"What the hell happened to you?"
He shoots the blond a cryptic glare, but doesn't answer, although he supposes Cloud's reaction is better than Tifa who had shrieked and dropped the platter she'd been carrying. Pancakes and orange juice had flown everywhere.
"Wow," Cloud admires his face with disgusted curiosity as he stalks into the kitchen. "She got you pretty damn good, didn't she?"
Again, he does not respond.
Cloud watches him as he takes a glass from the cupboard and fills it with water.
"You know," he continues, crossing his arms over his broad chest, "I thought she actually might've killed you. It sounded like she wacked pretty you hard last night, but damn... it looks like she took Tifa's five-omelette frying pan to your face."
The blond laughs, but again Vincent frowns.
"She did."
Cloud stops immediately and stares at his comrade incredulously, "Seriously?"
"Twice," Vincent replies flatly, brushing past him to the kitchen table where the newspaper is waiting.
"God damn, Vincent... are you sure you're feeling alright?"
"That reminds me, I will need to have Tifa inspect my shoulders later," he says, leafing idly through this morning's paper.
Cloud doesn't seem to believe what he's just heard as he continues to stare in awe at the ugly black and purple bruising on Vincent's face.
"Fuck, she really did get you good."
That is an understatement, he thinks as he takes a seat at the table and unfolds the newspaper, sipping lazily at his water. The girl damn near beat him to death, and were it not for his perdurable body, she very well could have. He is well aware of his current appearance, so Cloud's reaction seems perfectly reasonable. He is sure he looks worse now than he did ten days ago when he was checked into the hospital, because now that he thinks on it, he would much rather fall faster than the speed of sound from a height of two hundred stories than face an angry Yuffie Kisaragi with one of Tifa's frying pans.
"Cloud, leave poor Vincent alone," Tifa scolds, walking into the kitchen with a fresh breakfast platter. "He doesn't need you gawking at him like an animal in the zoo."
"For fuck's sake, Tifa! Look at him!" Cloud insists, gesturing crudely at his comrade.
Tifa does not seem fazed as she sets the overflowing platter in the middle of the table, eyeing the blond fiercely.
"Cloud, watch your language," she warns, planting her hands on her hips and glaring at him. "The children will be down any minute, and the last thing either of them needs is a mouth like yours."
"But, look at him!" Cloud presses, watching the barmaid take her usual seat at the table. "He looks like Yuffie tried to kill him!"
But Tifa only frowns at him before piling four pancakes on a plate and passing it to Vincent.
"Here you go, Vince. You must be hungry," she says pleasantly, ignoring her husband as Vincent carefully takes the plate and grumbles a quiet 'thank you'.
Exasperated, Cloud throws his hands in the air before stalking into the kitchen to fetch his fourth cup of coffee. Vincent hides a smirk behind his water glass as he takes another sip.
"Tifa."
The martial artist looks up from filling a plate for Cloud.
"Yes?"
Vincent takes another slow sip of water as he continues to flip through the paper.
"I would appreciate it if you would have a look at my shoulders, whenever you should have the time."
Tifa makes a face.
"Ooh, she got you there, too, huh?"
He nods shortly, stumbling upon an interesting article in the Political section.
Tifa clucks her tongue sympathetically and shakes her head before setting Cloud's overflowing plate in front of his seat at the table.
"Sure, Vincent. We'll have a look right after breakfast, okay?"
He nods yet again, listening to the thumps of Cloud's heavy footsteps as he wanders back to the table.
"I swear," he mumbles, sneaking another glance at Vincent's face as he takes his seat, "that brat did always have the worst temper."
"Do you think she'll be down for breakfast?" Tifa asks hopefully, holding up an empty plate.
But Vincent shakes his head, "She has not slept for six days, so I would not think so."
