8. Title: Tactile

Timeframe: Two weeks after "REM".
Rating: T
Spoilers: Maybe Mild DoC, I dunno.
Notes: I seem to be having a love-affair with the theme of dreams in this fic. On another note entirely, this scene—or scenes—was inspired by an episode of The X-Files. I won't spoil it for any fellow fans, but, if you can pick it out, good on you!

"Tactition tactile sense is the sense of pressure perception. In the skin there are different receptors responsible for the detection of light against heavy pressure, as well as brief against sustained pressure. There are also distinct … receptors that cause the feeling of "tension", such as that associated with anxiety..."

The day his nightmares ended was the day hers began.

They were occasionally reoccurring, but, sometimes, it seemed that her mind lived for nothing more than to stir up terrors to visit her in the night. At times, it was worse than when Meteor loomed high, a baleful eye where there once was a moon. Worse than the aftermath of Omega. Worse than waiting for him to wake up. At least, back then, she could look forward to an end, to a change to drive away the dreams. Now there seemed to be no end in sight.

She practically had them memorized.

The most frequent involved her sifting through the ruins of a city that looked suspiciously like Midgar. She would be alone, digging until her hands were like raw meat, and she could feel the sweat running down her face, her heart hammering away in her chest. Yet, no matter how deep she dug, she pulled up nothing more than refuse. Flies gathered. As the sun set in her dream, she would see that she dug not through garbage, but corpses, each one spilling blood into her hands.

That was the one she liked the most. In that dream, she could chalk the images up to nothing more than stress, to half-remembered images of her time with the evacuation Units while the others fought. It was the easiest to put away when morning came.

The worst always involved him.

In the dreams, she'd seen him battered, bruised, poisoned, and otherwise mutilated. Once, she even saw him fall from the sky, landing with horrific precision onto the top of a tree, spitting him all the way through until he hit the ground, in pieces. Another time, she heard the sharp crack of gunfire. It was followed closely by the wet thud of a body hitting the floor. She knew even before the dream revealed the limp and tattered cloak whose blood would be staining the ground.

It all happened before her eyes, though she never felt directly connected. It was as if she watched it all happen from a distance. And, despite the tears streaking her face, all she had to do was hear the sound of his voice, the dull clunk of his boots against the ground, and the nightmares fell away.

And then it all changed. Then the dream came that she could not chase away, no matter how often she heard him speak, breathe. No matter how many times he asked her if she was all right. The shadow of the dream lingered all day, keeping her up when she desperately wanted to sleep. It was too real, too much like the hundreds of feverish "what ifs" that had run through her brain over six months ago.

She is running. The streets are dark and broken around her, and debris clutters her pathway. She leaps over the obstacles, swinging over pits that have opened up as she runs. Her phone is ringing, but she does not answer. It is only a warning to stay away. And that is the one thing she cannot do.

The others come into view now, standing in a ragged circle in a pale pool of light cast through the rubble above. All heads are bowed. No one speaks. It is a grim sight, made grimmer still by the heap of cloth lying at their feet. Their silence and their stillness frightens her. If there were hope, they would be moving, they would be talking with each other.

A figure detaches from the shadows as she nears, holding up large, steadying hands. Light glints off metal, and for a moment, her heart leaps in hope. Then she realizes the metal is silver, not ruddy gold. It lies on the wrong hand. She feels her heart sink.

"Y'don't wanna see this, kid," the grating voice tells her. "It ain't good."

She crashes into him, bouncing off—he is a mountain compared to her. Even so, she grips his shirt, staring up into his face. "I need to see! I need to see if it's him!" she cries. "Let me see him!"

The big head shakes, slowly, the corners of his eyes—darker than hers—crinkle up. He is trying not to break. "It's him… but…"

She doesn't let him finish. She breaks away, tearing towards the circle, calling his name. Behind her, big hands grope for her shoulders, trying to keep her back, keep her from seeing this. Somehow, she avoids his concern and falls to her knees beside the too-still body.

Red eyes are shut. Were he not so still, he would have only been asleep. She is shaking, burying her hands in tangled, black hair, hands desperately seeking the pale throat. Blood covers the body, tracing sticky, dark trails across skin, leather and cloth. She does not stop, not even when it coats her own searching fingers. They find his throat, pressing wildly against it. Her voice is screaming…

"He needs help! Someone help me! Someone help him!"

…even as she tries, unsuccessfully, unaided, to do what she asks others to. She can see, through the panic, the unnatural angle of his head, the contortion of his torso. Something is very wrong, something not even medicine can fix. He lies too twisted to be pieced together again.

"He needs help!"

