Destination: Feeling Reality
by: thelittletree
(Thanks, again, for reviews! This chapter came out just the way I wanted it, and it's making me want to go back and fix up the parts in the first three that didn't come out right... But people reviewed them anyway! Thanks for the encouragement!)
(Oh, and PS/ Sorry if these chaps are a little short. It makes it easier to write in my free time when I know I'm not trying to build a mountain.)
"It's not true that life is one damn thing after another; it is one damn thing over and over." -- Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892 - 1950)
"So, there we are. Shera's having her friggin' baby in the hallway, everyone's running around because of that fire, people are friggin' coming in off the street to see what's going on. And then, finally, someone scoops her up in a wheelchair and we get in this elevator. Now, by this time Shera's squeezing my hand fit to break it and I'm just trying not to cuss out the nurse, who looks like she could probably cuss me out right back. I knew it wasn't her fault, but I was pissed. I mean, forty-five minutes just friggin' waiting. She was in labour for fuck's sake."
Cid glanced up suddenly and Vincent automatically met his eyes, wondering at the abrupt pause. The pilot stared back at him for a moment before his mouth softened into a small smirk and he leaned back in his chair. "God, she's got me. Can't even swear properly anymore. I do it at home and get the 'Jeremy doesn't need to learn that language' speech."
Vincent allowed an answering smirk and looked back to his cards. The game was slow and he found himself grateful for the beer at his elbow and the cigarette in his fingers. Not exactly impatient to get on with it, but feeling the stirrings of his memory as it tried to reanimate those hours of poker and tobacco and alcohol.
Not just the hours, he amended to himself. The company. Sometimes it was safe to think about her. And sometimes it wasn't. He wasn't sure what tonight was, but he certainly didn't want to find out in front of Cid.
Cid stretched an arm and gave a long, comfortable yawn before scratching at his chin. "My bet?"
Vincent swallowed a mouthful of beer and put the bottle back on the table. "Yes."
"You like that stuff?"
He hadn't really thought about it. "It's fine."
"Okay. Because I've got some other stuff in the fridge." He gave a quiet laugh and adjusted himself so that he could lean on the table. "These cheap places never supply the right kind of drinks, so I have to bring some of my own. Pisses Shera off, but she knows I get cranky if I can't have my beer."
The little sacrifices, Vincent thought to himself. And it was strange to think he had joined a particular bracket of men -- those who were in long-term relationships. Like any other man, facing time-honoured joys and problems. Though he knew it was all but impossible for him to simply jump into the role, into the social ideal of 'significant other' or 'proud father-to-be'. Into constructed familiarity of the conversation.
"What was your bet?"
"Four."
"Frig. We're getting up there, aren't we?" A grin.
It took Vincent a moment to recognize that Cid was being sarcastic. He shrugged a little and suddenly wondered why he and Tifa didn't play so often now. Maybe because it wasn't an excuse to see each other anymore. "We can raise the stakes."
"Um, no." Cid's grin faded a little as he reached for the cigarette he'd momentarily abandoned in the niche of an ashtray. He leaned back again and took a quick drag. "In case you haven't noticed, you're the one who's winning."
He had, in fact, noticed.
Cid picked up four pieces of gil and tossed them into the pot with what was probably an insolent ease when he was leading the game. "I should probably give it up, but I'm gonna call your bluff. Fuck, people like you shouldn't play poker. Make the rest of us look like fucking amateurs." He dropped his cards and took another pull of his cigarette, showing some practiced nonchalance.
Vincent put his own cards on the table and let his flush of diamonds speak for itself.
"Fuck!" Cid sat up and crammed the spent butt into the ashtray. "Four fucking games!" He began to gather up the cards with one hand as he fumbled for another cigarette. "Okay, one more, and then I'm done."
How many times had Lily said that at the beginning of the evening? Never told her, but sometimes he'd let her win, just to keep her playing.
Cid dealt quickly as if a moment wasted might squander his waning luck. And then he shook his beer bottle and finished of the last of it with a gulp. As he stood up, turning toward the little fridge his room afforded, he asked, "You ready for another one?"
"Not yet."
"Well, I'm giving you one anyway."
So much for not drinking, he thought to himself. Not that Tifa would really care. But he had told her he wouldn't, because she couldn't.
Cid set the first bet at two. Vincent called and traded two cards. And, pretending to consider his hand, he gave the tiniest frown. Lily had always noticed. And never caught on. Neither would Cid, he expected. Besides, Cid probably needed the money he was so rapidly losing.
