Flirting with Death, Chapter 17:
Imperfect
By Darknightdestiny
(A/N): I know this chapter is shorter than most of my usual ones, but this is where I wanted to cut it off until the next one…which I should be faster in updating. I apologize for leaving everyone hanging for so long…I had very bad writer's block, but talking to Rene helped me sort things out, and now I have it all ordered and set. Major thanks to her*. Drop me a review to let me know if you're still reading and haven't given up on me. I'll have one more one-shot aside from my Oct. 13th post, and then it will be back to my multi-chaptered stories until they are finished, unless I get another must-write idea. Which I might; my mind wanders. I consider this to be the reflection after the first major turning point in the story, and also the lead-in to the rest of the story, so I apologize if there's no action.
Vincent's back slid across the wood, his body sinking to the floor in despair. He lay slumped across the floor, one knee up and the other leg cast haphazardly out before him. His head was thrown back, supported by the door behind him, and his eyes were fixated on the ceiling, his mind wandering frantically.
Soon enough, his frantic wanderings sunk into a slow mix of depressed musings. His heart rate began to slow back to what it had been before she had entered his line of vision. At that moment he had lost himself completely inside, but retained his hold on his physical functions; his adrenaline had surged and it was fight or flight, but somehow he had kept a hold on himself.
He was relieved he had not crushed her then and there when he'd reached for her face, wanting to keep her calm. It hadn't worked as he'd hoped, however.
He issued his shivering breaths into the air, his chest spasmodically rising up and down, the way one's chest does after having a crying fit; his own predicament was from a suppressed panic. He'd been so careful, not wanting to find out what would happen if one of them had seen.
He'd been so ashamed, felt himself to be unworthy of her presence in that moment. He'd told himself he would never let anyone see him in that position ever again. The scars, a reminder of what had been done to him, of what he had become, had shamed him enough by announcing his faults every time his eyes grazed their presence. But now he had a new reason for hating his body.
It wasn't the scars themselves, but what they stood for. If it had been any other cause- an accident perhaps, or the results from a heated battle- he wouldn't have been so secretive and on edge about his appearance. But even though many other men would wear their scars proudly, as a sign of their courage and their trials overcome, he would never wear his proudly. They served to remind him of his sins and he was ashamed. No man could ever be proud of being an experiment, something that had been toyed with, leant to be the satisfaction of a sadist's wishes.
And Tifa had been the one to see them. She, sweet and innocent Tifa, was the first person, other than his tormenter and his keepers, to see his true self in its entirety ever since his awakening. Almost.
Maybe one day she would find out, or perhaps he would tell her, if only to ease her own mind. She had no idea of what his past was like, the details of his torment. But he would never tell her the substance of his fears, the height of his humiliation. He would never tell her of the viciousness with which he was treated.
The scars were only from the first of many tortures. Since then, other experiments had left him with the ability to heal himself quickly, something that Hojo had used to his advantage. The madman no longer had to fear the possibility of losing his specimen's life or stability, and so this became nothing more than an excuse to butcher him further. The true tortures would never show on his body, hidden by his own new skin, healed within a matter of moments since their commencement.
He would never tell her of the repeated incisions, the butchering, the sick enjoyment his tormentor received from his anguish, seeing his rival become nothing more than his precious new pincushion. He would never tell her of the satisfaction the twisted professor felt when mutilating him, taking his arm away. Sometimes when the cruel man had gotten bored or angry, he would take to cutting his 'new experiment' for release, like a child peels paint off a wall or pounds on a pillow. Science was merely his hobby; like a model plane or a carburetor, he would find his own glee in taking things apart and putting them back together.
Vincent let his human hand trail over his scars, tracing the raised lines with his fingers as he was seized by another vivid flashback.
He saw no need to pass the substance of his dark dreams on to another, especially one he admired so much for her strength and good nature. There would be no tainting of her spirit, not if he could help it. He reasoned he would be no better than Hojo if he were to break her and give her his own nightmares. He felt his eyes grow wet, and pushed back his emotions.
He was at a loss for what to do about his current situation. He felt something stir inside himself when he remembered the way her face had looked when she had seen him. Was she…horrified? He had expected that, but looking back, he thought he had seen some pity in her eyes as well. He hadn't ever wanted anybody's pity, only to be left to his misery and undisturbed. They were supposed to be leaving for Midgar the morning after next, and he was going to have to address the situation some time before then.
He preferred pity over horror, but only because he didn't want to push her away. Tifa needed someone to be there for her, to help her through whatever personal crisis she was going through, and he was the only one who had nothing better to do. But she obviously didn't want anything to do with him, because she'd run away from him. He had probably scared her, frightened her to death when he ran at her. Vincent had no idea what he was going to do next.
Vincent brought his hand to his forehead, and lowered his neck, resting his head in his now relaxed grip. This was one of those times when he wished he could just simply disappear, or take back his existence. If he hadn't been so bent in his own pity, hadn't been content to stare at the back of a mirror from across the room, hadn't felt the need to banish it from his sight, he wouldn't have made the mistake of leaving the door unguarded. He'd been so lost in thought, he hadn't even bothered to check again, something he had done ever since he had become an assassin.
He lifted his head back up again, leaned it back on the door. His hand fell from his face, back down to his chest, and as it did, it brushed his mouth and his senses were assaulted.
Salt.
