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: The Waiting Room

by: thelittletree

(Wow, three chapters in three days! Good for me! It's nice to have time off. Too bad it ends tomorrow... Thanks for reviews!)

'I guess you could say I'm a little afraid, I'm a little afraid. What if you go away? I've seen it before, I've been here before.' -- "I Can't Catch You", Sixpense None the Richer

People were swarming around him, doctors and nurses, clipboards and white coats and chopped bits of emergency lingo. She'd teased him about being claustrophobic, agoraphobic -- always avoiding crowds, the eyes and the accidental touch of strangers. The press and the noise and the chaos. And maybe she'd been right, though he'd scowled at her at the time and gone with her to the grocery store, if only to prove her wrong.

But a grocery store was a far cry from a hospital. And despite the fact that few people had even spared him a glance so far, he felt very conscious of the claw and wished he'd brought his long coat to hide it. Not that he could really imagine any of these busy people stopping to ask him about it. But somehow he could imagine being pushed along by the crowd, ushered into a room. Locked. Strapped to a table. Shamefully naked, left vulnerable to drugs and hands and tools.

The dreams didn't come so often now, but every once in a while Tifa still had to wake him before he pushed her out of bed.

The crowd eventually dwindled some, and no one had said a word to him. And after a while, his pacing led him to the mouth of a waiting room. It wasn't empty, but he made himself sit down in a chair away from the other occupants. He was sweating, he realized then. And he felt sick. In the ambulance she'd looked so pale, and there had been so much blood. Holding her limp hand, he'd kept careful track of her pulse. And he'd tried not to think much beyond the thready beat of her heart beneath his fingers. Because to jump to the conclusions his mind had been uncomfortably ready to believe would've been too much to handle without screaming, hunting, killing.

She'd accused him, too, of using the transformations as a kind of cathartic escape from problems. He'd denied it, but it was probably true. Most of his life was about escaping, he'd even admitted to himself once. It was the only way he could handle living.

He didn't notice that he'd been staring across the room until a woman walked through his line of vision and lifted a little boy into the chair next to him. She then seated herself and, still holding the child's hand, rummaged for a book in her purse. The boy might've been six, he guessed with a quick glance. Sandy blond and fidgety. And he assumed the woman hadn't noticed his left arm, because in most cases that was enough to drive people to find other seats.

The boy was staring at him, he knew even without looking. He could feel it, and strove to ignore it. Right now he wasn't in any mood to deal with children.

And this made him stop, and then jerk away from the direction of his thoughts. In the ambulance, they'd been trying to stabilize her, find out what was happening. The baby was coming, someone had said, and something was wrong.

Breach position, Tifa had told him after her most recent ultrasound, but there had still been time for it to right itself. In a week, if it hadn't, measures would've been taken.

They would have a baby (assuming everything turned out all right). A baby, after this, and he would have to be in the mood for children.

Staring at his arm, he realized. Leaning over a bit as if to catch a glimpse of the hand Vincent had draped between his knees. And as the child leaned forward, Vincent noticed the stub of the boy's right arm, gone at the elbow. And then, abruptly, the boy turned to his mother, sneakers skittering on the seat as he climbed onto his knees.

"Mom. Mom."

"Sit down, honey."

"But, Mom..."

"Sit."

"Mom, can I have one like that?"

"Sit down, Lawrence."

"Look. Look, Mom. Can I have one like that?"

She glanced over from her novel, Vincent saw, as she took her son's hand and brought it back to his side. "It's not polite to point, Lawrence."

"But can I have one?"

"No."

"But why?"

"Because you're going to get a different one."

"But I want one like that!"

"Shh."

The boy sat down again with a pout and began to kick his legs out, knocking them against the legs of his chair. And then Vincent knew the child was looking again. And then those curious eyes were traveling from his arm up to his face. And he suddenly wished he'd brought something to read.

Didn't like being observed. And, eventually, he forced himself to glance back, hoping the boy would shy from his notice.

But, instead of turning away, the boy held his gaze, eyes darting over his face in young and curious uncertainty.

Tifa had told him before, when he'd made an excuse of his appearance for his lack of social contact, that he wasn't all that different looking from everyone else. Red eyes were unusual, but not really frightening or bizarre. The claw was a little off-putting, but only because he often exuded waves of 'leave me alone, I'm having a bad day'. He was good-looking, she'd assured him. Attractive. If he just smiled a little more, talked a little more, she was sure people wouldn't be so uncomfortable.

Another second and the boy looked away, finally self-conscious and probably realizing why it was rude to stare.

And, after a momentary struggle, Vincent brought the clawed hand up until it was resting on his knee.

The boy's eyes darted back at his movement, obviously interested. And then that uncertain gaze was traveling back up to his face, as if to make sure it would be okay to look.

And it was. Vincent gave a slight nod, indicating his arm as he turned it palm up. And, with a small grin of surprised anticipation, and a squirm to get a little closer, the boy began to watch in unashamed fascination as the digits curled and uncurled at Vincent's compulsion.

"Mr. Lockhart?"

He glanced up into the doorway, recognizing the name, but not sure if they were looking for the person who had come with Tifa. A woman with a clipboard was scanning the room, a slight frown on her face.

"Is there a Mr. Lockhart in here?"

Since no one else was answering to the name, Vincent stood. The woman raised her eyebrows at him. "Tifa Lockhart's husband?"

And he realized the obvious assumption, but let it go without correcting her.

The woman beckoned him into the hallway. And he followed, trying to prepare himself for whatever news was coming. For a split second, tried to imagine life without her.

Alone. Thinking about what he might've done, should have done. Knowing...knowing he would never see her again...

Then the woman stopped and turned to him, her face terse but professionally unreadable. "I'm Doctor Waitheskin, the doctor who's been working on your wife." She held out her hand. And Vincent quashed a couple of things inside of him to shake it briefly. "We had to do a cesarean section to deliver your son," she began quietly. "He's a few weeks early, but other than that he came through without any problems. He's been taken down to the natal ward and put in an incubator."

A part of him knew he should have been taking this in with more attention, if only because Tifa would want to know when she woke up. But, in the end, it wasn't the baby who concerned him. When the doctor paused, however, he forced himself to nod in understanding, impatient for the rest.

"Now, your wife..."

He took a breath, suddenly aware of the clenched weight where his stomach usually sat.

"...is in critical condition for the time being. She lost a lot of blood due to hemorrhaging, and we had to do some surgery to remove the pieces of one of her ribs. She's also cracked the back of her skull."

He felt momentarily unsure of how to react, lost in the idea of her in surgery, her life in the hands of strangers whose lives were basically unchanged by the deaths of their patients.

"However, I don't think there's anything to really worry about. Her heartbeat's strong, and her broken rib didn't threaten any of her organs. The real danger was for your son." The doctor smiled at him quickly. "Right now, we're going to bandage up her head, and if you want to visit your son we can page you once she's been placed in a room."

He nodded, distantly aware that he could be relieved now, yet not sure he was ready to take himself off his guard. And when the doctor pointed him toward the natal ward, he simply started walking.