A/N: Long chapter is loooooong. Extended authorial thoughts after the end of the epilogue.
I'm afraid the world will die without a sound
I was just trying to say something beautiful, something meaningful
But you can't live in the world just breathing, beautiful
No, you can't live in the world just being meaningful
"People Talk," Wintersleep
He was sinking down deep and dark and restful and everything was far away on the other side of the mirror.
The bottom was cool and calm and blessedly silent all the screams muffled just like he remembered so he opened his mouth to swallow and die and then she said his name.
Lungs burning he kicked against the bottom and swam into the sun.
He exploded out of sleep, gasping and pulling instinctively away from metal needle in his arm. There was a high-pitched scream and someone skittered away, then someone was grabbing at him. Citrus and sage. He opened his eyes.
"…where am I?"
"The hospital. Don't you remember?"
Tifa, soft and worried; he focused with a sense of pained inevitability on her mouth as memory came hurtling back. She had been… he'd kissed her, knowing it was stupid, knowing he should know better, violating the unspoken truce between them and she had run. Then he'd taken some aspirin, just for the pounding in his head, because the children still needed tending to – and there had been pain, screaming pain and wings beating in the back of his mind –
He looked up, horror singing through him. "Are the children alright?"
"Yes, they're fine," she soothed, sitting down at his side. "You didn't… we didn't have any visitors, if that's what you mean."
"…good." He was remembering more, now. Agonizing, blinding pain, the raw scratch of vomit in his throat and his mouth filling with copper and salt. When she let him up, he saw her wince and his eyes were drawn inexorably to the white bandage peeking from under her torn shirt.
"I hurt you."
"We'll talk about it later, okay? The nurse wanted to draw some blood." She was still holding his hand; right then, he would have agreed to anything just to keep her near.
The trembling, white-faced woman had backed into the corner of the room, holding a syringe like a weapon.
"I'm sorry," he said as humbly as he could, forcing himself to stillness. "I don't really like hospitals."
"I'll just – I'll just tell the doctor you've woken up – " She fled, trailing fear-scent in the air behind her.
"Oops." He couldn't help an ironic little grin as he said it. Tifa sighed and rolled her eyes, patting him once on the back of the hand before releasing it and stepping away.
"Cid's here, too," She crossed her arms and tossed her hair back and he was utterly entranced. "Shera's with the kids."
"Speaking of, why don't ya go call the little brats," a voice drawled from the doorway. "Since Sleeping goddamn Beauty decided to grace us with his presence and all."
Cid was lounging against the doorframe with a carefully blank expression. Tifa stood.
"I should. I'll be right back, okay?" She left, taking all the light with her, and he and Cid were alone in drab white room. The pilot carefully shut the door after her, paced a few moments while his fingers fumbled for a cigarette, noticed the "Thank You For Not Smoking" sign, cursed under his breath, and finally came to a rest in the center of the room, at the foot of the bed. The low, cold evening light of midwinter slanted behind him, illuminating a vase of slightly wilted flowers – Tifa's doing or a sad, industrial attempt at cheer, he couldn't tell.
"So where the goddamn hell have you been, Valentine?" he asked.
Vincent looked away. "Here."
"Before here."
"Tifa must have told you."
"Fuckin' humor me."
"I was in Nibelheim."
"Where in Nibelheim?" The set to his jaw indicated that Cid was going to drag it out of him come hell or high water.
"In the mansion. Atoning." It sounded entirely too small – some quality of the room, absorbing sound.
"Goddammit, Vincent!" A gloved fist came down on the rail and Vincent felt the reverberations. "You said you weren't gonna do that shit!"
"I am not running, Cid."
"Yeah, sure," The older man took a long drag on his cigarette. "Listen, I know somethin's spooked ya, but we can, you know, talk about it or some shit. It doesn't have to be this way."
He had dreamed the night before of the mansion, of his coffin gaping like an infected wound and high-pitched laughter, mad and swirling and dragging him down and woken with a terrible peace, a desperate longing.
They had been so kind, that was it – kind and considerate and ever-so-careful not to mention what he was, what he would always be – a monster. The longer he stayed in the light the worse the collateral damage would be when the darkness came for its own.
