Disclaimer: Don't own Final Fantasy VII, or Vincent, or Tifa, or any of the other Final Fantasy VII characters. Just inserting them into the machine of my imagination and watching what pops out.
Destination: Where You're Needed
by: thelittletree
(I actually wasn't sure I was going to do Vincent's reaction to the news. The next scene in my head was supposed to be in the hospital. But I just starting writing, and here it all was. You can blame my muse if it doesn't fit the rhythm of the rest of the story. Oh, and thanks for reading and for reviews! I know you all know I'm grateful by now, but thanks again anyway. It means so much to hear from people!)
(And Lance Murdock: besides saying thanks for your honest reviews -- I was trying to infer in the last chap that Yuffie's motivation was coming from Barret. Without a real father figure in the game, since she and her pop didn't get along, I thought it might be believable to have her drawn towards Barret's gruff but natural paternal-ness, the way Tifa was. Maybe it didn't work the way I wanted it to. D'oh. But, here it is, in black and white. I've probably just broken all of the rules that say the writer should stay behind the lines, unseen by the audience. Oh well. To keep you reading, it's worth it!)
Halfway through his first beer, halfway done his second cigarette, just pulling the last few strings on a winning hand -- Vincent was finding it easier not to think. Walls that had once been just about involuntary now took some time to reconstruct. Not that he really regretted it, considering what he'd been given in return for the sacrifice. More than a memory of humanity, of love. Solid presence, an anchor, a home. A reason for a lot of things, including the desire to stay a part of society.
Tifa was probably talking to Cloud, he knew somewhere in the back of his mind. And he was doing his best to keep his word. Trusting her should have been natural by now, like breathing or falling asleep beside her. But it wasn't, and he'd decided somewhere along the way, between now and the first moment he'd realized that something still existed between Cloud and Tifa, that it was just human nature, just his own fear of history. And he would simply have to trust consciously, if not inherently.
Because he wanted to trust her. Just like he'd wanted to love her. Like breathing.
Cid seemed to have realized that he was preoccupied with something. And so, since they'd always let him brood in silence before, the pilot had started the evening off by unapologetically kicking every last old rule aside and had simply started telling stories until Vincent was hard put sometimes not to chuckle aloud.
Lily had actually unashamedly congratulated herself the first time she'd managed to burst a quick, grudging laugh out of him. She'd known he was under there, with less evidence than Cid had now. Wormed her stubborn way into his heart, and put the first irreparable crack in his defenses. Paved the way for Tifa. And the rest of the world, he guessed, possibly starting at this poker table.
"And so, he's stuck holding this fucking thing, this sandwich, while Don comes to find me, 'cause no one says no to Don. Ever." Cid sat up a little and stubbed out his cigarette, chuckling under his breath a moment before dropping four gil into the pot. "And, of course, that's when I come along with the ladder. And I just look at him, holding this sandwich like it's worth more than his own life..." He began to chuckle again and then shook his head, trying to bring himself under control long enough to finish the story. "...and, not knowing why the hell he's standing there, I tell him I want him to hold the ladder for me while I climb up. And no one says no to me, either."
Vincent met the four gil and sat back, momentarily, pleasantly, surprised to realize that he was waiting for the punchline. Eventually he'd been forced to admit to himself, as much as he'd wanted to deny it, that he'd enjoyed Lily's pursuit, her curiousity, her inflexibly stubborn desire to get to know him. It had proven so much to him, in that second year.
He was human still. And, perhaps, worth something to someone.
"So now he's stuck trying to decide who it might be worse to have his ass kicked by, me or Don. And then he has this brilliant fucking idea. He'll put the sandwich in his hood, the, you know, hood on his jacket." Cid was grinning as he lit up another cigarette, muttering under his breath, "Fucking moron." And then he took a quick drag, exhaling the smoke out through his nose in a quiet laugh.
Completely caught up in his story. And Vincent, the half-forgotten audience.
And even the people he worked for, hunted for, still shied away from meeting his eyes. It was in his very aura, like blood soaked into material. Dangerous. Not completely what he seemed to be.
And Cid, who didn't seem to give a damn about that anymore. If he ever had. Who could relax in his presence. Who, like Lily, seemed somehow able to trust him without showing any of his seams. And it had seemed so reasonable once, that Lily would be the only one.
