"Well that went well," Vincent commented cheerfully once Nero had departed. "Don't you think so?"

"Yeah," Veld agreed. "He sure liked the food."

"That's hardly surprising," Vincent told him, gathering up the dishes. "You think my old clothes will fit him?"

"You're both string beans, it should be better than what he's been wearing."

"He's too thin," Vincent said decidedly, precariously balancing several dirty dishes in a stack. "We should have him over regularly. What's two meals a day going to do for a SOLDIER's metabolism?"

Veld smiled to himself, following Vincent into the kitchen. This sort of benign interrogation was Vincent seeking validation for something. Apparently, it had to do with Nero. Veld had a good guess as to why.

"We can do that," he agreed.

"I thought he seemed more sure of himself," Vincent said. "Then again, not being in a holding cell will do that. He knew we weren't going to hurt him."

Veld wasn't so sure about that, but nodded as he began loading the little-used dishwasher. There weren't any leftovers- Nero had cleaned his plate and then the serving dishes- but there was enough soiled tableware to merit firing up the machine rather than standing and doing it all by hand.

"Did he?" Veld countered gently. Vincent opened his mouth, stalled for a moment, and closed it again. Wiping his hands on a dish towel, Veld went over and rested his hands just above Vincent's elbows.

"Vince. What's really going on?"

"I'm just...glad we're able to do something for him. Dinner and pants that fit isn't much, but it's a start, right?"

Veld just looked at him, waiting. After a moment, Vincent sighed.

"Chaos destroyed his home, Veld, possibly his family. I know it's crazy but I feel responsible, not just for the property damage, but for him. Sure Nero could hold his own in a fight, but he's helpless against the sheer mundanity of the real world."

"Not as helpless as he was," Veld reminded him. "That's what the classes are for. He's not dumb, Vince. He showed us that much over dinner."

"So he'll learn how to do laundry and write a check, big deal," Vincent groused. "It's not the same thing, Veld."

"Why do you think I suggested the Turks?"

Vincent paused and thought about that. Veld went on.

"You know as well as I do, if he makes the cut- and I can't imagine why he wouldn't- they'll look out for him. It's a different training set up from SOLDIER. He'll do well with the structure, and he desperately needs a mentor, someone to show him the ropes for the street as well as the job. It'll be a good way for him to learn and adjust."

Vincent nodded slowly. "You're right," he said, but with a note of reluctance. "You're right."

I may be right, Veld thought, continuing to clean up in silence, but you still don't like it.

Once Vincent got an idea stuck in his head, it took chains and a full pulling team of eight chocobos to dislodge it, and sometimes not even then. Maybe Nero was his, maybe he wasn't, but Vincent seemed to have already made up his mind about that. Vincent felt responsible for Nero, and nothing and no one would be able to dissuade him from taking a personal interest in the boy's welfare.

Well, there were worse ways for Vincent to spend his time. That in mind, one of them ought to make sure that Nero wasn't any more dangerous than he'd already proven to be. Digging up information on Deepground would not be easy. All the primary leads- Hojo, Hollander, hell Shinra in general- were long gone. That did not, however, mean that all information was lost, it would just be damnably annoying to track down. But that was what Turks were for.

Oddly enough, Veld did find a wealth of documents, most of them boring things like the stores of food in the mess hall or weapons in the magazine. They seemed to go through guns at an alarming rate, which made no sense as Deepground hadn't even been discovered until a few years ago. So far as he knew, no one from Deepground had been engaged in any combat or espionage on the surface. So why the hell were they going through guns the way most people went through socks? Stranger still, none of the weapons were assigned to a soldier. Indeed, he couldn't find any record whatsoever of adult troops.

And then the gil dropped.

The soldiers were the weapons, each assigned a serial number and little else. Reduced to objects, their progress was tracked using the sort of statistics that might be appropriate on the shooting range or the training simulator, but nowhere else. Looking at the endless pages of numbers and knowing that these were people, somebody's babies, somebody's sons and daughters, kids like Nero who had either been born in hell or kidnapped and thrown into the pit to be eaten alive… He clapped a hand over his mouth, forcing back the surge of acid that had rushed into his throat. Valentine was going to flip.

He did not need Vincent to lose his shit. Not now. Except he most assuredly would. Veld couldn't say that he blamed him. It was bad enough what Felicia had gone through, but she'd been happy in her way. All her decisions had been her own. She'd fought and won every battle except the last one, and Veld had been there to hold her until she could not fight anymore. Swallowing hard, Veld shook himself. He didn't need to go to pieces too. Now was neither the time nor the place.

The problem was that while they could all talk, no one was sure of what was actually being said. Turk instinct was hard to beat back, and thirty years on the job had taught him to read people's expressions and stances the way others read a newspaper. Nero wasn't angry or resentful, but someone had put the fear of Alexander into him. It was all too easy to frighten him. One wrong word and the boy would shut down and hug himself, arms crossed over his chest, fists tightly clenched. Whether he knew he was doing it or not, Veld had no idea, but it meant the same thing as a criminal raising his hands in the air: surrender.

Letting the papers fall to the desktop, Veld massaged his face with both hands. This was not a project he could tackle alone. Technically, this should be Vincent's job, but his long-time partner was too wrapped up in his own emotions right now to do anyone- himself included- any good. They were going to have to have a talk, and it would be better to do so here at the office. So far as he knew the kid wasn't riding around in Vincent's shadow, and it wouldn't do to have Nero overhear them talking about him.

"Valentine," Veld said by way of announcing himself as he entered Vincent's office. "We need to talk."