"I promise I am not running."
"You're just goin' back to that fuckin' haunted house. Vince – dammit, Vince, look at me!"
Startled, he looked up and met Cid's eyes.
"Just promise me you won't go back there. 'Sall I ask."
And the worry and understanding and rough, desperate love had been too much; he had nodded, too quickly, and deliberately not run into in the welcoming night.
"I'm sorry – "
"Sorry don't fuckin' cover it!" Cid was pacing furiously now, spinning at each wall like a top. "You break your goddamn promise and I don't hear a fuckin' word from you for a year, I see you goddamn hiding from me when I come to see if you're doin' alright, next thing I know I got a hysterical teenager on the phone tellin' me you're in the fuckin' hospital and find out you've been living with Tifa for fuckin' months and all you can damn well say for yourself is you're sorry?"
"I am. For all of it." Guilt pressed down on him, an old friend, and he almost sighed at the familiarity.
"You're a goddamn asshole, Vince, you know that?" He grabbed a chair and spun it around, settling in it backwards. "Now, did it just not occur ta you that I might appreciate a goddamn postcard when you decided to rejoin society or is this your way of tellin' me to get lost?"
"I kissed her," Vincent said, and snapped his mouth shut in shock. Cid reached behind him and took a swig from the dregs of one of the plastic coffee cups littering the table, grimacing when it turned out to be cold. A nurse peered worriedly through the large window in the door and then turned away, chatting idly with a passing security guard.
"Who?"
"Tifa."
"The fuck? By all that's fuckin' holy, if this is some kinda dramatic emo shit you're pulling…"
"I took the aspirin and next thing I knew…"
They both stopped, aware they had been speaking over each other.
"What do you mean?"
"Dunno, what the hell do I mean? You kiss her, she's not with you far as I fuckin' know, next thing you're in the hospital…"
"Cid." Vincent sighed, and would have laughed if the man hadn't seemed almost serious. "If I were going to kill myself, I would have done it long ago. And why would I poison myself when I have guns?"
Cid gestured irritably. "Kill a guy for worrying. Now deign to fucking inform me. Asshole." The last was muttered.
He outlined the story so far as quickly as he could, a peculiar relief creeping over him. It wasn't that he expected Cid to be of any help – but something about the act of sharing it, of confessing his confusion and desire and yes, love, terrible on-your-knees, tear-your-heart-out love – it lessened the burden. As he told it, he found himself watching Cid's reactions: mild confusion, shock, and finally a cool understanding.
Cid swore.
"You don't fuck up halfway, do ya?"
"I didn't mean for it to get this far. I thought – "
"Ya fuckin' liar. Unless you meant you were thinkin' with the other damn head."
Vincent looked away, heat rising in his face. "That was uncalled for."
"Very goddamn called for. You know why none of us ever come 'round? 'Cause she doesn't fuckin' talk to us anymore. Just finds something she thinks we're after and gives it over and then won't let us give any-goddamn-thing back – "
"Did any of you ever try?" Anger – pure and hot and irrational – surged through him and left the underside of his mind roaring in triumph as a band around his heart tightened and white crept in the corner of his vision.
"Fuck yes! You're not the only goddamn person on the planet who cares about her, Vince!" Cid stood again, propelled by frustration. "She wouldn't let us in – fucked if I know what you did to get past her, but ya did, and all I'm sayin' is you better be goddamn one hundred per-fucking-cent sure this is real."
"What?" Confusion loosened the tightness in his chest and left him drifting on a wave of adrenaline.
"Means if you break her heart I'll fuckin' break every bone in your body, even if ya are my friend. Know for a goddamn fact the others'll help."
Vincent knew he was gaping and couldn't seem to stop; the entire conversation had suddenly shifted gears and left him flailing, certain he was missing some vital piece of information.
"Cloud came by a couple weeks after he left for good," Cid said, casually as if discussing the weather.
…there it was. "I see." He tilted his head slightly. "And…?"
"He didn't get any damn sympathy from me. Boy needs to get his head on straight. Wasn't too hard on him, though." Vincent thought he did a good job of controlling his disappointment; Cid snorted at him and shook his head. "Damn overprotective spook. Cloud's been pretty fucked over by the whole thing – not gonna blame him for wanting some time to himself. Could have done it with a little more fucking finesse, though, you know?"