Cid seemed more confident this time and Vincent sat back to let him win.
"But, what I was saying before..." He picked up his cigarette from the ashtray where he'd left it and pulled out his matchbook. Vincent took one last drag and extinguished the butt before reaching into his own pocket. After a couple of puffs to get his started, Cid leaned over to let Vincent light up. "If I'd have known before it happened, I would have made a plan. Shera had a suitcase packed, but we didn't have a route planned to the hospital, I wasn't putting the keys on the night stand where I could get them. Just scrambling, and that was half the problem. You need a plan. Have clothes laid out, have your keys handy, that kind of stuff. It would've made it so much easier for us."
Usually so careful about the details, so uncomfortable with the idea of being at a loss (nightmares, once upon a time, of Lucrecia giving birth -- bleeding and dying, and he with no idea what to do, hatefully helpless), Vincent was surprised to have to admit to himself that he hadn't even considered making a plan. A mental block, Tifa would've teased him. He didn't want a baby, so some part of him was still in denial.
She always waited for him to contradict her. Things were so complicated sometimes, he wondered at the stupidity of love. So many times his brain had pointed out how insane this was -- he couldn't be this, he couldn't do this. It was like living two lives: one where he curled up behind her in bed, helped with the cooking, kissed her and smiled and let her convince him that this was entirely possible. And one where he lost all humanity with the suddenness of being slammed out of his body. Sometimes it felt like a decision everyday. And sometimes he was afraid he would finally decide, one way or the other, and it would be wrong. And he would take her with him into agony.
"So, have you seen Cloud yet?"
The sudden shift in conversation, into territory he wanted to avoid, pulled him back into the present. He took a few moments to finish his beer and then looked steadily at his cards, wanting to make sure he sent a clear message. "No."
"That's not going to last."
Cid had probably noticed, he thought, but if he had something he wanted to say it would probably be said. And, like Lily, he expected, the only way to get away from it was to walk away. And he seriously considered it for a moment.
Cid was studying his own cards, though, and not looking at him. Sending an equally obvious message: he didn't want to be getting involved; he didn't want to be choosing sides -- but he felt this was necessary, like his conscience might have convinced him it was his duty to keep things fair.
"All of you went through some shit, and I guess Cloud's having a hard time coming to terms with the past, or some fucked up thing. I don't know. Barret's been trying to help him, he says, but I don't know what they're doing. You probably know already, but Cloud wants to talk to Tifa." He began to toy with his gil for a moment before throwing four into the pot. "Raise you," he muttered and put the cigarette to his lips.
Vincent met the bet, curious and wary enough to wonder what this was about. The tendency to blame oneself, the tendency to dwell on things that you would change if you could, but which couldn't, or shouldn't, be changed. Vincent knew it too well, and had observed Cloud long enough to see it. When the present was hell, you lived in the past, even if it had been no more than a slightly lesser hell. And you yearned for the good moments, forgetting all of the associated bad ones.
And, inevitably, you began to want to go back.
For Cloud, Tifa was a part of that past. And, even if he trusted Tifa completely, she still had the commendable, damning hunger to make things better. And he was afraid. She had loved Cloud, once. Maybe time would convince her that she wanted someone who could give her children, who would die when she did. Maybe she would decide it was what was best for her, the way he had almost decided to leave.
And he was selfish, and afraid of more pain.
"He seems to think it'll help him move on, or something. I don't know. The kid's been fucked up and I don't envy him, but I still think..." He took a breath and picked up his beer. "Doesn't matter what I think, because I'm staying out of it. And I'm not assuming I know anything. But I think he's just going to end up making things worse." He took a long drink.
Vincent made an unprecedented raise of six. Cid didn't fail to notice.
"Now, I'll shut up about it so we can play. But I never had anything against you and Tifa. We all had our own business, we've all had to deal with our lives afterward. That some of you managed to hold onto some good things is a goddamn miracle, if you ask me. I wouldn't go fucking with it."
He met the ten gil and sat up a little. "And since you're trying so hard to change the subject, you got your wish. Let me see your hand."
Vincent lay his cards on the table. Cid looked at them for a second before smirking and dropping his own cards.
"Three fucking aces beat your queens."
Vincent put the cigarette into his mouth as he opened his beer. And the sense of déjà vu almost allowed him to relax into his chair.