She wants to cry.
Whenever she sees the slowly healing bruises on his face.
Whenever he refuses to meet her eyes from across the table at dinner.
Whenever he ignores her as she passes him in the kitchen.
Whenever she remembers how she lied to him.
Whenever she thinks of his bestial snarl and the back of his hand across her cheek.
Whenever she thinks of a wedding, tears spring uninvited to her eyes and she wraps his cloak around her a little tighter.
She wants to cry.
He is leaving.
He had been discussing his plans with Cloud in the lounge when she had overheard this while fetching a soda from the fridge earlier this afternoon. He had never mentioned this to her. In three days, they have not shared a single word with one another and he has barely bothered to even look at her. It makes her sick.
He is leaving in two days.
And she does not know where he will be going.
She loathes herself for lying to him. But she loathes him for believing her. She's never been a decent liar before, and she certainly isn't one now. Why, of all her poor lies to believe, did he believe that one? She doesn't understand how she had managed to convince him when she hadn't even managed to convince herself.
He truly is a dope.
And she truly is a liar of the worst kind.
She curls herself into his cloak and gazes at his sleeping body from across the room. He has still refused to relinquish the bed.
Selfish jerk, she thinks.
He had even possessed the gall to be angry when she had taken to using his cloak as a blanket, though he had yet to voice it. However, she honestly couldn't care less. She thinks it's the least he can do to let her use it when he won't even share the damn bed. If he seriously expects her to sleep on a lumpy old sofa with no blanket, she thinks he can kindly go to hell.
She mentally reminds herself that now is not the time to be riling herself up like this, but at 2:01 in the morning, she figures it doesn't really matter because she probably won't fall asleep anyway.
So instead, she sits herself up and throws her legs over the edge of the couch, continuing to study the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps. She can't help but be jealous. That damn lie hasn't let her sleep well for the last three nights.
She pulls his cloak around her shoulders to block out the chill brought on by Cloud's irrational love of air-conditioning. It wasn't even very hot today, she thinks. But, then again, how would she know? She hasn't seen the sun in almost two weeks. However, she does know that mid-summer in Edge is both hot, and humid. Nothing like the dry, desert summers of Wutai, she thinks. Mid-summer in Edge is miserable.
She stretches her legs out and touches her toes against the cool hardwood floor. She belatedly thinks she should have brought warmer pajamas, but she hadn't known of Cloud's obsession with air-conditioning, so at the time sleeping in her bra and panties seemed acceptable, considering the climate of Edge during the summer.
"Leviathan, it's cold in here."
Reluctantly, she rises from the warm couch and wraps herself in his cloak as best she can before making her way quietly toward the open door. The old floorboards creak beneath her bare feet, and she steals a quick glance in the gunslinger's direction, but he doesn't stir. She does her best to hurry without making too much of a ruckus, which she thinks should not be so difficult. She is Wutai Super Ninja after all. However, she still feels clumsy and awkward slipping past his bed to the door. But then she remembers: she always feels clumsy and awkward in front of Vincent, and apparently he doesn't even have to be awake.
She doesn't bother to sneak another quick look at his peaceful body lying in the bed beneath tangled sheets as she scurries down the hallway toward the stairs. Although, a part of her still wonders how he can possibly sleep without a shirt on. It's so ridiculously cold.
As she makes her way carefully down the stairs, she almost regrets taking the cloak with her because it is so absurdly big for her that it drags on the floor behind her and she nearly slips and falls when her feet get tangled in it. She growls irritably and kicks at it after regaining her balance.
When at last she makes it into the darkened lounge, lit only by Tifa's customary candles, she plops onto the large leather couch and reaches between the cushions, groping about for her stolen book. She finds it immediately, waiting for her exactly where she left it. She scoots over into the corner of the sofa, curling up in a ball and readjusting the cloak around her body before opening up further into the book. She knows she is cheating, but she has never liked reading books from the beginning anyway.
She snorts cynically as she skims the page. This book continues to fascinate her with its lack of a real plot line and painfully static characters.
What a ridiculous idea, she thinks. Faking your own death to get back at your lover. But then she stops to think on it for a moment and frowns when she realizes what a bell that rings.
"I guess it's not exactly the same, but pretty damn close considering she had about as much common sense as this 'Hero' chick when it came to relationships."
"Do you always talk to yourself late at night?"
She squeaks in surprise, snapping the book shut and stuffing it back between the cushions. She feels like such a fool, she can't believe she hadn't heard him.
"I think you just gave me a heart attack, you jerk!" she snaps, glaring at where he stands at the bottom of the stairs. "Geez, Vince, do you, like, sneak up on people for a living or something?"
"My apologies," he says, and she can just imagine the satisfied smirk he must be wearing.
She cuddles into his cloak, quickly checking herself to make sure she is still decent.
"What are you doing awake anyway?" she asks resentfully, fixing him with another scowl.
"I could easily ask you the same question," he replies smugly, ignoring her glare as he strides into the kitchen for a glass of water.
She hates when he does that.
"Yeah, but I asked you first," she retorts childishly, watching him move from the cabinet to the sink. "And hey! What makes you think that after three days of totally ignoring me, you can just mosey on over and be my buddy again?"
He glances at her over his shoulder, smiling minutely as he turns on the sink and fills his glass.
"I thought I had heard someone trip on the stairs."
