It was late into the afternoon when the storm clouds gathered at the corners of the beaches that lined Costa Del Sol, deepening the shadows without claiming all that remained of the light.
Twilight poured across the white sand, casting pale purple silhouettes in shades of blue and black. The first drops of rain found Vincent standing at the edge of the water, staring up into the bleak skies.
The sudden turn in the weather was enough to convince Lyla that swimwear was a bad idea. The air had cooled with the premature twilight; even as she made her way across the beach, she untied her jacket from around her waist, shrugging it on over her shirt and pulling it closed. She knew the shift was an unnatural one. She had felt it before the change came, and come in search of the person she trusted not to look at her as though she were insane.
"It's him," her voice confirmed from somewhere behind Vincent. "Do you feel it, too?"
"The wind's changed." He said in reply, as though it explained everything he was thinking. He wheeled from the sudden churn of waves, turning calm, ruby eyes on his companion. "It's different this time. ...Turbulent. But I wonder what difference that really makes."
"His thoughts are chaotic. Running into one another... almost indistinguishable. It's effecting his surroundings," she told him, coming to a full stop beside him, arms crossed. "... we might be able to calm him down."
The gunman closed his eyes. "Maybe." He agreed, the rain washing out the last of the word as it turned in a rush onto them, pouring out over the sea in a wide wave of warmth and chills. "We'll know soon."
"If I do something," she began, looking out over the water. "Hit me."
Vincent said nothing, only took half a step back to steady his weight, drawing Cerberus as he turned.
The figure was half hidden in the torrents of rain, but there was no mistaking it. Sephiroth watched the two of them in the blue light, eyes bright in the dim. And for a tiny eternity, he said nothing, either.
Lyla studied the figure from where she stood, arms falling away from herself, steadily reaching for the staff at her hip, closing her fingers around it, leaving it collapsed for now. The look she gave the silver-haired man was calm, as even as she could keep it. She thought she would be more nervous than she was. Perhaps after hearing his voice for so long, seeing him in person was a relief.
There was a tenseness in him, like a spring ready to snap away in a far off direction. But he hesitated, unable to find a name for the force that held him still.
"I know you." He said at last, voice smooth and thick and deep as the trenches in the far sea. And as he spoke his mako eyes roved from one face to another.
"I know you," Lyla echoed, her tone somewhat more distant than usual, though still her own. Her grip on her weapon did not loosen, though she did edge a step forward, halting herself immediately afterward. His thoughts were quieter when he was close, though somewhat clearer than they had been. "Your memories are fragmented. They're hurting you, aren't they?"
In the dim his eyes narrowed into small, brilliantly emerald slits. "Hurting me." He said slowly, deliberately, fingers flexing with a faint crack that was lost in the rush of wind and wet. "Yes." His voice halted unnaturally, pulled tight as he stepped towards her.
Vincent stilled, gun leveled as though a shot would make any difference at all.
"Yes. And you... know. Don't you. You know."
She moved forward to meet him, slow, deliberate, each step cautious. She paused with a short distance left between them, frowning, eyebrows knitting together as though the proximity pained her. "It's hurting me, too. I don't understand all of it."
"I know you." He said again, and this time something like distress was in the edges of his tone. One hand raised, alive with the same tension that held him steady. He scowled as he reached for her, stopping just shy of a touch. As if unwilling. As if afraid. "Your voice. Your thoughts. Who are you?"
For a moment she looked as though she had been stricken, the simple question somehow a harder blow than she had expected. Her frown deepened slightly. "... a creation. I'm not sure what they had planned for me. ... I think I'm like you. More than I had thought."
She stared at his hand a moment, hesitant, lifting her own hand to hover closely, as though actually touching him might injure her. The amount of restraint it took for her to stand there scared her, if she were to be perfectly honest with herself. Her hand moved forward slightly, fingertips brushing against his, unable to withhold even that small action. "Maybe we're siblings."
There was so little movement, even as his entire body jerked like lightning had struck it through. He snatched his hand away, staring at it like a child who could not, for a moment, understand the nature of a burn. Hurt and confused, lost alone in the rain. And then the chuckle built low and thick in the back of his throat.
Then the light of his eyes brightened again, focused on them again. Wide, now. Focused on their silhouettes as he stepped away. "Siblings." He said softly, voice a tremulous whisper in the air. "So, so many siblings. But... they were all meant to die for me. That's what she says. That's what she's saying... every moment. Why... why is that... how it is? Am I... meant... for this...?"