Tifa lay on her bed, her sobs growing softer. She had been laying there for what seemed to have been half a day but was in reality only an hour and a half. She couldn't help thinking about all that had happened, even though she had tried her hardest to push it away from her mind. He had given her this look…a look of pure anguish- and not the physical kind-, something she had never seen coming from Vincent. She wondered to herself if he had ever given that look before and she just hadn't realized it because of his cloak.
She started to cry harder again when she remembered what he had looked like. If she were to imagine what Vincent's face must look like before he transformed, she would have thought up an image just like that. Pain, desperation, helplessness. He just seemed so lost.
She'd never seen him give that look before; she'd never had the courage to watch him transform, never even knew if he revealed his face when he took on the form of another being. He would always come out of the fray looking beaten and in tatters, but his cloak was always intact. He'd probably cast it off when he would realize what was happening, she realized now it was only so he would be sure to have something to cover up his scars, should his shirt no longer do the job. But she imagined that was what his face looked like; that must have been how he felt…
Inhuman.
She knew that he had held himself in low regards, didn't think himself worthy of other's company, but she knew he had come with her for her own sake. She couldn't understand why something so small would cause him so much grief, but then again, she didn't know anything of how it came to be, other than who caused it. That's why she had run; she didn't know how to handle herself, didn't know what to say. What could she say? She knew nothing about it. And she figured he would want to be alone. As it stood, one of them would now have to make the first move, and she was sure Vincent wasn't going to be the one.
What could she possibly say to make everything be alright again?
Would anything ever be alright for him?
She would at least try to restore things to the way they were when they'd walked into the inn…even if things hadn't been all that perfect before.
She'd been so embarrassed; he'd had her on edge ever since she'd brought him up from Nibelheim, but she wasn't ready to let him stay there and rot. He'd had her even more on edge since she'd found his old picture, and he hadn't even known about it…right? He just made her nervous for some reason, and he'd always made her feel inferior without even trying. She'd been making such a big deal to herself about all the small and senseless things she'd done since he'd joined her in her travels, just because being around him made her feel like she had to do every trivial thing just perfectly.
So maybe nearly crashing a plane wasn't exactly a small thing. But he'd been there for her, and helped her through it, even tried to comfort her in her panicked state.
And she'd messed up again, only this time, it was in a big way. And this time, she knew it would be up to her to fix it…and she was at a complete loss for how to do it.
Nevertheless, she slid from her bed and wiped the wetness from her eyes, glancing at the mirror to make sure she wasn't too much of a wreck. She sighed at the redness she found there, and caught her breath a couple of times. Then, she got ready to leave.
Vincent's head shot up at the soft knocking at his door. He pushed himself away from the wall and grabbed his shirt off the bed; he had been sitting on the floor for almost two hours and had not moved from his spot, nor donned the apparel he'd laid out for himself. Now that he was up, he was beginning to feel a cramp in his back and the bed looked quite inviting. He thought about just ignoring the sound and falling down on the soft mattress, to let himself fall into the world of darkness. It was almost as good as disappearing, but just not quite as complete.
"Vincent?" came a hushed voice outside the door. Tifa had come to see him.
He couldn't fathom at the moment, what could have brought her there to talk to him after what had happened earlier. He was sure she would be too frightened to talk to him; everyone else always seemed to be frightened of him, just because of the aura that he tended to give off. He wanted her to know that he wasn't mad at her, but he just didn't have the heart to start that conversation when he knew very well that it might not end for a while, not to mention the potential it had for creating awkwardness.
"…Yes?" he replied, a minute or two later, not even sure if she was going to walk away any second. But he felt her presence beyond the doorway the entire time.
"Vincent…may I come in?"
He stayed silent for a bit more, not yet willing to give up his own comfort for the sake of her own need to comfort him, just so she could make herself feel better about it. Besides, he had decided he was going to break her of that dependency once and for all, not stripping away her kindness in the process, of course.
"I am tired," came the reply, and indeed it did sound weary to Tifa, who stood just outside the doorway, listening intently at the wood and hearing the soft rustle of fabric as he pulled back the sheets on his bed.
"Oh." Tifa felt a bit rejected. "Uh…I just wanted you to know, Vincent, that I-I…"
"…There is no need for that," came the muffled reply from inside the room.
"But I-"
"No." His voice was deep and sleepy, and she would have felt guilty for continuing to insist.
"Alright…I will talk to you later?"
Vincent wanted to avoid the situation, but he knew she would have to put her own conscience to rest, and he couldn't deny her that, because he knew what a guilty conscience could do to a person, even if it was only over an intrusion.
"Yes," he finally replied. There was no answer. He waited for a few minutes. "…Tifa?"
"…Yes?" Still there.
"I will come to your room tomorrow morning." He just wanted to be alone for a while longer.
"…Okay," she whispered, and he heard her hand slide across the wood as she left his door.
What had she come for? Was she wanting an explanation, or was she going to apologize? Why should she? She was going to say something, but he hadn't wanted to get into the details just yet. Vincent lay back on the bed and shut his eyes.
*By the way, she just got back into writing, and she's up on here now, so check her out: seasonofthepumpkin. She's got one fic posted, and it's great. There's another one coming, much longer, and I'm excited to see what everyone thinks of it. Personally, I think it's one of the best I've ever read, so you must watch for it.
