Beneath the Stitching
For Bleuwyn
(-Thanks for helping me flesh this out, and for encouraging me to run with it-)
†
Happy Birthday, Vincent Valentine...and a Happy Friday the 13th to the rest of you
Such a pretty little thing it was, glossy and white like polished bone, catching the dim light from the window as she turned it over in her hands. It was thin and delicate, a far cry from what she had expected. She had inspected the edges time and time again, hoping to gather some clue as to what it was made of, but to no avail. Still, she could be found sitting on her bed every so often, entranced by the tiny fibers, staring for hours on end at the thing like it was a living, breathing entity.
Simply fascinating.
She used to keep it in her jewelry box, amongst old chains with homeless earring backings scattered all around. An ivory husk sitting against the purple plush of its dark wood home, and it was so reminiscent of its previous owner that she often admired it from her vantage point above, reliving the moment she first saw him. Its home was next to one of his old cigarettes, something he'd left at her house by accident, and she'd kept it for later sentiment, along with so many other silly little things of his. But the shard was different; there was nothing else like it in the whole world, and there was nothing else of his that could replace it, or ever invoke the same memory.
However, once he'd started buying her jewelry, it had needed a new hiding spot. Once he began spending the night - once he'd begun to wake up with her, watch her get dressed, shower with her and make subtle suggestions concerning which of the items he'd bought her looked best - she had found it necessary to remove the piece from her jewelry box. And so it found its new home buried beneath black lace and other such things.
It wasn't as if he would recognize it if he saw it. He most likely had no conscious idea of what it looked like, and wouldn't know what to make of the material. If he had, she would have asked him if he supposed it was made of the same proteins as his hair and nails, and if that had anything to do with his ability to regenerate it once it was gone. That was something she often wondered, and it made hoarding the item that much more personal.
It was the fact that it was so personal that made her believe she was deceitful for keeping it a secret from him. By all counts, she had done nothing wrong; she was only hanging onto a memory. But it was something that he wanted to forget and had worked so hard to erase, and she wasn't sure what the knowledge of it might bring about in him. Would he feel betrayed? What sort of questions would he ask her? And what sort of answers would she be forced to give him?
It wasn't how he would have wanted her to remember him, and she knew that. But the memory was still important to her. It wasn't a particularly nice or comfortable memory; in fact, it was rather sad and frightfully sobering. But that had been the first time since she'd first laid eyes upon him that she'd actually looked at him, and had really seen him. And if not for the circumstances, she might have never been able to truly appreciate the man behind the mask...
Yes, one day she would have to tell him. It didn't seem right, keeping the memento, without him knowing. It seemed so innocent, yet it was such a deep, dark secret, glowering at her from the corner of the room every now and then when she fell asleep thinking about it. One day, she would have to come clean, and then she would feel the relief at no longer having the thought of the nightmarish confrontation gnawing at her from the inside.
On this particular day, she was sitting up against her pillow, arms hugging her knees as she ran her fingers over the smooth surface of the fragment. As she rotated the piece, her nails began to slide over the rough patch of caked blood on one side. It was slightly stained around the area, edges a faded red where it had been embedded in her leg. She'd never bothered to clean it off; something about the raised markings brought back such vivid images...
†
It had been raining; she remembered that much because she could still feel the blood running down her leg in thin rivulets, diluted by the falling water. They had been running for so long that her legs burned and her lungs ached, and the bruises all over her arms and the soreness in her hands did well to numb the dull pain in her leg. She hadn't even felt it bite into her skin, hadn't even noticed the sharp sting until she had tried to move, and then she looked down to find it sticking out of her shin.
Before then, she had been frozen in place, staring ahead through the downpour at the fallen figure on the ground, his chest barely rising and falling as the air moved through his body, a shallow and rasping sound. She was filled with a pang of fear then; she hoped he wasn't dying. She'd taken for granted that he always seemed so unstoppable, especially when he let them take over. She didn't want to see him go, not like that. Not then, when they were so close to their goal, and he had so much left to do before he could rest peacefully.
It had to be impossible; surely he couldn't die on them. When in his current state, physically and mentally, he was a bullet train. Shot in the face and still breathing, his mask shattered to pieces all around them, she was scared to death that he might die in such a form and all alone, with no one who would dare come close enough. Surrounded by bodies he had mutilated in ruthless fashion, lying still and defenseless on his back and not having yet exacted his revenge, he was the very image of desperation as he held fast to the world of the living.
