Author's Notes: Giving the circumstances of this chapter, I am rather proud... read and enjoy! I love Vincent and Luke... they really ought to be together..but since this is kind of angsty...I'm afraid this story will end quite soon.

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The lights in the bar are dim. They grow farther away. I guess I'm being thrown out. A sack of useless, alcohol-weighted stinky clothes. Not really. An inkling though that perhaps I may need a bath later.

I stand up. It's almost dawn right now. I walk the streets. I have no more alcohol to feed the pain in me, so I am growing number by the second. I'm not intoxicated enough to throw up. Somehow my body can take it well, despite my complaining nerves earlier.

My memories keep flowing, steadily. It's not a couple days after Vincent quite honestly molested me, the all too willing captive, on the Inn's finely crafted carpet...

* * * * *

The Inn was rather dull that night. The lamps burned away the hours, standing like bright, but bored sentinels. I watched him become restless as a cougar, pacing the room. It was difficult to read his actions lately, as he reminded me of someone different at one moment before my charming little Vincent returned. I was tolerated in bed beside him... but that wasn't all, entirely. As if sensing my need for company Vincent would creep toward me, hooking one arm around my waist and drawing me close, as if to reassure me he was there. Or maybe he was reassuring himself.

"We've been here a week. Obviously they should have found us out by now," he said for no reason, cocking his head slightly, eyes focused on the window.

"Honestly, man, if you want to leave town, we can. It's not like we have to stay here forever. Besides, I'm getting a little nervous with you pacing like a--" I bit the sentence off. My legs were folded. I sat in the large armchair beside the door, a pistol sitting beside me on the coffee stand, safety on and unloaded. "Anyway... you'd kill anyone who walked up those stairs with the intention of taking us anywhere. Or shooting us."

The Turk made a ninety-degree turn, away from the window and toward me. He always carried a gun on him. It was a wonder how he managed to keep bullets, since he'd spent most of them in recent battles. I was wondering just how I had bullets, kept in a specialized pistol clip in my pocket. It's weight was now growing familiar. Vincent insisted I start carrying a gun, too.

"Where would we go?" he said, looking irritated. "But that will have to wait. I've decided we're going to leave in about an hour."

"What?!"

"They won't expect it, since it's such a short decision. News of us may already be within the President's grasp and troops could arrive shortly. It's a mistake to have stayed so late. Leave as much as you can behind, or burn it."

Grumbling, I stood up slowly. I was barely recovered from our ordeal with the wolves. I wasn't ready to really fight more. But I figured if he was there, it would be good, safe practice in the wide wilderness. The thought of getting attacked by those dogs made my muscles twinge a little. I began packing. Small stuff. I utilized some belts I picked up at the local junk store, making sure I had enough pouches to carry the potions Vincent had paid for. It was going to be a damned long trip, from the looks of our equipment. I holstered the pistol. It was small, rather pitiful, compared to Vincent's elegant weapon.

The moment we stepped outside, I knew it was going to be a very arduous pain in the ass journey from here to Billy's Chocobo Farm, several miles through a canyon and across the plains after that. How could I tell? It was cloudy. A thick splattering drop of rain smacked me in the nose. Luckily I had somewhat of protection from the rain. Vincent didn't seem to care as he set out, long strides carrying him round-about the town entrance and along the river that snaked its way into the ocean-side mountains to our left.

By the time we were 300 yards away it was already pouring. I yanked the hood up over my face and struggled to keep up in the all enraged downpour, sloshing up to my ankles in muck and wet grass. I sneezed. I had never left Midgar before my journey with Vincent... and I'd soon find out exactly what 'allergies' meant.

Instead of encountering wolves, we encountered what Vincent identified as little grassy bastards. I didn't remember what they were called, only recalling the annoying fact that only magic truly worked against them - and magic was quite limited, even to a specialized Turk such as Vincent. He preferred his weapons at any rate. We ran from the plant creatures more than fought them.

Occasionally we came across chocobos, standing miserably in the rain with one foot tucked up against their bodies, as though loathing water and wishing to keep their feet as dry as possible. The sight wasn't short of humorous, and if they startled one by accident it squawked agitatedly and moved to a drier, less inhabited spot.

"Hey, look... it's Shinra! Look at that fat one over there... scowling. Doesn't he look like the President?" I pointed out, shivering and chuckling. Vincent did see. I almost saw a smile. Almost...

From above came the most horrible scream. It made me think: something's hungry, and it's probably seen us.

