A Dream and A Memory

"'Cause I cannot stand still, I can't be this unsturdy/ this cannot be happening/ 'cause I'm waiting for tonight, then waiting for tomorrow/ and I'm somewhere in between/ what is real, or just a dream"
–Somewhere In Between, Lifehouse

He began to fall into that half–world, pushing into the foggy curtain that separated waking from sleeping, and he could hear her laughing in the distance, fading in and out, untouchable when he focused on the direction. He reached in front of him, his left hand just a hand, wrist covered by a crisp white dress shirt, the cuff rolled over the top of the suit jacket, and he was not startled by this, though he knew he should've been.

Where are you, Lucrecia? He shouted in his mind, but there no sound, only that phantom echo of her laughter, over and over again, like the question repeated to him: Where had she gone? Why had she left him…?

The fog parted, and she was there, half–turned away from him, and he closed the fingers on his hand as she turned.

Vincent, She said, hands clasped behind her back, I knew you would come. Oh, there was that soft, inviting smile as she lifted her chin, and he drew toward her as she beckoned him with those eyes, black pupils ringed by warm, liquid gold, a tipped bottle of wine at her feet, she was standing in a puddle of the dark fluid, and as he got closer he noticed her knees were shaking under her lab coat, and her smile didn't seem so genuine, her teeth gritting behind it.

I'll save you, He told her, outstretching both arms, and she inhaled a deep breath, breaking from her stance and running to him, escaping from the pool of bloodied wine, one hand lifted up toward his face, and he could almost feel it caress the sensitive skin there as he closed his arms to grasp her…

… and he was embracing nothing. She had passed through him just like her hologram in the mansion, her ghost a faint intake of air, and he was winded as he turned, finding only empty space and the drifting echo of her laughter again.

Colin began to cry.

It was a long, piercing wailing that cracked like a whip, starting quiet with a few stifled hiccups and increasing into the ear–shattering pitch it was at now, completely obliterating whatever sleep any of the three adults thought they had achieved.

Vincent stared at the living room ceiling as he listened to Cid grumble as he opened his bedroom door, padding across the hallway to console his son. Vincent turned onto his side, wincing as the aged springs of the couch dug into him where the cushions had parted, one foot sticking up off the armrest at an angle and the other fighting for room between the armrest and the edge of the couch. He was tempted to pull the blanket over his head and pretend that the baby wasn't howling like Mt. Nibel's wolves at a full moon, the noise echoing through the small house.

Echoing…

Vincent pushed himself upright, swinging his long legs off the edge, the blanket bunching in his lap. Had that been a dream, a memory? He couldn't form a clear picture in his mind, just laughter that resonated like Hojo's did in his nightmares, surrounding and blanketing him, but instead of pain and torment, this was twinged with hope and crushing melancholy. It nagged at the back of his mind, but he couldn't grasp anything other than the feeling it had been somewhere between a dream and a memory.

The light from the kitchen flooded through the archway, illuminating a slice of the living room directly across the couch and into Vincent's eyes. He narrowed them, refraining from cringing, and stood on silent feet as he heard Cid mutter, "Come on, quiet down…" Another hiccupped sob, a sniff and a choking cry. "There ya go, ya little monster…" Vincent reached the doorway as the microwave beeped, Cid standing in front of it with his back to him, bundle of blue and white perched in the crook of his elbow. Vincent let his feet shuffle a bit, alerting Cid to his presence as he crossed to the kitchen table and pulled out a chair.

Cid turned, giving Vincent a distracted glance as he glanced at the time on the microwave. He smacked the button to make the door pop open, squeezing a bit of the liquid onto his wrist to make sure it wasn't too hot before popping the bottle into Colin's mouth, ending his fussing as Cid made a cooing noise in distinctly motherly manner.

Vincent closed his eyes. Will wonders never cease? Cid's chair scratched against the linoleum floor as he pulled it out with one hand, plopping himself into it with all the grace of a muddled dragon. Cid's eyes were gleaming when Vincent looked at him again, and he glanced down at his son again before leaning into the table. "What? You gonna laugh at me 'cause I can put Tifa to shame?"

Vincent smiled at his brazen friend. "Good to know Shera's got the leash tight."

Cid broke out into a wide grin, reaching out to knock Vincent in the shoulder from across the table, bottle in hand. "Glad to see you haven't lost your sense of humor, Vince." Colin made another hitched breath, a precursor to a full–blown cry, and Cid was instantly concerned, focused on his child again, peering down at the scrunched up face and waving, tiny fists with affection. "Sorry, little guy."

