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: Round Trip

by: thelittletree

(Well, this isn't the last chapter. One more, I'm pretty sure. I just keep finding myself writing scenes that weren't originally in the plan. Whoops! Oh well. I blame my coffee addiction. Plus...hee hee...my boyfriend proposed on Monday. Ah, let it spill out, Mary!)

'One isn't necessarily born with courage, but one is born with potential. Without courage, we cannot practice any other virtue with consistency. We can't be kind, true, merciful, generous, or honest.' -- Maya Angelou

"Vincent."

"Mm."

He'd arrived earlier, looking serious and moody, radiating an almost unprecedented aura of impatience as he'd stopped at the end of the bed and briskly gone about unrolling a pair of socks. And then, when he'd made certain that her feet would be comfortable for the trip outside, he'd unfolded the wheelchair from the corner and helped her wordlessly out of bed before guiding her into it.

Now she sat in a housecoat, sleepy but accepting the necessity of an early departure, wondering as she watched him tuck the hem of her robe meticulously around her legs what might've gotten to him since they'd last talked the previous evening. Cloud? An argument with Cid? Some delay?

And, though she was almost sure it wouldn't do any good, she asked anyway. "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

Not looking at her as he stood and reached into his pocket for a brush. Thoughtfully remembering, she realized, that she wouldn't want to look like a rat's nest in public.

And, as he glanced around the room, just in case there might be something of hers on the bed or night table, Tifa saw the quick twitch of his fingers. Knew suddenly that he was missing his cigarettes, and not sure for a moment if she should feel more sympathy for him or for herself. It was going to be a rough couple of weeks.

She raised the brush in her hand to start a down stroke below the bandages and hissed as her side twinged, mercilessly reminding her of the broken rib she'd almost forgotten she had.

Vincent was immediately attentive. "Are you all right?"

She grimaced a little, more at the thought of the slow recuperation that wasn't going to allow her to brush her hair -- or wash it, or tie it back -- than from the pain. Reaching to a top shelf, lifting anything moderately heavy -- like a baby who was soon going to want to be nursed. She was going to need help with a lot of things, she thought in brief annoyance. Yes indeed, it was going to be a rough couple of weeks.

"My rib," she explained, tempted to start complaining but biting back the words at the last second. Vincent wasn't going to hear it with much compassion right now, she had a feeling. So she simply held the brush out to him, smiling an apologetic entreaty and hoping he was willing to stand for some of her 'silliness'.

He almost seemed surprised for a moment, and maybe it wasn't so strange considering how forcefully she'd persuaded him during the last few months that she could still do everything she'd been able to do before. Then, seeming to realize she was in earnest, he gave an uncharacteristically restless sigh.

And she lowered her arm, resigning herself. Of course it didn't really matter if her hair was brushed, not as much as, say, leaving North Corel before things had the chance to become worse. In fact, it probably wouldn't matter if she went out in a pink wig and garter belts -- in a small town like this there might not be anyone out at seven o'clock anyway.

"Nevermind," she told him, running her palm over the bristles. "Here, put it back in your pocket."

For a moment he made no move to take the brush from her, his face schooled back into a near-inexpressiveness that Tifa read as meaning he was more than ready to step beyond this and get onto other matters, detouring all until they had the time, and he the patience, to discuss things. However, when he did reach for the brush, instead of putting it back into his pocket he moved around behind her with obvious intention.

And, halfway between exasperated and self-consciously grateful, Tifa turned in the chair and willed him to meet his eyes.

"Vincent, don't worry about it. It doesn't matter. Let's just go."

But Vincent simply put his fingers to her chin, gently urging her to face forward. A moment later, he'd picked up a length of her hair and begun to carefully work the tangles out.

And Tifa, realizing he'd made up his mind and to attempt to change it again was to invite a pointless argument, simply let him. He was trying, she knew. Without his cigarettes, weathering the cravings, and not in any kind of good mood -- but they'd come through worse things than bad days together, and it wasn't so hard to show that little bit of consideration that sometimes made all the difference.

And a part of her felt some weary appreciation for his sacrifice, willing to pull back a little in order to avoid contention that was especially unnecessary after the last few days. Allowed herself to relax, trusting Vincent to be careful around her head injury almost more than she would've trusted herself. And, after a few moments of silence, opened up the first tentative vein of communication.

"Is Cid waiting for us outside town?"

"One of his crew is," Vincent replied quietly, his voice expertly lacking any detectable hint of lingering impatience. "Cid is waiting at the entrance."

"Of the hospital?"

"Yes."

And she smiled a little, hoping to diffuse the atmosphere. "Was he smoking?"