"He made her cry," was all Vincent could bring himself to say, and grimaced immediately. "That was juvenile."
"So did you," Cid said: then his eyes widened. "Shit, sorry."
"…she cried?"
"'Course she fuckin' cried. You scared her half to death. She got over it. My point is, are you sure?"
"Sure of what?"
"That you love her, asshole."
Vincent looked away again. "How is one supposed to know?"
"Well… 'bout the time I was finishing the plans for the new airship, came time to name her. Was gonna name her the Highwind, like every goddamn thing I've ever driven, and my pop, and granddad, and so on back to the fuckin' dawn of time. Then I went to make it official and the only name I could think of was goddamn Shera. Figure that was when I knew."
"Congratulations," he said dryly. "When's the wedding?"
"Few months. We don't have a date set yet." Vincent choked. "Ha! Didn't know I had it in me, did ya? Next time, fuckin' write or call or somethin' or you'll miss all this important shit."
For a moment he struggled valiantly to conceive of Cid as a married man and failed. Then again, it was no more absurd than the idea that he would end up working as Tifa's bookkeeper and fighting the urge to damn himself by taking her in his arms and…
"Amazing, the places you end up," he murmured. And then began to chuckle, and then to laugh, helpless before the sheer absurd pointlessness of it all. Cid stared at him, doubtless wondering if he should call the psych ward, then began to smirk and started cackling himself, pounding his fist against the railing at the foot of the bed. Vincent clutched his side with his good hand, tears streaming down his face: because really, what else was there to do?
Which was when Tifa came in, shutting her phone. "Marlene and Denzel want to see you – well, Marlene does, Denzel is just… what's so funny?"
He tried to gesture, to indicate that it was the whole damn universe, pardon his language, and couldn't quite do it. But the laughter was infectious – a draining of tension – and she began to smile, and giggle, and finally the three of them were standing in a rough triangle, laughing for no reason at all.
They stopped eventually, abruptly, wrapped in a false calm. Nothing had really been resolved, he knew in his bones, but for the moment, just for now, they could pretend. Cid stood awkwardly, stretching.
"Think I'll go wait outside. Need a smoke." Then he left, and Tifa took her seat next to him.
"How are you feeling?"
"Alright, I suppose."
"Cid brought some of your things from home." She reached down and pulled up a duffel bag from under the bed, setting it carefully between them. "Um… should I… the doctors said they'd give your gauntlet back. Maybe I should go check – "
His functional hand disobeyed a direct order and grasped the crook of her arm.
"Open it, please."
She met his eyes; his breath caught; then she nodded and unzipped the duffel. The first thing she pulled out was a worn stuffed bear with mismatched eyes.
"…Captain Wrinkles?"
"Marlene. Of course" He took the toy from her and rested it against his pillow, patting it once on the head. "Captain Wrinkles should be treated with the respect due to his station in life," he said blandly, and his heart did a backflip when she smiled in response.
"She's really started to look up to you. I mean – Barret tries, but he's… he still blames himself."
"And she is a living symbol of his failure." He leaned back.
"I suppose you'd understand." A wry grin tugged at the corner of her mouth. Oh, he understood: guilt was a canker, gnawing at your heart and tossing it away like an old apple core when there was nothing left to chew on.
Luckily he'd always been a fast healer.
"Would you like to change?" she said, pushing the duffel slightly towards him. "The hospital gown can't be that comfortable."
"I hadn't really noticed." True enough, between the shock of waking and the… discussion… with Cid. She raised an eyebrow at him and he raised one back, daring her to comment. Tifa smiled at him – there went his heart again – and patted him once on his good hand before standing.
"I'll be outside. Call when you've changed."