She was awakened from the nightmare by several rounds being fired into the corpse of his attacker. Barret stood next to her, his arm poised for action, barrel winding down with a soft series of clicks. As she heard the sound bouncing off the atmosphere, echoing in the night air, she saw the faint twitch of his hand, inches away from his bloodied weapon.
He stirred, head falling to the side, black hair draped in a knotted curtain like moss covering a dead tree. It was then that she saw, and understood.
It was that part of him, residing deep in the most hidden chamber of his heart, that lashed out when threatened. It was the ruthless and instinctive animal in him, and at the same time, it was the very human bit of him that had fallen so far from grace. It was the piece of him that was easily irritated, the part of him that itched to pull the trigger, that had, once upon a time, taken satisfaction in his job, no matter how gruesome or overkill.
There was an ugly, vengeful, sadistic side to every man. Vincent's was exaggerated, creative and calculated, and Tifa couldn't help but wonder if he'd been involved in other creative and calculated tortures in the past, experiments of his own making. Considering his position, he might have put that side of him to good use when it came to prisoners of war...
Hojo's little irony.
No matter how extreme the monsters were, there was no denying that they were an extension of Vincent's own personality. And for as long as she'd known him, he'd been in the habit of muted gestures and vague speech, and simply holding back. Always holding something back, and if anyone wanted to communicate with him clearly, they would have to learn to read between the lines.
It shouldn't have surprised her as much as it did, to learn that the face of the monster would be just that - the face of a monster. He was always holding back, and probably all of his life. The monster hiding behind the mask was none other than himself, much like the man, always hiding behind some mask he had contrived, reigning in his outbursts, his anger, his doubts and fears, filtered into cryptic proverbs and biting sarcasm until one day it all came out as a monster, exaggerated and violent, destroying everything in its path.
It was all him; all of his pain, the rejection and torture he had endured, everything in his terribly damaged psyche. Hellmasker was the tough knob buried deep within Vincent's heart, his raging ball of hate. And it was such a destructive force, she understood why he had buried it for thirty years, putting it off and letting it fester until it consumed him, for the pain it would cause to face it head-on. Disgusted at what he had become, and hoping he could sleep it away, angry at the world and not wanting to be a part of it any longer. And it was never the same twice, the monster, aggressive at times and passive at others, depending on what awful memories fueled it.
ButVincent didn't have scars littering his face. Vincent didn't have his eyes and mouth sewn shut. Vincent wasn't resigned to the mystery of his own reflection.
But he did, she realized, and he was. It was him, and that side of him would always keep a tally of wrongs done and never forget the pain, would always choose to be blind to those things that stood in the way of justifying his vengeful spirit, and would always refuse to commune with them. Stubborn and unstoppable when it came right down to it, and he would always be the same, unless someone managed to unearth that hateful little lump of flesh and rip it to pieces.
Then he was rising, pulled by his nose to the pungent smell of blood that hung in the thinning night air. His movements were mechanical and jerking as he stumbled to his feet in a dizzying haze, but once he had found a steady balance, he was still and silent as stone, save for his twisting neck as he checked his surroundings.
And then came the second wave. She hadn't realized how stiff her legs had become until she felt Barret's strong arms wrap around her and drag her towards the wood behind them. The solid, demonic figure over her shoulder leaned roughly against the sounds in the forest, lunging towards the unprepared assailants with an unparalleled dexterity, movements in accordance with a snap of a twig here, or the crunching of leaves there...
Bullets pierced his body, but they only served to fuel him further as he cut into soft and pliable flesh, his blade screaming like a creature from the deepest pits of hell. It was at this sound that she braced herself against the dirt floor, kicking up in startled surprise as Barret set her on the ground. It was then that she felt the sharp tugging in her shin, sharp, cast object embedded between bone and muscle.
She bent down and forcefully jerked the piece from her leg, idly muttering a cure spell under her breath as if it was an afterthought as she inspected the material in her hands. Her eyes shifted from the shard to the battle across the clearing, and she pocketed it, taking a couple of steps forward but stilling when she felt Barret's heavy hand on her shoulder. He met her eyes and shook his head, and she could see the indecision in his own stance, as he placed his hand over the barrel of his gun-arm, wanting to blast at the enemy but unwanting to draw Hellmasker's attention towards themselves.
Nevertheless, once his attackers were disposed of, bloodied remnants scattered about his feet and no longer the distraction they once were, he turned to the source of the shuffling sounds in the wood. His weapon idled, humming low and steady as he approached, a level rhythm in time with deliberate footfalls as his heavy boots carried him across the clearing. The killer's head cocked to the side as he listened for any further movements from the pair.
