A/N: This was quite delayed, so my apologies. Please let me know if the tone of this chapter feels ok. The next two will be posted this coming week. I hope this fic still interests. :)
Chapter 31
Promise
Only the security lights illuminated Seventh Heaven, casting her skin in a dim glow. Vincent felt a contented warmth spread in his chest as Tifa watched his fingers skim under the soft arch of her foot, and they laughed together.
He hoped she didn't notice his hands shaking. Whether an aftereffect of using the serum or having her in his grasp, he didn't know. But he wanted to stay, and luckily, his control was intact.
Their laughter dwindled to coy smiles and an odd sort of suspenseful, awkward silence. What's the next move here? He'd never been good with women.
Both spoke at once, each offering to help the other with her—You want— buffeted by his—You need—and they laughed again, softer and with shy, downcast eyes. Vincent raised his eyebrows at her, an invitation to speak first.
"Um. You want anything to drink?" Tifa asked as her eyes darted from his face to the fingers caressing her foot. "Or—are you hungry?"
"No," he smirked, shaking his head. Even in pain, she offered him a meal. Someone should take care of her for a change. "Are you ok?"
Trauma could be a hidden menace. Though Tifa presented a beautiful smile and kindness, he sensed her distraught nerves and struggle to appear calm following her date's attack. Yet, even after suffering the worst life could throw, some people found the strength to get by, and Tifa was a master at the carry-on creed.
Her smile faded a little, and her chin appeared to twitch.
"I'd be lying if I said it didn't bother me at all," she replied, and he noted a momentary waver in her voice. "But people like him are the reason I learned to fight. You know? The selfish ones who only care about what they want.
"Plus," she paused and curled her lip in a lopsided grin before continuing, "there's no way a guy like Shad Taggert could've beaten me. Just so you know." Her smile returned, and she relaxed as though comforted by having declared her motto and confidence in her abilities.
She dramatically raised the shoe in her hand into the air, then slammed it on the table in front of her. "But I won't be wearing these sandals again!"
"A wise strategy," he chuckled.
"What about you?" she asked.
"Me?"
"Yeah," she replied, eyeing his still trembling fingers. "How are you holding up?"
So, she did notice.
"Just want to make sure you're ok." Vincent didn't want to talk about his demon troubles with her, not just yet.
"We should wrap this," he said after a moment, sliding his warm hand gently over the top of her foot. "Where's your first aid kit?"
"Oh, I've got a few tucked around the kitchen and upstairs. Um—check the pantry on the left."
He pulled a chair from a nearby table and gently laid her foot atop it. "Keep this elevated," he instructed, then leveled her with a teasing, stern look. "Don't move."
"Yessir," she mocked as he stood and walked away.
Once in the kitchen, he balled his hand in a fist, determined to cease the twitching. Every extremity tingled, a spreading numbness as though from a lack of oxygen. He retrieved the needle kit in his pocket and counted. That was two in one day; he could be overdosing—using far too often as he tried to ensure that he didn't have an eruption in front of others. The first he'd used in the labs that morning, surrounded by WRO scientists anxious to meet the elderly Dr. Berry. The moment his shoulders shuddered, he had used the serum, averting the change without incident.
The second was only several minutes ago. Though technically the next day, it was still twice in 24 hours. Doc Simon never warned him about those potential side effects, but the trembling fingers had to be one. Vincent was confident his preternatural blood would burn through the meds in time. Still, the symptom only served as a reminder that this method of control was not ideal.
Two left. The maternity ward needed the serum more than he did, and Doc Simon couldn't spare any for his malady until they'd made headway with their SOLDIER research. Vincent would need to conserve, maybe incorporate another powdered tea into his day.
With his remaining meds tucked away, he searched the pantry; doubtless Tifa had multiple first aid kits and cure materia strategically concealed all over the property. She was a protective sort. And with kids around, he'd likely find a package of sterile bandages covered in smiling moogles and magic bunny pots.
