A/N: Looks like I owe even more apologies for another slow update. A combination of exams, new video games, and Bones distracted me. If it's any consolation this chapter's extra long.
He headed for the cavern hidden by the waterfall, his custom-made confessional booth where he whispered his sins and they echoed right back to him, and when he got there he found himself restless and wanting. As his eyes rested on the woman before him, her voice whispered in his mind, distorted by self-imposed demons, until he no longer saw the beauty in the crystal but fragmented images of her, broken and bleeding one moment then alive and laughing the next.
He left. He allowed his feet to take him where they would, unable to pay attention to anything, driven to distraction by the very memory of her.
When he looked up, feeling dazed, and found himself at the foot of Da Chao, he found he was not surprised in the least.
He sat on a lonely outcrop of sandy rock, overlooking the beauty of Wutai. For days he sat and dwelt, memories twisting through his mind. His only company was the wind, and it seemed to whisper all his failures to him. Sometimes, he thought he heard a faint laugh, a murmured Hey, Vinnie, but when he looked about, hoping and hating himself for it, there was no one but him and the voices in his head.
And the wind, ever constant.
He looked down on proud Wutai, her country, and lost himself in his thoughts.
She was laughing at Cid's expense, a loud guffaw as the pilot cursed at her as he struggled to free himself from the knee-deep mud in which he was currently entrenched. His swearing only made her laugh harder. She glanced at him, still laughing, and as her eyes met his and he saw the genuine mirth and love of life there, he couldn't help but have his own lips quirk up in a smile, even if she couldn't see it from its shelter behind his cloak.
He gave the slightest of smiles as he remembered all the times she had laughed or smiled in his presence – so many memories, for it was a rare thing for her not to be smiling.
Then the image of her lying on the concrete floor, naked, bleeding, came back to him with such force it felt like a physical impact.
His demons – not those gifted upon him by Hojo, but those of his own making – took the image, and twisted it, so that he arrived just moments too late, strode into the room just in time to see Rosso shoving a blade through her gut, to see the life (and there was so much life there, so much to be lost) fade from her eyes.
He clutched at his head, willing the images to be gone, wanting to scream in denial.
She didn't die, I found her in time –
But she wouldn't have needed finding if you hadn't abandoned her in the first place. You left her to her fate. You could have saved her.
Not for the first time, he considered just ending his immortal (still immortal?) existence with the foolproof method of a bullet to the head.
But even as he considered it, thought of the welcome relief death would bring, he knew it was pointless, knew he never would.
Because he knew, (though he wished he didn't, because if he didn't it would be so much easier) he knew that it would hurt her more than it would ever hurt him.
Because deep down he still held onto some sick, twisted hope (you will only make it worse, never better) he could still fix his mistake, somehow take back what was done to her.
Because he hoped (and he shouldn't and he tried his hardest not to but he still did) he could still see her one more time, still bask in that smile, though Holy knows he didn't deserve its light.
He had his right hand curled around the grip of his Outsider, fighting down his anger, wishing Cloud would hurry up and get their materia back instead of waiting and watching her argue with her father. She did not deserve any time for words or explanation. She should be giving their materia back, then left behind without a second thought.
She was treacherous, a betrayer, and he would never forgive her.
Hellmasker was giggling in his mind as he pointed out that he wouldn't feel so betrayed if he hadn't let her become his friend in the first place.
He scowled, shutting out the demon and attempting to focus on the argument before him, realizing it had become quite heated. Yuffie was red in the face, looking like she'd like nothing better than to strangle Godo. Vincent had realized some time ago who she was, and felt a dim sense of surprise that she would be yelling at her father – her lord - with such fury and passion.
"That's my style! And it's my own business, not yours! Don't you try and dictate what I should do!" Yuffie all but screamed at Godo, her hands balled into fists.
Godo raised his hands, looking furious, and Vincent thought for a moment he would actually hit Yuffie for her insolence, but he managed to control himself.
"Style? Dictate?" he echoed, his accented Midgarian laced with scorn. "Throwing around all those fancy words..." He paused, seeming to struggle to keep the lid on his anger, but Vincent could see it was a lost cause.
"You're a miserable daughter," he snapped, and for a split second Vincent saw the hurt on Yuffie's face, saw her longing to just make her father proud, before the emotion was obscured once more by a mask of anger.
