Flirting With Death, Chapter 18:
Holding Back and Letting Go
By Darknightdestiny
Drip…drip…drip…drip…
It was all that could be heard around the room, and it drummed into his skull mercilessly.
Drip…drip…drip…drip…
There were spots all around him; everywhere he looked he saw them. They were purple and blue, and pink, and they would come back stronger every time he shut his eyes and opened them again. His head was heavy and he wasn't even sure if he could lift it at all, and he had no energy left in him to do anything about it even if he could. The surface underneath him was hard, but it was no longer cold; the table was merely wet and slippery from his long struggle, as was the rest of his body. His shoulder blades slid uncomfortably against the sweaty surface as his head turned slowly from left to right, as if he could wash away the spots if he only led them out of his way of vision. The musty room air felt cool against his exposed skin, though inside he was on fire, and he could feel the legs of his pants sticking to him. He radiated his own heat throughout the area that surrounded him, as blood slowly drained from the open stump lying limply from his left shoulder.
Drip…drip…drip…rip!
In a quick flash, he felt the ripping of tendons and nerve threads, and then it was gone for a good while before it came again.
Rip…rest…rip…
Phantom pain…
It would end shortly enough, before his next shock came in the form of a cold metal, not yet warmed with his gasping breaths. He lay there, unable to move, hot and itching with a cold breath growing on his bare chest. He was soon lulled into a dull and almost peaceful pain from the inability to see clearly, his vision blocked by opaque flashes and his own long bangs that had fallen into his eyes and stuck there to his forehead. His eyes began to close, his dark lashes fluttering in time with the dripping of his own blood on the hard wood floor, each red tear bursting on impact like a bubble hitting the surface of a pool, only quicker and yet drawn out in its settling. He could feel his pulse beating in the pit of his stomach and out through the bottoms of his feet, down into the table, reverberating silently through the floor.
He was rudely awakened from his rest of vision, since the drugs injected into his brain refused to let his body sleep, by a sharp pain shooting up his left arm. This was not a phantom pain at all, for he could see the boxed shoulder of a white labcoat out of the corner of his eye as his head was turned to the right. He couldn't bring himself to turn his neck towards the source of the pain, to see what was happening, because each time he willed himself to watch, the pain would shoot up his arm again and he would wince as his face jerked as far away from the pain as it could.
It was cold again; his entire body was warm and overheated with struggle, mentally and physically, but his arm was freezing at the tip of the dismembered limb, and he felt a sharp tugging on the ragged flesh, like it was being pulled down and wrapped around the end of the bloody stump. There was a tight pinch, and the freezing feeling traveled up his arm and to his brain so quickly, it was like a cavity in his shoulder.
His temples felt like they were being skewered with an ice pick, and his teeth coursed with pain, the shock almost electric in nature, holding his head in position like the skin of a child's hand to a hot stove, unable to break free and gain back his own control. His arms offered little help in his struggle, the right being held down at the shoulder and wrist, and the left still held at the shoulder by a relentless metal band that prevented any movement, save for the constant arching of his back. His feet were held to the table, the soles against the surface of the slippery metal, chained around the ankles with the links running from his legs to the bottom of the table. He had just enough room to move them in such a way that he would brace himself against the pain.
There was more pinching, though it was almost numbed through the pain constantly drilling into his skull, as his skin was pulled down with pliers- not even a surgical implement- to fit outside of a new cold metal. A new stabbing pain took over, one that was felt through the pain in his head, but was separate from it; thick needles passed through flesh and pinned the skin to the metal, and he felt each twist as the pins were secured. He felt his socket being forced down to the table, and a loud banging echoed off the walls in the room, followed by a soft sound that momentarily reminded him of jangling keys or someone dropping a few dimes.
He heard a loud metallic banging and clapping sound as something was clasped around the end of his arm. It pinched at first, but then he couldn't feel it. He did still feel the pain in his lower arm, running up and down his fingers, though they weren't attached to his body anymore. There was a dull throb underlying the intermittent shocks of pain that came every few minutes, and his head was throbbing to the rhythm of his pulse, and there was a large, warm puddle of blood growing at his side and drenching his skin with the sick smell, mixed with a heavier scent of metal. The sticky liquid crept into his hair and down the waist of his pants as he lie there, his eyes staring past the spots, into the blinding lights overhead.