He found a stack of metal first aid boxes next to her stash of dried Banora apple chips. Then he shoved a handful of ice into a dishtowel, twisting the ends until it formed a makeshift bag. Thinking he could do better, he grabbed bottles of water and beer from the fridge and a bag of apple chips before heading back into the bar. Vincent smirked at himself. She didn't ask for it, but he could be nurturing, too.
"You get my message?"
She'd adjusted herself in the booth, shifted further in, and pushed the table away. Her foot now propped on the opposite seat, her head resting against the back cushion.
"Message?" he asked, balancing his armful of treasures.
"You were gone so long I sent you a message asking if you were lost."
"Oh." He set their snacks and drinks in front of her, then fished into his pocket for his phone. "Guess it died on my way over here," he replied, flashing the dark screen at her.
"Typical," she teased. "I have extra chargers behind the counter. Just look in the drawer under the microwave. I've collected a few over the years. Forgetful customers."
This night was more unexpected than he could imagine. Not only was he finally alone with her, but he was searching her kitchen for phone chargers and emergency supplies. The charger was exactly where she said it would be, but he spun in place as he searched behind the counters for an electrical outlet.
"You can charge it over here," she said, pointing to the socket embedded into the wall under the light.
Vincent smiled sheepishly and returned to the booth, handing her the cord to plug in. Then, kneeling next to her seat, he rifled through the first aid and found the compression bandage.
"Here. Let's get your foot dressed." She presented her swollen foot, hissing when she set it back on his knee. "Easy," he said and gently wound the wrap around her ankle.
"This reminds me of our journey—following Sephiroth."
"Hm," he said, humming in agreement while he carefully bound her foot. Vincent's fingers had finally stopped their shaking, and he filled his chest with a relieving breath, thankful the side effects lasted only a short duration.
"Those days seem like a distant dream—or nightmare," she continued. "We didn't have time to stop and let everyone heal up properly. Right? Just had to rely on cure materia and potions and hope nothing was broken."
Of course, he remembered their travels. Cures sufficed to mend minor injuries, but a gash in the wrong place or a broken bone required serious intervention. A sprained ankle would've slowed them down, though not enough reason to stop. Magic, potions, and intermittent camping to rest and heal were adequate substitutes for medical care when racing to save the world.
Once set, he guided her leg under the table and eased her foot back upon the cushion. Then, he gently laid his makeshift ice pack onto her ankle and said, "This should help with the swelling."
When he stood, he contemplated the seats, unsure where to sit. Tifa only smiled at him in anticipation and held his phone out to him. Making his decision, he scooted into the spot next to her, filling up the remaining space as he took his phone from her hand.
Tifa cleared her throat and his own face heated when he noticed her blush. The cozy arrangement felt intimately indulgent, and he'd gladly savor.
"You gonna check my message?" she finally said, and he nodded with a self-conscious tilt in his chin.
Notifications sounded from his phone when it powered on, blaring through the quiet bar and apartment like a siren. He fumbled with the volume and silenced the noisy annoyance as his booth mate laughed.
"There's a way to fix the settings, so it doesn't do that," she said, reaching for his device with a wide grin. "Here, let me show you."
Vincent barely paid attention as her fingers expertly swiped through the various apps and windows on the screen. He sidled closer, as though to better view her instruction, naturally drawn to her voice and easy-going way of speaking. He knew how to operate the phone but letting on meant she would have no reason to lean toward him.
"Do you always have this many unread messages on your phone?"
He noted the 45 unread and grumbled. "Probably Yuffie and Cid in the group chat."
The phone lit with various colors as she searched his files and updated his settings with her preferences, explaining ways he could save battery and reduce the light at night. Nothing he was oblivious to, but he appreciated it even more as the ambient light enriched the flecks of crimson in her eyes, at times painting her thick eyelashes in a violet hue.
"This is such a good one of Marlene," Tifa said, smiling prettily. She dragged her finger across the screen as she snooped through his photo log. She groaned at the next shot, one of herself wrinkling her nose with a humorous expression. It was taken months ago, the first night he'd shown for dinner. Marlene had stolen his phone and used it to document their kitchen cleaning. Tifa had played along, making silly faces as Marlene shirked her responsibilities in favor of playing photographer.
