Favoured. Adj. The state of being approved or held in high regard; excessive kindness or unfair partiality; preferential treatment.
-0-
Galian had made himself known since that day, infrequently bursting forth in the midst of battle to extract them from some tight spot or another. One never really got used to it, Tifa reflected, though it didn't take long to associate his coming with a sense of relief; Galian's arrival meant a swift end to their current conflict after all, though at the expense of Vincent's temperament.
She had taken to studying him, as often as she could spare her attention. Even when she had little to give, she made sure to keep a watchful eye – or two, if she could - on him in the immediate aftermath of a transformation. He receded into himself, if it were possible to do so whilst travelling, fighting and living in close quarters with seven other people, and two cats (of sorts).
It had taken her months of careful study and nurtured conversation to develop even a foundation of understanding. On good days, they even had a little rapport, Tifa and Vincent. She'd taken to amusing herself on long hikes by inventing word games. Vincent, apparently somewhat intellectually inclined, had risen to her bait a few times, until it became a device they used to fill their time crossing country.
It all came down to nuance, she told Aeries, who did what she could to press Tifa on her attempts to circumvent Vincent's hermit-like tendencies. One thing Tifa was sure of was Vincent felt no less emotion than any of them; it was only that his magnitude of expression was sufficiently diminished that someone who did not care to notice, or paid little attention, would not recognise a shift in the gunman's countenance.
While irritated or feeling ill at ease, Vincent took to clenching his fists, an act which he did his best to mask with the tight folding of his arms. When amused, or rarer still if he smiled, the bridge of his nose would crinkle a little, and his eyes seemed to take on a new lightness. Regrettably, she was never close enough to appreciate nor study this more comprehensively, and so it became a secret mission of hers to get a full-on laugh out of him one of these days, ideally de-caped, though she would take anything at this point.
When he was sad, everything seemed to sag; As if he weighted thrice what he normally did, rendering the simplest act of lifting his eyes to meet a gaze a near-impossible feat of strength. This, she had observed more times than she cared for. It troubled her to see him defeated so in the wake of a transformation, or at times when he found himself apparently unobserved and idle; for in that idleness, the horrors and mistakes of one's past were able to catch up and overwhelm him completely.
-0-
In-keeping with Avalanche's tendency to get into trouble at every turn and in spite of only recently being liberated from the Corel prison, they came rather suddenly upon the Turks in the forest on the outskirts of Gongoga.
Reno and Rude, as they were known, made for formidable foes. Vincent sensed trepidation from Tifa for the battle ahead - most unlike her, he thought – though he rapidly assembled an understanding of her concerns through observation.
Reno, the red-headed arrogant Turk who levelled rather a few less that respectful comments Tifa's way regarding her choice of garb (not to mention certain aspects of her feminine form), favoured a modified nightstick as his choice of weapon. When delivering a blow, a sharp jolt of electricity coursed through the unfortunate soul on the receiving end. Tifa, being a hand-to-hand combatant, had suffered at the receiving end of Reno's ire a couple of times before, it seemed.
"I'll take the loudmouth," Vincent told her, raising his weapon and levelling it at the red-head. "You concentrate on the other."
"Vincent, be careful." She levels a loaded gaze at him, before hurtling into the fray.
The combat was messy and uncoordinated. Rude was tough; he had at least another thirty pounds on Tifa, so she needed to rely on speed and evasion to get the better of him, biding her time for an opening, any sign of weakness to exploit with her fists. Reno kept both Cloud and Vincent occupied; Swords conducted electricity, much to Cloud's chagrin, leaving Vincent on the periphery trying to keep the red-head off the swordsman long enough for him to land a swing. In such close quarters, flying bullets could prove fatal to the wrong party, and so he guarded each shot jealously.
He would have to make them count.
