Fearful Symmetry
Chapter 2: A New Home
The next morning Vincent awoke to the sound of the shower running. Usually something like that wouldn't have disturbed him; however, Tyser never woke earlier than seven a.m., which the clock read now. He pulled on a pair of pants and investigated.
Tyser was still asleep in his room. The Turk frowned, and then he remembered their visitor. It was a bit uncomfortable knowing that a teenage girl—and an attractive one, at that—was showering in his bathroom. He moved on to the kitchen, which he found in a terrible state of disarray. It looked as if every one of his cupboards had been emptied or at least searched through. Pots and pans covered nearly every surface. As if on cue from is entrance the microwave beeped.
Vincent ventured inside bravely. There were items strewn about the tile floor that he didn't know the name of, let alone had ever used. But he did recognize the potato skins in the sink. And he could smell bacon. It was coming from the microwave, as if beckoning…
He stood there for a moment, utterly baffled and amazed by the amount of damage done during his sleep. He was about to seek out the cause when someone spoke up from behind him.
"Oh, good morning, Vince," said Willy.
Vincent turned, ready to demand an explanation; the words froze before he could speak. Willy was standing behind him, soaking wet and wrapped in a towel. Only in a towel. His towel.
"Sorry about the mess," she was saying. "But I couldn't find the cheese grater. Don't worry—I'll clean it up."
"Cheese grater?" He frowned. "Do we even have any cheese?"
"Well, you didn't, but you do now." She grinned and started toward the extra room. "I set up some plates in the other room. you can go ahead and eat."
Sure enough, three place settings decorated the low table in the living room. Vincent's frown increased as he wove his way through the kitchen's mess to the microwave. Inside was a casserole dish he didn't recall having, smelling of bacon and cheese. I don't remember having any cheese. Where did she get cheese, and with what money? He retrieved a pair of oven mitts before attempting to remove the steaming pot, and he carried it to the living room. Even if the meal turned out to be inedible, he was curious.
"What's going on? What's that smell?" came a voice. Tyser entered, having not bothered to change. He took a seat next to his companion and surveyed the dish skeptically.
"I think it's cheese," Vincent responded.
"Cheese? Do we have cheese?"
"I…guess so." He removed the lid, revealing a rather strange-looking meal. It looked like lumpy scrambled eggs covered in bacon bits and mixed with—of course—cheese. The two men poked at it with their forks.
"It's alive," Tyser concluded deftly.
He was answered by Willy's laughter. She pranced into the room and seated herself on Vincent's other side. "Don't be silly. I'm not an excellent cook, but I can at least make this." She breathed in the aroma and sighed with satisfaction. "Mmm, delicious. C'mon, dig in." She helped herself to a plateful of the breakfast concoction."
Vincent looked her over briefly. The shower had managed to clean off all the dirt, and her hair was combed. But she wasn't wearing the same outfit as the day before: the T-shirt had been replaced with a blue tank top, and she was wearing pair of jean overalls that were ripped off at the knees. Though he appreciated the change, he wondered where it had come from. "Willy, where did you get that outfit?"
"I bought it," she replied casually between bites.
"With whose money?"
"Yours."
"This stuff's damn good!" Tyser interjected, filling his plate. "I haven't had a decent meal like this in a while."
Willy smiled. "Thanks, Tyser."
Vincent rubbed his forehead, as he was slowly developing a headache. "Willy," he said sternly. "How did you get my money?"
"Hmm? It was easy." She popped a bacon bit into her mouth. "You were asleep. I just plucked it off your dresser."
What? She snuck into your room? This was particularly disturbing, as Vincent had always prided himself at being very alert. Willy had managed to steal his money, leave and come back, and turn his entire kitchen upside-down without waking him. It wasn't just embarrassing—it was dangerous. "I'd like to know how you managed that." His tone was skating the edge of anger.
Willy returned his gaze innocently. "I was quiet. Don't worry, it wasn't much; just enough for the clothes and the cheese. I put the rest back."
Tyser observed their discussion with only mild interest. "Your breakfast is getting cold," he remarked knowingly.
Vincent climbed to his feet with a frustrated sigh. "I have to report in today," he said, suddenly weary. "Willy, I appreciate your making breakfast, but don't go into my room again. Tyser will give you some money for the train, so you can go home."
"Huh?" Willy stared at him quizzically. "You're asking me to go?"
"Well, yes." He shifted awkwardly. "I saved your life and let you stay, didn't I?"
She pondered this carefully. "That's all? You mean, you didn't bring me up here for sex?"
In the space of time spent by him sputtering, Tyser took it upon himself to comment. "That might not have been his intention, but it's certainly not out of the question."
"Okay, good," was Willy's reply. "I was looking forward to it."
