It will not be an easy thing to explain. She is really quite perturbed by the whole prospect. She had not expected him to agree, and now she almost wishes he hadn't. She would be a liar if she pretended she had no desire to marry Vincent Valentine. But she would a liar of the worst kind if she pretended she were allowed to. She will need to mention that to him some time. She wonders what she will do when she returns home, what she will say to her father.
Since childhood, she has been searching for a means of eluding her heritage, and now that the perfect opportunity has at last presented itself, she finds herself shying away from it. She is not nearly as brave as she makes herself out to be. The throne of her country holds no appeal to her, nor does the arranged marriage that accompanies it, and Vincent has unwittingly offered her the perfect loophole. But she shudders to think on the consequences of refusing her country's traditions. She knows she doesn't have the guts to face her arranged marriage, but the courage required to confront the repercussions of purposely eliminating said eligibility is also sorely lacking. Maybe she will get lucky and Vincent will take her up on her offer and refuse to follow through. But she would honestly rather he didn't.
For a brief moment, she pauses and thinks of a wedding.
"Yuffie?"
She looks up disinterestedly.
Tifa eyes her curiously from across the bar, and for a moment, she worries that the inconspicuous little band on her ring finger has been noticed. She instinctively moves her hands into her lap where the martial artist cannot see them.
"Is everything alright? You seem a little distracted," Tifa continues concernedly.
"Just tired, s'all," she replies.
She hasn't slept a wink in the last five days, after all.
Tifa seems less than convinced as she rests a hand on her hips and furrows her brow. But Yuffie only shrugs, so she lets the matter drop.
"Yuffie?" she tries again after the ninja looks away.
"Hn."
She does not bother to look up. Tifa smiles at the young shinobi's quiet grunt.
"You know, you sound more and more like him every day. It's a little scary," she teases.
Yuffie only shoots a crooked grin in her friend's direction before gazing absently out the window once again.
"Is that what you wanted to tell me?" she replies cynically.
Tifa volleys back the same sardonic grin, "No, I was actually wondering if you had spoken to him since he checked out of the hospital."
The kunoichi does not answer immediately.
No, she thinks, he hasn't. Not once. She then realizes that she hasn't even the slightest inkling as to where he is. She foolishly hopes he is at home in his apartment in Kalm, where he should be. But, of course, she knows he isn't. Vincent Valentine is very rarely ever where he should be.
She has thought many times about calling him herself, but the likelihood of him bothering to answer his phone is not high. And seeing her name on the caller ID would certainly not improve said likeliness. And despite technically holding the title of his fiancée, she doesn't want to be a bother. A part of her wonders if he's paid a visit to the jeweler's yet, although she finds herself growing fond of the tiny silver band. A great big rock on her finger would be just a touch too bold for her current predicament. Because she isn't quite ready to share her little secret yet, especially when she still has an infamously short-tempered father to inform and is not yet prepared, and likely never will be, to do so.
She wonders again if he actually means to keep his promise. The little silver band certainly makes her hope so.
"No," she answers at last, "I haven't."
Tifa frowns.
"Do you think he's back in Kalm?"
Yuffie sighs and slumps forward before grumbling a muffled 'I don't know' into her arms.
She wishes she did.
As he turns the band over in his fingers he wishes he had remembered it at the time. How careless of him. He sits in silence on his bed and wonders again why he even said yes in the first place. Her hand is not his to take in matrimony, and he would be a liar if he pretended he wanted it to be. But he would be a liar of the worst kind if he pretended he wouldn't take it anyway. Because as messy a situation as this is, in his mind, if they are really going to do this, they are going to do it right. If only he had a clue as to how he is supposed to propose this to her father. The lord of Wutai will not be like to relinquish his princess and sole successor, especially to a man of Vincent Valentine's caliber, and especially when he is sure that aforementioned princess is already trapped within the makings of an arranged marriage.