Reno, grinning devilishly and laughing like a mad man, delivered a rather meaningful swing with his nightstick, punching his thumb on the underside of the grip as he did so. Cloud parried easily, though the excess energy from the voltage booster needed to go somewhere, unfortunately for Cloud. The blond was sent flying backwards, sword still clenched tightly in his convulsing fist, only coming to rest when he collided with a large oak. He slid to the ground, lifeless, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. Unconscious.
"Cloud!" Vincent yelled, though he was unable to spare more than a backward glance to investigate the welfare of his comrade. Reno, victoriously swinging the nightstick around before him, is readying himself for more. Vincent glances toward Tifa; she is holding Rude off, but barely. He can tell she is tiring; arms braced before her, blocking incoming blows, quivering with exertion.
"It's not looking so good for you, is it Vamp?" Reno offers a mock pout, slamming the hard edge of his weapon into his gloved palm.
"I'm not worried," Vincent replies, staring down the barrel of his weapon. "It seems the Turks aren't up to much these days."
"Ah yes, Hojo did mention one of his little experiments was out and about. Tell me, is it true that he hacked you apart all because you fucked his wife?"
Vincent's grip tightens on his weapon, though his arm does not waver. Yet, he does not fire. Reno knows what he is doing. He purposefully stands between Vincent's line of fire and Tifa, knowing very well any errant shot could end up hurting or killing her.
"There's much Dr Hojo has neglected to inform you," Vincent notes coolly, taking a slow, sauntering step to the side. Reno, not to be outwitted easily, takes a step backward, closer to the fracas behind them, thus increasing the risk of collateral damage.
"Oh yeah? Do tell. I heard he cut you open neck to naval. Ain't nothing left inside of you but mechanical parts."
Vincent grinds his teeth, jaw set beneath his cowl. Reno smirks, backing closer to Tifa and Rude.
"Yo babe," Reno calls over his shoulder to Tifa. "I heard you found this guy in a coffin – is this the sort of freak Avalanche is accepting into the party now?"
This distraction means one of Rude's hits land, a vicious right hook, square on her jaw. She stumbles backward, disoriented, barely able to stand from the impact. Rude quickly moved to grip her biceps from behind, pulling her shoulder blades together tightly so she cannot move.
Reno drapes a navy-suited arm around Tifa's waist, nightstick pressed against her throat. Her lip is split from Rude's attack, an angry crimson line of blood carving down her chin, crawling along her collar bone and into the small valley of her throat, before it pours out and pulses gently down and between her breasts.
"Let her go," Vincent whispers, not lowering his aim. He can smell her blood on the air, metallic and sharp. His pupils dilate, and saliva slickens the underside of his tongue. He swallows.
Good. Let him come.
"Come on, let us have some fun. We promise we'll give her back." Reno's hand is where it shouldn't be, and Vincent is furious beyond measure.
"I won't ask you again." A vein pulses in Vincent's temple, rather painfully, as though a migraine approached.
"Rude- Have you heard this guy? We've got his lady friend against the ropes and he's making threats. I say we teach them both a lesson."
"-I can't be held responsible for what I do to you if you don't." He lets his weapon drop to the ground with a metallic thud. Hand free, he begins to unbuckle his gauntlet.
Reno turns to Rude. "Can he even hear what I'm saying?!"
Rude leans in, sunglasses glinting. "He's taking his cape off."
"What?!"
Vincent feels the familiar and unwelcome sensations that precede a transformation washing over him in waves. It is almost like being drunk at first; slightly dulled senses, the edges of awareness bleeding away until one can only consider what is before you. After a moment, the agony sets in, a boiling from within that sets tissue aflame as it forms a new shape.
Half-slumped against Reno, and still reeling, Tifa tries her best to distract the Turks from what is going on before them, in the hope that Vincent can catch them off guard. Secretly, she also wishes to distance herself from Galian's attack if she can; she has no wish to test the theory of whether he can truly recognise friend from foe in this circumstance.
Her wriggling and struggling earns her a backhanded slap from Reno across her face. She cries out as pain explodes over the already present ache, stars dancing across her vision.
