Disclaimer: Not my world, not my characters.

Author's Note: Well, this is something I just sort of coughed up one night. Story's rated M for some more mature scenes down the road, if I decide to finish this.

It's labeled as a romance only because it contains some scenes of sensuality. Sensuality does not always equal love. Just a warning.

That's all =)


Intentions Chapter One

*~*~*

Life had become a monotonous routine with little effort. And for a man whose only guarantee of complete redemption was an eternity in hell, he was grateful for the simple responsibilities that daily chores provided. A distraction from the bigger picture of a tormented life. Albeit it wasn't much of a salvation, but Vincent Valentine had long since come to the realization that his soul was far beyond saving. Like looking at a piece of furniture in a junkyard and thinking it could have a good future, but realizing later on that the all the work involved wouldn't be worth the outcome.

The type of situation where the end would not have justified the means. The same story that riddled his past, perhaps the story of his future, and likely the ultimate punishment for a soul veiled in black.

He may have ignored the rules of morality for the first twenty-seven years of his life, but he wasn't about to now. Still damned to the same fate, however honorable his intentions, but deep down still minutely hopeful for a future remedy. His offenses were countless, but it was the sheer heinousness of his previous crimes alone that kept him high on the devils list.

A feat he had learned to simply endure alone. Five years since his abrupt awakening, but still uncomfortable with himself and the body that was not always his own; and for the most part still opposed to social company. Some things were not worth changing.

But so far, his routine of everyday tasks had been sufficient enough in keeping unwanted intrusion out of his life, him not being above pretending that his inner psyche was not a rotting mess of suffocating complexities.

Just nightmares and a host of fiends, both deep rooted within the confines of his imprisoned soul were two things he had not been able to completely shrug since he'd come out of Shinra Manor. Sometimes the memory of the Manor itself seemed an easier thing to forget.

He often tired of waking up tangled in his bed sheets from a long night spent fighting an invisible adversary with the memory of being awakened from a thirty year long nightmare still fresh in mind, but he was willing to count his losses and move on. What was thirty years compared to the endless bouts of thirty years ahead?

Maybe he had come out of a coffin. Maybe he even had a split soul shared with several other beings, but he had still managed to make somewhat of a life in Nibelheim. And while it wasn't much, just a small apartment with limited amenities, it was something to call his own. Something to come home to at the end of the day that was not a two foot deep box that belonged six feet under. Just a place that needed taken care of. And though it didn't always feel like home, it was always somewhere he could escape to. And that was more than he'd needed.

Yet, even the routines of a somewhat normal life could not free him from the abnormalities of his past. And as he lay down at the end of each day it was always the same. The fear, the visions, her voice. Always her voice in his dreams. And still that fear of having to be somewhere, knowing something was wrong, and suddenly realizing you were too late. She was already dead. Gast's soft voice somewhere behind him, echoing in his ringing ears. "Vincent, there's nothing you could have done, she wanted it this way."

Blood. Blood everywhere. Shot wound through the heart. He'd been angry at first, demanded to find the culprit. Nearly attacked Gast when he'd asked for his dagger, a makeshift weapon he used only when his firearm's weren't available.

"Vincent, please don't do anything reckless! At least try to be rational."

But being rational had seemed too difficult a thing to grasp at the time. Wouldn't believe she'd done it herself. Wouldn't believe she'd taken that gun and pulled the trigger. The trigger of his gun. The very one he'd been looking for all that morning. Damn himself for being so blind, for not seeing her pain, not seeing what had been right in front of his face the entire time.

But, in the end, he knew it was better to have the nightmares. Better to dream of an eternity spent alone than risk getting too comfortable. Because comfort, Vincent had learned, was Chaos's best offense. And Vincent couldn't risk losing control, even if it meant building an impenetrable wall between himself and the world. Because it was not always his body, not always his mind, and not always safe.

And it was important he never forget that, not even for a moment.

Life stuck in perpetual routines was bad enough, but a life behind glass with nothing to look at save the figure of someone in a white lab coat, writing on a clipboard whilst peering at him, seemed a much worse fate.

Which is why he hadn't even bothered to respond to Tifa's invitation to Avalanches upcoming reunion.

Time. It had taken so much time for him to make it this far. He wasn't about to switch things up, and didn't feel the need to rock the boat. He preferred the safe haven of sturdy ground. He enjoyed knowing what to expect when he woke up each morning. Had honestly never really felt close enough to any of them to feel he needed to stay in touch.

But even he couldn't suppress some small amount of guilt at knowing he'd let Tifa down the first time. She'd sent him a letter after he'd missed their first reunion, dumbstruck and surprised by his outright omission. The first half spent berating him for his absence, the second complimenting him for his pure audacity.

And then, the small postscript, at the bottom of the letter, saying she really missed him.

If Vincent hadn't known any better, and had he cared at the time, he might have thought her a smidgen disappointed by his absence. Not that he understood why. He couldn't think of any specific times when they had really ever spoken to each other out of anything but pure necessity. He had never once regretted his distance towards the others. He certainly respected Tifa, she was a strong woman, but he wasn't about to go out of his way to see her.

But apparently Tifa felt quite differently. And when he'd opened up what he'd assumed to be a follow up letter, begging for his participation at their upcoming five year reunion, it was not to find the same hesitantly polite, written to a stranger, style of writing he'd expected.

Tifa was coming to see him. And by her forward, decisive manner, Vincent had not been left with much room for argument.

Grabbing his coat and feeling completely powerless, he exited his home, making his way down the short steps, hair tied back, gun strapped to his thigh, ready to take care of the unpleasant business of a trade that five years had yet to make any less uncomfortable. Prepared to relinquish his human form, for the body of a not too pleasant stranger. Being not altogether prepared for what lay ahead, and feeling the stress of something that was out of his control.

As he went out into the outskirts of Nibelheim, ready to let them out, he felt violently angry for being obligated to something that was completely out of his control.

And ironically, Vincent felt for the first time in years, completely and utterly human.