Upstairs, Vincent was sitting on the end of his bed, half lidded eyes pointed at the ceiling. "Stop that, Cid." He muttered, fully aware he would be heard.
Cid abruptly stopped the clucking sound he had been making beside the wall, letting out a snort of a laugh instead. "Can't help myself. Walls're paper thin."
"She was tired." the gunman said flatly.
"Y'don't wanna talk to a girl. Did she -say- she was tired?"
"She came in to rest." He pointed out in the same, even tone.
"Came -in-?" the pilot asked, a note of interest rising in his voice. As though he hadn't heard the bulk of what had gone on earlier. Really.
Vincent paused, as if unsure if he had just dug a slightly deeper hole for himself. Then he closed his eyes, took a breath, and trudged onward. "Yes."
"To rest," Cid near-chuckled in reply, "With you."
The gunman frowned. "She didn't know I was in here."
"Mhm, like I ain't never seen a twitterpated lady pull that one before."
"She isn't twitterpated."
"You wouldn't know twitterpated iffit bit you on the ass, Vin."
"I've had some experience." He countered flatly.
"Which you've forgotten on account of you're old."
Vincent made a noise somewhere between a snort and a grumble.
Cid smiled to himself in the growing dark, more pleased with the reaction that he was likely to admit. "You can go on not believin' me if you like. Gonna re-gret it."
"I said I would talk to her." His tone didn't change, but over the years Cid had learned to recognize the faint hitch that came with indignation.
"Yeah, yeah. Alright. I can tell y'mean it, already."
Vincent shifted, getting to his feet before sitting down again. Conversation or not, Cid couldn't actually -see- him pacing, which was just fine.
Although the shoes might give him away if he walked in circles.
Bah.
"I'm going to check on her."
"Better'n pacin'," Cid pointed out pleasantly. "Have a nice chat, Vin."
The gunman opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Smug bastard.
Cid smiled to himself. It was a nice feeling, winning these little arguments. Small victories, but infinitely sweet.
The metallic ring of his footsteps echoed in the hallway as Vincent walked. He didn't know why he was here, really. Here, in the Icicle Inn, chasing after a nightmare he had somehow helped to reawaken. And, more pressingly, here, outside of Lyla's room, frowning down at his hand as it hovered before the knob. He sighed, raising a hand to knock. Not like he was going to have a satisfactory answer to either any time soon.
Lyla frowned slightly at the knock, looking up from her place at the mirror, where she had been in the process of tying back her still-damp hair. Raising an eyebrow at the door, she finished pulling her hair into a single tail, brushing her hands off against her hips. "Yes?"
"Lyla?" Vincent's voice filtered quietly though the hardwood door. "Are you... am I interrupting you?"
"Oh! Vincent- no, you're fine." Her expression shifted to one of surprise rather than suspicion as she made her way to the door, turning the lock and taking a brief moment to compose herself, opening it a moment later. Truth was, she hadn't even managed anything resembling a nap, though the throbbing headache had managed to recede. She had been too distracted for sleep, both by the events of the day and the series of missed calls and previously unread texts on her phone.
He paused as the barrier between them abated, brows knitting though the cowl hid his frown from view. "You seem distressed." He noted.
"A little," she admitted, stepping aside to hold a hand out, inviting him in. "I would be concerned if I weren't ruffled by everything going on, though, wouldn't you?"
"Point." He agreed, turning to watch her for a moment before searching the room for a place to sit. He didn't want to hover over Lyla, and the woman seemed to need to sit down. Badly.
"What can I do for you?" she offered with a faint smile, helping herself to a seat on the edge of the bed, nodding to the space to her left as an unspoken invitation.
Well, what the hell was he supposed to say -now-?
Thank you, Cid.
Thank you.
Vincent took the seat in a few measured steps, sinking down without a rattle from his armored extremities. "The... past few days." He paused uncertainly.
"It's all been very surreal," she admitted softly. She noticed a faint glint of silver to her right; her hand darted out to snatch her phone from its place on the bedspread and pocket it. She glanced his way, expression blank, questioning as she studied his uncertain look.
His brows lifted at her dive for the phone, but he said nothing. Made no indication to ask. Instead he lowered his head, thinking out the next few sentences very carefully.
Then he sighed.
"I thought you should know." Vincent Valentine said evenly, "That I have a history with... brunette scientists." He paused, catching her eye out of the corner of his own. "They die. Generally."
She watched him steadily for a few moments, allowing herself to blink twice, slowly. "... seriously?" she asked after a moment, skeptical.
"My sense of humor has a lot of room for improvement."
"Okay," she began, dark brows knitting together as she turned slightly to face forward, hands braced against the edge of the mattress. "So you meet them and they drop dead? Think I'll have a better chance because I'm quitting?"
"I...don't know." He looked down at his hands.
She glanced back, lips pursed as her brow creased slightly. "... you're dead serious. ... awful choice of words."