A monster stands where Vincent had stood, only his cape and his discarded weapon upon the forest floor proof he had existed at all.
Reno and Rude had rather taken full notice of this, in spite of her theatrics. Well, it was do or die. She leans as far forward as she can before throwing back her head as sharply as possible, cranium meeting Rude's face with considerable impact. Reflex sends his hands flying to cover his injury and thus she is released, rather inelegantly, to fall and scramble in the dirt and out of Vincent's wake.
Hulking purple hide, roaring with deep, gravely lungs, he swings huge, powerful arms before him with enough force to level trees. Rude, with his bloodied face, and Reno, mouth agape, take a few moments to assess the situation before silently and collectively deciding that this time, the battle had not worked in their favour.
She calls out to Vincent, hoarse, desperate, thinking only of the Townsfolk and what chaos might ensue with Galian's appearance. He gives no indication that he can hear her, though it is some small victory he does not choose to give chase to the retreating navy-suited duo, who had pivoted on their heels and sprinted off along the path that meandered through the forest.
She tried to blink away the stars that dance before her, courtesy of Reno's parting gift, grit and dirt pressing painfully into the heels of her palms and bloodied knees.
Satisfied for the moment her most immediate dangers were mitigated, she scrambled toward Cloud's motionless form. The back of his head is bloodied; he'd taken quite the knock, but he was breathing, and a poke elicited a deep grunt from his chest cavity. He'd recover.
Slumping against the neighboring tree, she watches Galian draw closer, apparently all interest lost in the Turks. It's nostrils flare, scenting the air, hulking form lowered to the ground in a much less domineering stance.
"Vincent…?" She calls softly, wondering if any reaction could be induced from him in his creature form at all. He doesn't react, instead lowering his snout to the forest floor, as if hunting for something. Her eyes widen as she realises it must have scented the blood issued from both she and Cloud in the scuffle.
He draws nearer, close enough that she could feel an almost unnatural heat emanating from his loins, and notice for the first time his hide was in fact coated in dense, glossy fur of the deepest amethyst shade. Short sharp snuffling exhales ruffle the hair on the back of Cloud's head, though she cannot see clearly what he is doing, Galian's hulking form blocking her view.
"He's fine, you know. Give him a minute and he'll come to," She rests a hand on what she can reach of Galian in the hope that the gesture will be familiar to him, encouraging Vincent to return to himself once more. Curious, her fingers twitch to explore the smoothness of his coat.
With a grunt, Galian turns to consider her. In spite of feeling, rather than knowing, that the danger had well and truly passed, she cannot suppress her instinct to back away slightly, palms pressed to the dirt, spine rigid against the tree trunk at her back, boots scrabbling for purchase.
He is imposing, Impressive and yet terrifying at all once. Gleaming golden irises consider her unblinkingly, a small female, knees drawn up before her body defensively. The black claws bracing him against the forest floor sink several inches deep into the dirt with no resistance.
"Vincent?" She offers once more. She doesn't know what to do and has even less of an idea on what to expect.
The nostrils flared again, seeking out the source of a different scent. Indeed, her knees are bleeding, and her burst lip is softly oozing still, staining most of the front of her crimson; Not to mention her arm guards had torn in several places, revealing a patchwork of nicks and scratches. What with the adrenaline still pumping, her wounds barely registered. Was this was he was seeking?
At the initial warm, wet sensation across one kneecap, she screams.
"Vincent! Stop it!" She is shocked and amused simultaneously. What a ridiculous scenario to find herself in, and with him of all people...
Galian continues regardless, tending to her wounds dutifully with a velvety, cat-like tongue, a tingling sensation left behind in the wake of his ministrations. She wriggles away as best she can, a curiously pleasant thrill travelling from the back of her knees to the very pit of her abdomen. That part of her tended to, he seeks the source of the strongest scent.
"No," She breaths, a little giddy, clutching onto his horns in desperation. "You're going to need to learn to have boundaries, Mr Galian." She can hardly believe what she is saying- Mr Galian?!