Upon waking this morning, he had found her sprawled out on the old sofa across the room, wrapped in his still wet cloak, snoring softly. For fear that she would catch ill from sleeping in his damp mantle all night, he had sprung from bed and immediately moved her from the soggy couch to his still-warm bed. He had done his best to move her as gently as he knew how, and thankfully she had not woken. Now that he thinks on it, even during their travels in AVALANCHE, the little ninja had always been an incredibly heavy sleeper.
After tucking her safely beneath the covers, he had wasted no time in commandeering the bathroom and having a shower.
When he had wandered back into the room to retrieve his clothes, she had still been sound asleep in the bed, her face buried in the pillow. And now as he sits showered and dressed at Tifa's breakfast table, he hopes she still is.
He turns and looks uneasily at Tifa.
"Has Yuffie been living with Cloud and yourself, Tifa?"
The barmaid nibbles daintily at her own breakfast before answering: "Off and on, yes. Yuffie spends a great deal of her time traveling because of her position in the WRO, so she doesn't stay in one place for too long. But, when she does need a place to stay, more often than not she shows up at our doorstep rather than returning to Wutai. I don't think the situation between her and Godo has improved, so she tends to avoid going home if she can."
He nods, but says nothing as Tifa takes a small sip of her orange juice.
"Either way, because of the Omega incident, Yuffie's been staying with us. Reeve and the WRO have been concentrating on cleaning up the leftovers of Deepground, so he hasn't really needed Yuffie over the past week and a half. I don't really know how much work she'll get at all now. Because Deepground has been eradicated, work in the information gathering department will be in short supply. So, with no real use for her skills, I don't know where she'll go."
"You know she's welcome to stay with us, Tifa," Cloud interjects, rising from the table with his now empty pate.
"Well, of course, I don't mind," Tifa continues, still sipping at her juice thoughtfully. "It's Yuffie I'm concerned about. She would never let herself stay here. She'd think she was mooching. Plus, she'd get bored just sitting around the house. Yuffie is still too young and has too much energy to settle down and stay in one place."
Vincent listens as Cloud rinses off his plate in the kitchen sink before pulling open the dishwasher and placing it inside.
"You know," Tifa says coyly, smiling wittingly at the gunslinger as she continues to make slow progress on her breakfast, "the only reason she stayed here for the last ten days was to wait for you."
He immediately looks away guiltily, but does not respond.
"She thought this would be the first place you would come after you got out of the hospital," she finishes, glancing up at him from beneath her eyelashes.
Again, he does not reply.
He knows.
He fingers the shape of the ring that still waits at the bottom of his pocket and listens distantly as Tifa asks Cloud if he wants the rest of her breakfast.
She doesn't quite know what to think. But, then again, who would? Waking up in a bed beneath sheets that smell distinctly of a certain red-eyed gunslinger and are still warm with the heat of his body would unsettle anyone. However, cuddling into the pillow and breathing in the sweet smell of rain water and pine trees from his hair, she simply could not be happier. She could lay here all day. In fact, she just might. After missing out on six nights of sleep, she has every right not to emerge from this room until noon tomorrow. And the thought of laying here, swathed in the scent of Vincent makes it all the more tempting. But then she realizes she has not yet gotten up to shower, and the thought of her own fragrance overpowering and snuffing out his is enough motivation to get her out of bed and rifling through her pack for a towel and a clean change of clothing.
And as she scurries off to the bathroom, she prays that no one decides to wash the bedding, because then she would have to kill whoever did. So, just for good measure, as she rushes past the staircase toward the bathroom, she shouts downstairs "Don't anyone dare touch my bed!".
In the kitchen she can hear Cloud laughing.
"Does this hurt?"
He winces uncomfortably as Tifa prods the cap of his shoulder inquisitively and wonders if this is truly necessary when it is the entirety of both his shoulders that hurts.
"Yes," he answers shortly, swallowing down a growl of pain as she pokes him yet again.