The brush stopped in mid stroke. And Tifa waited for the inevitable rejoinder, belatedly wondering whether it might've been too soon. Startled into a laugh as he brought his hand around, palm striving to cover her mouth as if to cut off anything else she had to say on that particular subject.

"Vincent!" She pushed his arm away. "Jerk."

He gave a brief, breathless chuckle and continued brushing her hair. "He was smoking. I think, for sanity's sake, I may have to take up with another habit."

The first sign of a compulsive personality, she knew, moving from one addiction to another. But she wasn't about to try and change that. "Maybe you could chew gum," she suggested helpfully. "Or do something with your hands, like knitting."

He made no reply.

"Or basket-weaving."

"Tifa.."

"Cross-stitching, maybe. You already know how to sew."

"I think," he began, his tone thick with an amused severity, "we'll have enough to occupy us."

That was certainly true, she thought. "I'm probably going to need some help for a little while, cooking and washing my hair, things like that. And taking care of Jordan."

"I know."

She wasn't sure if she had expected him to say that. Could tell he was running out of hair to untangle, finally getting down to the ends. Gently brushing it through, maybe for the simple pleasure of letting her hair fall in portioned waves from his fingers. He rarely spent time in this kind of affection and she wondered if he was wondering why.

"I think, between the two of us, we can probably manage one good pair of hands."

Yes, she thought, smiling. They certainly could. Each willing and able to contribute one good hand, and it would be enough. No matter how they might be handicapped.

Zangan had been a scrawny, awkward child; Cloud a failed experiment; Barret too hot-headed to be a really effective leader. None of them up to the tasks they had taken up, really. But it had never mattered, because they had all been ready, willing to put one good hand in. It would always be good enough.

Finished with her hair, Vincent scooped it up and lay it over one of her shoulders before moving to step around her. As he passed, Tifa lifted a hand, her right side where the rib had shattered, and took hold of two of his metal fingers. Smiled into his face when he turned to look at her, so in love with him sometimes she wasn't sure how she managed to stand it some days.

"Thank you, Vincent."

Something warmed in her at the familiar twitch of his lips. The fights were over, set to rest. He would always be there.

And then he simply inclined his head and opened the door.

By the time they reached the hospital entrance, Tifa had resigned herself to the fact that they couldn't take the wheelchair with them, and Vincent was going to be carrying her the rest of the way. In the lobby, between two sets of sliding doors, she acquiesced to slip her hands around his neck as he leaned down to gingerly slide his arms under her knees and shoulders. And though Cid grinned hugely at the picture they made as they started toward the edge of town, he didn't say anything about it. Perhaps due to the look Vincent gave him, more threat than greeting.

"So, are we ever gonna see you again?" Cid eventually asked as they walked along the deserted sidewalk.

The morning air hung about them, still with that static silence of early dawn as if everything about the day was simply waiting for them to leave before getting underway. And Tifa couldn't help but feel now as if everything had been inevitable, all happening the way it had needed to happen so that, for a moment, the last remaining grains of unease stated to settle. Willing, now, to be carried on to the next stage: motherhood, all of the bumpy, terrifying, groundbreaking ahead.

"I'm sure I could find a reason to wander through Nibelheim, ev'ry once in a while. If you've got an extra chair and maybe a deck of cards lying around." He deftly pulled a cigarette from the pack in his goggles and scrounged for a lighter, the epitome of nonchalance.

Tifa knew they still had that chair, and that deck of cards. And flowers, every year on the same day, for her tombstone. But she also knew it was almost something sacred, though if anyone could fit into the space that had been left, it was probably Cid.

And Tifa waited, listening to the way Vincent's breath changed as he considered his answer. Kept her eyes on the collar of his shirt because she didn't want to affect the choice too much. There were inevitably cracks, but she couldn't say for sure than any of them were big enough yet to allow someone new to slip completely through. It would take time, she'd known from the beginning, and she'd never said anything about it.

But she could almost swear that, though his voice was soft when he finally spoke, Vincent had known his mind about this long before Cid had ever posed the question. "If you think you can spare the gil."

Cid simply took a drag from his cigarette, like they might've been friends a long time. Like he didn't know what a step forward this was for Vincent. "Shows what you know. I've been letting you win."

And she smiled as Vincent scoffed quietly. Game, and match. Lily had always known how to knock him open.

The Highwind was visible even before they left the streets behind, making their way along a lesser used road as they headed into the outskirts, the only remnants left of North Corel's hungry, grasping past. But, before they'd past the last of the rundown, most likely abandoned houses, Vincent was slowing his pace. And Tifa glanced up, surprised, as he turned to look over his shoulder.

Cid stopped and turned, too, the smoke from his cigarette lingering around him, coils of grey breath creeping into the cracks between lazy air currents. "Aw, shit."

