* * * Chapter 3 * * *

I sat alone in the pub, drinking shot after shot like they were liquid candy in a small little cup. Finally, drunk as I was, I considered it imperatively wise to weigh the pros and cons of my committing the suicide that was initiated from by Vincent's rejection. It was a few good hours since he'd said the fateful words. Nothing really came to my attention at that moment as I turned over and over the possibility of peace in death. I remembered how childish my reasons were for wanting Vincent... merely because he looked good. And because he was the only one, I knew, that was kind to me despite everything that had come between himself and I.

I dropped my head onto my arms and smiled, my mind merely wandering where it should. This story was too long to simply make my decision now.

I closed my eyes.

I remembered.

* * *

After a great careful observation, I began to realize that Vincent Valentine was a man who thrived of spontaneity. Nothing surprised him, it seemed. A mugger had tried to slit his throat for his cash, for example, while we were walking to the store. He had reacted with such poise and killer's instinct to turn around and neatly snatch the knife out of the killer's hand, and turn the knife on him.

Or the fact that, no matter what sort of questions I asked him, he seemed to regurgitate answers seemingly out of the blue with nothing less than the morose, avoiding darkness that I was familiar with. By the end of such answers, I knew more and yet even less than before I'd asked.

There was nothing I could do to spark his interest. It drove me mad, but it was incredibly magnetic that he could infuriate me so much. I could tell since I began to feel things for him that he was going to be a difficult shell to crack. Pleasant challenge, I would imagine. Boy, would I be wrong.

On the seventh day of my stay with him, I began to watch him carefully, make note of what he was doing, what he wasn't doing. He never did care much for television - the one that sat on the wall along with the video cassette player was ages old, but would probably have worked perfectly. He did, however, enjoy reading. So much, in fact, that whenever he wasn't working and I wasn't locked in his apartment, that I often found him sitting, curled up in his favorite chair with his nose in a book. Finally, I tossed aside my dislike for reading long enough to go to his bookshelf in the afternoon, and peruse his collection.

I became immediately familiar with the word "poetry", and phrases like, "The Poetry of" or "collection of writings by". Other such books, which weren't poetry, were biographies. What fiction there was, were mostly depressing books, or books about angst and love and such.

"Mr. Valentine," I murmured, stepping back from the shelf. "I believe I've fallen in love with you. But why... why are you so sad?" I reached out, and took a book from the shelf, and began to flip through it. The poems were heart-breaking, and I blinked, in a trance as I stepped backwards and collapsed into a chair.

I don't know how long I sat there and read, but I bookmarked a certain page for memorization later. Then, I heard the door, and I jumped up, ran to the shelf, and just shoved the book into whatever space was available. When I turned around, Vincent had just come out of the little hallway.

"I know I've asked you this before," I began, putting up my Asshole mode for awhile. "But what the hell is that you do everyday?"

"I go out." The man seemed tired. In particular, he also seemed troubled. I withheld any crude comments concerning his inability to inform of the events of his day. Instead I just watched him walk over to a chair and sink down into it. I set the book silently back into its place.

I stepped behind him, resting my hands very lightly on his shoulders, and began to knead, my breath hitching slightly. "You work. And too hard. Christ, don't you ever relax? Here, take your coat off."

His body tensed as I said this, but he did eventually lean forward, and free himself of the coat that he wore. He leaned back, and once again I fell with great joy to the task of massaging this lovely man. I'd never gotten this close to him before... I leaned down, and smiled, breathing in very lightly the scent of cologne, Vincent's trademark. It turned me on completely. God, he smelled so good...

"You've been going through my books," he said suddenly, and stood up. I staggered back, looking up at him - Yes, I'm a rather short guy - and he walked toward the bookshelf, taking out the book I replaced. How could he have seen the difference? I thought.

He turned, arched a brow at me. He almost smiled. "Well? Have you?"

"Y..Yeah," I replied, looking down. "Just... didn't.... well... I was wondering what k-kind of..stuff..." I was a little bit terrified, that I'd make a big mistake by reading his books, but instead he just shook his head, and smiled sadly. He placed the book on the edge of the shelf, walked over to me as I stammered; then he took my chin gently in one hand, forced my gaze upward again. "...you like to read." I was positively quaking.

