Nothing for this one except some graphic/semi-graphic descriptions of wounds. Enjoy!

Cid had arrived home Thursday, bleeding and bruised, supported by Aerith. He had gone to sleep then and woken up some hours later to an empty, unpleasantly bright apartment. A shaky excursion to the kitchen led him to notice a fairly small box on the table. He had moved it from his doorway Wednesday night without a second thought; he was surprised he hadn't tripped over the thing. He'd resolved to take a closer look at it later, but only just now getting around to that, so busy had his week been. Cautiously, he approached the box. Why would anyone leave…

Wednesday had been his birthday. Had he been so stressed, so consumed by the ongoing strife around him, that he had forgotten his own birthday? Someone, then, must have remembered. Prob'ly Shera. Suddenly excited despite his exhaustion, like a child, Cid sat down and performed a long-practiced paradox as he carefully tore into the package. Inside, he found a rose, and he stared at it for a while before picking it up to read the tag. Hands shaking as the note's message sank into his consciousness, he carried the rose to the sink, filled a plastic cup with water, and set it inside, wishing for a vase or something that better suited it. Taking his seat again, he looked at it. Red. A red rose, red for blood, for love…for Vincent. The note, which he'd slipped off the stem, still lay on the table. It read simply, "Happy Birthday, V.," but the fact that Vincent had remembered –and it must be from Vincent, just must be- was enough to warm Cid's heart and put the hope back into it. Red, for love, and a single rose to promise that there would be no other.

Still in the box sat a chain with dog tags. He searched over and over for engraving of some kind, but found none. A blank slate, then; an empty page on which to write their love. He would, in time, but for now he carried them back to bed with him, search for food ended with the discovery of some crackers. Cid slipped them over his neck slowly and fell asleep clutching them in one hand after taking another over-the-counter pill for the pain.

When next he woke, it was late Friday afternoon, and he was exhausted, but didn't dare call off his meeting with Vincent lest he miss the chance to see him for another two weeks –or four, perhaps, if Vincent collected on the extra mako, Cid thought, but then remembered that he had instead traded it for a kiss. It was that kiss that was on his mind as he drifted back to sleep, shirt tossed to the floor and pants halfway off his legs. The doorbell rang some hours later...and then rang again and again and once more and finally, Cid woke. "What the-?" He stood, stumbled on his pants, kicked them off completely, and stiffly shuffled to the door as quickly as possible. His glasses had been broken the night before, and their current taped-together state made it difficult to focus, so he simply set them aside. Upon opening the door, a look of shock momentarily crossed his face but was replaced quickly with the same grogginess he had shown before. "Vincent..." he started, smiling in relief despite the way the gesture pulled at his split lip, "hey. C'mon in. M'sorry, were ya waitin' long? I went an' fell asleep. I don't have dinner t'offer ya this time, but Lazard sent s'more o' that wine over if'n y'wanna help yerself. Aw, hell, Vincent, you don't look any better'n I feel. I really shoulda called off t'day, huh?" he asked, then shook his head. "No, I needed t'see ya. C'mere an' sit with me; let's hold each other a little while. We don't hafta talk about it.

Tseng had tried to get him to call off the meeting with Highwind, but Vincent had refused. He had refused because not only had he made a deal, and he never backed out of a deal, but also right now he needed to see Cid. He needed the calming effect the man had on him more than anything. That morning, Vincent had carefully dressed in one of his softer suits, mindful of the deeper cuts that were very much still angry and raw though the minor ones had healed, and had made his usual visit to the sanatorium. He moved slowly, carefully, and suavely deflected the concerned questions made by the various nurses he encountered in regards to the ragged-looking cut on his face. He sincerely hoped that one would not leave a scar. When Tseng had dropped him off at Highwind's apartment building later that afternoon, on into early evening, he had given Vincent a small bottle of salve.

Vincent had taken it and blinked in surprise. "What is this?"

Tseng snorted. "It's for your cuts, sir. Try and put some on them tonight. It'll help prevent more scarring and reduce the pain."

Curiously, Vincent had unscrewed the lid and taken a sniff, jerking back when the heavy floral scent hit him. "I am not putting this on, it smells positively horrid."

At that, and at Vincent's expression, Tseng had actually laughed. "It's my grandmother's recipe. You remember her, don't you?"