Tifa quickly shuffled through the photos of herself, and her breath seemed to hitch as she noticed how many he'd saved of her—just her. Vincent felt his face heat again and covered the screen with his hand, obstructing her view. But she gently pulled the phone to her chest, and his hand retreated. He felt her eyes graze over his, and the booth shrank a little.
"Marlene likes to take pictures," she said softly.
"She does," he whispered back and chanced a glance her way. Tifa quickly averted her gaze as her face reddened all the more. She seemed to fight back a smile as her attention returned to the screen.
She continued to swipe until one appeared that included Vincent in the background. "Finally, here you are," she said, pausing to stare at it. "It's so dark, though."
He had been seated at the table, tilting his chair back toward the shadows in the wall. Barret, Cloud, and Reeve leaned toward each other, deep in conversation, while Tifa fussed over Denzel's too-long hair. If not for his red cape and the eerie glow of his pale skin, Vincent could've been invisible. He recalled Reno's comments about his appearance during the last mission. Did Tifa think his appearance odd, too?
The photo slid by without another word from her, and she silently continued to rifle through his favorite pictures. He stopped caring as her eyes turned to liquid at his apparent adoration of her. What did it truly matter to him now? He preferred her to know.
The air around them had calmed, and he no longer sensed her distress. Tifa seemed content, poking around his picture gallery and explaining the backup feature so he wouldn't lose them. He only half-listened while she showed him where he could store to-do lists, instead focusing on her lovely eyelashes and the way her hair tickled her cheeks as she spoke.
"Well?" she asked, looking up at him expectedly.
"What?"
"This?" Tifa pointed at the phone. "Is this an app for—dating?"
Vincent stupidly hadn't thought about what else she might find with unrestricted access.
This time he managed to snatch the phone from her grasp. "I've never used it," he said, not quite guiltily. "Barret's idea of—uh—I guess saving us from a huge mistake." He smirked at her as her own mouth twisted into a mock affront.
"Well, that's unsurprising. But Barret's not the only one trying to play matchmaker," she said, taking pity on his fumbled answer. "Shera and Yuffie have been trying to force me to create a profile for ages."
"No," he said in a rush. "Don't do that."
"Why not?"
He opened his mouth to speak, but words wouldn't come. Suddenly nervous, he grabbed a handful of the chips and stuffed them into his mouth. An image of his first school dance rushed into mind—and his pretty dance partner, looking at him with expectation. He'd never worked up the courage to speak to her again. Shamed at the cowardice leeching up his spine, he tossed more chips into his mouth. A good enough excuse for not speaking.
The salty, dry textured snack coated his throat. He took a full swig from one of the beers and wiped an arm at his mouth with an uncharacteristic, slovenly gesture. Why was this suddenly so hard? After spending so much time with her, then missing her the last few weeks, his question should have come easy.
Tifa toyed with her own beer, and he noticed the discoloration around her wrists, proof of her struggle on the porch before his arrival. That bastard should hope Vincent never sees him again.
He set the phone back on the table, then reached for her hands and traced the bruises formed on her wrists, and she stilled her fumbling with the bottle. His fingertips gently massaged her skin as he loosed another cure spell, this time erasing evidence of her disastrous foray into dating.
"Thank you," she said, looking down at the hands that still held hers.
He released her and pulled his hands back, not wanting to pressure her too much and unsure if she was yet ready to be touched in this way after her experience. But she grabbed his hands back quickly and entwined her fingers with his. Before he lost his nerve—
"Have dinner with me."
She turned her head to look at him directly, but he only watched their linked fingers and her thumb rubbing over his own. After a moment, she said, "You're welcome at the bar every night, Vincent. You know that."
Either she deliberately misconstrued his intent or sought clarification of his meaning. His mind screamed at him. I don't want that; I want more!