"You're a sad excuse for a father," she snapped back before running from the room. Watching her flee, some part of Vincent told him to grab her and stop her, to demand their materia returned, but he found himself unable to move.
Perhaps it was the realization, finally, of all the responsibilities she faced as the Single White Rose of Wutai. Perhaps it was him trying to sympathize with her plight, with her wish to better her hometown, to raise it to the glory it once was.
Perhaps it was the faint glimmer of tears in her eyes.
Whatever it was, it clashed with his feelings of betrayal and rage, making him feel slightly ill with confusion.
She had always been full of surprises. A child one moment, a ruler of countries the next. An incredible level of maturity obscured by a nearly endless optimism that many mistook for naïveté. That was naïveté, sometimes, but she had seen more than anyone her age ever should. She had spent her childhood in the wild, learning how to steal to better a country that did not appreciate her efforts, to please a father who would never be satisfied. Her maturity was a hard, rough sort; one wrought of bitter experience (and he'd contributed to that, showed her torture because he was weak –
"Hiya, Vince."
Before he realized it, he had leapt to his feet, drawing Cerberus in what he knew would be a futile attempt to fend off his memories of her, but she sounded so real, as if she was actually there.
And she was. He stared at her, unsure if she was real (but she was, he could smell her, even without Galian, sakura blossoms and dust and sweat and Yuffie) and hardly daring to hope (to despair) that she was.
There were too many emotions – more than he'd felt in so long, and he couldn't control them, couldn't contain them, despite all his years as a Turk and all his decades doing his best to suppress anything other than self-loathing. He started to back away from her, unable to handle this onslaught of hope (despair) hate (love) guilt (forgiveness) and wanting nothing more than to flee (but she was there, and she smelled of lilies and dust and sweat and Yuffie and he wanted to stay there forever), but she opened her mouth and he knew, he knew that as soon as she spoke and he could hear her, see her talk, he would never be able to run again.
"Stop."
And he stopped. And he struggled to contain his emotions, to think rationally (for that had forever been his strongpoint, rational thinking, observing, never participating),and was semi-successful as years of mental discipline allowed him to shut out some of the emotions and voices and demons within him.
She pointed sternly at him.
"No leaving until I tell you."
He looked away. He should leave (but he wouldn't), he had already caused her enough pain (but wasn't that from his leaving her in the first place?) – but he wanted to see her (hear her smell her feel her taste her) so bad it hurt, in places he thought had long ago grown immune to such aches.
I am so weak.
He felt defeated, exhausted, as he realized he would not be leaving, because when it all came down to it she had asked him to stay and he could never deny her anything ever again.
No leaving until I tell you.
He saw an easy way out as he examined what she said.
"What do you wish to tell me, Yuffie?" Just tell me, Yuffie, so I can flee from here from you, free me from your words because I cannot free myself.
He continued to stare at the ground as he waited for her to tell him what she meant to say. He waited for her blame to fall, for her hate (and he prayed it was not forgiveness, because he didn't deserve it).
There were a few seconds of silence. Then –
"Don'tlemmeleaveuntilItellyouokay."
He glanced up at her despite himself as he deciphered the mushed-together phrase, and saw a frightening mix of desperation and hopelessness and –
She was broken. He could see it. He had done it.
I have broken the rose, and it will no longer grow.
She repeated her request, more intelligibly this time, but he hesitated, still wanting to take the easy way out, he could let her run, it would all be the same in the end.
"Please."
And she had him once more, because he could not forsake her, not now and not ever again (he had already done so once and look what had happened because of him).
"How will I know when you've told me what you wish to say?" he asked almost mechanically, looking away from her once more, unable to stand the fragmented emotions he saw there.
She gave a snort that he assumed was supposed to sound amused but came out sounding disgusted and heavy with a self-hate he recognized all too easily.
He didn't like hearing it, coming from her.
"You'll know."
He could almost taste her desperation in the dry summer wind, so he nodded once, the motion feeling odd and jerky, as if his emotions were playing tug-of-war with his head. He heard her sigh faintly with relief and something in his gut tightened.
"So," she began, and he could hear her straining to revert to her usual tone. "I hear you and Chaos won't be having any more late night tea parties."
His jaw tightened unconsciously at the mention of the demon. He had hardly even given any thought to its absence; he was much too distracted by things infinitely more important. Namely, the shinobi before him, who he could see was giving him an expectant look out of the corner of his eye. His silence (there's too much to say, so much to say and I cannot say it, for your sake) was filled with further prodding from Yuffie.
