Face Value

Vince and I are doin' just fine, Cid liked to reassure himself. He woke up in the morning and made tea for himself and his guest before joining him on the couch to watch the morning news. The enigmatic man would already be sitting, fully dressed with his pillow and blankets stashed away because he'd opted not to sleep in the guest–room–that–should–be–a–nursery, as Cid had come to think of it. After watching the news, Cid would make himself breakfast before heading out to his shop to tinker with his engines and electronics and Vincent would… do whatever Vincent did. It wasn't that Cid didn't care, he just knew his friend valued his privacy and Holy knew, it was stretched enough with him staying in Rocket Town to keep Cid company.

Cid began to reluctantly settle back into a bachelor's life; filled with hours reading books or fitting this greasy fan to that dirty rotor or rolling smokes on the kitchen table and leaving his tobacco flakes where they fell, something he'd been forbidden to do once the house ceased to be solely his. It was existence; the only thing that kept him going was that maybe, one day, things wouldn't be so bleak. Maybe he'd be able to feel again, feel something tangible, something other than faint anger or faint guilt or the faint desire to cry, his emotions were as washed–out as those watercolors Shera loved at the open–air market in the summer, smears of paint so close together he could never tell where blue ended and green began, he liked his colors bold and bright, and when he told Shera that, she'd laughed and pulled his arm tighter around her shoulders, guiding his grumbling to another booth.

And just like that, he was bent over the workbench, pliers in one hand and the other clutching at the wood, trying to breathe between the sobs. He wiped his eyes on one grimy sleeve, leaning into his forearm as the wracking shudders in his chest started to subside, and then he straightened up, glancing at the doorway to see a silent Vincent standing there with one hand on the door and a wary look in his eyes.

"Tifa called." He gave Cid a knowing glance before exiting.

There it was again, except this time it was faint shame. Shame at what? Crying over the death of his wife and almost–born son? Shame at grieving in front of Vincent, of all people? Mr. I've–Never–Tried? Cid shook his head at his own ridiculousness, wiping at the grease on his forehead with one almost–as–filthy glove before turning back to whatever it was he'd chose to do with his day.

But it still surprised him the next morning, while Vincent was in the shower, Cid conjured up his customary illusion – the bacon frying in the pan, eggs waiting in their bowl for their turn, toast burning and tea cup under his nose – and instead of Shera rolling her eyes and poking at the bacon, the one in the kitchen with smiling face and spatula in hand was Tifa, and she was threatening to hit him with it, a mischievous glint to her eyes.

The chair clunked as it slammed back onto the floor; Cid hadn't even realized he'd been leaning back on two legs. Tea sloshed over the rim of the mug, burning the side of his hand and searing into his thigh through his flannel pajamas. The mug almost tipped over again as he flung it at the table. "Goddamnit!" He shouted, shooting up from his chair and throwing the web between his thumb and forefinger into his mouth, other hand holding the cloth away from his leg.

Vincent was in the doorway, with one eyebrow raised. 'Bout as much as an expression I'll ever get, Cid thought cynically before he could stop himself.

"Are you all right?" Vincent asked. Cid nodded, still sucking on his hand to ebb the throbbing, and Vincent turned back to the living room. At least he'll take my word at face value. Cid pulled the hand from his mouth, staring at the swollen, puffy red blotch. He winced as he flexed his fist, and his mocking inner voice remembered the previous day in the workshop and only had one thing to say.

At least you can still feel pain, old man.

He thought of Tifa before she left, that unbidden smile. Maybe that's not all. Cid stared at his burned hand. Maybe.