She pulled a curtain over the observation window before leaving, oblivious to the indignant glare from the nurses, and he could hear muffled voices arguing from outside the door. Quickly – before the hospital could win and force the window open again – he levered himself off the bad, gimp arm and all, and maneuvered himself into his clothing. The shirt Shera had packed wasn't exactly clean; not her fault. He did his own laundry, so he'd never really mastered the fine art of getting it in the hamper. There was a small brownish stain, hidden by the collar; the shirt was a deep rusted red, so it was fairly hard to see. Half-asleep, exhausted by the quick trip, worried, she wouldn't have noticed…
…but he did, and he remembered how the shirt had gotten that stain to begin with. A bit of morning horseplay – she was always groggy before her coffee and even though it was a little mean – to be honest, because it was a little mean – that was when he teased her the most, in the quiet hours they had to themselves in the late morning when the sun flooded the room, after the children had gone to school and before the bar opened. Just the other day, irritated beyond endurance, she'd dipped her hand in the dirty water as she cleaned out a pot and tossed it right at his face.
He spluttered and wiped at his mouth, pulling a face at the bitter, soapy taste filming his tongue. She was immediately contrite, eyes wide, hand at her mouth, gasping apologies and handing over a dishtowel as he groped for one to wipe his face with.
When he could see again she was still staring at him, shaking slightly, and he groped a moment for words to reassure her – he had deserved it, after all, and it wasn't as if he was hurt – before he realized she was holding in a terrible case of the giggles. She looked up, saw his indignant face and couldn't hold it in any longer; she dissolved, clutching her stomach and snickering and in that moment – with the sunlight shining off her dark hair and tears of laughter shining in her eyes – even though she was a black-hearted wench who'd just tossed disgusting soapy dishwater in his face – she was certain to be the death of him and he loved her more than anything.
In that moment he wanted desperately to kiss her, dishwater and all.
She met his eyes and her laughter trailed off, stifled under the weight of his regard. He reached out – to brush an errant strand of hair from her face, he told himself, knowing it would become a caress, knowing next he would lean into her, draw her close and wrap himself in her, knowing all this and still letting it happen – and her eyes slid closed as she leaned forward just a bit…
…when the damn cat started yacking on the carpet.
The moment, obviously, was broken, and a substantial number of moment afterwards were devoted to figuring out exactly why the almost supernaturally healthy beast had chosen that particular moment to sick all over the rug (he suspected the creature's naturally perverse temperament), but he had not forgotten – for a moment, he had almost kissed her and she…
She had almost let him.
And when he had finally kissed her, she had run away. Why?
A shudder passed through him and he forced the shirt over his head, grimacing as he maneuvered his dead arm down one of the sleeves. He'd grown more or less accustomed to the dead limb over the past few months, learned to compensate and work his way around with only one arm. Even though he didn't seem to sweat anymore, there was a certain comfort in maintaining the rituals – an illusion of normalcy to hold onto and build off from as he felt his way back into something like a regular life.
Someone knocked on his door.
"Vincent? Are you dressed?"
"Come in," he said, tugging one sleeve down to cover the shriveled claw of his left hand. He was used to it, but as far as he knew until last night Tifa had never seen it. There was no particular reason why she should keep seeing it, either.
When she came in, she had his gauntlet under one arm.
"I finally got it back from the doctors. They want you to come back, you know, for a proper examination. I guess they didn't see enough when they had you in ER." There was enough irritation in her voice that he could guess at exactly how the doctors had asked, and shook his head.
"No. No tests. Ever." He turned away slightly and began fumbling to roll up his left sleeve; the gauntlet couldn't go on over cloth. She saw him working at it and before he could protest – before he could even react – she was at his side, deft fingers rolling up the cloth.
"I really should hem these off for you." She stopped where the flesh became clean again, a little ways past his elbow. "There, that's where you usually have it, right?"
He could only nod, all the breath gone from his lungs. It wasn't that he had been able to feel her – his left arm, without his gauntlet, was so much meat – so much as her sheer audacity, her fearlessness in the face of his deformity. She took up the gauntlet from where she'd set it down on the bed and offered it to him; he took it and slowly slid his arm in, pressing almost invisible buttons as he did so and grimacing slightly at the initial twinge as dead nerves connected to living circuitry. One final twist of the collar above his elbow, a brief flare of agonizing pain as his mechanical arm roared into life, and the familiar dull weight of the metal took its place at his left side.