"So why aren't you partying it up, Vinnie-boy? You should be getting smashed, or at the very least trying to!"
Oh, how he would like to drink away all his worries and sins, as he had when he was a Turk. But he could no longer, Hojo had seen to that, and he doubted even an ocean of alcohol could drown out her voice in his head.
The very thought of celebrating now, now that she was broken (and he could care less that Chaos was gone, he'd take the demon back and a thousand more like it if it meant he could take back what happened to her, if it meant he could fix it, fix her) made him sick. He heard her give an exasperated sigh and he tilted his head slightly, wanting to see her (because, even broken, she gave off so much light and he was drawn to it, a moth to the flame) and wanting to looking away (because he would only break her further) all at the same time. He settled on regarding her through his peripheral vision, seeing her lower herself to sit on the ground and draw her knees to her chest, hugging them to her chest as she stared out over her hometown.
She turned her head to look at him, and he quickly focused on the forest stretching out below the mountain, afraid that if he met her eyes he'd break (break more) and run.
She gave a short, low laugh and the bitterness in it frightened him. He looked sharply at her, but she had already looked away.
"Might wanna take a seat, Vinnie," she suggested. "I think we're gonna be here a while."
He remained standing for several minutes, wondering what she wanted to tell him and ready to flee the moment she did. He kept glancing at her, saw her lost in thought as she gazed unseeing at the sun flashing off the red and gold eaves of Wutai, before he would quickly glance away again. He did not deserve her company, her presence, and every time he laid eyes on her he felt as if he was stealing something irreplaceable away from her.
Before he even realized it, he was sitting, automatically adopting his common pose, one arm resting on a bent leg with the other leg stretched out before him. He closed his eyes, willing them to stay shut so he would not taint her simply by looking at her.
But he could still smell sakura blossoms and dust and sweat and Yuffie.
"How did you know who I was?"
The question startled him, and he looked at her, meeting her gaze (not simply grey, but silver and granite and swirling ceaselessly) despite his convictions not to, not sure what she was referring too.
"Back when we were hunting Sephiroth, you knew who I was even though I'd never told anyone."
He looked away again, understanding what she meant. He had recognized her, recognized her mother in her, for her mother had been a woman who was hard to forget.
"You look very much like your mother," he said quietly, and that was only partially true. His recognition of her heritage had stemmed from how she carried herself, with an unconscious aura that had people doing double takes at such vitality and zeal for life in general.
"You knew my mother?" she asked, sounding eager, and he suddenly became hyper-aware of the fact that her mother was dead now, all that vitality gone forever. He shook his head, trying to stop his thoughts from turning once more to the what ifs, what if she had died, and attempted to refocus on the conversation at hand.
"I saw her on the day she was due to be married to your father. She was quite young at the time," he told her. He prayed she wouldn't ask why he was there.
"Why were you at their wedding?"
He almost laughed. Why he still bothered with any pleas to a higher power was beyond him; they had never listened before, and would not listen now.
"I was there as a Turk," he stated flatly. I was there to examine possible weaknesses in your country so they could be exploited by ShinRa. To look for ways to bring ruin to your homeland, to force them to become dependent on another.
"I was never ashamed, ya know," she murmured, jarring him out of his memories of his mission. "I just didn't want to be treated differently."
He gave a grunt of understanding, remembering their conversation in the rain so long ago (before she was broken before you broke her before you and she became too attached to her and you).
"Is that what you wished to tell me?" he asked, hoping she'd say yes (no).
"Yes, Vincent, I looked all over for you to tell you that." The sarcasm was evident in her voice, and he expected more taunting, but she became silent once more, leaving them both to their thoughts.
His thoughts were of her, of his failures, of his weakness, and of how despite the fact he knew he shouldn't be here he remained nonetheless.
She had asked him to stay, and that overrode all his rational thinking, leaving it ground in the dust of the mountain.
"Vince."
Her voice was sharp, more biting than the cool air of the night, and he felt himself tensing up, sure that it was now, she would tell him what she had come to say, would tell him how she hated him and blamed him and he would deserve it, all of it.
"What exactly were you doing up here before I found you?"
There was a simmering anger in her tone, and he knew she already knew exactly what he had been doing up here. He bowed his face, as if the cowl of his cloak could shield him from her words, but he knew it was pointless because she had asked and he could not lie to her.