He arched a brow at her. "You've made it longer than the last one, if that helps."
"How comforting," she told him in a most unconvincing manner. "But you know, after the week I've had, this is still the least upsetting news I've heard."
He cleared his throat. "Well. I do what I can."
"I suppose it would be pertinent to tell you, then, that I would like to be cremated and have my ashes scattered so that I don't freakishly pull myself back together," she said blankly, frowning.
"That might just do it." He said doubtfully.
"They don't, uh," Lyla thought aloud suddenly, wincing. "Die because you shoot them, do they?" Not that she thought Vincent was a serial killer or anything. But you know. She wasn't quite sure where to go with the subject he had given her.
He paused, looking over. "No." He said, giving her a long, cool blink. Even if his eyes were a fraction wider than their norm. "They don't."
"... I didn't think so. Just... hm." She winced again, averting her eyes as she gripped the edge of the mattress and bedcovers just a bit harder. "You must be great on a date. With the killer conversation topics. ... also a bad choice of words. I always wonder at why I haven't chosen to become a selective mute."
"It isn't..." He paused, glancing over at her. "Meant to upset you. Poor choice of words. ...Sorry."
"No," she told him, pairing a shake of her head with a dismissive wave. "It's fine, now we both get to be pleasantly surprised when I break the cycle."
He snorted softly, and it could have been amusement, on someone else.
She looked up finally, offering him another thin but genuine smile. "Were you checking up on me?"
Vincent hesitated before giving her a faint nod.
"I appreciate it," she confessed, fidgeting slightly. "I normally like the peace and quiet, but it's been giving me too much time to think now. I don't think anyone else's interruptions would be so welcome at the moment. They don't get it."
"I don't know if I do, either." the gunman rasped to his hand, frowning faintly. "But it's closer, maybe."
"Close enough," she agreed, also shifting her attention to her hands, "That you keep managing to make me feel like it's not so awful after all."
"I don't understand that either," he admitted, not for the first time. "But good."
"It's because you're always so calm. ... it makes it easier to come down from being upset and to be reasonable instead. Logical."
He wasn't entirely certain what to say to that. Panic had never been in him. Not really. It wasn't Vincent's natural course of action, even in the days of manhood, to walk off a handle, let alone fly. The gunman frowned thoughtfully, looking at her sideways. "That's what I'm here for."
"Yeah, I noticed that," she told him, nodding faintly. "I'm glad that you are."
He nodded, looking back down at his hands.
He had panicked once, his mind spoke up suddenly. Prickling unpleasantly in the back of his throat and down the hollow where his heart should have been. Panicked and ran like a silly boy into the arms of blood-mawed madness. He closed his eyes, willing the memory to dissipate. Vanish into the murk of the years before it as though that might take some of the shine from its clarity.
"Hey... Vincent?" She dared to reach out and lightly rest her fingers against his forearm, frowning. "... are you alright?"
"Thinking." He said hoarsely. "I'm alright."
She retracted her hand, cautious. "I see."
The moment broke, and before he realized he'd done it, Vincent was on his feet again. "If you need anything..."
"... I'll let you know," she finished for him, following suit and getting to her feet as well. "If you're sure I won't be bothering you."
"No." He shook his head. "Not at all."
"And likewise, you know," Lyla added, "Though I doubt there's much I can do for you."
"Better to help those who need it." He nodded, quirking his lips wryly.
"I don't feel very useful lately. Maybe if I take a day to get my head on straight."
"You'll find your feet."
She smiled again, folding her arms over her chest. "Thanks."
"Just the truth."
"But nice to hear."
Vincent paused before he nodded again, making his way to the door. "Take care, Lyla."
"You too," she told him, waiting until he had stepped through to shut and lock the door behind him. She slumped against it a moment later, sliding down the length of it until she landed bodily on the floor. "Fuck," she cursed under her breath. "This is stupid. Illogical. I've known him less than a week. Why the hell do I like him so much? There are so many other things to worry about. Get a hold of yourself, this isn't high school."
Outside, and roughly six steps away, Vincent stopped dead.
Lyla froze, slowly turning to press her ear to the door when she heard the footsteps halt. "... oh god. You have super-hearing, too."
Did he answer that? Did he start walking again? Shit.
A soft groan sounded from her side of the door as she buried her face in her hands. "I hate my whole life," she told her palms very decidedly.
Oh good lord, Vincent thought, turning to finish his trek back to the claimed room.
That's contagious, too.
Cid knocked faintly at the wall. "So?"
"Guh." Vincent said, laying face down on the bed. "I took care of it." He muttered into the pillow.
"You sound chipper," the aviator observed.
"Kill me."
"That good, huh."
"Awesome." He grunted into the fluffy coverlet.
"I am guessin' the bud didn't get nipped in."
"Oh. It did. Just... unconventionally."
"Oh. ... well, good. Maybe she won' die on you, then."
Vincent grunted something that was either a thank you or a curse.