Lyla held her own hand to her chest, the opposite closed around her wrist, protective. She watched him evenly, forcing herself to remain grounded, resisting the distressing urge to lurch forward and throw both arms around his middle, to bury her face in his chest and beg him to stay. A sick feeling had begun to mount in her stomach. "Because Professor Hojo thought we were his playthings. ... I don't know what you're meant for."
"Hojo." He sneered, standing erect suddenly. "Yes... I remember Hojo." The large man's lip curled, fingers flexing again under the black fabric plastered against them. Missing the hold of something desperately. "No. I won't be controlled by his like. But someone... so... no." Sephiroth lifted his head, staring up into the torrential rain.
And then he lunged, grabbing for Vincent with a speed even the gunman seemed startled by. He floundered, grabbing for his throat where the madman's nails dug deep into the flesh. "You know where he is!" He snarled, suddenly alight with rage and violence. "Give him to me." One eye narrowed, blunt nails raising fine white lines against his flesh. "I smell it on you. The Mako... poisoning. The death. Mother." His eyes narrowed. "Something else. Tell me where he is."
Vincent gagged, pressing the barrel of his gun flat against Sephiroth's chest.
"Get away from him!" The urge to hurtle towards him was different now; she moved faster than she had ever thought possible for herself, darting across the short expanse of sand to wrap both hands around Sephiroth's forearm, pulling to pry his fingers from the gunman's throat. "Hojo is dead! Let go of him!"
Sephiroth turned, the jerk of his hand throwing the gaunt man into the churning waves with little effort as he wheeled on Lyla.
Vincent hissed, hauling himself from the water even as it reached for him. Grabbing with wash and churn of wave as if it sought to drown him.
"I wont be this miserable thing." He growled, advancing on her. "My dignity. My mind. Where has it gone? You know."
She stood firm, despite having dropped her weapon to grab hold of him, hands balled into tight fists at her sides as she stared him down, unflinching even as he grew closer. "I don't know," she said evenly, though a dangerous tone had begun to rise in her voice. "I want to help you. Peace for both of us. But I don't know."
He jerked again, his movements wide and clumsy, something flickering in those bright eyes for a moment before it was gone again. Something almost like horror. And then the madness flooded in again, his rage and hurt and desperation flooding out whatever sense had fought for space within his troubled mind.
The large man bent, biting hard on a howl of frustration as he lunged at her.
She lurched backwards to avoid being struck, a narrow miss as his fingers caught at her clothes, pulling as they grasped for something more solid. Her jaw clenched as she moved, more graceful than he had managed to be, her own eyes becoming alight with something that did not quite mirror his own. Anger, hurt, some degree of fear. She did not seem to notice that she had begun to change, fingers elongating, widening to make room for the black claws that had begun to grow from them, pointed and razor-sharp. The rest of her followed suit, her clothes and coloring falling away, a blur of green against the blue light as she darted forward again, claws extended, feet well above the sand.
"Lyla!" Vincent managed, but the sound of his own voice lost somewhere in even his own ears. The sea lashed at him, catching hold of the metal in his clothes and dragging. He gagged again, fighting the current and the weight, and the horrible, burning hiss that ripped through him wherever the flesh had not fully mended in all this time.
Sephiroth grabbed for her again, though it was clumsier this time, as if his thoughts had suddenly split in two. Only half of him focused on the tussle at all.
This time he connected, his hand closing over her arm as she reached out to strike with the other, fingers spread in an attempt to rake all five claws across his face. The sound of her name forced her attention to be divided; she looked towards the water mid-attack and suddenly struggled to pull her left arm free, leaning her body towards the ocean, willing to pull her opponent with her if she could not escape his grip.
Sephiroth snarled, throwing his weight into the arc as he swung her, aiming at the far line of chairs and umbrellas.
He turned towards the sound, narrowing his eyes even as Vincent sank below the water, squinting through the turmoil as he made to swim for shore. After everything he had survived, could he really consent to an accidental drowning now?
She was unable to catch herself or stop the crash that resulted as she collided with the chairs that had been so neatly lined up in the sand. She lay perfectly still for a moment, a soft groan escaping her before she pushed herself off the ground, claws leaving long, neat grooves in the damp sand as she used both hands to thrust herself into the air. Moving fast. Smoothly. Pressing forward without running. Her own actions didn't quite register even as she flew towards the water, past Sephiroth, focused on the dark mess of black and red beneath the surface.
At first she reached for him, attempting to wrap her clawed fingers around his own metal gauntlet, but it wasn't enough. A moment of panic, then she released her hold on him, allowing herself to drop beneath the surface even as the water continued to churn, grabbing at the both of them as she put both arms around his middle and pulled, upwards.
