Blood: Chapter 3
Costa sneaky step
Negligent of the evening's unsavoury activities, Vincent found himself occupied with a stack of reports. He was unsure of the exact number, but he estimated it to be somewhere in the teens. They were all on boring, unimportant things, none of which would affect the way the department was run, but begged completion in the name of propriety. None of his colleagues would complete them without chasing, so the task fell to him, as always. What was the point in causing friction over something that would never get done anyway?
Vincent was faced with a choice; fill in reports or go upstairs and make an appearance at the annual Company ball. Reports were so much more agreeable. Quietness and solitude were two rare things in the office, and when they were thrown in front of you in a neat package, why forfeit them?
Sifting through a pile of patrol reports, he found a smile. Alone time was always welcome, and like gold dust. The others he worked with were so rowdy it was impossible to hear yourself think, let alone get a word in edgeways. So for once filing reports was a relaxing thing, Vincent slipping off one loafer and poking around under his desk with his toes in search of the radio. No complaints about his choice of station from friends and work mates would be a novelty.
Of course, good things never happened to Vincent Valentine, the door flying open to crash against the wall, his toes connecting with the heavy oak side of his desk in a fit of startled panic. Trey Henson leant in the doorway, looking somewhat unsteady with a bottle of something in his hand, Marlon J. Kennedy leaning on his back, giggling inanely. Vincent bit back his curses, wriggling in his chair to get his leg free and pull his foot up onto his lap to examine those poor battered toes.
Trey frowned, the look of pain on Vincent's face puzzling him momentarily. Then, like most things in Trey Henson's life, it was forgotten and he tumbled through the door, his long legs tangling in each other to send him over in a forward roll. He landed in a giggling heap against Marlon's desk, blinded by a shock of bright red hair in his eyes. Marlon burst out laughing, leaning hard against the door frame to avoid rolling over also and landing in Trey's lap. Vincent was not amused.
"I take it you are both enjoying yourselves upstairs." He said, shooting a glare from one man to the other.
Trey erupted suddenly, his bottle falling out of his hand with a clink and rolling off to halt under Marlon's foot. "I'm lovin' it!" He shrieked, looking up and spying the ceiling fan, "For the first time in weeks I can forget! AND get totally smashed!"
"It's a good life." Marlon announced, breaking from the door frame and carefully crossing to the leather sofa in the middle of the room where he proceeded to collapse on his back over the arm.
Vincent shook his head, stacking his reports tidily and laying them to one side of his desk, "There's more to life than getting drunk." He tutted, startled as Trey shot up from nowhere to slam his hands down on the desk and lean over him,
"That a fact?"
"Yes."
A challenge had been issued. "Name something."
"Hobbies."
"What if your hobby is getting drunk?" Trey denied Vincent a chance to answer that, turning away and leaping to grab hold of the ceiling fan and hang off the ground, "You have a kid. You'll understand me." At that point the fan broke and Trey landed on one high heel and snapped his ankle round. "Ah shit!" He exclaimed, hopping on his good foot and overbalancing to lean on the sofa back.
"If you don't sit down, you'll hurt yourself."
"It's a bit late for that!" Trey told Vincent in a hiss, clutching his ankle against the pain.
Marlon sat up, unsure what had just happened. Neither of his colleagues saw fit to fill him in, Vincent getting to his feet and wandering round his desk to assist his red-haired friend, Trey grimacing as he massaged his ankle.
"You should have seen this coming."
"Yeah, well we can't all be as perfect as you."
Trey's prickliness was ignored by Vincent, the dark-haired Turk supporting him to sit on the sofa. Mood swings like this were part and parcel of drunk Trey. Unfortunately he got more than a little confrontational in this condition. Best to ignore it.
Marlon got to his feet to give them some space, shaking his head in a vain attempt to get his mousy hair out of his eyes as he made for the kettle. Coffee was what he wanted, and felt he should force feed Trey. Vincent was going to run out of patience soon, and if there was one thing he didn't want to see, it was angry Vince.
Marlon James Kennedy had known Vincent Valentine a long time. They had both joined the Turks at the same time, and had worked together since. Vincent was his best friend, though he was unsure whether or not Vincent thought of him the same way. If he did, then that was just peachy. If not, then no matter. The two of them usually went on assignment together, so they were never starved of each other for long. That suited Marly J just fine.