What has he gotten himself into, he thinks.
He sits in silence on his bed and turns the band over in his fingers, staring out the window. Fireworks explode in the darkened sky and music rises from the streets. Kalm is celebrating again.
He knows he should call her, but he can't make himself pick up his phone and dial her number. He stares at the intricate silver ring that rests in his palm. He hopes she will like it, because it cost him more gil than he wants to admit to have it made, not to mention that his long barrel was now a quarter of an inch shorter. Custom-made wedding rings did not come cheap. He turns it over, watching an engraved Cerberus wind its way around the band. He will need to think of a clever means of proposing.
He breathes heavily and leans back against the headboard.
If only she'd never asked him that silly question.
"Are we going to die?"
If only she hadn't started crying.
The image of her sobbing into his cloak makes him cringe.
If only she hadn't begged him to promise.
"Please, please promise me you'll do it."
If only she hadn't brought up dying.
"But I can die happy, too, just knowing that you said yes."
If only she hadn't looked up at him with those sad stormy eyes.
He thinks of her face as she looks up from the corner of his cloak, eyes red and nose running.
If only he hadn't wanted so badly to give her a reason to fight, to live.
If only that reason hadn't been him.
He closes his eyes, ignores his cell phone vibrating on the end table, and thinks of a wedding.
She is not surprised in the least when he does not answer. He doesn't even have a personalized voice mail system, so she does not bother to leave a message, since she doubts he listens to them anyway. She wonders if he really even knows how to operate his phone, aside from taking incoming calls. She doubts he ever wanted to learn. He has always been stubborn that way.
However, none of this changes that she would kill just to hear his voice at this moment. She curses his lack of initiative and obstinate disposition.
"Vincent Valentine, you big dope."
She frowns at her cell phone sitting silently on the counter in front of her.
"You'd better be okay."
It is just as dark and quiet outside as it is in Tifa's bar. She is growing tired of waiting up all night every night, listening for her cell phone to ring or the door to creak when it opens. But the same silence hangs unbroken tonight as it has every night before. She wonders if he thinks of her, sitting up every night with a shot glass, waiting for him. After all, he promised. He has to come home sometime. He promised her. She glances at the dainty silver band on her finger and thinks of a wedding. But she does not smile. Maybe she shouldn't have taken him seriously, but when she thinks on it, it's exceptionally difficult to take Vincent Valentine any other way. The word 'light-hearted' is very rarely a part of the man's vocabulary. But what else is she truly supposed to think when he fixes her with those blazing crimson eyes and that gentle smile that makes him so impossibly beautiful she can barely think in the first place? How can she take him in any other manner than seriously?
However, a part of her thinks she should have expected this. Vincent has always been one to take his sweet time, to think things through thoroughly, to make sure he knows exactly what he is about do. She only hopes he doesn't think this through too much. He might just realize what a fool he's been and change his mind. And then she would be left heartbroken in every sense of the term. And she would rather face an angry Godo Kisaragi who has just been informed that his only daughter has been illegally married than cope with the pain of Vincent's rejection.
She is at a loss for what to do. There is too much for her to think about by herself. She wishes he were here to help her plan, help her try to deal. She wishes he were here to smile at her the way she loves and hold her hand. She wishes he were here just so she could inhale the faint smell of cinnamon and desert dust that clings to his skin.
She throws back another shot and stares out the window. She thinks it's a good thing that everyone else is asleep.
They need to talk. He knows this.
He should have called her by now. He knows this.
She's been waiting on him for the last six days. He knows this.
She will be absolutely infuriated when he shows up at the door Seventh Heaven. He knows this.
He will sustain some form of bodily damage at her dainty little hands. He knows this.
She will lose control of her temper and end up putting them in a highly inappropriate situation. He knows this.