Footsteps made their way out of the room and the shutting of a heavy door was heard. He let his head hang back, his chin in the air, as he tried to adjust his eyes to the dimmer light behind him. Slowly, the spots started to fade away, and he blinked his eyes over and over again. When he'd adjusted to the light, he ignored the pulsing in his brain and the pain shooting down his legs from the struggle, long enough to look over and see what had been done to his arm.
Shocked, and moved to the point of vomiting, he let the bile run from the table and mix with the blood on the floor. His arm not only gone, but encased in a heap of metal and- he assumed- wiring, he took the chance of trying to move it. He tried giving his brain a command, but it was much too difficult to think under the circumstances. The digits did move eventually, one after the other, as he moved his phantom fingers. The sight held him in resignation, though it sickened him to no end. Never again would he touch another human being with that hand. To be taken from the world of the living, and then to be turned into something so…hideous…he wondered how far his tormenter would go.
The mix of the smells of blood, metal and vomit reached him through his state of semi-consciousness, but he couldn't move. His eyes rolled back into his head and he turned his neck to the right, resting his forehead on the almost dry metal, as best as his position would let him. The mess of liquid ran over the left side of the table, pooling further on the floor, mixing with the air in the room.
Drip…drip…drip…
Rip…rest…drip…
Unable to sleep, Vincent got up from his bed, shut the blinds and tightened the shower faucet.
Tifa wandered about the hotel, idly staring at the shop windows. She wanted to get the whole incident with Vincent that morning off of her mind, but she was unable to stop thinking about it. He didn't want to speak to her, even though he told her not to worry about it. She wondered if he'd always be uncomfortable around her after that.
It was growing dark outside, and she knew that the night wouldn't stretch on forever. Vincent would come to her room the next morning like he said he would, and she would have to look into his eyes. Maybe not...maybe he would avoid her eyes, so that he wouldn't have to remember seeing her cry. She was disappointed in herself for being so weak. She'd wanted to run over and help him somehow, make him see that it wasn't the end of the world, make him see that he was beautiful anyways. Instead, her own fear had gotten the best of her and she'd run away so that he wouldn't see her break down, unsure of what to do. There wasn't anything she could have said at that point to make the moment go away, but she felt like she should have stayed. But she'd left him alone.
The attendants began to close their shops, though a few of the gift shops had stayed open for those who wanted to grab something more before they headed off to bed. Tifa strolled down the hallways, watching the groups of friends in the lobby playing cards and talking or drinking; she saw how happy they were, and wondered if Vincent had ever been happy like that a day in his life. Part of her hoped he had, and part of her felt saddened at the thought that he'd have lost something very important if he had understood the value of human companionship. She knew Vincent wasn't heartless, but sometimes she wasn't sure if he'd ever known how to talk things out in a more intimate setting. She didn't know if that was what had caused a rift in his relationship with Lucrecia or not, but she hoped either way that he wouldn't be stuck like that forever.
After wandering around for a while more, listening to the jokes and the laughter floating around the room, she drifted even further away from the area heated by the fireplace to look out the window. Her footsteps were soft against the wood, the floor being wet from the melted snow that had been brought in on the bottoms of countless boots. She stopped when she reached the chilly pane, and watched as small, white balls of icy fluff fell from the sky. The white looked surreal against the darkening sky, still light enough to see the blurring of colors around the edges of the soft flakes. Tifa had always loved watching the snow fall when winter came to Nibelheim. It was one of the few memories she could carry with her that she wouldn't regret having in some way or form.
The lights in the lobby dimmed, and a few candles were lit around the walls before the electric lights were completely turned down. Tifa huddled down into her hooded sweatshirt, absorbing all the heat she could. Soon she began to feel the effects of the cooler air that was still nearest the floor; she wiggled her toes within her boots and found that her socks had somehow grown wet, or at least seemed that way, even though she hadn't gone outside that day. She looked to the top of the staircase and decided it was time to go back to bed.
She didn't think she'd be able to sleep, not after that morning. She hadn't slept the whole time she'd been crying earlier, and each time she thought about it, she had to fight to keep the tears away. She couldn't help herself; it was hard to not think about it. She knew that as soon as her head hit the pillow, she would lose control again. How was she ever going to handle the next morning?