Her response frustrated him, though she seemed to wait for him to say something else. When his silence continued, she looked away with a frown, the disappointment evident in her downcast eyes. She wanted—needed—to be sure of this. A long, frustrating history with Cloud had taught her that even when things should work out—love doesn't always comply. It was a lesson he knew well.
He pushed back at a sudden and ill-timed memory of Lucrecia as he worked up the courage to clarify his meaning and ask Tifa to consider him romantically. Even though confident that she would agree, he felt that old rejection bubble to the surface of his mind, casting doubt on the mutual affection he sensed in Tifa. His natural shyness mingled with his mistrust, and he momentarily questioned all her kindness toward him. Maybe he shouldn't have read into their long talks, the quiet dinners—the dancing. What if Tifa was that way with everyone, and he'd misunderstood.
Lucrecia had been a warmhearted type herself. Even flirtatious to not only friends but colleagues. He saw that about his former love the moment he met her. But it was Lucrecia who had first approached him for a picnic one lazy afternoon, interrupting his daydreaming with coy giggles and seductive eyes. He hadn't taken much notice of her outside their professional, working relationship before that day. And he had believed, the more time she devoted to him, that Lucrecia could love no other. He had trusted her, given himself over completely, only to be humiliated and rejected—and then—
Vincent shook off the useless, destructive memory. This was different. Tifa was different. She was not Lucrecia.
A deep breath steadied his anxieties, and his eyes met Tifa's questioning brow. He steeled himself, forcing back that self-doubting introversion that would send him into isolation. He was right where he wanted to be. And where he wanted to stay. "I mean, spend time with me—as more than a friend. Just the two of us."
She caught her smile, chewing on her bottom lip as she leaned into him and his breath hitched, anticipating what she would say. "Yes," she replied with a sigh, then quickly said, "If, you're sure?" It was a question, one he no longer wanted her to ask.
"I've never been more sure," he breathed and gradually closed the distance between them. He moved slowly, not letting Tifa look away as he held her gaze with his own and rubbed the end of his nose against hers. Her mouth parted, and he stifled his desire to moan at the sight, then brought his lips to hers.
The softness in her return kiss sent his mind reeling. Then she sighed, tilting her head as she scooted closer to him and brought her hands to his shoulders. When he felt her tongue gently pass over his, he thought he might go mad with desire for her as every urge ignited in his body.
He couldn't hear. Couldn't see. There was nothing at that moment other than her soft kiss and her nearness. Vincent clutched his hands together to divert the impulse to crush her in his arms.
Then she suddenly pulled away, and his world turned cold.
She'd heard it first—the motorcycle approaching from down the street. Cloud would be walking into the bar shortly.
His first kiss—in three decades—interrupted by that—
"Shit," Tifa muttered next to him.
"I could kill him now," Vincent quickly replied with a serious expression. Tifa snorted and covered her mouth with a pretty hand.
"Or," she said with a giggle, lowering her hand before continuing, "we can pick this up on our date. When it's just the two of us."
"Is that a promise?"
"Promise," she whispered back.
"Tomorrow, then," he said, pulling her into his arms as he stood from the booth and backed toward the door, towing her closely.
Tifa awkwardly limped with him as she nodded, sheer joy emanating from her eyes. When his back hit the door, he lowered his head to hers and rested his forehead against her hair. "It's going to be a long night," he sighed.
She lifted herself on tiptoe, pressing her lips to his in a too-quick kiss. "Tomorrow night won't be." Her hand slid around his waist and turned the doorknob. She stepped away as she gently pushed him through the door. He felt a snap of cold in the August air as the distance between them grew. Leaving her suddenly felt like missing the warmth of the sun.
He halted his retreat through the door. "Let me at least help you up the stairs."
"I'm ok; I can make it up."
Vincent stared at her a moment and said, "No, I don't like that." He reached for her again, and she laughed, tenderly placing a hand on his chest.
"I'll be fine. Seriously." She kissed him again, then quickly retreated as she pushed him out of the door. "Tomorrow."
"I leave work at 6," he said.
"I know," she replied with a wink just before the door clicked shut.