"Does it hurt?' She reddened slightly. "Not that it's any of my business, I mean, you just looked like it did."
"A little," he admitted, smoothing the sleeve to avoid looking at her. "Only at first."
It seemed for a moment that there was more she wanted to say, but the noise of someone running pell-mell towards the room, accompanied by a worried call, made them turn. Marlene barreled into the room, followed shortly by Shera, Cid, and Denzel (slouching and resentful as always, staring at the ground as though it held the secrets of the universe).
"You're not dead!" she cried, and promptly attached herself to his leg. He sat down on the bed and she climbed up to hug him properly.
"What made you think I would be?"
"I was scared you would be." The girl looked up at him for a second, accusing green eyes focused on his. "You shouldn't scare people, Vincent."
"I apologize. I didn't intend to."
She settled down on his lap, one hand fisted in the cloth of his shirt, and seemed quite content to stay there. Denzel stumbled slightly, and Vincent saw Cid tuck one arm behind his back and look off in the other direction, all but whistling a jaunty tune as the teenager stepped forward and offered his hand.
"You're okay?"
"Quite."
Cid cleared his throat idly and Denzel thrust out his hand. Vincent grasped it solemnly. "'M glad," he muttered.
"How are you feeling, Vincent?" Shera asked, taking the chair at the bedside. Tifa sat down next to him – close enough that he could feel her breathing – and crossed her legs… her long, muscular, shapely legs…
"Vincent?" Shera was looking quizzically at him and he shook his head slightly. Cid smirked at him and he ignored the man.
"Better. I'd like to get out of here, though."
"I'm afraid we can't let you go quite yet, Mr. Valentine." He snapped his head towards the doorway and had to stop himself from glowering at the woman standing there in a white lab coat and jeans, black hair pulled back in a tight, sensible bun. "I'm Dr. Lowebsky. Ms. Lockhart might have mentioned me…?"
Tifa looked suddenly abashed and Vincent shook his head.
"Well. Anyway. As far as we can tell, your immune system is inhumanly sensitive –enough so that it reacts to almost any foreign substance as if it were an invader. It's also exceptionally strong, which is why you reacted as though you had been poisoned."
"…but I still eat, and drink."
The doctor reddened slightly. "We're… not entirely sure how it works. You heal exceptionally fast; while you were briefly in surgery, before we realized what was wrong, it was all we could do to keep the incisions open – "
He frowned a little bit at her enthusiasm and she flushed, coming back from whatever academic high she'd been on.
"Whatever was done to you – whoever did it – they were a genius. I've never encountered anything like it."
"No," A certain grim humor welled up and tinged his voice. "I'm sure you haven't."
"Which is why we – the hospital – would like you to come in at some later date for further testing. You could be holding the key to enormous strides in medical science – "
"No," he said shortly. "No tests. I'm sorry, doctor."
She looked taken aback and fiddled with her glasses a bit, shifting her clipboard so that it was held in front of her.
"Mr. Valentine, I really must insist that you consider it. Your immune system – "
"No." She stepped back; he pinched the bridge of his nose and forced a sudden surge of rage under control. "Please, doctor. No tests."
"…if you're sure." Her eyes condemned him; well, let her think what she wanted. He hardly owed her an explanation. "You are, however, going to have to stay one more night for observation, to make sure the drug has entirely left your system."
Vincent closed his eyes, praying that wasn't the dull throb of another headache building behind his eyes; he had forgotten he'd been prone to them, back in the world. And now he couldn't even take aspirin… damned lunatic scientist had probably done it on purpose.
He didn't want to spend another night at the hospital. What he wanted was to go home – to the kitchen and the small living room, his room and his books and the children. And Tifa. And even that damn cat.
A warm, calloused hand slid into his. "I'll stay with you," Tifa said.
"Fine, then." His voice was quiet and Marlene pressed herself a little closer, sensing the change in the air. "One more night."
Rain began to fall shortly after sunset, streaking the window and distorting the halogen light of the street outside. The hospital grew still and quiet; he fancied he could feel the place shutting down and slowing, an antiseptic behemoth settling into slumber. Nothing but fancy, he knew – portions of the hospital never slept, since people persisted in getting sick and injured when and where they chose, instead of during business hours.