As she was on her way up to her room, she passed the bar, which was still open. She looked inside and saw a few drifters and lagging guests, and after a short deliberation, she decided it was best not to join them. She needed real sleep, something that came natural to her. She had to think clearly about how to handle the situation, and she didn't want to make things harder on herself when the time came to remain calm, even though all she wanted to do was run over and hug him tightly, as if that would take everything back. She knew he probably wouldn't appreciate that contact coming from her, especially since the main barrier she'd inadvertently broken was the one he'd held over his body.
...But what else could she do? Tifa thought about this as she slipped underneath her covers and laid her head back against the pillow. She had always been used to communicating her thoughts through speech or action, the first being rare with Vincent, and the second being ever so subtle. The last thing she wanted was to be overbearing to him, and she certainly didn't want to be the one to drive him away, especially if it would mean shutting himself in the mansion for the rest of his days. Tifa sighed and closed her eyes, willing herself to get some sleep.
The next morning, Tifa was awakened by a soft knocking at her door. Her eyes shot open in surprise as she realized that her time was up. She rushed to pull her clothes back on and checked herself in the mirror, mostly to see if she was doing well enough as far as keeping her emotions in check was concerned. She edged towards the door, fearing the worst. What if he decided he was angry? What if he reminded her of the simplistic steps of being courteous? She really didn't want to be lectured by someone she'd felt so inferior to, before she'd realized exactly how vulnerable he could be.
Even worse, what if he decided he was too hurt to deal with her anymore?
Tifa stepped up to the doorknob, knowing it was a "now or never" situation. She grasped the handle and turned it, the small metal object making a dreadful sound to her ears amidst the silence in the room; she felt the noise would be the proclamation of her impending doom, whatever that fate might have been. There was a squeaking sound of metal on metal, and a creaking of wood, before the door opened slowly, guided by her trembling hand.
When she'd gathered the nerve to look up from the ground towards her morning visitor, she found herself staring up into a pair of bloodshot eyes, red disks surrounded by shallow pools of wet pink. Vincent stood there, hanging on empty air, with his black hair falling over his face. His cloak was missing, though his shirt was fastened securely, high up on his neck. He stared back at her, through loose black strands, his face solid as stone and pale as death itself.
Tifa opened her mouth to say something, though she wasn't quite sure what it was. He lowered his head and held his hand up; his mouth opened slightly, making his uncomfortable breathing easier. He didn't want to talk about it, but he was resigned to the fact that she knew, and he would just let it be. She knew that from the moment she saw him appear without his cloak, but she still wished she could offer him some sort of comfort. She didn't know how to sense out his feelings, and she could only imagine what courage it must have taken for him to go to her. She felt her eyes growing hot.
Unwilling to let him see her cry again, she rushed forward and clasped her arms around him, burying her head in his chest until she could control herself.
(A/N): I was so tempted to just lengthen the first part of this chapter, rip it out and stick it up on my wall of infamous one-shots. But...I wanted to use it for this story, so...I kept it. Yay.
You'll notice that because of this, the fic is now rated "R". I'm not quite sure it warrants that, but I think it would be alright, as did my buddy Will...it was pretty graphic, and I think it's a good thing that I've put it into another level. I hope I don't lose a lot of readers over this. It's really not as bad as many others I've seen.
Anyways, I've been caught up in mid-term course work and moving into my own place, while my computer here doesn't upload files to FF.net, and so I have to do them all in the word processing program I have here and upload them from somewhere else. And I've got a job interview on Saturday. I'm not trying to make excuses...well, maybe I am...but I felt that I should explain my absence. I apologize for my lateness in this fic. I'd like to keep this going as much as I can, so I'll try to not put it off as much as I did. It's been about 18 days since my last update on this one...
Thanks for reading this, and I hope you enjoyed it. This should be the last of the really angsty ones for a while, so that I can concentrate on actually getting them together, and doing it realistically. Oh yes, it is far from over. You don't really think that by falling into his arms, she's going to fill him with an undeniable urge to kiss all her tears away, do you? Just...keep reading. You'll see.
~Rach
