Flirting with Death, Chapter 22:
Recovering
By Darknightdestiny
There was a time when Vincent Valentine didn't care for the feelings of others. As a child, he spent all of his time alone in his room and never ventured to go outside. Most of the time that he was at the house, he was alone anyways. Still, he confined himself to his room and his books, ignoring all else, even if it seemed that there was nothing and no one to ignore.
The world he knew was one of work and play, the work being on the side of his parents and the play being on the side of his peers. He never spent any time with the children at school, never made any friends. He had no reason to, and even if he did feel the need for companionship, he would be much too busy to pay it any attention.
Vincent was raised to think that an individual had no value in and of himself. The true measure of someone's worth was what they were able to contribute to society. As a result, Vincent was well-read and well-versed in all forms of literature and poetry, and he was exposed to many art forms at an extremely young age.
He never cared much for science, however.
And since his parents were so busy contributing their fair share to society, he rarely saw them. He continued to spend long hours in his room, reading and writing, and learning all that he could about the world so that one day he could give as much as they did, work as hard as they did. In doing so, he would receive the satisfaction in knowing that he was educated and a high member of society, worthy of his existence, and not a waste of flesh.
Not like those who idled away their time in meaningless indulgences, trivial things that would never matter in the long run.
It is said that most all children will rebel against the ways that they are taught, at some point or another. Either that, or they will take their teacher's and mentor's views, and they will twist them into extremely grotesque versions of their own, and walk out into the world with a sense of false enlightenment. In both circumstances, what they are taught at a young age, they will remember. Whether it is for good or bad, to enforce or ridicule, they will remember the ways of those who were to be their examples.
It is very easy for those who have much to look down on those who have little, whether it is by their own fault or not. This is true in more aspects than merely the financial case. It is easy for those who consider themselves educated to look down on those who are not, and for those to whom things come easy to ridicule those who give up, until they've had to work for them as well.
It was very easy for Vincent to abandon the life he knew and take on a life that he knew would bring pride to no one in his family but himself. It was very easy to exterminate the lives of those he never had the chance to know, never realized that they might have been a doctor, or a scholar, or a teacher. It was very easy for him to dismiss the things he pretended not to know. It was no problem to bury his conscience in the recesses of his mind, where he didn't have to listen to it, didn't have to accept that by getting rid of people a corrupt government might call vile, he became vile himself.
But as long as anything he needed was taken care of, life was easy. Time was aplenty.
It is very easy for those who are educated in the field of science to sneer at those who haven't the experience. Especially if those without the experience have bested those with said experience in some way.
Vincent had a habit of calling what was done to him his "judgement". He thought of the day he was shot as the day he died, nevermind that he was not declared clinically dead, nor could he have been. It was more of a figurative death, it being the time when his life was taken from him; his life consisted of the only thing that ever made him happy for as long as he could remember. One woman.
It was the first time he had truly lived.
If before he had truly lived, he had been nothing but a mere shell, then what, he wondered, had brought his soul out of hiding? Was it love? Was someone so cruel and selfish allowed to love?
It has also been said that one of the hardest things for a man to do is to try to discover himself, because once he has found where his heart lies, he may be discontent with what he finds, and loathe himself for his own shortcomings. Vincent had started with the notion that he was a selfish being, as he felt all humans were to begin with, and then reasoned that perhaps he had only loved Lucrecia because he wanted someone to be with, to comfort him and warm his cold heart, since he failed to do so on his own. He preferred to think that he loved her and wanted to share himself with her, give her something worth having, and not the other way around. Yet when he thought about it, he could think of nothing that he could offer her in the way of comfort, depth or care.
Nevermind that his deep concentration on the topic, drive to find out, and worry over the entire thing would be proof to some that he truly did care.
Vincent also wondered if he was ever truly sorry for the life he had led. Sometimes, when a parent catches a child in an act of misbehavior, the child will say that he or she is sorry. Almost immediately after, the parent has been known to say, at times, "You're not truly sorry. You're just sorry that you got caught."
