Vincent was half way through beer four before conversation returned to the normal route of bad TV and old war-stories. He had just begun to forget how irate he'd been when one of the many sources made itself manifest.
Cid had just reached the bottom of his fourth beer when he saw the cause of Vincent's drinking habit walk through the front door. She hadn't seemed to notice them yet, making her way across the bar to lean against the counter at the other end, saying something to get the bartender's attention and giving him an inviting smile as he approached. Cid coughed, suddenly having lost all interest in the suds at the bottom of his glass.
"Hey, I gotta go use the little aviator's room," he told his friend. "I'll... be right back." That said, he indiscreetly hurried out the front door.
"Al-" Vincent paused, watching his friend's sudden retreat. "...Right?" He blinked, checking over his shoulder before visibly flattening. "Cid." He muttered as though the name were a curse.
The red of his cowl caught the corner of her eye as she paused in her conversation with the bartender; she looked over, only for a moment, before seeming to startle and avert her eyes, turning another bright smile up for the man before the bar as he eyed her up and down, leaning in to answer her question, or at least, she hoped he would.
The gunman watched the pair of them discreetly, punctuating the action with a drink here and there. Recon, likely. He wondered why it set him on edge. Of course she was here. A bartender as a source was logical. To be expected.
Lyla's expression seemed to darken slightly, as though the barkeep's response hadn't lived up to her expectations. "That's not what I asked you," she said evenly, tone perfectly neutral. She brightened some, though it took effort. "You'll let me know if you hear anything, though?"
"I haven't seen your man," the bartender replied, slightly soured. "But I'll let you know if I do. Here." He slid a napkin and a pen across the counter. "Write down your number, honey."
"Mhm," was the distracted response as she did so, scribbling the quick series of numbers across the napkin as neatly as she could manage. "Please do."
Vincent arched a brow. Somehow, he had expected her to know better.
And, as though on cue, she turned to head back towards the exit, and her disgusted expression showed that yes, she did indeed know better.
Vincent almost laughed. Almost.
She slowed her pace as she neared him on her way out, pausing for a brief moment and, as much as she would have liked to avoid contact for just a little bit longer, she decided it was too rude to walk past without saying anything. Drawing in a sharp breath, she made her way over, surveying the empty barstool next to him. "No Cid?" she dared to ask.
"Apostate." He said simply, gesturing towards the empty seat in invitation.
She couldn't help smirking at his response, eyeing the seat warily before hesitantly helping herself to it. "I'm sort of hoping that bartender calls me to meet him so I can punch him in the face," she confessed. "Too much time spent with Clarise already."
"Wouldn't have pegged her for the punching type." He said, nursing his beer.
"I think she's a slapper," Lyla conceded, facing forward to avoid looking at him.
"Mn." He agreed, following her motion. "Those hurt." He added after a moment, absently.
"They do," she agreed, shifting uncomfortably in her seat. "... recent experience?"
"Not recent." Vincent glanced up, then down again. He was going to kill you, Cid. Just... shove you right off the Shera. It would be poetic justice.
The tension was getting to her, and quickly. She considered ordering something to drink, but that would only prolong the awkwardness. After a moment, she began to slide off her stool, hands against the bar to steady herself. "I can go," she told him softly, apologetic.
The gunman shook his head, getting easily to his feet. "Let me. You've worked all this time."
"You were here first," she insisted with a faint shake of her head, finally turning to look at him.
Vincent nodded. That had been sort of his point, yes.
The brunette winced, pressing the heel of her left hand to her forehead. "This is stupid," she muttered. "Could you be convinced to... forget what happened?"
"What happened." He muttered, sliding back onto the stool, signaling for another beer with some singular determination.
She frowned, leaning one hip against the bar, elbow resting atop it. "Good enough," she murmured in reply.
"No luck, I take it." He offered by way of easy subject change.
"No, unfortunately," she told him, frowning slightly. "Which I would assume means we beat him here... if he really is heading this way. It falls in line with the rest of his stops."
Vincent frowned, leaning on the bar again. "I wonder if there's any method to it." He rasped. "Where is he headed."
"Looking for something. Someone, maybe," Lyla reasoned, her frown deepening slightly. "It's a someone. ... he wants to find Cloud. He's obsessed."
"Even in this state." The gunman agreed, a note of exasperation in his tone. Then he looked up, finding Lyla's face again.
Not that he was one to discuss obsession, he supposed. As though he had some solid ground to stand on.
"... he doesn't know where to look," she told him, her hands finding each other and fidgeting slightly, uncomfortable. "... if he gets close enough, he might feel him. I don't know. But as long as he's wandering blind, we have some time." Her hands moved upwards quite without her say so, resting on her upper arms, hugging herself, carefully. "He's not here yet, but he's close."