Her jaws drops. She has never hated him more.
"Well, it wasn't me."
Glass in hand, he makes his way across the bar into the lounge, taking a seat on the other end of the sofa.
"I wonder then if my imagination is simply getting the best of me," he replies, taking a sip of his water.
She shrugs and shoots him a nasty grin, "S'okay Vince. I'd go crazy too if I heard the voice of some psychotic dead bitch in my head all day, every day."
He is in her face in an instant, his eyes narrowed and his brow creased. Instinctively, she shies away, wanting horribly for the sofa to swallow her whole so he cannot glare her down with those furious crimson eyes. She gathers from the dangerous scowl creasing his handsome features that he did not find her little remark humorous. He looks much like did after striking her four nights ago.
This proximity terrifies her. He is close enough for her to feel the warm air on her skin when he breathes. The sweet scent of his breath makes her mouth water and she wants so badly to taste him. But the rage in his irises is enough to spike a shiver and send it blazing down her spine. She sinks further into the corner of the couch, only for him to follow her.
"You would do well to keep such ignorant opinions to yourself, Yuffie," he growls, holding her frightened gaze with his own. "You know nothing of Lucrecia."
He speaks her name with such respect that it makes her sick. How can he possibly hold that woman in such high honor? She broke his heart and sold away his life to a lunatic. She is the reason why Vincent looks in the mirror and sees a monster instead of a man.
How? How can he still care for her? It is a concept that Yuffie cannot seem to wrap her head around.
"Do, too," she defends weakly, struggling to hold eye contact.
He does not seem the least bit convinced.
"I've seen the files," she insists, "I've read her reports. I know about her thesis. Shelke showed me everything. I know just as much about that woman as you do."
She vehemently refuses to say her name.
Vincent, however, does not seem impressed.
"That may be," he counters, his velvet voice dropping several octaves, "but, you have never met her. Knowing of her, knowing about her does not mean you know her. No one, especially not you, knows her as I do."
The last remark stings, and she cringes visibly, her eyes straying away from his.
"I don't need to know her to know what she did to you," she murmurs half-heartedly. "And that's enough to never want to know her."
From the corner of her eye she sees his expression twist in disbelief, but still he keeps her pinned beneath him, trapped within the cage of his pale arms. However, his shocked silence emboldens her and she musters the courage to face him again.
"You can protect her as much as you want, and keep telling us that it was all your fault. But, we're not stupid," she informs him harshly. "Do you like drowning in your own denial?"
She is secretly pleased when he cannot seem to find the words to fight her.
"She ruined you, Vincent. Stop lying to yourself. You're only making it harder."
He almost looks as though he cannot breathe. His eyes are far away and his body shakes.
"I don't even know why you made me that promise in the first place," she continues sourly, no longer bothering to look at him. "Even a marriage without love still can't function when the other half can't learn to let go."
"Shut up," he whispers hoarsely, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his fists, still hovering above her.
"No," she snarls, "because you know I'm right."
His lids fly open and his eyes find hers. She holds her breath as the rekindled fury in his irises engulfs her.
"You know nothing," he spits. "You are a child, you know nothing."
She laughs bitterly, unaffected by the cruelty of his statement.
"Not even Cid tells me that anymore," she replies sardonically.
As she smiles maliciously up at him, he seems to realize the magnitude of the words that have left his mouth.
"You know, I always that you'd be the first one to notice how much I've grown up, that I'm not just the immature brat anymore."
He continues to stare down at her, his sweet breath fanning across her face, making her struggle to resist him all the more challenging. She forces another acidic smile.
"Shows what I know."
As she moves to slide free of his bodily cage, a gentle hand brushing across her cheek stops her. She looks up at him and is surprised to see a frail smile on his elegant lips.
"Yuffie..." he whispers, caressing her cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. "Please, forgive me. I had not meant to imply that your disposition has not changed in the last three years."
She is too angry with him to care.
"Great, apology accepted," she answers snidely. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going back to bed."
She tucks his cloak around her as she would a bath towel and quickly slides out from underneath him. She knows she should walk, but her feet and legs refuse to listen as she takes off toward the stairs, refusing to look back over her shoulder. In the blink of an eye, she is safe again within the walls of the guest room, curled up tightly on the sofa.
She knows she probably hurt his feelings, but she thinks it serves him right. After all, he hurt her first.
She lies awake for what feels like hours, listening attentively for the sound of his footsteps on the staircase, waiting for the quiet creaking the old mattress when he climbs back into bed. But, no matter how hard she listens, or how long she waits, he never does.
The moonlight filtering through the open window glints off her pathetic excuse for an engagement ring and for a brief moment she thinks of a wedding.
She shoves her face into his cloak and wants to cry.
He wonders why he has yet to finish his glass of water.
He wonders what time it could possibly be.
He wonders why he is still sitting downstairs in Tifa's lounge.
He wonders what is causing the uncomfortable lump he feels beneath the sofa cushion.
He wonders why he hasn't gone back upstairs.
He wonders why he refuses to go back upstairs.
He wonders why she scares him so.
He wonders how they will ever manage to make a marriage work.
He wonders why he even agreed to marry her in the first place.
He wonders why she even asked.
He wonders why he is still wondering when he already knows the answers.
Then he wonders why this ring still sits and waits at the bottom of his pocket, and realizes that maybe he doesn't.