled in his tent. In the winter, the group would put the fire out early evening and everyone would stay in their tents. But, unfortunately, summer had come all too quickly, and the group stayed around the campfire until the early hours of the morning, watching the flames flicker and die away. He could not stand the constant heat. The constant laughter and loud cheers or drunken tears of his group.
That night, he sprawled out beneath the shade of a tree, watching the stars above him, and appreciating the distance he had from the rest of the group. He unbuttoned the top of his trench coat, and removed the red cloak above it completely. He even pulled away the red band that tied around his forehead, and threw it aside.
The gunman felt his eyelids closing, only for them to fly open again at the nearby sound of a rustle. His hand found his gun, his the finger- the trigger. He sat up and shot into the darkness in one swift movement. The bang echoed, and the chatter around the camp fire ceased.
Vincent, now splattered with a reasonable amount of blood, was approached by their leader, Cloud Strife, with a puzzled yet stern expression which seemed to ask 'what did you shoot?'. Vincent had thought it a shame that the young man had lost all his spirit, the blonde had always been quiet, but before he had noticed a spark in the young leader's eye whenever he caught the attention of the young flower girl. Her death had stolen part of his soul, and the gunman could not surpress his pity at the sight of the empty boy, he knew how it felt to lose a love. Sensing the younger man's confusion, Vincent simply said, "I shot a bore".
Cloud pushed blonde locks of spikey hair from his face and stared at the older raven-haired man. "Oh", he said, "You might want to clean up", and turned away to leave.
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There was a clear spring in the deep of the forest, a clear area, where the canopy seemed to seperate to show the heavens above. Vincent had made his way there, hastily throwing aside his gun upon his red cloak and black trench coat, leaving them under the shade of the tree, as to mark his place. The rest of the group had not mustered a word his way, not that he had given them the chance.
The spring shone a little in the light of the moon. The whole forest slept around him.
Vincent peeled away a heavy black shirt, and kneeled down to the water. It seemed to wash away a layer of worry that had gathered upon him over the last few days. The journey had taken a sudden hault at the death of a much loved member, Aeris, and now had suddenly been revived under the hot sweating surgic lights of new feelings the whole team hadundertaken, and everything seemed so much more preassured by time and urgency. He could not help but be a little more on guard, and a little more paranoid than usual.
He sighed a little as the water trickled over his bare chest. It was warm, yet cold enough to be refreshing. He stared into the shallow spring of the almost still water, and felt drawn to it's depths. Would it be so bad to feel clean? To wash away the sins he had commited? Yes. Doing so would be a sin committed in itself. But it was so very tempting...
His hands had fallen to his boots and they were soon flung aside. His belt fell away from his hips. He reached for his trousers. But then, another rustle. In another swift movement, Vincent had thrown his hand blade into the darkness. It hit something hollow, a tree perhaps. He had missed his target.
But the blade seemed to fly back at him from out of nowhere, impaling his arm. A quiet gasp escaped his lips. He wasn't about to lose a fight that easily. His other hand had just found another blade when a familiar voice spoke, "Vincent?", and his blood red orbs found those of chocolate as Tifa Lockheart stepped out of the shadows, her hands covering her mouth in shock. Tifa, Vincent had noticed, had also had her spirits dampened by the flower girls death. It was a shame, he reflected, that the fighter had and still did feel so much for Cloud, who had been...unable to return her feelings. The gunman could relate to being unrequitted, and had felt drawn to the young brunette of late.
She ran forward, "Oh my goodness...Vincent, I didn't mean...I thought...damnit!". Vincent's eyes averted hers, instead they found their way to the wound, and watched the blood trickle down his pale skin, just like the water. He felt tranfixed for a moment with his own injury, and then reality hit him. Tifa's eyes had found their way to his half naked body, and here he stood, caught off-guard, a horrific sight he must be, sewn by the dancing scars on his chest, keeping his inards in, and everything else out. "Vincent", her voice much calmer now, "let me" she said, indicating the wound. Her hands reached for his shoulder.
"No", he said, almost pleadingly, "I'll do it". And with that he turned away from her, and with one quick pull, the blade was out. He heard Tifa gasp, and felt her eyes on his back, "Please" he said. She felt a tear prick her eye as she turned her back to him.