Again Barret's hand was placed over the barrel on his arm, but in wary defense against an ally turned foe rather than to his aide. Hellmasker was unpredictable, dangerous, and had sick fascinations, a morbid curiousity. But he was still Vincent, only Barret wasn't quite sure whether it was the demon that lurked beneath his skin or the other way around; all too often it was impossible to tell who was controlling who at any given time, and his resolve wavered as he slowly lifted his arm and took aim in preparation.
Tifa's eyes widened in horror as she looked at Barret's gun-arm and then to Hellmasker - no, Vincent - and she shook her head, expression begging him not to shoot. Soft brushes of her hair against her shoulders as she protested reached sensitive ears, and when her eyes next alighted on him, Vincent's brow was furrowed in question and he stopped still in his tracks. He nearly looked avian at that point, though much more terrifying than any bird of prey her imagination could conjure, swiveling head, agile lean, able to rush them or continue the maddening pace that had her itching for a glimpse of the end.
But she felt it, scratching at the fibers in the back of her skull; one side of his mouth tugged at the stitching until it was a gruesome mockery of Vincent's familiar half-smile, and a lone, red hot coal peeked out from the threads by his lashes, stunning her into an unmoving stupor. Her mind burned with the realization; he didn't have to see or even hear her to know of her plans. He was always watching, always reading, feeling; there were no secrets in his presence.
"Teef!"
He'd shouted her name twice before she was snapped from her daze, before she realized that Hellmasker was advancing again and much faster than before. Her hands fumbled in a sudden frantic flutter around her pockets, digging in and skirting around the cast fragment, grasping for her spare materia. Vincent's steps were loud thuds where they impacted the dark soil, steady and relentless still, a thumping, beating, tick-tocking death-clock, counting down the seconds until his blade made contact with her skin.
Barret fought an internal battle as he waited out the closing distance that seemed to stretch on for miles. His nerves were frayed from tip to root as his eyes darted from his target to the woman shifting materia in and out of slots on her gloves and back again, as the dark and hellish entity raised his blade high in the air. They could try to outrun him, or he could pump him full of bullets; but he knew that Hellmasker's endurance would outlast them easily in a chase, and where bullets were concerned, anything that didn't kill Vincent only infuriated him further and compounded his vengeance.
"Got it!"
Tifa braced herself as she cast a spell, iridescent tendrils surrounding her arms and reaching out to him, binding and stifling. The light whisps seeped into his body through every pore and threadbare opening, and he stumbled a bit though he tried to fight it. His movements grew slower and slower with each step until finally, he collapsed in a heap on the ground.
She looked at the fallen creature, and then back at Barret, who was slow in coming out of his shock. She walked nimbly towards Vincent's twisted body, slowly bending down to check his breathing. His scarred face was smoothed into a placid mask of indifference; there wasn't anything particularly endearing or peaceful about it, but all malice and excitement had drained from his features, and it was hard to believe that mere seconds ago he was on the verge of dismembering them.
Hours later she was up against a wall, fixated on the inch-thick, bullet-proof window to the Highwind's cargo hold, and so afraid that she had lost him for good. Surely, she thought, he should have been back to normal by then, and she feared that by the damage done to him and the separation of a small part of him, no matter how superficial, he might have become somehow stuck in that form. Inside, he paced in furious frustration, unwilling to relinquish the use of Vincent's body because, she would later find, he simply was not yet satisfied.
She would also find that nothing could compare to the sudden flood of panic in her veins as he rushed the glass and pinned her under his fiery, slitted gaze, or the slowing race-waves in her chest as she realized the barrier had stopped him, and her fear was displaced by a darker sort of wonder. She could not tear her eyes from him, like a doe caught under the harsh glare of the headlights of an oncoming truck, as he proceeded to give her figure the madman's equivalent of an extremely appreciative once-over from his vantage point, as if he were sizing her up for battle, or for something even more daring. Even as his worn muscles fought for dominance over their stitching, his silent laughter echoed in her head.
†
"...Tifa?"
He had somehow made it into the room while escaping her notice as she lay staring at the ceiling, the pale shard clutched tightly against her breast. She wasn't surprised to find blood pounding in her ears, though she couldn't be sure whether it had more to do with the memory she was reliving, or with her being suddenly forced to face the present.
"Tifa, did you hear me?"
She sat up quickly on the bed, facing the man she had come to love, the man she slept next to each night, who had nearly ripped her body to shreds but a few years before. He was regarding her with a slightly questioning gaze, and clearly amused by the fashion in which her consciousness had rocketed back to her body. She shook her head in apology. "Hmm?"