"Time for practice," Vincent said tonelessly, gun in hand, turning his eyes skyward. I followed suite, although with the rain falling so heavily into my eyes it was nigh impossible to see anything above.

But it was soon clear. The rain thankfully abated before the winged creature fell toward us, claws extended, three-foot beak clamped tight and sharp to pierce one of us through the middle. I was shooting, not letting myself freak out, refusing, as anger and instinct rose into my throat and made it silent. My shots diverted the giant bird of prey enough for me to quickly splash out of its path. The wings snapped open tightly, carrying it skimming over the wet grass before it banked upwards again, squealing angrily.

Vincent's impeccable aim followed it, not waiting but firing rapidly until the four gunshots fell into memory. The bird's carcass was pretty good. I realized, looking at it with a small nervous smile, that I considered it to be food. But Vincent's actions, his silence told me that I shouldn't be so careless. The moment I turned around, another enemy was swooping towards us. Vincent sent a bullet between its eyes, a fatal blow on the bird's part. (Alas, poor fowl, we shall eat you up later since you were such a pain!)

That seemed to be the end of them. I strode cautiously to the first dead over-sized parakeet and nudged it with my shoe. I twitched. I kicked it again, right in the neck, hearing the bones break. It made me sick... but it pleased me. "One kick for trying to kill us... and another kick because one of us is a hot guy."

"It all depends on who you're talking about," Vincent said very quietly, just behind my ear. I gasped, jumping backward and right into his chest, where both arms locked around my waist instantly. Trapped, I shook a little, knowing how far away he was from sending his chilling kisses down my neck. But he let go of me, stating, "We're almost there."

"Did... did I do alright?"

"You were wonderful, Luciel." His voice was sincere. Instant heat bloomed from north to south, filling me up. I wanted to grab him to me. Something about being praised made me want to jump for joy, or grin like an idiot. Why shouldn't I be proud?

* * * * *

That night in particular was also a favorite. Not only did it stop raining but the temperature rose as the sun went down. We camped out on a high space underneath a tree, cleared away a place for a fire pit, and roasted the large bird monster over it with zealous hunger. While Vincent cooked, I was standing in the tall grass in the failing light, my back warmed by the feeling of the fire behind me. I was going to the bathroom, and as I finished up Vincent called me over to the fire. I wanted to practice shooting, but didn't want to waste any bullets.

I sank down into the makeshift bedroll. Somehow there was only one. Was Vincent thinking things I thought him incapable of? I ran my hands through my hair, longing for a brush. I was comfortable just sitting next to him.

His dark hair was tinged reddish in the light. I stared. I reached out, touched his hair. He blushed, very faintly, his face turned down toward the sand while my fingers brushed away his hair long enough to see him smile again. I didn't ask him why he was smiling. It didn't matter what made him happy, though it burned me that I didn't know.

I reached closer, leaning against his arm. His skin was cool and smooth, like tempered silk. I wanted to touch it more. I gave him his space instead.

We roasted the giant bird the night through. When it was done, I was dumb and impatient and dug in, burning my fingers on hot grease. I cursed profusely for ten minutes until my piece had cooled and so had my burning flesh. I ate more carefully, believing the giant fowl to be the best thing ever tasted in the universe. Not that synthetic shit they fed you in Midgar, or the crap they grow up on the Plate where scientists pump the animals so full of crap you don't really know what you're eating.

"My so-called parents never took me camping. Either they were dead or something... Hell, I don't want to get into it," I started pathetically.

"Then don't."

I leaned back, my stomach burbling and churning with delight. Vincent's was less enthusiastic. I'm sure my belly was louder than his. "This is nice. I kind of like being outside... I'm sure these bugs are supposed to piss me off. But, hell, they're not. Couldn't care less, right? Did you camp much?"

"Occasionally. Forced out of my home, once. Before my... job."

"Where do we go... after this?"

"Fort Condor maybe, if they'll recieve us. If not, we'll attempt to reach Corel and bunk in with them. They're rebels; they hate Shinra almost as much you do, maybe much more."

"But... what you gonna tell them about you?" I bit my cheek, thinking about Mt. Condor. That was all the hell through the caves... but before that, the marsh with the Midgar Zolom. We needed a chocobo to outrun that thing. How was he going to convince dear ol' Bill to lend us one?

"...We'll tell them some other name. That Vincent Valentine is dead." His voice was flat, and his eyes became almost black. Something about that statement made my guts shiver. I shut my eyes against it, wondering once again where his dark smile went, how deeply buried in his conviction he was.

That Vincent Valentine is dead.