"What'd I do?" Vincent asked, looking up and removing his reading glasses; thick and rimmed in black plastic. If he hadn't known better, Veld would have thought they were the same pair he'd had as a cadet. Funny how fashions came around again.

"Nothing."

"You have your Lecture Face on," Vincent said, shoving his chair back. "Which means I did something. I swear I have not come within ten feet of your knife block."

Veld smirked at that, but it didn't last. "We need to talk about Nero."

Valentine's already pale face became whiter still. "Oh gods, what did he do?"

"Nothing," Veld assured him, taking a seat. "He didn't do anything."

"Oh good," Vincent breathed, slouching with relief. "So if he's not in trouble and I'm not in trouble...why are you here?"

Veld rolled his eyes. "Because I need your help on this. You keep saying you want to do something for Nero."

That made him sit up straighter. "Yeah, I do, but what the hell can I do for him? Like you keep telling me, he's an adult and a SOLDIER. He doesn't need the same kind of help as the other Deepground survivors."

"Remember the last big case we worked before Deepground?" Veld asked, seemingly out of nowhere.

Vincent's face clouded over for a moment. "The human trafficking ring."

"How many women and kids did we rescue?"

"Gods, must have been over a hundred," Vincent sighed, rubbing his face with one hand.

"You remember Corneo's girls back in the old days. The older ones, or the ones who tried to escape. You remember what they were like?"

"Yeah," Vincent nodded solemnly. "Poor kids. Guess the lucky ones are grandmas now."

Veld smiled. "Kept track of a few of 'em and you're not wrong. They still got their hangups, but a few of 'em made it out alright."

"Good to know," Vincent mused. "What's in back of this? You didn't come in here to talk about former hookers."

"No," Veld admitted, "but I do want to talk to you about survivors. You remember how to pick one out, right? You remember what a trauma victim looks like, how someone who's been harassed and hounded all their life behaves."

Vincent shrugged. "Sure. Paranoia, hypervigilance, down on themselves, think they can't do anything…" he trailed off as realization hit. "Oh gods. It's been staring me in the face and I never even noticed."

"Valentine, no," Veld said sternly, laying his flesh hand over Vincent's. "You do not get to have a meltdown, you do not get to beat yourself up over something you didn't and couldn't have known about."

Vincent clutched Veld's hands in his, arms and fingers trembling as he fought for calm. Veld sat with him, stroking his thumb over the back of Vincent's hand until the tremors eased.

"I'm sorry, Veld. I swear I'm not trying to be a basket case over this, I just…"

"It's okay," Veld assured him. "I've done this once myself. It's both the best and the worst thing in the world to discover you have a child who's grown up without you. At least Nero isn't angry at you."

"There is that," Vincent mumbled. "Veld…"

"Yeah?" Veld scooted his chair closer and put an arm around his partner. Vincent leaned his head on his shoulder gladly.

"I know… I know this is a rare second chance. I don't want to mess it up or waste it. Thing is… I can't prove it, but I have very good reason to think… That is, I'm pretty sure…" he trailed off in a frustrated noise, took a deep breath, and tried again. "I have nothing to back this up but my own gut feeling and nature's timing but...I think Sephiroth was mine too."

Perhaps because he'd long suspected something along those lines, Veld was not as shocked as he might have been. Even still, the confession left him unable to speak for a moment. Sephiroth had lost his mind and died horribly, taking hundreds of people with him. Hell, Vincent had had a hand in the great General's death. Vincent, bless him, was self-admittedly not the most mentally stable person around. If any part of that had factored into Sephiroth's descent into madness… Unable to fully repress a shudder, Veld hugged him close.

"Okay. That explains a few things," he said softly, resting a hand on Vincent's head. "But that doesn't mean the same thing's going to happen to Nero."

"Gods, I hope not…" Veld couldn't swear to it, but Vincent sounded as if he were on the verge of tears. When he straightened, however, his cheeks were dry. "Right. I'm okay."

"You good?"

Vincent nodded, his jaw set in steely determination. "Yeah. I'm okay. You know me, I needed a moment to be dramatic. I'm okay now."

"Good. So. Nero."

"I agree, I was too busy flailing to be of any help. I didn't mean to leave you holding the bag."

"Don't sweat it," Veld waved the apology away. "So what are we gonna do going forward?"

Veld could almost hear the groaned 'hell if I know', but Vincent kept the words to himself. Instead he leaned both elbows on his desk and his chin in his hands as he thought.

"I think it's freaking him out that I'm trying to treat him like my son, like someone I've known since they were in diapers. I've known Nero what? A few weeks? Poor kid's probably been through more shit before he turned three than I have in my whole life, and that is saying something."

"It is," Veld agreed.

"So. Maybe for right now, we treat him like a survivor. I keep accidentally scaring him and I don't want to. It's just...he talks about all this horrible stuff like it's no big deal and I can't help being angry."

"Well, think of it this way. You judge his world, you're judging him. He's been up to his ears in it since he was born. He doesn't know any different. Hell, he's probably taken part in a lot of it because he either didn't know any better, or to save his own skin. Hard as it's gonna be, you're gonna have to dust off your Turk poker face when he starts talking about what life was like in Deepground."

"But he needs to know it shouldn't be like that!"

"Not 'shouldn't'," Veld reminded him. "'Doesn't have to be.' Don't tell him it's wrong, just tell him how we do things topside. He'll probably agree it's an improvement."

Vincent opened his mouth, thought better, closed it again, and nodded. "You're right. It's just not easy to let it go. After watching Sephiroth's tailspin…"

"I know," Veld said, gently squeezing his shoulder. "Nero will get a better ending. He's already got a good beginning."

Despite himself, Vincent smiled. "Yeah.