"...Reflecting on my newest sins," he said quietly.
"Is that so?" she hissed at him, and he heard her get to his feet and walk angrily towards him. "Blaming yourself for what happened to me, were ya?"
Yes. He tilted his head away from her, not wanting to see her anger there. He was sure he was right. The blame was his own. It always had been.
"What, were you gonna build yourself a box out of rice-paper and lock yourself in it for another couple decades?"
A small, detached part of him reflected momentarily that if he had, she probably would have burned it like she burned his coffin. The rest of him withdrew into himself, trying to escape the confusion caused by her words.
Could she not see that he needed to repent? That he deserved nothing more than a solitary existence away from anything good?
She grabbed his shoulders, spinning him with a roughness that surprised him and his eyes locked with hers.
"Don't you ever blame yourself for what happened to me," she hissed at him, and he could see the aching sincerity in her eyes. "Because it was not your fault. It was never your fault."
She wanted him not to blame himself for what had happened to her. To Lucrecia. But she did not see how he could have saved her, could have saved them both, but he had been too much a coward, too weak.
"I left you there. If I hadn't – "
She interrupted his explanations, dismissing them as if they were worthless.
"There were more important places for you to be, Vinnie, than looking after a stupid ninja like myself who couldn't handle a bit of a bumpy ride. DeepGround wasn't about to wait for me to wake up."
He looked away from her. He recognized her words as logical but refused to give them merit. He could have saved her. The pressure on his shoulders dissipated as she released him.
"What would you have done if I had died, Vince?"
Her question made his every muscle tense, and instantly images of her lifeless flashed in unending sequence before his eyes.
"Don't say that," he snapped, trying to rid himself of the images (she was right there, still alive) but they looked all too real to him.
"What would you have done, Vincent? If I had died down there, if you had never found me – "
"Don't!" he screamed, and he felt overwhelmed by anger and terror and he couldn't control his breathing, don't ever die, don't talk like that, for if you were dead then so many more would die without you and I need you, and he couldn't get the picture of Rosso shoving her blade into Yuffie's gut out of his mind, and he whirled to face her because he had to reassure himself that she was still there and not gone.
"You've already thought all about that, haven't ya, Vince?" she asked quietly.
Of course she knew he had, she had always known better than anyone just who he was, and he didn't like it, because something so pure (and he knew she wasn't but to him she was) should not be able to understand something as tainted as him. He turned away from her again, the feeling of unworthiness enveloping him once more. He couldn't taint her.
She gave a slight sigh. "If I was you, Vinnie," she said, with her normal cheerful tone was back in place, "I would stop dwelling on the 'what ifs' and start thinkin' about the 'what ises'." He heard a rustle of clothing as she made some sudden movement but he didn't turn to look. "For example, a 'what is' is that you are here basking in my wonderful company, whether you like it or not." Her voice sounded slightly strained and came from a lower place than before – she had probably pulled a handstand, as she was wont to do at random moments. She gave a quiet grunt of effort. "Ises. Fun word to say, you should try it."
Her cheerful tone – though the words were still serious – helped to sooth his agitation, and he found himself in control of his emotions once more.
"Is that what you wished to tell me?" he asked, the words already becoming familiar to him. He had a feeling he'd be saying them quite often.
"Jeez, Vince, you that desperate to get away from me?" she joked, but there was something off about her tone and he frowned, trying to place it. Before he could, she continued rather abruptly.
"And nope, that's not it." There was a slight pause, then, "Well, it is, but there's a whole lot more still." He dimly registered the sound of her feet hitting the ground, but he was too busy dwelling on what she must want to say to him so desperately – and yet so unwillingly – to pay her movements much attention.
"Why do you not simply tell me?" he asked her, deciding then and there to confront her on the matter.
With a muffled thump she fell over, and he wondered if it was her acrobatics or his question that had put her so off balance.
"Uhh...what, doncha like the suspense?" she joked weakly, sounding hesitant and unsure and she was Yuffie she was not supposed to be hesitant or unsure she was supposed to be cocky and confident.
Broken, Hellmasker whispered to him. I can sense her pain, so much more than physical. Vincent quickly shut out the demon, forcing it back into his subconscious, afraid the demon would reveal to him the true extent of her damages and destroy any hope he had for fixing her. Filled with a sudden determination to end this, to fix her before it was too late (because though she tried so hard to fix it it was obvious she needed help), he strode over to her prone form, bending over her.