"TIFA?!" Of course, Barrett would dash in at this point, guns blazing. Galian swivels around, towering onto his hind legs before her and shielding her from view, a low growl emanating from his bellow-like lungs. "TIFA, DID THAT MONSTER HURT YOU?" She knows she must look a sight, covered in blood from her split lip, and cowering on the forest floor.
"No!" She scrambles as best she can to her feet, doing her best to move around the hulking form of Vincent. "It was Rude and Reno. We got ambushed."
"What happened to Cloud?!" Barrett jerks his head toward the blond prostrate on the floor, evidently still harboring suspicion at the situation he had stumbled upon. She could hardly blame him – there weren't really many ways to interpret finding them in their current predicament.
"He was knocked out by that damned nightstick and then Vincent—"
She is interrupted by a series of grunts, part human, part Galian, and relief floods her body. Finally.
She turns to assess Vincent's condition. Upon noting that he swayed upon his unstable limbs, she lurches forward, arms extended, despite being rather poorly provisioned to support anyone in her weakened state. As a consequence, they both end up on their knees, panting, caught off guard by the rather sudden proximity.
She scans his face with curious eyes. His cape still lying forgotten several feet away, she takes the moment to absorb the countenance of a man who, moments before, had been this close in the form of an eight-foot tall beast.
The forest is bathed in golden light; the sun hangs low in the autumn skies, an hour or so from sundown. His pupils shrink to an inky pinpoint, gilded flecks expanding in a sea of scarlet and amber and glinting beautifully.
A straight, thin nose with a small bump on the bridge- evidence of a break? - And a mouth, sensitive, fuller than she might have imagined. A sharp, angular jawline, marred slightly on one side by the thin slice of an infringing scar. She longs to follow it with her fingertip.
She is violating his space, taking advantage of his exposure, breaking all of the rules. Though it seems she is not the only one.
His eyes scan her face, devouring detail. She may have imagined it, though one moment she fancied his tongue darted out to wet his lips, as if wanting to recall her taste…
"I'm sorry, are you alright?" She hurtles herself back to smothering civility, getting to her feet and dusting herself down. She maintains the litany of babble, of expressed concerns for everyone's welfare whilst simultaneously updating Barrett and the others as to the whereabouts of the Turks.
In the rush, Vincent takes a moment to drape himself in his trademark trappings – cape and gauntlet – hoping that he can fade into the background.
Cloud, it seems, has finally come to, with much grumbling and shaking of his head. He reaches back a hand to seek his injury. "Ugh, why is my hair wet?"
Tifa is inconsolable for the next five minutes, laughing so hard tears stream down her cheeks.
-0-
She finds him later, in the relative comfort of the small inn their party had taken refuge in for the night. Vincent had established himself within an armchair at the rear of the inn's cozy, firelit drawing room, hidden behind a paperback. Grinding the toe of her boot into the rug beneath her, she seems rather at war with herself over something. She tugs at his curiosity.
"Vincent, may I… May I ask you something?"
He closes his book with a soft thump. "Of course." At his invitation, she perches on the edge of a low table before him, such that she is peering upward into his face.
"Do you… do you know what is going on- when you transform I mean?"
He considered her carefully, wondering at the origins of such a question. "I have very poor recollection of what transpires when I am in Galian's state," He says, paying close attention to her reactions to his words. "I remember only flashes of what he is feeling at the time."
"Oh."
He frowns.
"Why do you ask?" She blushes profusely under his scrutiny. When she offers no answer, he presses her further. "If I have acted in a manner that is… shameful I would have you tell me. You do me no service through keeping me ignorant of how I act under his influence."
"I think you have it the wrong way around," She replies softly, leaning in a little closer. "I think he is acting under your influence."
"What was it that he did?" His mouth has gone rather dry.
