Marry Me

Vincent quietly closed the door behind them before turning to help Tifa slip out of her coat and submitting to her ritual of patting the snow out of his hair. He wouldn't wear a hat, no matter what she threatened him with, and eventually she had seemed to accept his refusal. Though she was determined to keep the snow from melting into his scalp, as if he might catch his death of cold. She had become fussy that way in the last couple of years, doggedly taking care of a man who physically had never needed much taking care of.

In growing contrast to herself, he couldn't have helped noticing. Though he never said so out loud.

She grinned up at him as she finished and batted him in the face with her snowy mit. And they only deigned to glance up out of their impromptu kiss as sudden, thumping footsteps announced the arrival of a boisterous two-year old who had probably been up for hours, waiting impatiently for everything to start.

"G'ampa!"

Tifa smiled and knocked him teasingly with her elbow before picking up the bag of gifts they had brought. "Good morning, Connie. What do I have here?"

Connie, disheveled green sleeper bunched and twisted and falling off one shoulder, came to a sudden stop in front of her grandmother and peered at the colorfully wrapped packages. "Presents!" she identified with a squeal.

"I'm going to put them under the tree. Do you want to help me?"

She seemed uncertain for a few seconds, her young, chubby cheeks falling slack as she tried to decide between what were probably two almost equally imperative desires. And then she ran abruptly to her grandfather and grabbed onto his pant leg, face almost hidden behind sleep-muted curls as if she was afraid she might have chosen wrongly.

Tifa laughed as she straightened up, happily defeated. "I guess Grandpa still beats out the holidays."

Vincent merely smirked, not displeased with the outcome. And Tifa gave the pair of them a distinctly cheeky smile before heading into the living room. It was no secret that he had become one of Connie's favorite people. Mostly, Tifa made sure to tell him regularly, because he let her wrap him unapologetically around her little finger.

Small hands tugged at Vincent's pants. And, after glancing into those solemn blue eyes, too absorptive and deserving for anything less than all of his attention, he crouched down to address his granddaughter. "Everyone seems to think this is a special day, Connie." He plucked gently at her sleeper until it was falling back into place. "What do you think?"

She stared at him wordlessly, sucking on the thumb of her sleeper.

"I thought so, too. A lot of commotion to give us an excuse to fuss over you. Not that you'd complain, I'm sure." And not that he was really complaining, either, he knew as he hefted her into his arms. It had been a long time since Jordan had been this young, and no excuse was too minor if it allowed him another visit with this small warm bundle of unconditional love. He knew too well that this wonderful stage of childhood ended far too soon.

She lay her head on his shoulder, tired enough to be put back to bed. A special day, maybe, but two year-old excitement only lasted as long as two year-old stamina, and even presents and grandpa fell in line after needs first.

Tifa was nearly finished stacking the gifts under the tree when he stepped into the living room, the play of tiny, colorful lights on her hair drawing his attention from the rest of the impractical embellishments of the season. And, like a reflex, he began to remember the evening of Jordan's first festival.

Putting Jordan to bed and closing the door, being pulled along in the dark to stuff stockings and put the gifts in place. Watching the lights flash multicolored fire on her skin and in her hair, listening to her laugh excitedly under her breath until he was almost laughing himself, nearly knocking a lamp over in attempts to shush each other. Drawing her back to bed before she could nitpick the details and not sleeping for a long time.

There had been a lot of years, but this one was always the most vivid. Maybe because it had been the first, and she had gone to so much trouble to make it memorable. Not until years later had he realized it hadn't all been for Jordan.

She got up onto her knees as she turned to look at him with an emerging smile. And he realized belatedly that he had been smiling first.

Connie's parents were still asleep. The boneless slump of Connie herself told Vincent she was moments away from joining them. It was not quite seven. Time either to get on with the show, or to find a comfortable place on the couch. Tifa's indulgent smile was almost as much relief as she rejoined him in the living room.

Then, with one generation sleeping on his shoulder, and another curled up beside him with her head pillowed on his knee, Vincent leaned back to observe the slowly maturing morning. Content, for the moment, to let the day etch itself into his memory for the Winter Festivals he would be spending alone in years and years to come.

Breakfast was a desperately informal affair. Some much needed coffee, a plastic container of muffins Tifa had made the evening before, some fruit Farah had cut up in the fridge – creative finger food that succeeded in distracting Connie into eating when a few minutes previous had seen her absolutely against delaying presents for getting dressed. A morning of pajamas and yawns and soft conversation, void of work and errands and any reason to hurry when the house was warm and the snow was fluttering lazily against the kitchen window.

After they had eaten, Jordan borrowed a few minutes to lead his father into the den. It was bigger, he realized as his son pushed aside the curtain-in-lieu-of-a-door and ushered him into the makeshift studio. And Jordan was smiling privately as he waited for his father to finish looking around. "Most of the money I've made so far has gone right back into this room," he commented idly, as if he had been privy to Vincent's thoughts.