"...I said, the reservations were for eight o'clock," he repeated, though it was the first time she had heard him. He smiled softly then, narrowing his eyes in another question as he approached her. Bare feet padded across her carpet as he continued buttoning up his shirt, and his gentle voice broke through to her as she felt his weight settle next to her on the bed, slowly bringing her back to reality. "Are you all right?"
She was prompted to look up at him by his fingers combing slowly through her hair, and as she leaned into his touch, her hand fell to the bed. The fingers of his other hand sought hers, and his brow twitched with curiousity.
"What have we here?" he asked, taking her hand in his and examining the smooth object she held in her palm.
She watched his eyes dart over the piece, then followed his fingertips to its surface. "Just a memory," she intoned quietly.
Tifa cautiously lifted her eyes just in time to see a flash of insecurity in his own before it quickly dissipated into nothing, and he patiently tested his worth, softly asking, "Home?"
"No," she said. "You."
"...Me?" he asked, unsure of the significance of the object she held as it elicited no memories for him. He lifted one eyebrow, examining the material, investigating its grain. "Forgive me, but I cannot recall what this is."
She was surprised at the ease with which her confession came, but she couldn't seem to stop herself from answering his perfectly innocent questions. She shook her head again and sighed. "Vincent, I..." she began, taking a shaking breath in an effort to steady herself, "I've been keeping something from you."
He tilted his head, his narrow gaze and soft mouth prodding her on with a patience she was grateful for. His wariness was gone with the knowledge that the memory concerned him, and not something...or someone...else that lingered, threatening his place in her life.
For the next several minutes there was no sound in the room but her hushed voice as he listened to her every word. She told him of the significance of the memento, and that she had been afraid to bring it up, because he had put all things related to that life behind him. But she had wanted to hang onto it. She didn't know what dark workings had held him captive that day, but it was the first time she had felt the need to connect with him. She left out the more gruesome details, but she wanted him to know that it was an important day in her life; it was the catalyst that first sparked her growing interest. She even showed him the scar, since he'd inquired about the blood on the side of the fragment.
He was quiet for a moment, staring at her hand as it still lay open in his palm with the piece resting on her warm skin.
"...Do you want me to get rid of it?" she asked after some time, searching his face for signs of discomfort.
He raised his eyes to meet hers, some small evidence of surprise hidden in their depths, and a warm flicker of gratitude in them. "No," he said, tilting his head. "Why did you feel the need to keep it a secret?"
"I told you," she sighed, "because I didn't think you'd want to talk about it, and there was no reason to bring it up."
"But you think about it," he said.
"Yeah," she said, shrugging. "I guess you think I'm pretty strange now."
"Not really," he offered. "Strange is keeping stale cigarettes in your jewelry box."
Her eyes flashed with something akin to mild indignation. "Hey!"
He smiled. "It is...rather flattering, I suppose." He lifted her chin so that he could chance a proper look at her. "Though...no more secrets," he said.
"Deal," she whispered, smiling and then ducking her head beneath his chin as she curled into his lap.
"You mustn't ever feel the need to hide from me. And," he added, stroking her hair, "we must be able to trust each other."
She buried her face in his skin and kissed his neck. "All right, Vincent. But you know," she said, lifting her head, "I have to ask. Is it trust that had you peering into my jewelry box?"
He smiled down at her. "No...I would call that curiousity."
"Innocent curiousity?" she prodded.
"Mostly."
"Well, I like my stale cigarette," she huffed, settling back against his chest.
"Hmm," he mused. "You are indeed very strange."
"Maybe you should give me some bullet casings instead," she hinted.
"Perhaps later," he said, shifting around and lifting her away from himself. "For now, you need to finish getting ready."
She hummed in response and kissed him soundly on the lips before scampering off to the bathroom. Suddenly the object no longer mattered, because she had the man, and nothing would ever be able to erase him from her memory.
And, she thought, twirling on her feet in front of the mirror, she rather liked the way her legs looked in the heels she needed to reach his mouth...even better with the slight indent adorning her shin.
†
End
Final Fantasy VII and its characters are © 1997 Square-Enix Co., Ltd.
Note:'Beneath the Stitching' was named after a story I wrote, which was named after the phrase, "Beneath the Stitching, a Heart is Itching," which I created for Vincent and threw around liberally, and neither the story nor the VincentxTifa shrine (nor myself) are in any way affiliated with the later-created story by another author on Quizilla which was also later changed to the same name without notice.