Vincent often wondered if he was only sorry that he had gotten punished, and had the one good thing in his life taken away. He wondered if he was sorry because, deep down, he thought if he willed his apology far enough skyward, that he could go back and regain what he had lost.
Nevermind that the idea that he wasn't sorry was weighing heavily on his soul. Nevermind that the thought that he had truly lost his heart was killing him inside, and would have been proof to many that he still did have a heart.
Vincent had as much time as he wanted available to him, and he spent it in this way, philosophising in circles, and coming up with nothing. Thus, he concluded he was an empty being. The truth was that he had his answer, and it was proven by his stressfulness over the subject. He cared so much about having a hopeful answer, cared so much as to have a heart, wished he could purify his soul. Thus, he had completed the circle, and refused to accept the truth, because it was too simple for him, too easy.
Vincent couldn't let go of his so-called sins, because he was unwilling to let them go. He couldn't have a fresh start, because he felt himself undeserving, felt that somehow, if he tried, it wouldn't count. This is because all of his reasoning started with the pre-conceived notion that he was selfish and evil to begin with. And why should something that cannot truly repent, something that can only feign repentance for deceitful reasons, because it wants to be set free, wants to be rid of guilt, and doesn't want to have to take responsibility, receive the forgiveness that it so desires? Indeed.
All he had was time.
"Vincent..."
Time to try and purify his soul on his own.
"Vincent..."
So that he could receive the forgiveness he wouldn't let himself have just yet...
"Vincent?"
And learn to live for an unselfish reason.
"Vincent!"
...So that he could justify his forgiveness.
"Vincent, if you don't wake up and help me now, we're both going to die!"
Vincent's eyes shot open at the sound of Tifa's panicked voice. The turbulence was jolting the plane through the sky like mad, and he idly wondered why it was that he hadn't noticed before. He lurched forward, reaching for the steering handles with his left, clawed arm, which, he noticed, Tifa was clinging to. It was only a split second before he felt the tearing sensation at his back from the quick shift of the wounds under his shirt and the caked blood that had held them together. He grabbed Tifa's right hand with his, and placed it on the controls where his left hand was. "...Hold on to this."
Tifa panicked again when his hands left the bar, but she did as he told her, and she kept it in exactly the same position he had left it in. Vincent reached around the back of her chair and used his left arm to pull himself up onto the seat, while his right arm reached over her legs and grasped the other side of the seat; he was half on and half off, but it didn't matter. Tifa moved over to make room for him, and in no time, his arms were around her back and guiding her own. She was shaking and her hands were slick, but the calmness of his voice in her ear when he told her what pedals to push and what buttons to hit was so out of place, she was forced to take the deep breaths needed to calm herself.
The Tiny Bronco's entrance was shaky; its coming from the clouds above looked more or less like it was stumbling off of the edge of one of them. Eventually, with some help from Vincent, Tifa righted the plane and they made a rough landing behind the town, near the old launch pad.
The plane had managed to catch a couple of trees as they descended, and when they were on the open field, the uneven rattling jostled the two of them in the seat considerably. Tifa watched as Vincent's hands slipped away from hers and she felt his chest make contact with her back as he fell onto her, but as the plane slowed to a stop, she knew that they were going to be alright, as far as the landing. Vincent, she didn't know about. She shifted around in her seat to check.
She turned her head to the right, to find that Vincent had his chin rested over her shoulder. "Vincent?" She reached up and around the other side of his head with her right arm, and moved some of his hair out of his eyes. As she did so, his red pools fluttered open, and his eyelids settled for being half-shut over them. "Vincent..."
"Mmm..." he breathed out, and his eyes shut once more.
"Vincent."
No answer.