And to be quite frank, he dreads every last bit of it. She will be perfectly pleasant when he calls, but will attempt to forcefully separate his head from his neck when he walks through the door. She will throw a few good punches and he will end up with a few equally good bruises. He is not particularly enthralled with the idea of sitting down to talk, and he does not even want to think about the latter most event. Because Yuffie has always been a little too convincing, and he has always been a little too soft, and this deadly combination is what has trapped them in this situation in the first place. He shudders to think about what else he might give in to if she throws another of her teary little glances his way. In that sense, the little ninja almost frightens him. Until their current predicament has been thoroughly sorted out, he must restrain himself from making any further promises. Because while his mind has already been made up for him, she could still back out if she wished, and she very well might. As long as he has known Yuffie, she has always been indecisive, especially when the decision is a difficult one.
"Yuffie," he breathes, "I hope you have thought about what it is you are getting yourself into."
He scans his lonely apartment and gently touches his thigh, feeling the shape of the ring resting at the bottom of his pocket. Yes, he has all he needs. He lifts his phone off the desk as he heads for the door.
1 missed call.
He slips out the front door, shutting it quietly behind him and listening to make the lock catches. It does.
The heels of his boots click on the stairs as he takes his time descending them. He is in no hurry to reach Edge by midnight. He hates to make her lose another night of sleep, but unfortunately this is a conversation that he is not willing to have in the presence of others. She will understand.
1 missed call.
He knows.
She is going to kill him.
But not before she launches something very large, very heavy and very solid at his pretty head the moment he walks through the door, whenever that is going to be. He has neglected to return her phone call as of yet, and now that the days number six, almost seven, her patience is dwindling. And to make things worse, or better depending on you were, she has recently learned the location of Tifa's cookware, so when he does come home, she will be sure that his face makes the acquaintance of the bottom of the barmaid's largest frying pan.
It is the afternoon of the sixth day, and she still sits on the same stool at the bar, the same shot glass sitting on the counter in front of her, and fumes silently.
The nerve, she thinks. Even after six and a half days, he can't bother to call.
She is going to kill him.
She is going to hug him so tightly that the very life is squeezed out of him, and then she is going to kill him.
She is going to scream, and cry, and punch him, and tell him how much she missed him and what an insensitive idiot he is. She is going to yell at him that she hates him and that he can't imagine how worried she's been, and then she is going to kill him.
And she wonders darkly just how long he is planning on making her wait.
At the sound of soft footsteps, she looks up as Tifa approaches her with a dark bottle in her hand. The bar mistress smiles and holds up the bottle.
"Need another shot, Yuffie?"
The ninja nods thankfully and pushes the empty glass across the counter. Tifa continues to grin knowingly as she uncorks the bottle and fills the shinobi's glass with the dark liquor. Once the shot glass is full, she sets the bottle down beside her on the counter and pushes the glass back to it's owner before leaning forward onto her elbows and fixing her friend with a pointed smile.
Yuffie throws the shot back in one gulp.
"You haven't heard from him yet, have you?"
"He still hasn't called me back," she answers bitterly.
Tifa takes her shot glass and fills it again, smiling sympathetically at the Wusheng princess.
"Try not to worry too much," she counsels, pushing the glass back toward her, "he'll come home."
"I know," Yuffie says, downing the shot in another quick swig, "I just wonder sometimes if he ever thinks about the sleep I'm losing staying up to wait for him."
She shoots Tifa a sardonic smile and slides the empty glass back across the counter.
The martial artist volleys back an equally cynical grin.
"Last one," she warns, filling the glass yet again and handing it back to her.
"Alright, alright," the ninja complies, sipping daintily at this one instead.
Tifa only laughs quietly and walks around the outside of the bar to rest a hand on her friend's shoulder.
"You know, you really should take a shower sometime before he comes home."
"Are you trying to say that I smell?"
"Maybe."
"Thanks, Tifa. I appreciate your honesty. I'll go drown myself in the bathtub now, if you don't mind."