"No," Vincent said deftly. He crossed his arms, as if it would convey his authority better. "I just wanted to help you out."
"Sex is helpful," suggested Tyser.
"And healthy," added Willy.
The black-haired Turk shook his head emphatically. "No. I don't want-I mean, that's unnecessary." He took a deep breath. "Willy, you should go. After you've cleaned that mess in the kitchen."
"Oh." For a moment she looked disappointed; then she merely shrugged. "Okay. I'll clean up the kitchen."
"Good." Grateful that the matter had been settled, he returned to his room to change. You've done enough, he told himself for the hundredth time as he slipped into the white button-down shirt and navy suit. She'll take care of herself. They all do. You did.
But then, he'd ended up where he was now; with Shinra. He'd been given a chance most weren't, a chance to live outside the filth and violence. Willy would never have that chance. She might never have a future.
Stop. You have work.
When Vincent left, Tyser and Willy were still eating. He trusted them to take care of things, which may or may not have been a smart thing to do. In this state of impaired judgment he reported to Trexim and Raile, sharing his report. He left out, however, the tale of Willy's visit to his room. They didn't need to know.
He returned around noon, as the day was quiet, relatively speaking, and he had no outstanding assignments. He opened the door cautiously, almost expecting to find the girl still present. When he peeked inside, the first thing he saw was the casserole dish sitting on the table, covered in plastic wrap with a note.
Thanx©
Vincent smiled, but his expression was almost rueful. As ridiculous as it sounded, he would miss her. Even if she was just some Slum Baby, he didn't want her to grow up the way he had.
"There's no helping it." He sighed, and continued inside. "At least now things are back to normal." As if to assure himself of her departure, he opened the door to the extra room.
I should have known. Willy hadn't left after all. She was standing in the center of the room, admiring herself in the mirror. She was wearing yet another new outfit, this one comprised of brilliant pink jean shorts, and a white T-Shirt with a pink heart printed across the chest. When she noticed Vincent in the corner of the reflection, she turned. "Oh, hi Vince. Do you think I need a headband with this?"
"I asked you to leave," he stated. His earlier thoughts were replaced with annoyance.
"Well, I gave that some thought." She retrieved a pink headband and returned to modeling. "You see, for about seven seconds I was saving your life by not shooting you: from the moment I pulled the gun on you, to when you pulled the second gun on me."
"At Satan's Closet."
"Yes. Of course, you saved my life by not shooting me, but once we were both in trouble it stopped counting, because that was self-interest."
Vincent frowned. "Continue." What does this have to do with it?
"You saved my life with Muller's gang. Then we were equal. You bought me food, and I made you breakfast: again we're equal."
"I didn't eat your breakfast."
She shrugged. "Still, I offered. And there's some left, if you're hungry." Before he could speak he went on. "Anyway, you let me stay. I thought that maybe it meant that I owed you. But hen I realized where I was." She motioned to the room significantly. "The Turks Lair. Do you now how many people would kill to know where you guys hang? I could get enough money to repay my debts. But all night and all morning I didn't tell anyone." She turned and flashed him a bright smile. "So, we're even. And if I stay and don't tell, we're still even. I'm paying the rent with silence."
The Turk shook his head, though silently he admitted that she was right. He had taken quite a risk in bringing her here. "Alright. But where did you get those clothes. I told you—"
"They're from Tyser. Do you like them?" Willy spun in a circle and giggled. "Please just let me stay a little longer," she said. "I won't be a bother—I'll cook, and clean, which is more than what I owe you anyway. You've got nothing to lose."
He sighed, feeling the return of his headache. "Okay," he gave in. "But just for a while."
Vincent awoke once again to the sound of the shower running, as he had every day for the past two weeks. He didn't understand why anyone would shower in the morning. Didn't it make more sense to shower after a hard-working day? Because Willy would always shower again before a date, anyway….
By the time Vincent was allowed in his bathroom the room was filled with steam. He stepped carefully to the mirror and cleared a circle big enough sot hat he could see his face.
He looked tired.
Vincent reached for his toothbrush—now there were three set beside the sink. Finding the toothpaste wasn't so simple. He dug through mascara, lipstick, nail polish, and a bottle of something unrecognizable before finding the tube. He realized just in time that it was pimple cream.
Vincent paused in his morning routine to survey what had once been his bathroom. There was expensive herbal shampoo in his shower. In the corner lay a pile of woman's bikini underwear and black fishnet stockings. A box of tampons was mounted—almost proudly—atop the toilet.
And the seat was down.
He couldn't tolerate that.
"Willow!" Vincent marching into the kitchen, his jaw set, determined to be firm. He would not allow this to continue. He was going to kick her out.