Indeed he did; the tiny little Wutaian woman was an herbal medicinal guru. If Tseng said it would help then it would help. Vincent sighed in resignation, replaced the cap and slipped the bottle into his pocket. "Fine," he grumped. "But if I get teased for smelling like an old woman, then I'm coming after you."

"I can live with that, sir," Tseng said with a residual chuckle. "Go on, I'll pick you up in the morning."

Vincent had opened his mouth to say something in reply, but just closed it again in resignation when Tseng raised an eyebrow at him. Now, Vincent stood in the doorway of Cid's apartment and gaped at the cop, who had answered the door in his boxers. Highwind's face was a mass of bruises, and small nicks that made it look as if his face had been used as a punching bag. There was also an angry-looking purple/green/black bruise around the right side of the man's ribcage and he would be surprised indeed if the cop's ribs hadn't been cracked. Cid's back was in hardly any better shape, what with the roadmap of color he saw there. Vincent was filled with a sudden rage that someone had hurt Cid. If he ever found out who did it, that individual would need to be fitted for a body bag. He stalked into the apartment, tossing his coat over a kitchen chair with a little wince as a scab over one cut was stretched painfully, then walked up to put his hands on either side of Cid's face, completely unmindful of Highwind's request. "What happened?" He said sternly. "Who did this to you?"

"Hey, hey, watch th'face…an' I reckon I don't hafta ask who did that t'you," he said jerking his chin in the direction of the cut on Vincent's face. "Shit, I underestimated, didn't I? You look a hell of a lot worse than I feel. No 'fense." Vincent's dynamic yet casual entrance into the apartment had made Cid grin all the wider; Vincent finally understood that he belonged here. With that smile had come bravado, overwhelming to the point of idiocy. It faded, however, as he took note of Vincent's wincing and flinching. "Bastard," Cid said. "Vincent, when you…when y'kill 'im, 'cause I sure hope y'will, do it quick. I'd love as much as anyone t'see ya make 'im hurt as much as he's made you hurt, but do it quick so he don't get the satisfaction o' thinkin' that he's made you into a monster like him, thinkin' you like causin' pain as much as he does. Plus, th'sooner he's outta this world, th'better off it'll be."

He had no right to offer such advice, he knew, but he had the feeling that it would not anger Vincent. If he did not choose to heed it, he would at least tolerate Cid's nosiness. "Now don't worry about me. I had it comin' a long time. Not t'say I just laid down an' took it, o' course, but there ain't no fightin'll do th'trick 'gainst a guy twice yer size an' well-laid plans t'fuck ya up real good." The grin was back as he lifted a hand to rest on the right side of Vincent's face, the unmarked side. "I missed you," he murmured. "An' thanks fer the tags. I ain't figgered out what t'put on 'em yet, but it'll be somethin' good." He wanted to hold Vincent, but he decided quite quickly that doing so would cause pain for the both of them, and while he would gladly bear his own, he would not inflict it upon Vincent. Instead, he took one of Vincent's hands in his own and kissed it. "Is there anything I c'n do for ya?"

Taken a little aback by Cid's casual referral to Rufus's implied death at his hands he took a step back, and pulled his hand from Cid's grasp. "Maybe later, and you're welcome." He murmured. He didn't want Cid to see his back, but he needed to put that salve on it. He needed to heal. He sighed and walked over to sit gingerly on the couch, unable to even slouch effectively for fear of opening up his wounds. "I won't kill him, Cid," he said wearily, suddenly very tired. He had been running on adrenaline for the last week, and now that he was here that adrenaline just bled away, leaving an exhausted shell behind. He wanted to lie down, but that would hurt, at least until he put the anesthetic salve on. "So what did you do to warrant what looks to be a very thorough beating?"

Trying consciously not to be hurt by the fact that Vincent had pulled away from him, Cid laughed humorlessly and said, "All I gotta do is be my own useless self t'deserve this." He couldn't decide if he wanted to plop onto the couch or pace around the room; the latter came closest to winning, and he went to the kitchen and procured a glass of wine for each of them, unsure whether he even wanted to touch his. After he had given Vincent the other glass, Cid began pacing behind the couch. "Things're gettin' hairy, Vincent. Somebody's gotta be leakin' somewhere."