Both laugh, but say nothing. Tifa stares out the window. Yuffie stares at her shot glass. She wishes she knew when he'd come home.
"I know you don't feel like he does, but he does think about you, you know," Tifa says gently after a moment. "I'd be willing to bet that the first thing he says to you when he comes back is 'I'm sorry'. He's probably spent all week moping around and feeling bad about it."
The martial artist strokes the ninja's short hair affectionately, "He'll come around."
Yuffie gives her a half-hearted smile and traces the edge of her glass with a finger. She watches as Tifa yawns and stretches her arms above her head before fixing her with a crooked grin.
"When he does come home, try not to beat him up too badly. And if you know what's good for you, you won't dent any of my pots, or wake up Cloud if it's the middle of the night."
"I'll remember that," Yuffie replies with mild humor, although she doubts that she will manage to avoid either.
She is going to kill him.
He ponders this unfortunate fact as he passes through the outer city limits of Edge. At shortly after one o'clock in the morning, the swiftly recuperating city is dark and quiet, just as it had been during his previous visit. And ironically enough, it's even decided to rain.
The moisture drenches his hair and soaks through the heavy fabric of his cloak. His boots click against the wet pavement as he splashes carelessly through puddle after puddle. It's a shame he will not even look presentable when she attempts decapitate him, and he had just showered this morning before leaving.
He thinks he should have called, but he doubts it would have changed anything. She is awake and waiting for him.
Idly, he fingers the shape of the ring in his pocket, as though it gives him some kind of comfort. She will probably throw it, along with numerous other solid objects, at his head. He only hopes that Tifa has locked up all the kitchen knives and liquor bottles. Having a bottle broken over one's head is not a pleasant experience, he thinks, recalling his days of drinking as a Turk.
He stalks past familiar buildings and streets, hunching further into his cloak, as if to escape the rain. But he is already so thoroughly drenched that he can feel the water beginning to weigh down his cloak. He wishes he was not going to arrive and have to fend off a rabid, nineteen-year-old little girl who just so happened to be a veteran shinobi. He would much rather go straight upstairs and take another shower, but he has already given up all hope of that occurring.
He has even thought about what he will say to her, although he doubts he will actually get the chance to say very much. He's preparing himself for the worst.
He touches the ring yet again out of idleness. He's not far now.
A part of him longs to see her. He has found himself missing her bright smile and cheerful disposition. And her laugh, her laugh that sounds like the wind through a little silver chime on a summer evening. But her smiles and wind chime laughter will disappear when he walks through the door of Seventh Heaven, and this knowledge makes him want to turn around and walk all the way back to Kalm. But he can see the front of the bar now, and he knows it is too late. If he turned around now, she might really kill him, instead of just beating him senseless.
His steady pace does not slow as he approaches the front door. But when at last he reaches the front steps and the door handle is within arm's reach, he hesitates. He breathes deeply and closes his eyes for a moment.
And he opens the door.
His mako enhanced eyes adjust easily to the dim light of several small candles that have been scattered around the bar, and he spots her immediately. She is sitting at the bar, her back to him, cell phone and empty shot glass sitting next to her on the counter.
As discreetly as possible, he lets the door swing shut. She already knows he is here. But she makes no movement, and says nothing.
He stands in the doorway for a long moment, dripping water from every appendage until a good-sized puddle has accumulated at his feet. Tifa will not be happy about that, he thinks.
Again, he fingers the shape of the ring in his pocket.
"Welcome home."
She is swivelled halfway around on her barstool, staring at him over her shoulder. She doesn't smile.
It is a struggle to keep a straight face. Absolutely drenched, hair and clothes dripping, he is still so painfully beautiful. The moonlight that pours through the window glints off his sopping ebony hair in all shades of blue and purple and lights his elegant face. The glow of his pale skin is a striking contrast against his long sable hair. He too, wears an expression of apathy, but his thin lips and defined jaw makes it seem far more natural. And as his garnet eyes stare her down, she wonders how he can be so agonizingly gorgeous. It takes all her strength to choke down a smile and remember that she is supposed to be angry.