"Vincent!" She turned around in her seat and caught him when he fell onto her, shaking him gently. "Vincent, stay awake, please...at least until I can start fixing you up!" His breathing became more audible, and she heard a gasp and felt a rush of air by her neck when his shoulders shifted in her grip. Tifa loosened her hands a bit and tried her best to be sensitive to his injuries as she opened the door and shifted him over near the exit. She then climbed over him and pulled him out onto the ground as she descended. She almost fell forward when she hit the ground, with the new weight in her arms, part of his own body wrapped around her side but she caught herself on one knee and one hand shot out instinctively in front of her. She hadn't even meant to jump down like that, but she had more or less fallen with the heavy man falling out of the seat. There was another rush of air as she felt his chest fall onto her other elbow at landing. She laid him out on his side in the grass, and she began to unbutton his shirt and pull away at the layers of fabric that clung to his back.
The blood had become a dark burgundy color, and had crusted itself around the twin gashes in his back where his wings had emerged the night before. She heard a soft peeling sound when she removed them, and felt tension in the threads, as they held to his back and refused to leave without some ripping. Tifa took a deep breath and tightened her hold on the fabric...
And she stopped when she felt Vincent's cold metal grip on her arm. She looked over and saw him staring up at her, his breathing shallow and accompanied with a wheezing sound coming from deep down in his chest. "...I can do that myself," he breathed, the sentence no more than a whisper.
Tifa shook her head, removing her eyes from his. "You need to have this cleaned," she returned, still not meeting his eyes. She sighed aloud. "This would work better if we can get you inside and run some water over this."
Vincent looked at her for a bit longer, but Tifa was staring at the ground to the side of him. She did notice, however, when he moved to pick up the half-removed garment she'd unbuttoned, and wrapped it about his chest protectively, but without bothering to sleeve his claw-arm back into it. Tifa caught his eye when he did this, and her expression went blank. She simply reached over and wrapped one arm around his neck, and started to pull him up, using her other arm for balance. When she'd finally managed to get him into a sitting position, she stood up and helped him the rest of the way up.
When Shera heard knocking on her door, she didn't know what to expect. She didn't know of anyone that was planning to visit the house that day, and Cid wouldn't be back from his supply run until later that night, most likely after dark. When she opened the door to find Tifa standing there, a distressed look on her face and blood on her sweater, and a very pale, very sick looking Vincent on her shoulder, she lost all capability of speech.
"T-tifa?" A pause. "Well, what h-happened?"
"May we come in?"
"Oh!" Shera moved quickly out of the way and motioned Tifa to follow her upstairs, where they laid Vincent on the bed that he had used during their previous visit. Tifa laid Death Penalty against the wall, near the head of the bed, and she draped Vincent's cloak across the chair. Shera went downstairs to get some hot water and a washcloth, then decided that it was better to being several washcloths and perhaps a couple of towels. Tifa sat on the bed next to Vincent, and she ran her hand across his forehead.
"...You're clammy." She reached down and felt his hand.
Vincent slowly pulled his hand back when he'd had enough of her touch for the moment. "...I will manage."
"I'll need you to sit up. We're going to get you cleaned off, and after that you can rest for as long as you need to."
Vincent idly ran his fingers over the bedspread and looked up at her with an innocently blank expression. "I would rather rest."
"Vincent, you know that wouldn't be the best idea."
Just then, Shera came up with the water, the linens, and some bandages. She set them down on the nightstand and produced a bottle of rubbing alcohol. "Let me know if there's anything else you need." She looked over at Tifa and Vincent, the latter seeming the least enthusiastic over the idea. "...I suppose I'll leave the two of you alone." Shera skittered out of the room, away from the awkward atmosphere that hung in the air.
Tifa looked at Vincent, and Vincent looked at Tifa. Neither of them uttered a single word. Tifa offered her hand to him, and he looked at it for a while, without making any movement towards it. Finally, he took it in his grasp and she helped him to sit up. He would have tried to sit up on his own, but after delaying it for so long with the look that he'd given her hand, he figured it would seem rude to deny it.