Strong, feminine hands pry her away, and press her against a chest that smells of nicotine. She struggles, but the pilot now has his arms around her in an embrace he would never offer otherwise. He will not let her look, even when she pounds her fists against him, screaming.

"Shut up, Yuffie," he says to her, voice so thick she cannot tell if he is angry or grieving. "Shut the hell up."

She keeps screaming. Something has to drown out the sound of the guilt, of the others speaking in hushed tones over the body. Something has to keep her mouth from saying…

"If I were here sooner, I could have helped him! I could have saved him!"

The arms around her tighten, as if trying to drown out the sound of questions. What do we do with the body? Should we bury it? She wants to curse the others, tell them the body is not an "it". He's still there, still waiting to be saved.

"It's my fault."

That was always when she woke, biting hard on her lip to keep the dreams' cries from crossing into waking reality.

Today was no different, save that the inn had only one room available—ironically enough. She couldn't have had any other dream that night, no sir. It absolutely had to be the dream that left her pale and shaking, face pressed hard into the pillow for fear of opening her eyes to find the nightmare had not ended. She lay as still as possible. The next bed was visible out of the corner of her eye, its occupant curled on his side, facing her direction. Frantic, she looked away.

He's asleep, stupid, she told herself. It's not even morning! He's asleep! Get over yourself!

Her lungs informed her that if she held her breath any longer, she would suffocate. If she inhaled, she knew, the scream would not stay down. Slowly, she took a breath. It hitched in her throat. The sound froze her in place, even as it shuddered out in exhalation. Surely, he'd heard. However, no such acknowledgement came, and she relaxed a hair.

But with relaxation came the sobs. She flattened her face into the sheets, the pillow, trying to smother the sound. Stupid! Stupid dream, the rational part of her mind said. It's just a dream! I know it's just a dream! It doesn't mean anything…! Go back to sleep!

The tears didn't stop. Any other dream would have her back to sleep in minutes. This one… this one refused to be chased away. It wanted her focus, wanted her to remember. She held her breath, but it only left her gasping softly for more air to cry with. Somehow, she had to calm down. He wasn't supposed to see her like this. She was supposed to be the joyful one, the spark of light. What would he think to see her worrying over something as ridiculous as a dream? If she didn't shut herself up soon, she'd find out exactly what he thought…

A squeak of bedsprings betrayed him, stopping her heart in the same instant.

"Yuffie…?" His gravely voice was blurred with sleep. "What's wrong—"

"I'm fine!" she said quickly. "Just… just a dream. I… I'll get over it."

Two thuds as his feet touched the floor. "Dream?" She could almost hear the raised eyebrow. "How bad?"

"Who said it was bad?"

The floor creaked as he moved. "Would you be crying if…" he paused. "it were about something good?" His voice came from above her—he was standing.

"Go back to bed, Vince," she said. Her voice sounded weak. "It's just a bad dream, okay?"

Her bed creaked as new weight settled at its foot. Surprised, she sat up, meeting red eyes. As she'd thought, he had an eyebrow raised at her. He sat loosely, elbows resting light atop his knees, every lanky inch of him so much more alive than the twisted thing of her nightmare, that she felt her chest constrict. This was real. This was no dream…

This isn't a dream… right…? What… what if it is…?

It was suddenly hard to see through the mist in her eyes. She didn't see him hold out his hand to her, trying to offer some form of comfort. All she saw was his image fading from sight. Seeing him was not enough. Hearing his voice was not enough. You could see and hear in dreams, after all.

Before she realized what she was doing, she had thrown herself at him, squeezing tightly when her arms wrapped around him.

They ended up on the floor, a confused, tearful tangle of limbs. He soon righted them, though he was unable to pry her arms out of their stranglehold. Still in tears, she wobbled crazily. He coaxed her into lying down again, though she could only do so if he sat beside her, allowing her to grip his hand. Sitting cross-legged, he leaned himself back against the pillows, sensing a long stretch until morning. She propped her head against his thigh, tracing the shallow lines in his hand with one finger, as if to memorize them.

"Sometimes," he ventured. "it helps to talk…"

She shook her head, for once, the mute.

"What, then, do you suggest?" he asked. Her touch was feather-light, but he found himself nearly wishing she'd stop. It was distracting.

In answer, she rolled over, pulling his arm around her shoulders like a blanket. For the second time that night, he found himself sprawled across her. He gave a few, confused, tugs to loosen her grip, but ultimately gave up. It wasn't worth fighting, really. Instead, he propped himself up on the claw, lying on his side, watching her fall into sleep and waiting for morning.

Sometime, in the dark before dawn, she half-woke. With a sigh, she turned her head into his chest, lulled back to sleep by the familiar sensation of his leathers against her skin.