His only response is her name in the low, velvety tenor of his voice.
"Yuffie."
She looks as she always does, but it is blatantly obvious that she has gone far too long without sleep. She is beyond exhausted.
She still wears her black and purple belly shirts and citrus orange short shorts. She's even neglected to kick off her boots and stockings.
He thinks she has been away from the Wusheng beaches for a bit too long because the warm glow of her tan is fading, or maybe she just really hasn't slept at all in the last six days. Even her normally slender figure seems to have suffered from her lack of sleep. He can easily count the ribs that peek out from beneath the hem her shirt. And her stormy eyes, always so full of vigor, seem dull and heavy.
She looks away after a moment, back at the empty shot glass that sits in front of her.
"I'm glad you're home," she says at last. "It's been almost a week, you know. I was really worried."
He traces the shape of the ring his pocket.
"I know."
"You never returned my call," she continues.
"I know," he echoes.
"I missed you."
She looks up at him again and he struggles to not look away.
"I'm sorry," he answers.
A bitter smile curves her lips as she lifts her shot glass.
"You know, you always apologize for the strangest things."
"Yuffie."
"That's okay, though. I suppose I should just be grateful that you came back, and that you're sorry at all," she says, ignoring him. "Right?"
He watches uneasily as she slides off the barstool and begins to walk toward him.
"But really, Vincent," she continues, suddenly cheerful, "would it kill you to call? Would it have killed you to pick up your cell phone and call me? Even just to let me know where you were, or to tell me that you were alright?"
"Yuffie," he murmurs but she doesn't seem to hear him.
"Seriously, how hard is it, Vincent, to just call me and tell me if and when you're coming home? Don't you ever think about how much it worries me when you just up and disappear like that?"
She is very quickly losing her temper and he realizes this.
"I hate it, Vincent. Do you even realize that I haven't slept at all for last the six days? I haven't slept, I haven't eaten, I've hardly even moved from that stupid barstool, except one time every morning to take a freaking shower!"
"Yuffie," he says firmly, "You need to calm down."
"Gaaawd," she drawls, "You don't have any idea, do you? You're so goddamn selfish, you know that? Always moping around, wallowing in self-disgust, making the rest of us sick with worry and you don't even care!"
"Yuffie," his voice is more commanding as he gently grasps her shoulders, but she wriggles away easily.
"Oh, shut up, Vincent!" she snaps, stepping away from him, "Just shut up! Gawd, I hate you!"
He is not prepared for her to lift a frying pan that is three times the size of her own head from one of the nearby tables. But as he moves to stop her, she snarls and swings around, striking the left side of his face with underside of the pan. The collision sends him staggering backwards into the door, clutching his left temple and growling in agony. His ears are ringing and through clouded eyes he can make out the shape of her tensed in front of him and glaring dangerously, the heavy pan weighing down her arms.
"Yuffie," he chokes.
She lashes out again – for the right half of his face this time – without bothering to let him finish and the only intelligible sound that passes his lips is a hoarse cry as the bottom of the pan crushes his right cheekbone.
"Damn you, Vincent!" she is screaming, tears pouring down her face as she jumps back only to swing out and strike him over his left shoulder. But the lack of a sickening crunch when the pan meets bone is infinitely disappointing and she hisses bitterly at her failure.
It is a struggle for him to remain standing now, holding his head in both hands and leaning against the door for support. He knows he is no longer in a position to defend himself because he certainly cannot shoot her – nor does he currently possess the visual capacity to do so even if he wished to – and he is so disoriented that attempting hand-to-hand combat with her would be futile. Speed and irrational anger; there has never been a more fatal combination. He thinks maybe he will die.
"I hate you!" she shrieks, "You stupid, selfish bastard! Why!? Why dammit!?"