He wishes she had not forced him to remove his shirt, because that only has only served to make this situation doubly awkward. His lean torso is covered in scars, and having this much skin exposed for the world to see makes him very uncomfortable. Cloud, standing diligently at his wife's side as she works, seems to sympathize with him.
"Damn, Vincent. That one looks like it was pretty nasty," Cloud admires, pointing at the thick, ragged scar that blazes across the gunman's left pectoral.
Vincent grimaces as Tifa finds another tender spot just above his shoulder blade.
"Cardiac enhancements," he replies, forcing a straight face.
Cloud's face twists in revulsion.
"That hurt, didn't it?" Tifa asks as her cool fingers continue to inspect his shoulders.
"Yes," he answers again.
After another moment of unpleasant examination, he feels her hands leave his skin as she stands from her chair.
"Well, Vincent, thanks to all your physical augmentation, nothing is broken from what I can tell," she says cheerily, patting him on the back gently. "However, you do have some serious skeletal bruising on both your shoulders and at both ends of your clavicle. The pain around your shoulder blades is just flesh-related bruising, so nothing too serious. But, you're going to be pretty sore for a little while, so you should just try to take it easy."
He nods, rising from his seat and thanking her quietly as he lifts his shirt from the back of the chair.
"I'll really have to scold her," Tifa says, shaking her head as she eyes the bruising on Vincent's shoulders, "I told her not to beat you up too badly."
Cloud just chuckles and folds his arms, "Shouldn't have told her where you keep your cookware, then. You should have known she'd use the five-fryer."
"She did!? No wonder he looks as bad as he does. I'll really have to get on her now. She could have killed him!"
"I think she almost did," Cloud murmurs humorously as quick footsteps descend the stairs.
"Hey, little girl, are your ears burning yet?" he shouts when she appears on the landing.
"No, but they should be when you've got a mouth that big," she counters snidely as she bounds the rest of the way down the stairs.
She reaches the table in two strides, lifting the last clean plate and smiling gratefully at what remains on the breakfast platter.
"Looks like I caught the tail-end of breakfast."
But as she moves to heap her plate with the leftover pancakes, something else catches her eye. There is a very shirtless, albeit very bruised, Vincent Valentine standing at the other end of the table currently preparing to re-clothe himself. She wants to say something, she needs to say something. Anything. Even a simple 'good morning' would do. But she can think of nothing that sounds remotely intelligent, so instead she goes about getting her breakfast. She hopes he did not notice her staring.
"What the hell did you guys do to each other last night?" Cloud admonishes as she turns away, exposing her bruised cheek. "Your face looks almost as bad as Vincent's."
"What? You don't like it, Cloud?" she teases, sitting down in an empty seat at the table. "Gee, I thought it was kinda sexy."
"Yuffie, are you okay?" Tifa asks worriedly.
"I'm fine, Tifa," the ninja reassures her through a mouthful of pancake.
Cloud, however, scowling irately, does not seem convinced.
"Yuffie, what the hell happened last night? It sounded like you and Vincent were trying to kill each other," he presses.
The shinobi returns his bitter glare, but does not answer and resumes eating her breakfast.
It's none of his business, she thinks. Damn busybody.
"It is nothing you need concern yourself with, Cloud," Vincent says firmly, sliding his shirt over his shoulders.
She notices that he leaves it unbuttoned.
He notices she is staring.
Maybe that is why he neglects to button his shirt.
But he would never admit that, because that is not something he would do. He does not want her to stare. She does not need to see his array of scars and disfigurements. Then he might truly frighten her.
He thinks back on the times she had teased him about donning more casual clothing; tee-shirts, jeans, even shorts and the like. But his reasons for refusing to do so are the same as his reasons for refusing to cut his hair.
Scars, and far too many of them.
They wind and weave up every limb: muscular strengthening. They cris-cross over and around his chest and back: organ replacements and spinal augmentations. They creep all the way up his neck and spread out across his skull like roots: nerve enhancements and cranial reinforcements.