"Yuffie, what is it you wish to tell me." It was a demand now, not a question. She licked her lips, her nervousness evident, and she was suddenly scrabbling away from him and back towards the path that lead back down the mountain.
It took him a moment to realize she was running, running away from him and running away from herself.
His eyes narrowed. She had asked him not to let her leave. And the urge to fix had grown to a burning desire in his gut, he could fix her then leave so she would never break again, not because of him.
She was calling something to him, not even bothering to run away as she hurried away from him, but he ignored the words and ran forward instead, quickly reaching her and grabbing her arm, forcing her to turn and face him. She stared at her sneakers, unable to meet his gaze and looking like a child who knew she was about to be chastised.
You asked me to not allow you to leave until you told me," he said quietly, reminding her of her words earlier that day.
"Yeah, I know but...we need, um, food, and stuff, ya know, so I thought I should just go down and get some..." she stuttered awkwardly, glancing up at him through her bangs.
"There is a large stash of supplies on the crest of the mountain, left for pilgrims. As I'm sure you were very much aware." She looked back at the ground, rubbing the back of her neck, and his suspicions were confirmed.
She couldn't run. She was fragmented, broken, and running would only make the damage all the worse.
He knew. He had experience in the matter. He had hid, instead of ran, but it was all the same in the end. And he wouldn't let her do this to herself.
"Yuffie," he said softly, surprised he could even manage such a gentle tone anymore. She looked up at him, evidently as surprised by his tone as he was, and he managed to hold her gaze a few moments before being forced to look away, focusing on her shoulder instead, and despite himself he couldn't help but notice the smoothness of her bare skin, her tank-top leaving most of her shoulder bare. He quickly shunned the observation to the back of his mind, focusing on more important matters.
He had to make her stay. Make her see that running wouldn't do her any good.
"...I have not run away," he began, feeling slightly hesitant (because he had wanted to, he had wanted to run so badly and still did but not until he fixed her). "It was obvious that you wished to tell me something of some importance, so I stayed, out of – "
For a moment he floundered. Out of fear, out of hope, out of despair, out of lov –
"...respect for you," he finished hurriedly, swallowing away emotions that he shouldn't feel but he did and he was such a monster for it. "You should give yourself the same respect." He lifted his eyes back to hers, wanting to show how much he meant what he said. She stared at him painfully, biting down on her lip and nodding roughly, and he let out an inner sigh of relief. Still holding her arm, he led her back to their plateau atop the mountain.
Every day after that followed the same routine.
They would lose themselves in their thoughts, in a silence that was awkward and comfortable all at the same time.
Sometimes, Yuffie would tell him about what she was thinking. He listened, never telling her of his thoughts (her, him, both of them) and when she was finished he would ask, "Is that what you wished to tell me?"
She would always replay in a sarcastic or joking tone, with so many words and gestures that all meant no.
On the fifth day, she explained that he never really needed to apologize for yelling at her for burning his coffin (but he did, because she had been right, and he had been an idiot for far too long). She went on to say that there was no need for him to ever apologize to her for anything because it was almost always her fault anyways.
"I probably could've, ya know, tried actually talking to you first, but it just seemed so much more effective to just go ahead and burn it at the time..." she said, giving a rueful grin.
"Yuffie, there's no need for you to apologize about that," he insisted.
"Yes, there is, Vinnie, so kindly shut up," she snapped, but her tone was mild.
"Sorry."
"Vince! What did I just spend twenty minutes rambling to you about?"
"...Sorry."
She smacked his arm. He smirked slightly, feeling ridiculously light-hearted at the easy banter. She beamed at him, with that wide, unadulterated smile he so craved, and it made him infinitely warmer than the summer sun beating down on them.
The eighth day, she surprised him by asking directly and bluntly if he still felt the need to repent for his sins.
He didn't look at her, afraid that if he did she'd see what he was hiding. See his need to fix her, fix his mistake. That was his greater sin, leaving her and not saving her, and he would fix her, damn it. He had a feeling she wouldn't appreciate this from him, though, so he decided on a half-truth.
"Yes," he told her. "But not the way I used to. Someone showed me that holing myself up in a coffin is not a way to make amends."
"Who showed you?" she asked. He turned to look at her, surprised.
"You did," he stated, thinking it obvious. She flushed and looked away.