He is motionless as she sidesteps and strikes him a fourth over the opposite shoulder with twice the force. It sickens her. He isn't trying in the slightest and it sickens her.
"Why!?" she shouts again, "WHY–WON'T–YOU–HIT–ME–BACK!?"
She hesitates this time, and he can see it as she squeezes her eyes shut before swinging a fifth time for his head. But, as she does, overwhelmed by rage and the pain, he blocks the blow and rips the pan out of her hands to throw it across the room. Her eyes fly open and before she has even realized what's happened, in a moment of cruelty, he snarls viciously and with all his strength backhands her across the face.
The force throws her entire body aside and she hits the floor in a heap with a strangled cry.
He glares down at her, teeth bared and eyes blazing, growling under his breath. She doesn't think she has ever been more terrified of him.
It is then that she notices the little river of blood oozing from his left eyebrow. She is even more shocked to see ugly purple bruising that is enveloping both his temples and cheeks. She belatedly wonders if she broke his cheekbones. She reaches up to gingerly touch her own cheek which she is positive looks no better than his.
"Dammit, Yuffie," he curses her, grimacing as he touches his hand to his right temple.
He falls back against the door with a heavy thud and cradles his head in both hands. He can barely see, and the ringing in his ears is so loud it makes him sick. His shoulders are burning so badly he can barely continue supporting his head.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" he demands, looking down at her from between his fingers.
For some bizarre reason, the question seems entirely absurd in her head.
"Me!?" she spits at his feet, "What the hell is wrong with you, you stupid prick!"
He ignores her, feeling dizzy as he stumbles past her to the bar where he leans one arm on the counter and continues to support his head in the other hand.
"Did you hear me?" she says angrily, turning to look at him over her shoulder.
Her shrill voice hurts his ears and he winces at the discomfort.
"I did not attack you with a thirty pound frying pan," he states simply, his face twisting in agony.
"You slapped me! You fucking backhanded me!" she shouts back, seething visibly.
"You told me to," he replies flatly.
She opens her mouth to counter, but then she realizes what he's actually said and immediately snaps it closed, glaring at him bitterly. Damn him for having to be right. He can make out the look of realization spreading across her face and he manages a feeble smirk.
She looks across the room to where he has thrown the pan and the guilt begins to settle. She could have killed him. Slowly, reluctantly, she picks herself up off the floor and ambles over to where he stands at the counter.
"Vincent?"
"Hn."
Her cool fingertips touch his cheek tenderly as she gently turns his head to look at her. His cheeks and temples are purple and sickly-looking. At the time, she hadn't realized how hard she'd struck him. She reaches up to touch the thin stream of blood that oozes thick and dark from his split eyebrow, but he flinches and she pulls away, her own fingers now sticky with blood. She rubs the digits together and looks at her feet.
"I'm sorry," she mumbles pathetically.
She feels his own bloodied fingers against her bruised cheek, but she doesn't look back.
"I believed you would kill me," he explains gently, "I struck you only in self-defense."
She nods. She knows this.
Meekly, she brushes his still wet bangs out of his eyes and dabs at the blood with the back of her hand.
"Are you going to be okay?" she asks quietly, carefully blotting the split skin.
He chuckles weakly, "I am not sure. My vision has yet to fully return."
A tiny gasp escapes her lips. She hadn't stopped to think about what two blows of that caliber to the head might do to a person's eyesight.
"You're not blind, are you!?" she cries, waving a hand frantically before his eyes.
"No, Yuffie," he assures her blandly, pushing her hand down, "I am not blind. My vision is just somewhat blurred."
"Oh gosh," she worries, "I'm so sorry! I didn't stop to think about that!"
He smiles sardonically, "I do not think you stopped to think at all."
She frowns and punches him playfully in the shoulder, to which he does not take kindly. She immediately claps her hands over her mouth to stifle another gasp as he groans in discomfort.