Vincent watched it with calm eyes, though his mouth twitched down. "Lyla." He said when she'd stopped speaking, his voice a low murmur among the hushed din of people all around.
"Not the place," she told him quickly, looking downward. "But I can't make it stop."
He eyed his drink for a moment before speaking again. "All the time?"
"Since he woke up," she admitted quietly. "All the time."
"Then." Vincent watched the door. "Without checking. Without theories. You already knew... to come here."
"He didn't say. He's not - not thinking of places in specific, he's... following a feeling. ... I felt the pull here. But I didn't trust it. I put my faith in logic instead, it was comforting. ... but you're right, he's coming here. ... I knew to come here," she confessed, eyes fixed on the floor.
The gunman's red, garnet eyes lingered at the entrance, his words measured as his expression ever was. "But not four years ago. Or two. Only now." It was a question, though somehow it hardly sounded like one.
"Then, too," she told him, her tone slow, halting. "Quieter then. Nightmares and other things. I didn't know it for what it was then. Masqueraded under a different name." She glanced upwards. "Schizophrenia. ... what all the pills are for."
He was quiet for what felt like a long time, human fingers loose around the handle of his mug. "And when you were a child."
"Bad dreams," she answered softly. "And monsters in the closet."
"I wonder what he called them, when his thoughts were filled with yours." There was a certain sadness to the words, a tone as if some physical pain waited in the thought.
Vincent looked down at the beer as he drank from it, abandoning the door lest someone slip through it under his guard.
"I never knew who he was. Never understood any of it. Wonder if it was the same for him." She turned so that she leaned her front against the bar, both arms resting along the edge.
"Impossible to know." Vincent's voice was low and rasping, slow as though it tumbled slowly though his thoughts. "There's so little left to ask... if there was any to begin."
"Mn." She buried her face in her hands, sliding them upwards to press the heels against her eyes. "... I want to learn to shut it off."
"Throw the pills away."
"Yeah. ... never did do me any good, did they."
"You can't build mental walls with something changing your thoughts behind your back. You'll need full control."
"I'll get rid of them," she promised, pausing before turning her face to look at him over the curve of her hand. "I'm scared, Vincent."
The gunman returned her glance, nodding once. "It's scary." He told her, softly. "But there's more than just you and the darkness, now."
"I know," she replied, straightening somewhat. "You'll help."
Vincent opened his mouth, then looked down. "Yes." He agreed. "But I'm not... the only one."
She looked away again, distant as her gaze traveled across the bar, letting out a short, bitter laugh in reply. "Yes, the others are so concerned."
"They don't understand." He said quietly. "It isn't the same."
"I know," she told him without looking back. "I don't hold it against them. It's not their problem, it's mine. ... I don't expect anything. Just feel terribly... alone."
He hesitated then, eyes falling to the metallic gleam of his left hand. "You're not." He said simply.
She grimaced, rubbing at one eye with the back of her hand and murmuring something indistinct under her breath that sounded suspiciously like "You're wonderful."
He reached to touch the hand pressed against her face, but the flash of metal caught his eye and he dropped it away, suddenly self conscious.
She went rigid for a moment, forcing herself to look back, lowering her own hands. "... does your arm not work?" she asked faintly, curious as the claw had neared her face and then retreated.
"It...does." He murmured into the polished wood of the bar. "Well enough."
Something in his tone caused her to edge an inch back, suddenly very interested in the grain of the wood she was leaning against. "I won't ask any more about it."
He shook his head. "It's fine." the gunman said, and despite the infuriatingly even tone, the edge of sincerity crept into his words.
She glanced back, looking at him over her shoulder. "Is it for fighting, then? Or... something else? ... the glove."
Vincent nodded, holding the arm up for her inspection. "Fighting," he agreed. "And... cover."
She looked it over with reserved interest, her expression as blank as she could make it. "... scarred like the rest?"
"...Something... like that." He agreed, closing the human hand over his clawed one as he lowered them to the bar.
"It's worse," she guessed, blindly tracing a slow pattern atop the bar with her index finger.
"I was a project, not a creation." He said evenly. "Incomplete."
She shifted uneasily, eyes once again finding the grain of the bar. "I don't care, you know."
Vincent blinked at her, uncomprehending.
She forced herself to look up as she pushed herself away from the bar, turning to step away from it. "About the scars," she explained, tucking her hair behind her ears before scooting the barstool back towards the counter. "I'll send Cid back if I see him," she finished, heading for the door and disappearing through it a moment later, without noticing the silver phone left behind on the bar.