His body is more durable than any SOLDIER's. His strength rivals that of Sephiroth himself. He is as immortal as any god. He is the deadliest weapon, the perfect killing machine.
But he is ugly. A monstrosity. His humanity, his normality, was traded away for this freakish power; a price he never would have paid. That is why he hides his body beneath heavy clothes and his face behind long hair. He does not want the planet to see his shame.
So, then why? Why does he leave his shirt unbuttoned, the mutilated skin of his chest bare before the eyes of his comrades?
Perhaps because he wants her to see him for what he is.
Perhaps because he hopes she will see him for what he is, and maybe, just maybe, she will not care.
But he would never admit that, because that is not something he would do.
He buttons his shirt closed, thanking Tifa for breakfast and seeing to his shoulders. He will follow her advice and try a cure spell on the bruising later. Because even though she had offered, he does not want to trouble Yuffie. Or perhaps he is simply trying to hide again.
But he would never admit that, because that is something he would do.
As he stalks past the breakfast table toward the stairs, he grumbles that he will be laying down in the guest room, and notices she is no longer staring.
She wants to ask about the bruising. She wants to see if he will let her try to fix it. But she is too much of a chicken shit to speak up.
"Yuffie?"
She wants to talk about the wedding. She wants to know if he still intends to keep his promise. She wants to know if he has gotten her a ring. But she is too much of a chicken shit to ask.
"Yuffie?"
She wants to know where he will go after this. She wants to know if she can go, too. She wants to know what his plans are. She wants to know what they are supposed to do. But she is too much of a chicken shit to find out.
"Yuffie!"
Startled, she looks up from the book she hasn't even been reading. Tifa is standing in front of her, one hand on her hip and Marlene clinging to the other.
Yuffie bites her lip. She needs to stay out of her own head for a while.
"Yes?" she answers uneasily.
The martial artist frowns impatiently.
"I just wanted to let you know that Cloud and I are taking the kids over to the old park across town, okay?"
"Okay."
Marlene tugs on Tifa's hand, anxious to leave, but the barmaid ignores her.
"Yuffie, are you sure you're alright? Maybe you should go back to bed."
The ninja laughs, "I'm fine, Tifa. I promise. Just a good book, that's all."
Tifa looks less than satisfied, but as Denzel yells at her from the porch, she rolls her eyes and turns to head for the door, Marlene eagerly leading.
"Vincent is upstairs taking a nap in the guest room," she calls over her shoulder, "We'll be back later this afternoon."
The door slams shut and the shinobi is alone again in the silent bar. She looks back down at her book, and sighs when she belatedly realizes that it is upside down. Very convincing, she thinks.
She doesn't even actually know what this book is about. In fact, it's not even her's.
Looking for a way to pass the hours, she had stolen it from Vincent's pack while he'd been sleeping. But she hasn't even bothered to read the inside cover, and the title is written in a language she does not recognize. She had simply opened it up to a random page and pretended to read while getting lost in her own thoughts instead.
She thinks he will be mad when he finds it gone, but the kleptomaniac in her is an easy scapegoat.
'I couldn't help it,' she will say, 'I just had to.'
And boredom has always very easily gotten the best of her.
She holds the old book close to her and sniffs the yellowed pages. They smell like his cloak: sweet and musky with a hint of gunpowder. The smell is comforting as she sits by herself in the bar's lounge, curled up on the big leather sofa.
She runs a finger gently down the fraying spine and wonders just how old it is, how long he's had it. She turns it over, staring intently at the title, wishing she knew what it meant, that the condition was still such that she could even read it. She frowns.
This book frustrates her.
She opens it up to a page near the middle, listening to the old bindings crack as she does. She thinks she should be more gentle with it, because she doubts Vincent will forgive her if she destroys it further.