"Sorry," she whispers as he nurses his shoulder, hissing in agony, "I forgot about that."
He listens as she scurries off into the kitchen and yanks open the fridge. She rummages around inside for a moment or two before he hears her shut the door again with an audible thud. How in the name of the planet they have not woken anyone, he does not know. She scuffles back into the bar and is back at his side in an instant, pressing a cold pack to his throbbing shoulder.
"Thank you," he murmurs as she holds it there.
"How's your vision doing? Can you see any better?" she asks, sweeping the hair out of his face yet again.
"Things are not quite as blurry. I can recognize the greater part of your facial features," he replies, gazing at her intently for emphasis.
She can immediately see there is a difference. His scarlet eyes are shaky and unfocused, their pupils far too small for the current lighting. To make matters worse, the bruising on the sides of his face is getting worse.
"You're not going to die, are you?" she blurts out, suddenly afraid that she might have actually killed Vincent Valentine.
But he only chuckles as he gently touches his right temple, "I do not think so. I believe my brain enhancements may have spared me any severe cranial damage. However, I would be willing to bet a fair amount of gil that both ends of my collar bone and possibly my shoulder blades have all suffered minor fractures or bruising."
She glares at him critically, as though she isn't sure she believes him, but he only sighs quietly and rolls his eyes.
"In other words, I will simply be sore for a few weeks."
Her expression does not lighten.
"Do you promise?"
"Yes, Yuffie, I promise."
"Really?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, Yuffie, I am sure."
"Positive?"
He begins to look mildly irate, "Yes."
"Okay, okay. I just wanted to make sure, that's all."
"Yuffie?"
"Hm?"
"I think it would be wise for me to lie down."
"Oh, right!" she replies frantically, "I'll show you up to the guest bedroom! Gosh, Vince, I'm sorry, I just–,"
He cradles his head in his hands and shoots her a rather irritated glare, "Yuffie, please. Normally I find your chatter quite enjoyable, but at the moment, I am in far too much discomfort to do so."
He watches her mouth take the shape of a perfect 'o' before she snaps it closed. Carefully taking his hand, she mouths an apology.
"Do you need me to help you get up the stairs?" she offers quietly, leading him toward the staircase.
He staggers after her slowly, still grasping his head in one hand.
"I suppose we will see when we get there," he answers cynically.
He does. So she drapes one arm over her shoulder and leans his strong body against hers, and slowly, step by step, they make their way to the top of the staircase. Once they do, she pauses and lets him steady himself before guiding him down the last stretch of hallway to the spare bedroom where she carefully sits him down on the bed and helps him undo the buckles of his cloak and remove his boots. She even takes care to pull off his glove and gauntlet and unstrap his gun holster. When at last he is sitting on the edge of the bed in just his pants and shirt, she helps him get under the covers and lays the cold pack on his forehead.
She sits down next to him, all tucked in, and after a moment asks, "How are you feeling?"
"Better," he answers quietly. "My vision has almost returned to normal."
"That's good," she says with a timid smile. "Maybe tomorrow morning I can try and get rid of some of the bruising on your face. And you should probably let Tifa take a look at your shoulders, too," she adds sheepishly.
"That would probably be for the best," he agrees, his voice growing thicker and deeper with exhaustion.
"But, right now, I'd say you'd be best off just getting some sleep, 'kay?
He does not respond, but instead lets his eyes close and she listens as his breathing pace evens.
It is then that she is suddenly painfully aware of the aching in her left cheek and the feeling of drowsiness creeping over her. Taking one last glance at the man sleeping next to her, still abnormally beautiful despite the bruises she's given him, she stands up and stumbles over to the old leather couch on the other side of the small guest room. She flops gratefully onto the squishy old sofa, burying her nose in the cushion and basking in the faint smell of Cid's cigarettes, Cloud's cheap beer, Tifa's perfume, and the deadly combination of cinnamon and desert dust.