"Ya know, back when..." she began, sounding incredibly nervous and awkward, still refusing to look at him, instead doodling in the dirt and pretending to focus there. "...back when I stole everyone's materia, and then Aerith died right after...you, um...you really helped me keep together, then, annnnd I guess I just really want to thank you for that, and maybe you can use that as a 'get out of sin free card' or something, 'cause, you know, that should count for something, if you ask me, and ya know I really gotta go get a drink of water – "
Her cheeks flaming, she turned and ran up the mountain, and he stared after her, a feeling he didn't recognize lingering in her wake.
It took him several seconds to identify it as self-satisfaction. He turned his gaze back over Wutai, dwelling on the feeling. His nameless demons were quiet – they'd been growing quieter over the last few days, and he couldn't help but wonder if it was her very presence driving them away. He was left to examine the new feeling in peace, turning it over, finding it a welcome relief from his usual self-loathing.
Several minutes later Yuffie returned, humming loudly in what was clearly an attempt at normalcy after her uncomfortable speech. He debated whether or not to say anything to her, whether to thank her for thanking him, and in the end decided to just say:
"You're welcome, Yuffie."
She shared much with him over their first two weeks together on top of Da Chao. He knew her favourite flavour of ice cream, her dream pair of socks, and had more details on the duty of a member of Wutaian royalty than he wished. And he soaked it all up, devoured it greedily, and yet she still hadn't told him whatever it was that was pinning them both to the mountain top with the weight of its unspoken words. Though she tried not to show it, he could see a sense of despair starting to fester within her.
He had hoped (though he knew it wasn't true, but pretending was so much easier) that she was starting to heal, up there on the mountain. And he had hoped (though he knew it wasn't true, because he had thirty-three years of experience on his side) that his own demons were starting to fade.
She began to despair, and with it obvious that she was not, in fact, healing, but only getting worse, his own demons began whispering again, never gone but only lying in wait.
She's still broken, unfixable because of you –
I will fix her. I will fix what I have done.
His determination to fix her, always strong, became almost overpowering, until all he could hear was his own mantra, his own weak promise that he didn't know if he could keep.
I will fix her.
It was their seventeenth night on the mountain.
She was shivering, hugging herself for warmth.
And for comfort, he thought privately. She had an empty look in her eyes, one of hopelessness, and he hated it. It did not belong there.
He removed his cloak and strode quietly over to her, draping it over her. She wrapped it more snugly around herself, looking up at him with a faint, tired surprise.
"Thanks," she whispered, the first words either of them had spoken for several hours now. He nodded, feeling unsure of what to say or do to make it better, so he just settled himself down a few inches to her right. His demons whispered that he should not be so close to her, that he would taint her with his proximity, but he had realized that he could no longer resist being with her, being drawn to her. He could no longer sense Galian, Gigas, or Hellmasker; they had withdrawn into the depths of his mind several days ago and not emerged since.
Look at her, one voice whispered. Look at her, look at how she is broken.
He looked at her, huddled under his cloak, eyes exhausted and expressionless. The silence seemed oppressive to him, smothering them both, and he found himself longing for her voice, until it became too much and he could no longer stand her quietness.
"What is it, Yuffie?" he asked, watching her jump as his voice startled her out of her unhappy reverie.
"It's nothing," she responded, trying to give him a grin but it looked strained and bitter to her, distorting her face with unhappiness.
He stared at her, her lie glaringly obvious to him, but he was afraid to push the matter, afraid it would only make matters worse. He reluctantly looked away, feeling more unsure than he ever had in his entire life.
"Do you think I'm beautiful?"
The question was sudden and harsh, and he could almost taste her regret the moment the words came out of her mouth.
"Pretend I didn't say that, it doesn't matter," she quickly added as he turned to look at her. She kept her face turned away from him, evidently embarrassed to as much as look at him. He found himself almost unconsciously studying her profile in the pale moonlight, his mako enhanced vision bringing out the details of her face. Her cheekbones, well defined, the large eyes, small nose and the curve of her lips, framed by shoulder length slightly unruly hair, held back with its customary headband. And the smell of sakura blossoms, drifting from tanned skin that was dotted with countless scars, some almost invisible and some a pearly white.
And she was beautiful. So he told her so.
"Yes."
She tilted her head to regard him at that, but quickly looked away again and snorted.
He frowned at the reaction.
"...You don't believe me?" he asked her, surprised and yet expecting this lack of confidence.