He seemed as if to speak, but thought the better of it, and dropped his hand. I kept my head up, proudly, looking right at him. For some reason, my naive mind imagined that he might at any moment randomly clasp face and clamp his mouth over my own.

But he did not.

Abrubtly, the phone rang. Vincent frowned, turned, and answered it, speaking in a low confidential voice. Then he hung up, slowly, his eyes hardening as I had see them do back in the theatre, when he had taken the duty of guarding me till everyone was cleared out.

"There's been another terrorist attack," Vincent informed me. I expected him to leave immediately, but he walked toward me, and reached into his jacket in the chair, and produced a pistol. He handed it to me. "You have to come with me this time. Do you know how to use one of these?"

"..y...No... not...really."

"I'll show you how when we get there. Just take it." He picked up his jacket, and my eyes wandered to the holster near his hip, containing the gun he'd nearly used against me that night.

I was already dressed. I pulled on my own, brand new shoes, and staggered after him with the gun held limply in hand, for fear any suspicious grips might accidently set it off.

* * *

I didn't ask why I had to come with him. He only said that the attack was up top on the plate, where a certain power plant was in use. Such an amateur attack was easy for the Turks to take care of, but the company had told Vincent they wanted to bring the boy along with him to see if he was part of this untrained group, if the boy was willing to shoot any enemy of ShinRa.

Of course, I didn't know that last tidbit until later on.

As soon as we stopped, I climbed out, my heart in my throat again as I chased after Vincent's fleeting form, frantic to not let him out of my sight. This was a fairly difficult task indeed - he shot in and out of my sight like a shadow, moving with wolf-like ease, prowling with the speed and sureness of a predator eons old. Also, to make matters more difficult, there were pipes and things everywhere, and after such a semi-long drive I'd been a little stiff in the car.

The largeness of the space echoed with the sounds of gunshots, metal against metal, and I had to realize that there was fighting going on, and Vincent Valentine was dragging me into the midst of it. I didn't dare try to run away, lest this was some kind of test. If I had to kill to save my own ass... I guess that's what I had to do.

Guts wrenching, I dropped next to Vincent behind a large chunk of metal. A bullet zinged past, clipping my ear. I cried out.

"Christ! I can't do this!"

Vincent ignored my cries. Instead, he reached, grabbed my arm and took the gun from my hand and gave me a quick instruction on how to kill a man. When he'd explained twice, I took the gun again, and held it shaking in my hands. I pulled the hammer back and peered around the corner of the metal barricade.

There were about two dozen people stationed by the entrance to the plant. For the most part they were a nasty, unshaven lot who could have passed easily for pirates on the open sea. Soldiers rushed past, firing, and I ducked back again.

Vincent stood up. I cried out his name but there was nothing heard of it over the noise of battle. He disappeared from my sight in that same instant, and I turned, watching him, as other Turks suddenly appeared at his side.

This is what he does? I thought. Kill terrorists, day in, day out?

I watched him, sliding out some as I grasped the gun. Nobody payed me any attention. I was dressed like a Turk, I suppose, so they probably thought I knew what I was doing. Vincent fought like a beast, blowing the head off of one terrorist, and then turning around, jamming his elbow brutally into the face of another. It was chaos down there, and I couldn't find any one target to shoot at.

A motion above caught my eye. There was another terrorist, hanging above them from a pipe on some rope. He was dressed in black, like some sort of ninja. He looked nothing like the other terrorists below. He held something shiny in his hand--

"NO!" I took aim. And fired nearly a dozen times, my bullets straying wildly around the struggling pair. The masked attacker dodged, moving, looked for me as he grasped the shiny thing in his hand.

I ran across the catwalk, abandoning my post as I charged forward. The ninja unhooked himself from the rope, and plumeted downwards toward Vincent. I stopped long enough to lift my arm and pull the trigger just as Vincent crumbled, struggled to get this new nuisance off of his back. The attacker jerked, struck by the bullet, and dropped the knife and promptly collapsed, falling off of Vincent's back like a sack of potatoes.

After that, everything was soon under control. I found myself a nice little niche to squeeze myself into, while everyone else was busy cleaning up. There, in my solitude, I clasped the gun to my chest, and put off vomiting until I could get control of myself.