"I'm right here. you don't have to yell." Willy was standing in front of the stove, dressed in a baggy sweatshirt and shorts. She was making scrambled eggs. "And don't call me Willow."
"Don't you think you've been here long enough?" He didn't like how his mission had begun—he would have to be more stern with her. "I think it's time you go home."
"Breakfast is done!" she announced, scraping the eggs onto plates. She placed the pan in the sink. "Do you want some, Vince?"
"I'm not hungry," he said, even as he accepted the plate she gave to him.
"Okay. Hey, Tyser!" As if having not heard his earlier statement she brushed past him and into the living room. "Chow time!" Tyser responded to her call almost instantly, joining her at the table.
Vincent stared at the eggs he was carrying, then set them aside. He gathered his courage and followed. "Willy," he tried again, "we have to talk."
"I'm listening," she replied, watching him with interest.
"It's about our living arrangements," he began a bit awkwardly. "You've been here for two weeks. You should go."
"Go? Where?"
"Go home."
"What home?"
He inhaled through his nose distastefully. "We can't keep supporting you," he came up with. "You've got no money, and somehow you continue to come up with these new outfits. There are things in my bathroom I can't bring myself to touch let alone identify. You need to go."
The scene was beginning to resemble one that that had taken place two weeks earlier. Willy was watching him, her eyes curious and innocent. She seemed to have no intention of leaving. He was about to invent some more reasons when she abruptly finished her breakfast and stood. "Tyser, can you take care of the dishes this time? Vince and I have to talk."
"Sure," the blonde replied easily.
"Come on." Willy took Vincent by the hand and led him out of the living room, into the room she'd been using. Once inside she closed the door behind her. "I don't want to go," she said, still facing away from Vincent. He was startled by her sudden change of tone to seriousness. "I don't want to go back to the slums."
"I told you it was only for a while," said Vincent. "I'm sorry, but there's not much I can do. You don't have a job, or any income. We can't take care of you forever."
She spun around. "I'll be a Turk!" she exclaimed. "I can do the stuff you guys do."
"What? Impossible." The doubt clearly reflected in his face. "Being a Turk takes training, and skill, and quick thinking."
"But I can do that," Willy insisted. "You saw me at Satan's Closet. I can shoot—I was part of Ginnis's gang, after all." Her speech began to quicken. "I'm eighteen—I can take care of myself. I know the risks. I know all the slum hangouts." She snatched the Turk's hand. "I even know some of their codes. Ginnis's gang was part of a group of Anti-Shinra. Did you know that? We could—"
"No." His decision came with more force than he'd intended. His hands tightened around hers to stress how serious he was. "I don't want you to be a Turk. You don't know what its like."
"I don't care what it's like." Willy met his gaze directly; she looked desperate. There was a bit of fear in her eyes. "You know I can do it. I can learn."
No, that's not it. Vincent ground his teeth in frustration. Being a Turk changed people; it changed the way they saw things, changed the way they thought. He'd seen it happen to too many idealistic youths. This girl had such an optimism despite her origins; such a love of life, that he didn't want to see her change.
He placed his hands on her shoulders. "You don't want to be a Turk," he told the girl firmly. He hoped that, somehow, she would understand his concern. "It's not an easy life."
"Do you really think I care?" Willy retorted, shrugging him off. "I grew up in the slums! What could be more terrifying than that?"
"But—"
She leaned forward, planting a kiss full on his lips. Vincent started, as suddenly her arms were around his neck. She was stronger than she looked. He quickly re-gathered his wits before that thought could continue, pushing her back. "What are you doing?"
"Isn't this what you want?" the girl asked, a strange expression on her face. She started to take off her sweatshirt.
He stopped her immediately. "No, Willy. I don't want to sleep with you. That's not why I helped you."
"Never say that to a girl—it drives us crazy." She pushed him—hard, so that he tripped and fell to the floor. In his momentary confusion she forced him onto his back and kissed him again, more fiercely.
But Vincent didn't kiss her back. He restrained any emotions he might have been feeling, refusing to give in as easily as that. He twisted, rolling her under him, her wrists pinned to the floor. "Do you really think this will change anything?" he demanded. "What the hell are you doing?"
Willy stared up at him. Something had already changed in her eyes; a wall had been taken down. She was trembling, and afraid. It wasn't him, though, that she feared. And suddenly Vincent felt as if he'd been gazing into a mirror all along. He could read her feelings like a page in a book; she was lost, and confused, and frightened, as if she'd seen the future she was heading inescapably from. Just as he had once been.
Vincent relinquished his hold, allowing her to sit up. "I'm sorry," he offered, at a loss for anything else. All his earlier frustration and annoyance had been replaced with sympathy.