Tifa peers at him demurely from beneath her eyelashes. "Well, he was ah... tending to my wounds. Or attempting to, anyway. I didn't think it was appropriate to let him fix everything, though he tried nonetheless." She points to the swollen flesh of her lip, healed over somewhat thanks to a salve, but still likely to be tender for a few days yet. At his look of confusion, she adds, "With his tongue."
Vincent has never felt so embarrassed in his life. His entire body is engulfed by a searing heat that he feels should brand him the same shade as his cloak, and he wishes for nothing more than for the earth to open up beneath him and swallow him whole. If Tifa is disgusted by him, she does not show it. Instead, she is considering him with barely contained amusement, though has the decency to look a little guilty about it.
"I…"
"It was not my intention to embarrass you," She reaches to touch his arm, and his skin smolders beneath her fingers. "Only to address certain… ah, tensions existing between us."
"Tensions?" He finds it oddly refreshing, her candour, though wishes he could take it in much smaller doses. His gaze flits across the room. Blessedly, Barrett and Cid, sat together on the other side of the drawing room, have not shown interest in listening to their conversation, or demonstrated any notice toward their being there at all.
"I think you know what I mean."
He had been there, on his knees on the forest floor, close enough to count her freckles; to marvel at the different shades of amber and gold in her eyes; to wonder what her jaw would feel like, cupped in his palm, her wounded mouth beneath the pad of his thumb. He had suffered the intrusive thought, of cleaning the blood from her flesh with his tongue, onlookers be damned.
He knew what she meant.
Seated so close to her, he can take himself back to that moment now, if he lets himself. But he doesn't. He can't. She is so young, so alive, so real.
And he…
He is so broken. Old beyond his years. He isn't even human, some of the time.
How can he tell her this?
He must repeat it to himself, to stamp out the roots of a series of impulses that leads him from this room and into her bed. His fingers twitch in anticipation of flesh.
"I don't know what you mean." He lies, adopting a coldness of tone. The illusion of intimacy she had created with the leaning of her body dissipates in an instance, and although he should celebrate that distance between them is there to keep her safe, to protect himself, he regrets its loss. "Forgive me, I am in need of rest. I should retire to my room."
He does not wait for her to acknowledge him, instead sweeping from the room, forgotten paperback clutched in a steely grip.
-0-
Hours later, when she finally deems it late enough to retire, relaxed on account of the rather large glass of wine she had enjoyed, she trudges slowly up the stairs to the sleeping quarters, fingertips trailing along the bannister, a benign hum on her lips.
The landing is dimly lit and full of turns and angles, such that she did not notice him ensconced in a chair by the corner. She cupped the beginnings of her scream in her palm. "Vincent, what are you doing?! Did you get locked out of your room?"
The gunman looks a little abashed, if she is reading him right, having stood and made a conciliatory gesture in her direction upon him startling her. "No, I… I wanted to speak with you, before I retired for the night."
"I thought you retired hours ago," She remarks dryly, hiding her smirk as she busies herself with the lock to her room. The door creaks open, and she steps half inside, arm extended in invitation. He appears to hesitate, their discussion earlier weighing in on his assessment of the risks of entering her bedroom. "We don't have to linger in hallways. I presume you do not want Yuffie, or anyone else for that matter, overhearing what you want to say."
He cannot argue with that logic it seems, for he sweeps into the room decidedly, coming to rest stood at the foot of the neatly made bed. There are two in the room- of course, she was likely to be sharing with Aeries. He does not question her absence.
"Tifa… I wanted to… I wanted to apologise." He begins, unsurely.
"Apologise?" She repeats, leaning against the closed door to consider him. She had not switched on the electric lighting in the room, though the high moon bathes them in a cold, silvery wash.
"Yes. If my actions, conscious or otherwise have given you the impression that I… that I feel something for you other than comradery… I offer you my sincerest apology. I do not wish for us to embark on a journey under false pretenses."
She falls silent, and he wishes she would say something. He had thought carefully about each word he should use and how this conversation might play out. He had not factored in silence. He had not accounted for her trying to see through him, as she clearly was now, amber eyes trained carefully on the exposed parts of his face.