Tifa had gone home briefly to shower and change her clothing: now with damp hair, still smelling of soap and clean water, she was wrestling with the other end of a cot she'd sweet-talked out of some nurses. He had the other end, and a pillow and blanket were sitting on the sickbed.
"You don't have to stay."
She yawned hugely and shot him what he'd come to think of as her resolve-grin – the one that said she'd already made up her mind, and no amount of logic or emotional appeal would sway her. "I know I don't have to. I still am."
"You would sleep more soundly in your own bed."
"Would you feel better if I left you with Captain Wrinkles?" Her gaze was direct and uncomfortably knowing; the lights in the hallway chose that moment to dim and he flinched a little, accosted by a vision of a long, lonely night in this death-smelling place, haunted by memories.
"I didn't think so," she said without triumph, and walked past him to get her pillow and blanket. He grabbed her elbow as she passed.
"Tifa. You do not need to care for me." She deserved to have one person who didn't depend on her. He did depend on her – would lay every last ragged scrap of worth and self and pride he could find in himself before her, if it would keep her in his life, near him – but he had not take up her banner to obligate her further.
Her hand came up to press briefly against his cheek. "I know," she said simply, disengaging and grabbing the bed fixings. "I don't mind. And you've done so much, these past months…"
"It was my pleasure."
She made up the cot, smoothing the blanket absently. "And it's mine to stay and keep you company." Another grin, meant to reassure this time, interrupted by another yawn. "Only I won't be very good company, I'm afraid. I'm beat."
She sat down on the edge of the cot and began to pull off her boots, tugging at the lacings and eventually just forcing them off. Awkwardness sang through him and he stayed exactly where he was, entertaining for a moment the irrational notion that she would begin disrobing right in front of him.
He was almost disappointed when she lay down, still in her clothes, and pulled the blanket up. "You should get to sleep, too. The sooner you do, the sooner you'll wake up, and the sooner we can go home."
Childish logic. Accurate, too. Only there was no way in hell he was stripping down to his boxers with her in the room – well, what he was wearing now was rather more comfortable than the leather-and-belts ensemble from his AVALANCHE days, and the hospital bed, for all its stiffness, was still softer than the ground. Or his coffin.
He turned off the lights and got into bed, not bothering to take off the gauntlet. There was very little chance he'd get any sleep at all, even with Tifa's steady breathing reminding him that this was not the lab under the mansion and he was not awaiting another painful round of surgeries, strapped tightly to the slab with an IV drip keeping him too groggy to fight back…
Vincent closed his eyes and breathed carefully, evenly, forcing his mind away from darkness. It had become surprisingly easy to do over the past few months; his newest memories were untainted, without regret or the bittersweet knowledge of what had come after.
So he made himself think about his life (what a strange idea that was) – to fret over Marlene's upcoming math test and Denzel's history final, to ponder financial strategies for the bar, to wonder if George knew what had happened and how he was taking it. H was surprisingly educated, though vague about his past. When the nights were slow and the paperwork was done early he had taken to sitting at the bar, just to keep Tifa company, and the big man would join them more often than not, fumbling for words and eventually resorting to quoting in a soft, measured voice.
Marlene and the cat, after some mistrust on the beast's part, had become fast friends. It slept curled next to her pillow at night, wandered during the day, and always made sure to come home in time to beg attention from Marlene as she did her homework. Couldn't even spare a glance for him these days, traitorous fuzzball.
Denzel was… Denzel was slowly resigning himself to the situation. Vincent was fairly sure it wasn't that the young man disliked him so much as he didn't want to like him; he'd convinced himself that if he could just wait and believe, Cloud would return, and everything would be as it was supposed to be. There was nothing to be done about that, except to watch his boundaries.
He sighed and closed his eyes.
There was a power to these mundane thoughts of grocery lists and accounting and interpersonal relationships. They drove off the darkness when it beat around the edges of his mind, threatening to plunge him back into guilt and grief and yes, a little bit of madness. Apparently even the most persistent of ghosts retreated in the face of the comfortable solidity of day-to-day life and the knowledge that when he woke in the morning everything would be as it was yesterday, and she would be there, smiling and teasing and pulling him forward.