"So I'm up there on this scaffolding, painting on the last of lady luck, just filling in the picture one of the guys had drawn on, and when I'm done I step back to look at it. And of course I knock this can of blue paint over. Now he sees it coming, and this is the reason we've all got these goddamn hoods. People are always spilling finish or turpentine, or some shit like that that you don't wanna get in your eyes. So, what's he do, but pulls the hood on." He shook his head again, laughing quietly, obviously remembering the still-vivid mental image. "And the weight of the paint..." He's shaking his head, still laughing. "...fucking squashes the sandwich, all into his hair and down his face. And Don..." Laughing harder now, hardly able to finish. "...Don shows up then, and...and seeing me, asks him for his sandwich back."
Vincent knew he was smiling, knew he couldn't help it. Knew Cid was watching him.
"And so, he pulls his hood down and tries...fuck, he tries to pull the thing out of his hair. And Don's just...just fucking staring at him."
His lips were twitching, and just watching Cid try to speak despite his laughter was making it harder to keep the reaction bottled.
"So he holds out this sandwich. And Don, who might've kicked his ass at any other time for something this stupid, just starts laughing. And I'm just trying to get down the ladder without killing myself. We're both practically wetting ourselves, and this guy, he's really only a kid, starts to tear up. Poor fella thought he was in a lot of trouble, and he...he just says..." Cid's face was red now, and he was basically just trying to keep his breath. "'I didn't think this job was going to be so hard.'" And, finally finished, Cid nearly lay his head on the table, raspy laughter nearly leaving him helpless.
And Vincent gave in to the shuddering of his lungs and laughed. Quietly, and then he put a hand to his mouth. And Cid, too far gone to do much more than point at him.
"Fucking...laughing..." he managed, and Vincent closed his eyes, trying to regain some semblance of composure. Not that it really mattered, he supposed. Not anymore. But old habits died hard.
And then the door was slammed open, and Shera burst in. Pale and shaking, mascara smudged under her eyes like dark circles. And Cid was suddenly on his feet.
"Jeremy," he choked.
But Shera only shook her head, and Vincent found himself meeting her eyes. And he saw the pity, the horror, the fear. And everything hardened in him for a moment. After all, hadn't a part of him been waiting for this? A woman he loved, pregnant with another man's baby. Doomed to repeat, until he'd finally learned his lesson. Really, it wasn't a surprise.
But the walls weren't as strong now. Not strong enough to hold back everything, all of the things that were too big for his mind to wrap around at once. And he felt them roiling beneath the surface, licking at the drops that were escaping, howling for more. More, more, freedom.
"It's Tifa."
And he was crushing them back savagely, knowing on a basic, instinctual level that he couldn't let go.
"She fell down some stairs. She's bleeding. I think there might be something wrong with the baby."
His mind latched onto the words, distantly noting the important ones, but immediately inferring what hadn't been said. Not dead. And he knew he should have stayed.
"Vincent!"
An automatic response, and one too strong to be ignored.
"Vincent, we've already called an ambulance! There's nothing you can do there!" Shera sounded desperate, following him to the door and then calling after him down the hallway, "We can take you to the hospital! Wait!"
But he knew she would be looking for him, waiting for him. Crying, afraid and in pain. Strong face, but he'd seen her fragile and knew she would want his hand in hers. Wouldn't want to be alone, fearing for the baby. She was his anchor to the world. And he was her comfort, her rock, and her routine. And she would need him there.
He got to the hall a moment before they lifted her onto a stretcher. Noted the blood on the loose skirt she'd put on that morning, the red smudged pillow and blanket someone had brought for her, saw that she was unconscious. Glanced at the pale faces of the people he didn't really know, some of them looking at him now. Cloud looking at him.
And he felt angry. White-hot, blaming. Desperately struggled with the desire to give in to the emotion. Heard the voices of the others like whispers, until he could distinguish one from the other. Chaos, Galian, wanting blood and trying to fuel him into action. Into hate and revenge, and all of the mindless horrors he'd fought to balance in himself from the beginning, from the coffin. And then after Hojo's death. Fought, and finally gained victory over, for his own sanity.
And he turned away.
Followed the stretcher to the ambulance. Managed not to rip away from the hand that landed on his shoulder, holding him back.
"I'm sorry. Not unless you're family."
And the words came easily. Tifa, had she been awake, would've given him away with her look of shock.
"I'm her husband."