He leant back against his desk, watching Vincent trying to wrestle Trey's snake skin cowboy boot off in order to examine his ankle. They each had their role as a team, Vincent's (beside sharpshooter of course) was to have a thorough knowledge of first aid. Trey was the down and dirty close quarters muscle, specialising in using his surroundings as his weapon, and himself? Expert in all things knives. Blades, big or small, Marlon knew how to handle them and he wouldn't hesitate to use them. Useless with a pistol, he could take a fly off a wall at forty paces with a knife.
Trey wailed something indecipherable, Vincent growling at him to 'stay still'. That red head was a handful. Apparently, Trey was the eldest son of a particularly rich family in Costa del Sol. Unfortunately for him, he stood to gain nothing from that standing as he was 'the one they didn't talk about', or that was the way he put it anyway.
After being tossed out of the family home, he had stowed away on a cargo ship to the Eastern Continent and made his way to Midgar. There he had got tangled up with a gang and not in a way that would be beneficial to him. They took a sharp dislike to him for reasons known only to himself, and attempted time and again to eliminate him. Not about to be eliminated, Trey took it upon himself to take the gang apart, member by member until he could start house-hunting in peace. News of his ruthless assault reached President Shinra, who at that time was looking for people with that particular mettle. So Trey was given a job as a Turk.
Then there was Vincent-
A sharp whistling sound caught Marlon's attention, looking round to see that the kettle had begun to sing. Some coffee would shut Trey up and give him something else to think about. He was still wailing in the background, obviously trying to get under Vincent's skin with his melodrama. When he had a tubigrip on his ankle, he would be dragged back upstairs and dumped safely in the ballroom with Heidegger. Marlon would then take a couple of cigarettes and find somewhere quiet to sit where he could think and fend off the headache which was threatening him from the far reaches of his brain. Vincent could come too, if he wanted, and was quite possible he would.
"There." Vincent sighed, tying a sock around Trey's ankle, "That wasn't so terrible, was it?"
Trey said nothing, glowering at his friend from under his messy red strands. Vincent rolled his eyes and slid off the sofa, walking briskly over to join Marlon and ask for a splash of milk in his coffee. Trey could do what he wanted, it was up to him.
At that moment Heidegger looked round the door, clearing his throat loudly. "Ah, you're all here. Good. I want you all upstairs now. I want to show you off to the shareholders."
"All due respect, Sir," Vincent shot back, scolding himself for his brusqueness, "I don't think either of my colleagues are in any fit state to be 'shown off'."
"You come up then. They can come once they are in a fit state." Heidegger glanced at Trey, smiling broadly to see him looking so annoyed, "It looks like Mr. Henson could get violent, and we can't have that, can we? Gya ha ha!"
With that, Heidegger left. Trey glared after him, folding his arms tightly across his chest to hold his words in, but failing, "I'll get violent on something all right, you lard-assed piece o'-"
"Straighten up, Marlon." Vincent instructed him, dusting down his own uniform. "Trey can join us when he has had sufficient coffee."
"Trey can join us when he's had suffi-something coffee." Trey mimicked Vincent in a whiny drawl, getting to his feet, stumbling over to Marlon's desk and picking up the coffee jar. "Spoon?"
Marlon handed him a tea spoon and watched, dumbstruck as he began to shovel dry coffee into his mouth.
"Let's leave him to it." Vincent murmured, already making for the door to get away from this display. For some unknown reason it made him sick. Marlon was in total agreement, taking a cigarette from his pocket as he went and lighting up.
Trey watched them go, waiting until the door was closed before slamming the coffee jar down on the table and letting loose a gleeful cackle. "Heh, heh, suckers! I get out of the Turk-whoring every year." Still cackling, he limped over to the sofa, flopped down and put his feet up, crossing his legs at the ankle, fished underneath the sofa for the mother and baby magazine he had stowed there and settled down to read.
(Note: So, subjected to Trey Henson for the first time, and you survived. Congratulations. This one's specially for Mellish for giving me my first review and the encouragement I needed. I'm a little nervous about this one. Enjoy it and tell me what you think.)