Vincent gasped as air flooded into his lungs, knocked off balance by the creature grabbing at him. He raised Cerberus before the make of it's face registered in his mind.
Lyla.
On the shore the pale man watched them, violence seeping out of his stance even before he turned. Vanishing wholly into the last heavy waves of rain.
She kicked to pull them closer to shore, fighting the current that threatened to suck them under again, having to settle for one arm around the gunman's torso as she stared straight ahead, using her free arm to propel them forward. When they hit the shallows, she staggered instead of swam, waiting until they had reached sand to release Vincent and fall to her hands and knees, breathing heavily.
He stood, panting. The pain blurred his vision like a constant series of small, vicious bites, but he couldn't focus on that. Not for now. Instead he bent, lowering his face into her view. "Lyla," he said again, quietly. Breathless.
She snapped her head upwards to look at him, eyes blank and foreign, nothing but drowning pools of black. Her brow creased as he leaned closer to her, claws digging into the ground as she grabbed for something steady, finding only sand instead. Gradually, her breathing began to slow, still ragged, still heavy, but approaching normal. Much like the rest of her, slowly reverting to her normal coloring. Ears once again her own. Hands lacking in monstrous claws. Herself. Shaking.
He wanted to offer her his cloak, but it seemed lacking somehow, soaking wet. He did it anyway, for modesty if not warmth, draping the long cascade of red across her shoulders, covering her shivering form. Trying not to notice exactly what he'd covered.
She clutched at it with one hand, pulling it closed around her front as well as she could. It would have to be enough for now. She grabbed for him with the other hand, locking her fingers around his arm even as she staggered forward on her knees. "Are you alright?"
"I'll live." He assured her, closing his human hand over her own, forcing himself to straighten, much to the protest of his aching body. Helping her to her feet.
She stumbled in the process, leaning against him uninvited for support, shoulders shaking against her will. "What just happened."
"I'm not sure," Vincent admitted quietly, wrapping an arm around her shoulders to steady them both. "But you probably just saved my life."
"Makes us even," she told him, shifting the soaked cloak across her shoulders to allow herself a bit more cover. The water had weighed it down, but it was far better than nothing at all. "He got away..."
"For now."
"So much screaming," she murmured, resting her forehead against his shoulder, wincing. "... need to get you dry. ... you'll rust."
And somehow, in spite of himself, Vincent smiled.
She lifted her head and offered him half of a tired smirk in return as she took a few steps in the direction of the hotel, growing steadier as she went. "... and I need clothes."
"Yes." He agreed, making his way in time. "And maybe a bath. For the salt."
"A bath sounds nice," she admitted, reaching to gingerly brush wet hair from her line of vision.
"Mn," the gunman mned in agreement. And if he had noticed he'd lost Cerberus in all the commotion, he didn't mention it. For now.
And, quite without invitation, she scooted closer as they walked, pressing the line of her body against his, holding the cloak closed with her left hand so that the right arm could wrap around his waist for support. Publicly, anyway. Privately, she thought Clarise might be proud. "Bandage after, once the salt is flushed out," she advised him. "... you shouldn't let open wounds rub against your clothes, anyway."
He nodded, shifting his walk slightly to accommodate her. "Are you hurt?" Vincent asked, voice carrying over the rain somehow.
"Not badly. Maybe only bruises. ... those chairs don't have much give when you're thrown into them. But nothing life-threatening," she promised him as they neared the hotel. "I can handle being a little sore."
"Good." He paused, "But I meant..."
She looked down, flexing as many of her fingers as she could without dropping the cloak. "... it aches. Burns on the inside."
Vincent nodded. "Vodka." He said softly.
She frowned. "Wishing I hadn't let Reno take mine."
"I have some."
"Lifesaver," she accused, discreetly tightening her hold on his waist.
"Mn." The gunman mned. "I could say the same for you."
"Take your bath," she instructed him as they passed through the entrance and stepped onto the nearest elevator, directing it to drop them at the third floor. "... let me look at your back afterward, then I'll help you bandage everything."
For a moment he considered protesting, but then he remembered how very difficult it had become to see straight, and acquiesced. "Far cabinet." He muttered as they approached the door to his room, peeling off his headband as he went. "Top drawer."
"Back once I'm dressed," she warned him, reluctantly retrieving her arm. "Thank you for the loan."
Vincent offered her a mild nod, his expression too calm for the way his wounds were screaming. He shifted his weight, swinging on one foot towards the shower.