She scans the page uninterestedly, not truly bothering to understand what is going on outside of the fact that it's a play. The characters' names are boring and unremarkable, much like, as she's finding, the things they have to say. She passes over a few more pages, but what appears to be a rather dry story about a man and a woman who are so infinitely stubborn that their friends – or maybe their cousins and something about a prince – have to trick them into liking each other is vastly unentertaining. Though it's clearly attempting to be humorous, she thinks that even Vincent could do a better job. It doesn't make any sense. Why would anyone want to read this? But then she remembers whose pack she found it in, and suddenly it all makes sense.
This book frustrates her.
So, to let it know just how much she detests it, she stuffs it roughly between the back of the sofa and the cushion and leaves it there before getting off the couch and heading for the stairs. As she makes her way up to the guest room, she hopes she will not forget it there. Vincent will be very upset if she doesn't return it eventually.
She wants to ask about it. She wants to ask him how and why he has it. She wants to ask him what it means. She wants to ask him if she can keep it. But she is too much of a chicken shit to try.
This book frustrates him.
He has read it far too many times, and he's not quite sure why he bothered to bring it with him because he can easily recite the lines of every character and fill in every plot hole without even opening the book. He knows this because, in his head, he has already finished it and he hasn't even found it yet. He knows this because it is so dreadfully boring he doesn't know why he brought it with him or why he is even bothering to look for it.
He sighs quietly before laying back down on the bed and tucking an arm behind his head. He can still feel the pounding in his brain and the tenderness in his shoulders, and it makes even the simplest activities rather uncomfortable and unenjoyable. He should fetch that restore materia from his pack, but he can't seem to make himself get back up and do so. Besides, the fact that his book has mysteriously vanished does not leave much hope for his other belongings of a similar genre.
His hand moves to his thigh and again he traces the shape of the ring in his pocket. For a moment, he thinks of a wedding. But as he hears her quietly ascending the stairs, he tucks the thought away decidedly resigns himself to staring absently at the ceiling.
"Hey, what makes you think you can hog the bed when you're not even using it?"
She is standing in the doorway, hands on her hips and glowering at him unpleasantly.
"I am using it," he answers blandly, ignoring her irritated scowl.
"You are not. Beds are for sleeping in, not laying on like a lump," she informs him tersely. "But if that's what you want to do, then go find a couch, because I want to take nap. And I can't with you pigging the bed all to yourself."
"If I recall, you slept on the sofa last night."
He is trying to be humorous, but she does not seem amused in the slightest.
"Yeah, only 'cause I felt bad for breaking your face. But, you're obviously feeling better now, so move it."
"My head still hurts a great deal."
She throws her hands in the air and groans loudly.
"Gawd, why do you always have to be such a stubborn pain-in-the-ass!? I haven't slept for almost a week and you can't even let me have the bed for a few hours so I can take a nap!"
"It is not my fault you neglected to sleep for a week."
"Yes it is! I stayed up for seven days straight to wait for you!"
"I did not ask you to."
Shocked, she stares down at him, jaw gaping, for a long moment. She does not know what to say. She had not expected that, although she supposes she should have, because it's true. He hadn't asked her to stay up and wait for him; she'd wanted to.
I did it because I care, she thinks. But she doesn't know why she ever expected him to. Reluctantly, she turns her gaze to the floor, closing her mouth as she does.
"Sorry," she mutters, "you're right."
She starts across the room toward the sofa, avoiding eye contact with the gunslinger at all costs.
"I'll just use the couch. Sorry for bugging you," she adds lamely, flopping gracelessly onto the squishy three-seater.
She rolls over on to her side, facing away from him.
"Why did you wait for me?" he asks.
'Because I care about you, you big dope,' she wants to say. But instead she squeezes her eyes shut tight and hugs herself, missing the comfort of his cloak.
"Because I wanted to see if I was off the hook or not," she lies. "Can't marry someone if they're dead."
She hates herself for saying it. But she hates herself more when he doesn't respond.
She hugs herself tighter and thinks of a wedding.