He opened his eyes again and rolled over, wanting to look at her. His night vision was exceptional these days – one of Hojo's little improvements – and he saw her shivering slightly under the thin blanket.
"Tifa?"
"Mmm?" She turned to face him across the room. "Something wrong?"
"Are you cold?"
"A little. I think they turn the heat down at night."
"Would you like my blanket?"
"Then you'll be cold."
"I will not feel it." He sat up and began tugging at the blanket, gathering it in his arms.
"Vincent, really, it's okay."
"What good does it do if you're sick just after I've recovered?" She was also sitting up now, and making various it's-not-necessary gestures. He swung himself out of bed, trailing bits of blanket, and went over to her anyway.
"I'm fine, honestly. You're the one who's been sick, for heaven's sake."
"I'm much better. You're being irrational."
"I'll throw it off, I swear."
He examined her for a long moment in the darkness – her jaw was set, and her eyes clear and determined. So. It was going to be like that. Not missing a beat, he went back over to the hospital bed, spread the blanket back over it, turned back to the cot, whipped off her blanket, and lay it on top of the other one. She spluttered. He ignored her.
"I can also be unreasonable," he said, and lifted her off the cot. She shoved peevishly at his shoulder as he carried her over to the bed and set her down, gently. Echoes of months before. Only he was a bit bolder now, and felt just a smidge entitled to some indulgence after the past day or so.
"What on earth are you doing?"
"We'll share," was all he said as he sat down on the other side of the bed, taking off his gauntlet lest he cut her by accident in the night. She was staring at him.
"And what if I just take my blanket and go back to the cot?"
"Then I will have to do this all over again. Not very productive."
"…I really don't understand you, sometimes." The mattress shifted as she lay down and he smirked slightly. "Stubborn old Turk."
"Ex-Turk," he reminded her primly, and put the gauntlet on the bedside table before lying down next to her. The he sat up again.
"Pillow. Knew I forgot something."
The pillow from her cot acquired, he tucked himself back into bed and draped his good arm around her waist unthinkingly. Her shirt had ridden up slightly; her bare skin was under his bare fingers, warm and soft and he could swear he felt her heart. Was there a major artery near the waist? He couldn't quite recall. His world had shrunk to Tifa, his Tifa, and her warmth and skin and scent. She still hadn't told him what the bandage on her shoulder was about, though he had any idea from the memories fading in and out – broken images, flashes of emotion – a surge of mine, and copper-salt on his tongue.
His Tifa. When had she become his Tifa? More accurately, when had he become, irrevocably, hers? He'd taken such pains to guard his heart and she'd still crept in, shining in the center of it so that he could no longer imagine a world without her bright presence in the corner of his mind, a lodestone for his poor wandering soul.
A new thought crept forward from the back spaces. Was he betraying his past? He hadn't meant to. Only she was so irresistibly real against the darkness, reaching out even when the stink of fear betrayed her urge to run.
She murmured a little, half-asleep, and turned over. Her head fit perfectly under his chin; his hand was resting at the small of her back and he fought the urge to pull her flush against him. His thoughts grew slow and drowsy, intoxicated by her nearness.
Why had she pressed against him only to run away? When she reached for him in the darkness…
"Vincent?" she murmured.
"Hmm?"
"'m sorry."
"What for?"
"…shouldn't have pushed you away like that. You didn't know…"
"Know?"
"…just didn't want to pretend again." One hand crept up and tangled in his shirt. "Cloud didn't see me. I didn't want…"
"I can't. Not again. I'm sorry," she'd said, walking away with tears in her eyes and he'd cursed himself for a fool, thinking it had to be him, and ignoring what she actually said…
"…didn't want to lie to you," she said finally. He lay in silence for a moment, sure she could feel his heart thudding in his chest.
Not again, she'd said.
"…Vincent?" Her voice was small and sad; he pressed a chaste kiss against her forehead.
"It's alright. Go to sleep."
She snuggled into the pillow, like a child, and soon he felt and heard her breathing deepen and even. He did not sleep that night: shocked into a watchful patience, he twined his fingers in her hair and thought, long and hard, until he found a solution.