Since it was near dawn, Vincent returned to the living room and turned the television to the news, making sure the volume was low. Shera undoubtedly could use the rest. Cid, on the other hand, was clinging and clattering in the kitchen, making his morning tea after putting Colin back to bed. Vincent glanced up at Cid's Venus Gospel crossed with his grandfather's dragoon lance, the Highwind family crest emblazoned on the plaque that held them together on the wall above the mantle. Vincent had known a few dragoons during his beginning days with Shin–Ra, and all of them had been bold fighters that were impossible to derail, but they moved like… muddled dragons. Vincent snorted at the comparison as Cid joined him in the living room, balancing a pot of tea precariously on a plate, two mugs and a tin full of cream in his other hand. Vincent had long ago realized that there was a small bottle of sugar in nearly every room in Cid's house; the kitchen, the living room, even his work shed had a vial of the sweet substance. Everyone thought Yuffie had the sweet tooth because of her love of gummy worms; Cid consumed just as much, hidden in his daily doses of tea.

Cid settled onto the couch next to Vincent, pouring him a mug and passing it to him. Vincent nodded his thanks as he sipped it, watching Cid add a measured dose of cream to the dark, bitter substance before dousing it with sugar. He sat back after stirring it and setting the spoon carefully on the plate that held the teapot; he gave Vincent a sidelong glance. "Shera hates the rings and spots I make on the coffee table." He gave a brief laugh. "Guess you're right 'bout the leash, huh?" He shoved a coaster down toward Vincent's side of the table.

They watched the news, covering stories of the slow rebuilding of Kalm, the discoveries made by W.R.O. forces while digging through Midgar. There was brief footage of Reeve, dressed in his "public figure" costume as he called it, the same long, dark blue coat and regal outfit underneath to match, looking somber as he spoke bolstering words to the remaining citizens of Kalm. He reassured reporters the threat had been eradicated before dodging questions of who quelled the violence like an expert, evading the media who clamored for any story involving the "Heroes of Holy". Cid snorted when he heard the nickname, and Vincent grimace inwardly. They knew they had saved the world, and all they wanted to do now was live in it; thankfully Reeve had become the public one, the only person who had enough patience to deal with the gossip and attention, keeping the spotlight and media off the others' backs. Having perfected the split–personality art of diplomatic Reeve and mischievous Cait Sith, they understood that Reeve was a master of slight–of–hand when it came to appearances.

Cid put his bare feet up on the coffee table, leaning deep into the couch. "Hear 'bout Shalua?" Vincent nodded. "Good kid. Sister, too." He glanced out the front windows, the sunlight that was beginning to sneak across the pane making his morning stubble glint white–gold against his tanned skin. "I guess they're taking her to Mideel, since that's where that doctor is." Cid flapped a hand in the air, as if to say, I don't know nothin' about that. "Give me an engine or electronics, and I'll get 'er good as new, but a human being?" Cid shrugged his shoulders. "I'll be damned if I even know where to start fixing that."

Vincent tucked one foot under his knee, bringing the mug to his lips. Humans can't be fixed, he'd wanted to say, but he doubted his own cynicism now. Cloud and Tifa had made it through their difficulties, Nanaki had found his life's mate, and even Shalua had a chance to live again. Shelke's muffled sob of joy at that discovery… I'm getting my ten years back, Vincent, can you imagine?

He remembered how Cloud had told him once about seeing Aerith and Zack leaving the church as he stood in the water, revived from the brink of death. Cloud had told him what she'd said, that everything was all right. Cloud told Vincent it was the first time it had ever crossed his mind to feel hopeful.

So maybe Nanaki was right, love and hope were intertwined, a tree that branches the more it grows, brushing against more sky and filling up more ground, mingling its leaves and roots with other plants and creatures, giving as much as it was taking, maybe just a rest in the shade, a nook for a nest, a reprieve from the rain; making a complete circle with its existence. It grounded as it freed, growing as it was given the liberty to, but it was choked to death by second–guessing and doubt and guilt like ivy whose intention is simply to reach the top branches, killing its host as it clamors up, heedless of its life–sucking destruction, leaving the once–majestic tree a withered, hollow shell of what it could have achieved.

And it came to him again, that specter of sadness, the dream that clung to him. He missed her. He was beginning to appreciate this life, this chance she had given him, and instead of mourning for his mistakes and her absence, he was seizing it. He missed her, a deep pang that once reminded him no matter how much he loved, she would always be lost, but now that yearning was lightened. He missed her, but he was going to get her back, regain the years that had vanished. He leaned his head against the back of the couch, letting the mug warm his hands and the rays of sunlight streaming through the glass warm his face, and thought that maybe, for once, he was peaceful.

As Colin began to wail again.