Taking the glass of wine with a grateful."Thank you." He took a sip and eased back into the couch with a sigh. "I agree. Rufus knows I meet with you, and I only hope to the gods that he does not know for what. So someone in my circle is talking, I just do not know who it is. What happened to make you come to this conclusion?" He looked up at the cop when Cid made a pass in front of the couch.

"Scarlet. Sent me lookin' fer Spike this week….with a babysitter, so I couldn't just slack off, seein' as I know good an' well where 'e is. We had t'run around askin' people shit an' whatnot, an' turned up nothin' in th'end, o' course, 'cause knowin' anything woulda just proved I'd been there, an' anyway I couldn't'a proved 'e was dead, 'cause yer boys're thorough. An' if I could have, that woulda ended up th'same way, like confessin' t'ever'thing." Cid finally, finally felt it all catch up to him, and he was a mess. "I want outta here so bad. Wouldja come with me, Vincent, if I ran? Nah, don't answer that, I don't wanna hear."

His breathing was beginning to come in quicker, shorter breaths, and he had to force himself to try to calm down. "I ain't cut out fer this, none of it." He set down his glass but did not stop pacing, and one hand came up to grasp the tags, the thumb running over the smooth surface of the one that lay on top. Gradually his breathing slowed and returned to normal, and he turned to Vincent again. "How is it that I can hate all this shit that's happenin' an' still not regret a moment I ever spent w'you? Tell me how that works," he pleaded, finally taking a seat on the floor at Vincent's feet. Getting up would be a pain, but that was where he wanted to be. "Tell me, so I c'n figure it all out."

"I have no answers for you, Cid." Vincent said sadly. Setting his wine glass down on the end table, and gritting his teeth against the pain it caused, he leaned forward and gently took Cid's bruised and cut face into his hands, looking sadly down into eyes that matched what was in heart. "I wish I did, but I don't." He gently stroked over a bruised temple. "It's a mad world…we live in…insane and violent, and we get lost in it. But somehow…you did not. I've been trying to figure how you escaped from the very first moment I met you. That's why you feel fear now, panic. And that's a good thing," he said firmly. "Because it means you want to live. I think somewhere…" he brushed a finger with exquisite care over Cid's split bottom lip. "Somewhere along the way I gave up, I lost that desire that still burns within you. I do not understand, truly, how you can desire my company since I embody all that it is that you hate." He carefully released Cid's face, and rested upon his elbows on his knees. He sighed again. "My better sense tells me that whatever it is that I feel for you is bad, and that I must let you go. But try as I might, I always end up coming back. I ask you, why is that?"

Cid huffed, grinning a little. "I got th'answer t'that. S'Cause people do stupid shit, Vincent, an' it gets 'em in trouble all th'time. Fer instance, I don't give a fuck anymore 'bout what I used t'want, used t'love, used t'hate. There's only you now fer me, an' ever'thing else takes a far second." He slouched a little more and rested his head against Vincent's knee, putting an arm loosely over Vincent's calves. When he met with no winces or leg jerks or other indications of pain, he wrapped the other around the backs of his calves and held on almost tightly. He buried his face against the material of Vincent's pants for a moment, content to hold him this way and breathe in the scent that belonged only to Vincent. "What th'hell kind o' man am I?" he mumbled against the material. "I say I love ya all th'time but I can't even protect ya." Tilting his head up to look at Vincent, he ran through what was in his medicine drawer, wondering if there was anything he could offer Vincent to lessen the pain. "At least let me put somethin' on 'em t'keep infections an' whatnot away. I dunno if it'll do anything fer pain like that, but I keep the cheap stuff 'round here." He wanted to hold Vincent so badly, wanted to take it all away and bring them back to last Friday. He would simply have kept Elena from leaving and sent someone else into the warehouse. Although, as Cid realized belatedly, it had been that incident that had finally brought them to the questionable state of togetherness they now shared. "Damn," he breathed, having no statement to back it up and no real meaning behind it. He dropped his head again and stared at his own feet.

"An' I don't wanna die, yer right, but I'd die with you t'night if it meant we c'd be t'gether f'rever." He smiled ruefully. "Only I don't believe in all that, so instead I gotta work hard here t'make sure I get t'spend all th'time I can with ya. I missed out on thirty good years already, an' lemme tell ya, thirty ain't never sounded like so big a number 'til I tacked on the 'without Vincent' t'th'end of it." Cid knew he was being sappy, and, indeed, almost petulant, but he had exhausted his supply of mature words for the week in trying to keep Tifa off their case. "I also don't care anymore how much it hurts either of us when I say it. I love you."