She gave a small shrug. "It's alright, Vinnie, you don't have to spare my feelings or anything. It doesn't matter anyways, stupid question."
No, it was far from stupid. The importance of the question to her was obvious, and it made his heart ache that she even had to ask it.
He could fix this, he just needed to know how.
"What could I do to convince you of it?"
A flicker of emotions crossed her face, too quick for him to decipher but they left him feeling scared and light-headed all at the same time. She shrunk into his cloak, obscuring her lower face from view.
"I told ya, Vince, just forget about it," she said, her voice slightly muffled.
"No." This drew her gaze back to him, and he felt some relief to see her eyes sparking with emotion again, even if it was anger.
Anything was better than the despair.
"What? Why not, just leave it alone, will ya?" she snapped at him, drawing her head back out of the cloak to better argue with im.
"Insecurity does not suit you." The words were out of his mouth before he even truly registered them, but her jaw dropped open and for a moment indignant surprise removed her defences and he could see he'd hit the mark.
"I am not insecure," she growled at him.
She was. He could see it in the way she held herself, the way her eyes glinted, and it hurt to see her so.
"Then why is it that we've spent nearly eighteen days atop this mountain, waiting for you to tell me something?" he asked softly. She stood up abruptly, pacing back and forth in agitation but keeping her jaw clenched shut. He pressed on, standing up to face her properly.
"And why do you ask me if you are beautiful, and not believe me when I tell you yes?" he asked. He could see her shaking, and there were tears in her eyes, and it felt like someone had stabbed him repeatedly, see her like this. He wanted to hold her, but he could not bring himself to step towards her. He decided to try and use words instead.
"Yuffie – "
"Why?" she yelled at him, gesturing violently with her hands. "Why, because no one, no one, no guy, has ever – has ever so much at looked at me, with the one, measly exception of the – " She was choking on her words, sobbing and gasping for air, " - the soldiers who raped me. I mean, I guess I should be grateful that they didn't put a bag over my head," she said with a self-mocking bitterness.
Vincent stood frozen, feeling completely at a loss. God, he wanted to fix her, to show her she was beautiful, but his demons were chanting again – they had scented blood, and were unwilling to let go of the scent.
You'll make it worse, you're just a monster –
"Yuffie – " he began, having no idea whatsoever to say but feeling he should say nothing. She continued on, heedless of his attempt.
"So tell me, Vince, why I should believe I'm beautiful, when the only touch I've ever felt is one of pain and hate."
She was shaking, and sank to the ground with her back facing him, burying her face in her hands.
You could have saved her from this. You could have saved her from all the pain, all the humiliation, all the hate.
It is all my fault.
I have broken the rose, and it will no longer grow.
"Gawd, I'm sorry Vince, I didn't mean to dump that all on you," she whispered, but he deserved it, deserved it a million times over and for fuck sake why couldn't I save you, why was I so weak –
"I'm sorry I couldn't save you, Yuffie," he murmured, his throat feeling oddly closed as he stared at her broken form, kneeling in the dirt.
"Don't start that again, Vincent," she said, her voice rough as she lifted her head from her hands.
It was all his fault. "If I had found you earlier – "
His words were cut off as she rose rapidly to her feet, spinning and shoving him all in one movement. Surprised and offbalance, he took a quick step backward.
"Don't," she sobbed, and the tears on her face scarred him as they fell. "Don't blame yourself because it's not your fault, Vincent, alright? It's not your fault I got captured, and I had plenty of opportunity to save myself the pain, but I chose not to, and you had a world to save, and I was not important, stopping Omega was important, okay? So stop it."
"Why didn't you just tell them what they wanted to know?" He couldn't believe she hadn't taken the opportunity to stop it, to save herself. He was so unworthy for her to sacrifice herself in such a way for him.
"Because I cared too much, because I was, am, fucking in love with you, and I couldn't betray you again, alright!" she screamed at him.
He stared at her, his thoughts all grinding to a massive halt at her words. He watched with almost a detached fascination as she realized what she'd said, clapping a hand to her mouth in horror.
Then she turned and ran.
He stood where he was, trying to think (trying to breathe) and all he could think was that a confession like that should be ringing in his ears, but all he could hear were echoes of the silence, so loud in the night she had left him behind in.
RUN.
Gigas' voice was a loud, raw bellow and he found himself obeying automatically, chasing the scent of sakura blossoms.