He resists every urge he feels; his hands remain relaxed at his sides, though the muscles of his left twitch, as they were wont to do when he was nervous; his gaze remains trained upon her face, unwavering, though he wishes for nothing more than to look away, so searing was her scrutiny in reply; he kept both feel planted firmly, stance certain and uncompromising.
He found it both impressive and profoundly irritating that she seemed so effortlessly proficient in her impassivity. She would have made an excellent Turk.
He decides that opening up a little to her, though not in a way she would expect, was the safest bet. The sooner she saw him for the monster that he was, the better.
"I decided to come with you – with Avalanche – for one reason. I want to find Hojo. And I want him dead. After that… my future is uncertain."
Finally, her expression shifts. Her heady gaze drops like a stone, her shoulders with it. "I see." There was no shame in her countenance, no trace of embarrassment at having misread him and his actions. Only sadness. He wrestles with an urge to take it all back, to beg her for forgiveness. He would never wish another to bear any part of his many burdens.
"Again, I am truly sorry." He knows he should leave now, mumble 'excuse me' and exit the room. Why should it matter how she felt? Why should he care? He was only here for one reason, wasn't he?
But Tifa had been right. She could read him as clearly as he did the pages of his book. He did care, and he cared deeply; about their welfare; about how they perceived him, as a monster or otherwise; and for her, this young woman, who was either incredibly brave or incredibly foolish – on this he had not yet decided – to cast aside every instinct a person should possess when faced with him as he was, to simply reach out and to give a damn.
He cannot leave the room without offering something, some form of olive branch, to her. All his cautiousness and carefully cultured interactions be damned, if he had to go through the days ahead alone – truly alone – he surely could not stand it.
"But…"
He hadn't planned for this part. He is certain she knows, that she recognizes he is torn in half. His body weight sways slightly from one foot to the other in his indecision, clenching then unclenching his left fist. Her gaze lifts, questioning, hopeful. This is what he is here for, why he has stayed. Hope.
Yet If her silence had perturbed him before, it near drove him to madness now.
"But I cannot in good conscious leave without telling you how… grateful I am for having had your friendship, these past months. It has been… a trying time, to say the least and I-"
He is halted in his rambling and fumbling by the dawning of a smile on her face. Damn it. She knows. She sees through all of it.
"I am being selfish, I know. I realise I may have embarrassed you, and I pray my apology is enough to mitigate for that. I hope you will forgive me and continue to grant me your friendship."
She opens her mouth to reply, to put him out of his misery, when a tap comes at the door.
"Tifa, are you in there? I don't have my key." Aeries. The brunette offers a sympathetic smile, before opening the door at her back to admit the Ancient. "Oh! Vincent I didn't know you were in here – should I…"
She motions to herself, asking if they require further time for their discussion. Her expression gives nothing away, though he has learned that the damned women of this group – Yuffie excluded – were capable of trickery of incredible magnitudes.
"I should be going. Tifa, I… I encourage you to think on what I have said." He is glad for the moonlight- surely it must wash him of all colour, disguising any evidence of the heat upon his cheeks at having gotten himself into this situation in the first place. He makes to exit via the door that Tifa hold open still, avoiding her gaze entirely as he slides past her.
She watches him leave, privately delighting in achieving several small, yet significant victories.
First, she had proven that Vincent possessed many more emotions in his repertoire, and had witnessed them expressed with none of the Vincent-applied filters.
Second, she steadfastly believed Vincent had felt something shift between them, kneeling bloodied and exhausted on the forest floor, regardless of his words otherwise.
Thirdly , and this could be evidenced by his own admission – he valued her as a friend.
"There is nothing to think about," She says gently, leaning out of the room to call after his retreating back. "Goodnight, Vincent."
-0-
A/N: Took me ages to finish this chapter... I fancied an embarrased Vincent for once.