Open jars of paints, racks of brushes, boxes of charcoal and numbered pencils took up most of the available space. It hadn't been that long since he had been down here, Vincent recognized. Jordan had been busy. "So, you and Farah are making enough … "

Jordan's sudden warning glare effectively shut his mouth, and he almost smiled at the chiding quality of his son's expression. Once you were a parent, it changed the way you dealt with everything – money, free time, other people – maybe especially your own parents. And from the moment Farah had been positively pregnant, Jordan had put down a set of rules. They wanted to do it themselves, their way, and if they needed help they would ask for it.

And, so far, the experience had ranged from terrifying to hilarious – from the first dirty diaper to the day Connie had eaten half of the leaves off a houseplant. He and Tifa had watched as the boy who had sometimes taken perfectly good clocks apart, who had run away from home twice, who had unleashed a jar of grasshoppers into the kitchen had slowly learned how to care for a baby daughter. And Vincent had never felt so qualified to be giving advice in his life.

"Yes, Dad, we're making enough. I'm making enough. And if you try to give us a cheque again this year I'm going to tear it up and throw it in the fireplace." He glared a moment longer as if to drive the point home before turning to an easel, imposing even shunted into a corner where distractions were probably minimal. There was a sheet thrown over it, and Vincent became fairly sure of the real reason he had been brought down here. Every painting so far had been displayed to the obliging, supportive cushion of his family before it had ever been unveiled it the piranha-like critics.

"This is my most recent one." He fingered the sheet almost anxiously, and Vincent guessed the rest. His most recent, probably unprecedented, possibly stark and raw. Vincent wondered if he was about to be the first to see it out of everyone.

"I really needed to be satisfied with it," Jordan continued in a murmur. "And just so you know, I'm not planning to sell it or showcase it. It's just been there in my mind for so long I just had to, you know … " He shrugged faintly and smirked, trying to gloss over his moment of vulnerability. " … let it out, I guess."

And, as if he couldn't wait any longer, he declined anymore preamble to pull the sheet away. And Vincent was forced into the position of staring in silence, caught somewhere between shock, almost disbelief, and wanting to spare the feelings of his son. It was …

"You can say you hate it, if you want," Jordan excused him hastily, his attention focused increasingly on retying his robe. "I knew, even as I was sketching it, that you probably wouldn't understand why I might want to put it on paper. This is probably a moment you want to forget. But, I guess, to me … " He glanced up with the suggestion of a smile playing at one corner of his mouth, under the rough scratch of stubble. " … this was the day I was finally completely introduced to you."

It was him. Washed-out landscape fading into the background, trees little more than streaks of brown and black against a whitish sky. Himself unequivocally in the foreground, hunched in the snow, coat puddled in his shadow. Half-obscured by the quivering wings of Chaos.

Mid-transformation was a uncomfortable period of time, for a lot of reasons. It was a disturbing, horrifying, repulsive thing to be ripped, broken, shoved aside as a demon forced its way out, and he had been glad enough to have managed, by and large, to escape notice. So, yes, it was a little hard to imagine what Jordan had seen in those moments to make him want to immortalize them.

"You told me once that you separate your life into two parts: this part, and the part you spend with Mom and us. But I can't make the distinction like that. You can't help but have been affected by this." He shrugged again slightly and glanced at the painting, like the picture was words for him. "It's had to have made you somewhat into who you are."

A part of his mind was still struggling with the idea, but he thought for a moment that he understood. The transformation Jordan had witnessed had been like a door that had allowed him forever into his father's partially-secreted psyche. And to him, that door had been a lucky and significant chance.

He swallowed an inopportune lump in his throat. "Maybe it has."

Jordan looked at him suddenly, his eyes young and open with questions. And then, just as quickly, he quirked a corner of his mouth and his eyes were once again those of an adult. "So you don't hate it?"

Vincent thought about his answer. He hated the transformations. He hated the relief he felt after feeding them blood, hated the surge of adrenaline at the beginning of each hunt, hated the dreams the routine sometimes spawned because he tried not to think about any of it while he was home. Hated the contradiction he couldn't ever resolve in himself, hating and tolerating, distancing and remembering. Hated the way it tainted the edges of his real life.

"I don't hate what it represents," he finally replied, because it was the truth.

Jordan's smile broadened, and there was more acceptance there than Vincent could acknowledge, more than he would ever see in his own mirror. "Good enough."

Opening presents around the tree was entirely for Connie and she reveled in the attention as she jumped around the room, shouting and crawling into laps and excitedly ripping through the wrapping paper. The presents themselves were barely given a second glance: some stuffed animals, a new sleeper, a few winter outfits and some candy she wasn't allowed to have until after lunch. Eventually Vincent found himself with an armful of dozing toddler again. Not that he minded.