Tifa walked over to the basin and dipped the washcloth in the water, ringing it out until it stopped dripping. She placed it over her shoulder and sat behind Vincent on the bed. The blood in his throat had started to settle uncomfortably, and he tried to repress a cough, but it just became worse until he finally let it go. When he'd finished, Tifa reached around and started to gently pull back the fabric from his chest. It caught at the front, and she scooted forward on the bed to see what the problem was.
"Vincent."
"...Yes?"
"I'm going to need you to move your hand."
Vincent nodded his head, and Tifa continued, only to be stopped again. She huffed a small sigh of impatience and began to gently pry his fingers away from the material.
"...Vincent, you're going to have to cooperate with me if I'm going to help you." Vincent reluctantly relinquished his hold on the garment, and she pulled it back and down off of his arms, where it hung by its hold on his back. "...Hold still. This is going to hurt." She started to wipe at the cuts with the cloth, adding alcohol as she went, until the blood softened and was cleaned away, each time part of the shirt being released.
Vincent didn't utter any sound of pain. "...You know," Tifa started, "you lost a lot of blood. I'm surprised you were able to stay awake for this long." Vincent didn't answer. "I mean, most other people would be long gone by now."
"...I am not most people," Vincent intoned softly, and, Tifa thought, with a hint of sadness in his voice.
"You should count yourself lucky."
Vincent let out a bitter, quiet laugh. "Not likely."
"Vincent, I know it hurts, but it's over now. Can't you try to look on the better side of things?" Tifa knew she might be sounding insensitive, but there wasn't much else that she could say. It was something that he was going to have to come to terms with, and it was something that was going to follow him for the rest of his life.
"Other people..." he started, "would not have been in this situation to begin with." This effectively silenced Tifa. "...You should not have to do this."
Tifa breathed a shaky breath before gathering herself together, glad that Vincent had dropped at least half of the subject. "I want to."
Vincent cringed inside, and a smile, born from piteous feelings for himself and for Tifa, grew on his face. "Can you honestly say that?" he whispered. "Do not mock me, Tifa. Can you honestly say that this is how you wished to spend your evening?"
Tifa took a deep breath before continuing. "Let's just say...that I'm using this opportunity to spend some quality time with an old friend. And...if I get the chance, I'll get to understand him better, so that he knows he's not alone when he deals with his problems, however unique they may be."
Tifa gave a small smile at Vincent's back, but there was silence on the other end. She dried his cuts and finished off by covering them in the rubbing alcohol, then wrapping the bandages around his chest and back. When she had finished with that, she back up a bit on the bedspread. "Now you can rest."
Vincent turned around and laid down on his chest, his eyes closing as soon as the side of his head hit the comfort of the bed. Tifa stayed there, watching him, not knowing whether she should leave, or if she should stay in case he had some trouble with his injuries. She knew they would begin to heal on their own, because she'd seen him after his transformation a couple of times previous, though she had to admit that this had been the worst. She heard his breathing start to calm and regulate itself. On an impulse, she reached forward with one hand and moved the hair from his face, tucking it behind his ear.
Won over by the softness she'd remembered from before, she let her hand run over it a few more times. Vincent was too tired at the moment to care, though if he had been fully awake, he'd have thought to stop her immediately. Tifa sighed, letting her eyes roam over the damage he'd been dealt by the demon living deep within his skin. "Vincent..."
"Mmm."
Tifa's hand jerked back. She hadn't expected any kind of response. His name had escaped her mouth more or less because she'd been thinking aloud, voicing the only word that came to her mind when she focused her sympathies toward him. "...You're awake..."
"Mm-hmm," he breathed out, the sound more of a sigh than anything. He shifted a little on the bed, his eyes still closed. He settled down again after that, his heart still beating at a uniform pace, his shoulders rising and falling with each breath.
Rather than stop completely, giving off an even bigger sense of suspicion, she continued in her motions, though they were slower and fewer, acting as if this was a normal thing that she would do for any of her injured friends. Her hand shook a little as she moved it towards him again, and Vincent noticed this as well. He was just too tired to care. Besides...
She had a comforting touch.