"You are obsessed," Vincent said softly, grinning widely and running his fingers through wild blond hair. "You need not fear, Cid. They will not become infected. I do however have some salve that Tseng pressed upon me with the strict instruction to apply it. Apparently it is supposed to help with scarring and has an anaesthetizing effect." He winced and shifted as his back began to burn. "And at this moment I shall be glad for it, only I warn you that when I apply it I shall smell like your grandmother's boudoir. It smells quite foul." Not for the first time, Cid's readily issued declaration unsettled him. It made him nervous because he himself did not know exactly how he felt towards the man at his feet. He cared for Cid, yes; he could no longer deny it, but love? He just didn't know. He would say that only time would tell, but truthfully he didn't know if that was even an option in their world. Especially given Sephiroth's vicious claim on him first. "Will you permit me to use your restroom, Cid?"

After a quiet moment of consideration, Cid decided to ask the obvious question rather than assuming Vincent didn't trust him. "Won't you let me, Vincent? Or are m'hands too rough?"

Vincent smiled wanly. "No, they are not too rough. I appreciate it, and accept as there are places that I cannot reach." Cid scooted back, and stood up, as did Vincent who then proceeded to walk over to his tossed-aside coat. He withdrew the small vial of salve and headed into the bathroom, trusting Cid to follow. His first order of business was to get his shirt off, and proceeded to undo the buttons. That done, he eased the silk off over his shoulders, wincing as the smooth fabric caught on several scabs, one of which tore open. With a sigh of relief he let his shirt slide all the way off and the hung it over the shower curtain rod. He leaned forward onto his hands on the sink for a moment as the cool air brushed over his heated flesh. Next he unbuttoned his trousers and pulled them down low onto his hips, thus freeing the majority of the remainder of the lash marks from their abrasive confinement. Lastly he lowered the seat on the toilet and sat backwards on it, leaning forward onto his elbows on the tank, and resting his forehead against the wall. "Thank you, Cid." Vincent murmured, and waited for the blissfully numbing salve to be applied.

Taking the salve from Vincent's hand, Cid blanched and hesitated a moment, emitting a soft sound at the sight before him. "Oh, Vincent." What was Vincent doing here? He should have stayed home and rested, shouldn't have taken the trouble to get here. He wiped away the blood first from the one that had come open, wincing and apologizing as Vincent's reaction informed him that he had pressed a little too hard. "Oh, sugar, I'm so sorry. This shouldn't've happened at all." Shaking his head, he began applying the salve, starting from the bottom and making sure to catch every cut. Carefully, using only the pressure needed to get the substance off his skin and onto Vincent's, Cid coated the marks with what was indeed a very foul-smelling medicine.

He hoped it did numb the pain as Vincent seemed to think it would. The lashes must have been very deep when Vincent had received them; they were deep now, and Cid knew Vincent healed more quickly than most people. He was careful to avoid touching any more than he needed to, but when he came to the last few near Vincent's shoulders, he went back and applied a thin layer to the undoubtedly tender flesh around each cut, putting great effort into not wondering what was used to harm this body, and into fighting back rage at the one who had dealt the pain. Making one more thorough sweep with his eyes for overlooked places, Cid stepped back and said, "A' right. Turn around for me."

He had noticed a few more marks on Vincent's sides that he could not entirely reach from behind, so when Vincent complied and turned to face him, he finished with those and took care of the couple low on Vincent's chest that appeared to need treatment just as badly as those on his back. Amazingly, a fair amount of the salve still remained. "This stuff really goes aroun'," he murmured to himself, and placed his left hand on the right side of Vincent's face, lifting it and holding his head still as the other hand lifted to treat the slash down the left side.

With infinite tenderness, Cid rubbed the solution over the cracked and swollen flesh, knowing that his heart would break if he allowed this to happen again. When it was done and he was satisfied with his work, Cid leaned forward and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to Vincent's lips, hand still on his face with fingers threaded through his hair. "I'm so sorry. How much did this have t'do with me?" he asked, needing to know so he could suitably berate himself. His blue eyes were wet with tears that he knew would go unshed; there was no reason to cry now. Vincent was safe, he was here with Cid, and that was all that he could allow to matter, because it might be all they had.