Willy shook her head slowly. "No, I'm the one that's sorry. Really sorry." She caught her bottom lip with her teeth to keep it from trembling. For a moment they simply stay that way, silent, until she suddenly declared, "I don't know what I'm doing. Just trying to get laid, I guess. It's my nature." She started to get up.
Vincent took her arm and kept her close. Quickly he wracked his brain for some appropriate comfort. He remembered when a fellow Turk had pulled him out of the slums, and what that man had said. "Willow," he told her quietly, "don't be ashamed. You don't deserve to be down there. You…can stay here. As long as you like."
"Really?" She gazed at him hopefully. He had discovered what she wanted most of all. "You're not mad?"
To this he smiled. "I'll get over it."
Willy grinned back, but even as she did so tears began to roll down her cheeks. She turned away, hoping to wipe them away before he saw. "Thank you," she whispered hoarsely. Her laughter mixed with quiet sobs. "Thank you."
The Turk sighed, placing a hand on her back as a steady reminder of his presence. When she'd calmed down somewhat he helped her to sit on the bed. "I have to go to work," he told her. "But I think Tyser has the day off. You two can take a break, do some shopping. I won't be back until late."
"Okay." Willy wiped the remnants of her tears on her sleeve. "Thanks."
Vincent smiled and left the room. He felt…proud. He'd done something worthwhile. On the way out he gave Tyser some money. "Willy's going to be staying her for a while longer," he said. "Buy something for her, won't you? Like a clothes hamper or something."
Tyser laughed. His comrade could tell, however, that he agreed with the decision.
Vincent met Trexim and Raile at the Turks office in the central Shinra building. He wasted no time in explaining his suggestion. "I want to sponsor a new Turk."
"There's usually not more than four," Trexim mused, sitting at his desk with paperwork spread before him. "How old?"
"Eighteen, sir," he replied crisply.
"Kind of young."
"Older than me when I joined, sir."
Trexim nodded knowingly. "You've never sponsored a Turk before, have you?"
"That's correct." Vincent hesitated. "But I have faith in this one. She has—"
"She?" Railed interrupted. He was leaning against the desk, arms folded. "You're sponsoring a woman? Not that girl from the bar…?"
"Her name is Willow Trust," he explained before his boss could form his own opinion. "She grew up in the slums. She's got a good eye and a lot of sense—you heard my report. She has much potential."
The Senior Turk considered the situation carefully. "Are you involved with her?" he asked bluntly."
"No, sir," Vincent replied at once. "But I do feel a bit responsible for her. And she could have betrayed me several times."
"We've never had a female Turk," Raile said thoughtfully.
"But I know she's up to it," he insisted.
Trexim released a sigh. "All right," he consented. "But she'll have to go through all the regular training. I trust your judgment, Valentine. I hope you picked a good one."
Vincent managed to keep his relief from showing too obviously. "Thank you, sir."
"I'll tell General Sines myself. Now, you two have a job today in Sector Four…."
As Vincent had said, he didn't return to the apartment until long after dark. He was exhausted from that day's work. Tyser was waiting up for him, sitting on the arm of the sofa. "Hey," he greeted softly, motioning toward the figure curled on the couch, asleep. "She was going to wait up, but…."
Vincent couldn't help but smile despite himself. Willy was wearing Tyser's navy suit jacket; while asleep, she looked disarmingly cute. When he glanced about the apartment, he noticed that he was in a much better state than he'd seen it in years. "Looks like you two were busy."
"Thanks for noticing," Tyser muttered. "We cleaned the whole damn apartment—even the bathroom—because she insisted. The place has never looked so good." He pushed to his feet and yawned. "We just wanted to make sure you made it back okay. I'm off to bed." He met his partners gaze, and there was a glint of seriousness there. "She's a good girl. She'd make a hell'uv'a Turk."
Vincent nodded. "That she would."
"Anyway, G'night." Tyser yawned again and disappeared into his room.
After he'd gone Vincent sighed, staring down at the girl asleep on his sofa. I wonder if I made the right decision he thought to himself. Looking at her made him realize that he had. The navy suit jacket somehow looked…right…on her. She would be able to survive, to keep her bright spirit in spite of the heart-dulling business. Surly, she wouldn't make his mistakes.
Vincent sat down on the couch beside her. Having sensed his presence, Willy shifted so that she was leaning against him. Her arm draped across his stomach. It was a strange feeling for Vincent, as he hadn't been so close to another person for a long time. But, strangely, he didn't mind. He felt more than responsible for her. He felt like her friend.
Vincent smiled to himself, shifting into a more comfortable position. Willy instantly adjusted, sighing contentedly in her sleep. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine what his life would be like from now on. But trying wasn't enough; his new roommate was unpredictable before anything else, and when he realized this he sighed. He resolved to let the future come to him as it would, and fell into slumber.