Jordan's gift to Farah was a necklace and a pair of earrings that convinced Vincent, if nothing else had, that their finances were definitely doing all right. Farah's gift to Jordan was a new set of brushes, some new paints, and a long smock which, she told him firmly, took away any excuse he might have for getting paint on his clothes.

For their parents, Jordan and Farah had had a family portrait done. Classically painted, it captured not only the likeness, but the energy of a young couple with a two year-old, and Jordan made sure to point out that he had decorated the frame himself. Tifa knew moments after opening it exactly where she was going to put it.

The last gift under the tree was for both Jordan and Farah. In an envelope, not a cheque like Jordan had feared, was a receipt for transportation to and accommodations in Cosmo Canyon. And, of course, an offer from his parents to babysit.

Once Jordan and Farah had finished trying in vain to give the gift back – they couldn't take it, it was too much, but, oh, wouldn't it be nice? – Farah stood and began to gather up some of the paper as Jordan collected the coffee cups. Halfway through clearing a space around the tree, however, she stopped and turned to look at her parents-in-law. "Did you open your gifts to each other?"

Tifa smiled and Vincent thought he detected something faintly, smugly pleased in her expression for a moment. "No, we don't exchange gifts anymore. Last Festival we just went out to eat and then took a scenic route home."

"That sounds nice," Farah admitted. "I suppose after awhile you don't really need anything else."

Vincent had never needed anything else. But if finding him a present to exchange on those mornings had made Tifa smile, he had been happy to accept.

They left not long after, trudging the few blocks back to their house so that Jordan and Farah could get themselves and Connie ready for a trip to Farah's parents' house for dinner. Content and quiet, Tifa was humming to herself, her arm predictably looped through his, her breath misting out amidst the floating snow.

"This was a good morning," she observed suddenly. "Everyone got what they wanted." She sighed with a hum and adjusted her hat. "Everyone but me."

Vincent was determined not to react. Somehow she had found out. And without the surprise, all that was left was the game. "What did you want that you didn't get?" he asked her mildly.

"Oh, an end to the suspense," she replied, glancing up at him with a small, self-satisfied smile. "To find out if it's really what I think it is. Unless, of course, it's for another woman, which it wouldn't be."

Vincent smirked. She had noticed that it was missing, though he had only borrowed it for a few hours from her jewelery box, to get her size. Another woman indeed. "I don't know what you're talking about," he told her simply. "And I don't know that there's anything hidden for you on the shelf you can't reach in the closet."

"Is it wrapped?"

"No."

"Is it in a box at least?"

"Of course."

She squeezed his arm suddenly, and it was a moment before she settled again. "I didn't look for it, you know." She tugged in complete innocence at one of her mits.

"Yes you did."

Her smile widened. "Is it just a present?"

"Just a present?"

She stopped walking abruptly, and all trace of their previous banter was fading from her expression when he turned to look at her. And he knew what she meant. Years after Jordan's birth, on their fifth or sixth anniversary, he had asked her if it mattered to her. And she had lied and said no. But he had never brought it up again.

"No, it isn't just a present," he admitted. "It's a…" He struggled for a title. "…a token."

A light seemed to go on in her eyes. "A symbol?"

He nodded. And then he took her hand, feeling the need for a gesture. "In every respect, except one, you're my wife. I looked into getting a certificate, but the Turks erased everything. According to society, I no longer exist, so I can't get married. But I could buy you a ring, at least, even if it's overdue by about twenty-five years."

She blinked her eyes suddenly and turned away. "It never mattered to me," she told him softly, sincerely. "You didn't have to. And, anyway, what about you? I'll be wearing a ring, but you … "

To head off further protests, he drew out a chain he had put on underneath his shirt that morning. The last part of his surprise, but it couldn't be helped. On the end, dangled a ring. "It fits this one," he explained, indicating the third finger on his right hand.

Tifa stared at the golden band for a second before finally giving a helpless laugh and lowering her face to wipe at her eyes.

"It never mattered to you," Vincent mocked quietly.

"Shut up." She shoved him firmly and then pulled him back with her arm through his as they started walking again. "It didn't matter. I knew you were going to be with me until … well, until the end." She sniffled once and swept her mit absently over her cheeks. "It didn't matter because I knew it was different for you. A ring would just be a reminder."

"I need reminders," he interrupted her firmly, and then consciously gentled his voice, surprised by his own tone. "I need things I can't ignore."

She was looking up at him steadily. "You're not going to be alone afterward."

Yes, of course. He squeezed her hand. Jordan would be a constant reminder.

"So, was that a yes?"

She glanced away, looking out into the snow, and he felt the tension begin to leave her body. "I suppose, if it means that much to you. Even though you never vacuum under the sofa."

He gave a quiet scoff. "You never rinse your dishes."

She chuckled suddenly and tightened her grip on his arm. "I think you love me anyway, Mr. Lockhart."

And he was startled into a quiet laugh as they started up the walk.