The splashing of water could be heard, and soon, Vincent had pulled his shirt back on, and was walking away into the shadows clutching his arm, and cursing himself inside for not bringing his cloak or trench coat. He could hear Tifa hurrying after him, until she'd finally caught up. "Vincent I'm sorry. I think I have some materia left..." she said, her voice displaying sincere guilt. Vincent did not stop though, he did not want her help, he wanted her to leave him alone to reflect bitterly on his mistake, and its embarrassing consequences. "I have my own" he mumbled.
Tifa gave an audible sigh once they reached the camp. "I'm sorry Vincent, please let me check it, the blood is ruining your shirt" she tried. Vincent finally stopped, but did not turn to face her, "Tifa, do not be sorry, I can take care of this myself", he said, his voice not at all sympathetic, but Tifa did not mind as she hadn't expected any different than this, "...thankyou".
Vincent left her to her own ways as he collected his clothes and gun, and made his way to his tent. She had not however, expected a thankyou.
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The tent was a mess. Not how he'd left it. However, he fell back carefree onto the sheets on his fairly clean side of the tent, and searched for his materia. He did not reach for the lamp, and risk the chance of a member of the group coming to see if he was alright, (Tifa had no doubt told everyone he was hurt).
He peeled the sleeve of his shirt away from the wound. The blood now rolled down from his left arm onto the sheets. He cursed again. Frantically searching for the shirt he had threw somewhere, he did not notice the tent opening, and Cloud climbing in. The blonde zipped the tent up and turned to where Vincent sat, blood coating his left arm, who was cursing inside yet again.
"Vincent, what happened to your arm?" he asked, his voice the same lifeless monotone it had been since her departure. Vincent was glad that Tifa hadn't infact told everyone, and also that Cloud hadn't over reacted like Tifa had. But still, the situation was awkward, no one had ever seen a bare inch of him before, and it had happened twice in one night, and it didn't help that Vincent never spoke a word to anyone either.
"Not much" he said quietly, greatful that Cloud did not reach over to the lamp. But did flinch when the blonde reached over and touched his arm without warning. A small gasp managed to escape his lips.
Cloud stared up at the pale man through half-lidded eyes, feeling priviledged almost to see the man's unnoticed beauty, unlike the others who (he believed) had not been blessed with such a rare opportunity.
Vincent however, who had been willingly deprived of any physical contact with another human being for many a year, was staring at the floor of their tent, and wincing as if Cloud's touch hurt more than the wound. Cloud frowned when noticing this, pulling his fingers away from the man beside him. Vincent frowned also. "Ummm...I", Cloud mumbled, "I think I have some materia left...". Vincent sighed quietly, he only wanted to help, as did Tifa, he might as well..."Thankyou".
Cloud looked up, puzzled at the older man. Why had he accepted his help? After a moment, he turned and searched clumsily through his pile of sheets and general mess that marked his side of the tent, and cringed when noticing the spill of his "general mess" onto Vincent's usually tidy side. He soon found a paper bag containing his materia, and pulled out something to heal his team mate's wound.
"I umm, have to...apply it to the wound" he mumbled, sounding much like his old self. The gun man noticed this, "Okay" Vincent coughed, scratching his neck with his good arm. "Lie down" Cloud said, trying to appear confident in his actions.
Vincent lay down, trying to restrain himself from clutching his injured arm. He averted Cloud's eyes as the younger man gently placed warm hands on a pale arm, visible just above a golden claw, and carefully applied the materia. It was a very luxorious feeling as the materia swept through him, the wound healed over and a pair of warm hands held him firmly. It was gone all too quickly. Coldness greeted him again, even on this warm night, and isolation surrounded him, making him frown and reach for the sleeve of his bloody shirt.
Cloud stared at the other man who now sat beside him, wiping away the remains of the blood with his ruined t-shirt, shivering in the warm midnight air. He looked away. The glowing camp fire outside the tent had dissapeared into the darkness, and he assumed everyone else had retired for the night. He wondered for a moment if Vincent would put on another shirt, but of course, they had found the man sleeping in a coffin, was he likely to bring luggage?
Vincent reached for his blood splattered trench coat. That bore was close when he shot it, Cloud thought, and also, was it really a bore Vincent shot, he didn't see the carcus? Absent-mindidly, the young ex-SOLDIER reached for his black shirt, and tossed it onto the other man's make-shift bed. Without another word, he crawled onto his bed and closed his eyes, he thought Vincent would appreciate that.
He smiled to himself as he heard the older man pulling the clean shirt over his head, and crawling under his own sheets.
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