"What is it?" Tifa craned her neck a little, trying to get a glimpse at the road behind them. "What's wrong?"

"North Corel's goddamn welcoming committee," Cid muttered quietly. "Should've known, you can't sneeze left without finding her in your fucking armpit."

But, still, they waited. And the clouded expression on Yuffie's face as she approached, the rigid set of shoulders usually so quick and assured, told Tifa this wasn't going to be a simple chide for leaving without telling anyone.

Wide eyes darted between Cid and Vincent first, as if gauging a threat, before they settled on Tifa. "Tifa, I'm sorry I lied that time. I know I already said that, but now I really mean it." She stopped a moment as if to find the words, and glanced again at Cid and Vincent as if their gazes were getting heavier. "It just seemed so innocent, I guess I thought it really was. I didn't think there would be any problem with just getting you to talk to him." And then, almost seeming to shrink a little into herself, she glanced again at the two men before dropping her gaze and muttering glumly, "I know it wasn't any of my business. Do you guys have to stare at me like that?"

"You're fucking talking to us, where the hell do you want us to look?"

But Tifa had a feeling Yuffie hadn't come out here, followed them out here, simply to apologize. Once she might have, to assuage her own conscience and to know she was back on everyone's good side. Wait for a smile from Tifa, and then just grin her child-grin and assume everything was back to normal. But some things had changed. And, after spending enough time with Barret, who'd never seen individuals as clearly as he'd seen groups, one of those things might've been her perspective. Finally able to put herself into someone else's shoes, and feel something like sympathy.

Really had started to grow up, though there were a lot of things she had to learn. And Barret wouldn't always be the best teacher for all of them, Tifa knew, though Yuffie would have to figure that out for herself.

And so she interrupted, stepping back into the old role of mediator as easily as if no time had passed at all. "Just tell us why you came out here, Yuffie."

"Well, I went to the hospital, but they told me you'd already checked out I actually saw you by accident on my way back." And then she stopped and stared at Tifa for a moment before dropping her eyes. Atpically indecisive about something, and Tifa couldn't help wondering if this was the first time everything hadn't seemed clear to her.

"I don't blame you for trying to leave. Gawd, we must've seemed so pushy." She gave a quiet laugh and scuffed her sneaker into the dirt. "No wonder Vince seemed so mad." She glanced up at Vincent, but Tifa knew already that the younger woman wasn't going to get any compassion out of that expression. So she simply took the conversation back into her own hands.

"Yuffie, it's all right. We don't blame you. Just tell us what's wrong."

And though Yuffie nodded, Tifa could see that she could still feel the unresolved bits and was still chewing on them. Though they would have to wait for another time. "I came out here because Cloud's starting to act funny, and Barret won't talk to him. I didn't know who else he might listen to."

And Tifa felt something in her start to sink into her stomach. Of course it wasn't over. How could she have believed it was over? Cloud wasn't the type, not without hitting rock bottom first. "What do you mean he's acting funny?"

"I don't know, just funny. He…he put his materia in my hand and said he hoped I didn't have a shitty life."

Desperate, Tifa knew, and who knew what he might do to himself? She thought she did. They'd been alike enough in that respect that she couldn't fool herself into believing anything else.

And though Cid mumbled, "Not our problem," around his cigarette, Tifa thought he sounded unconvinced. They had still been a team, once upon a time, though a lot of pain and a lot of shit. Still connected by that, even if the threads were fraying with wear and time.

And Vincent looked at her, mouth a tight line. Already expecting what was going to happen, and letting her choose it.

And she pursed her lips. "I don't know if there's anything we can do, Yuffie."

"Except smack him upside the head," Cid muttered.

And maybe that was all they would be able to do. Hard enough to break him out of his self-pity and into a final understanding of how things had to be. Or at least into the first few stumbling steps toward it. Tifa glanced at Vincent and took a breath, not sure how to say what was probably the absolute last thing he wanted to hear.

But he wasn't going to make her say it. With a heavy breath that made her want to take it all back, back to the hope and agreement of a few minutes ago, he started back toward town.

Yuffie didn't say anything else as they headed along the road, prudently recognizing, Tifa thought, the suffocating necessity of silence. But Cid wasn't shy of stepping a little closer to say in a gruff murmur at Vincent's shoulder, "You realize that you're going back to do the thing you were hoping to avoid by leaving."

But Vincent didn't reply. Sometimes, when things were complicated, not black and not white, when everything seemed like the wrong choice, you had to choose anyway. Whether you would let someone drown, or if you would jump in to try and save them.

And Tifa didn't need anyone to tell her that it had nothing to do with playing the hero.