A/N: As things go, this chapter presented many challenges, and I spent more time finishing it than I anticipated. I finally just had to post this so I would stop changing things! I'm curious, how readable is the changing POVs? Too much? Let me know if this chapter struck the right chord if you're inclined to comment.
Chapter 33
Something To Get Used To
Night was falling, chasing the last rays of sunlight from the scorching August day, and they departed Seventh Heaven on foot. Traffic had dwindled, far less congested than the night before, and Tifa was glad for it. Her date wouldn't appreciate dodging drunken pedestrians just to go out to dinner.
Vincent's walk was leisurely, maintaining a considerate stride as he continually glanced down at her. Tifa itched to hold hands, but Vincent wasn't the sort for public affection. She'd be mortified if he flinched from a show of possessiveness. And his enjoyment of the evening was paramount. Forcing intimacy could scare him away.
Not a moment after the thought crossed her mind, his fingers circled her wrist and slid down her palm, seeking her grasp without pressure. Giddy, Tifa laced her fingers through his, the others clutching his elbow. His grip was undemanding, a pledge to release if she grew uneasy.
"I thought we'd eat here," he said and led her toward a dimly lit café. The quaint eatery was sparsely crowded and concealed by the glitzier establishments bordering Midgar's ruins.
Vincent held the door, and Tifa fought the heat searing up her neck. This was something she could get used to—respect and deference. Not that she needed a red carpet. But her typical experience with the opposite sex was unwanted advances, thoughtless words, and constant ogling. Vincent wasn't that sort of man. He thought more of her than her female parts. Her dad might've approved of him—in another life.
"Inside or out?" Vincent politely asked, analyzing the indoor/outdoor options.
Tifa dashed to a darkened corner on the terrace, knowing Vincent liked privacy and shadows. He braced her chair as she sat. His chivalry afforded her an extra moment to inspect his new attire, so average compared to his constant, near-demonic inspired fashion inclinations. After seeing Vincent in the same red cape for so many years, the gray blazer was jarring to behold. This latest vision of him left her speechless.
The server arrived and took their order, bringing drinks and utensils a minute later. Vincent regarded her with adoration, and Tifa melted as he slowly smiled, a rarity that was now familiar. She was elated at being the source of his happiness and didn't miss the sad brooding.
Tifa suddenly remembered his phone. "You left this last night," she said.
He grimaced at the device. "These damn things are as much a nuisance as convenient."
An audible gasp escaped her as a pale, bare hand swiped the phone from hers, and he abruptly covered it with the other. Gone was the gauntlet, leaving his usually protected left hand exposed and gleaming in the moonlight.
She warmed her features before saying, "I don't think I've ever seen you without the gauntlet. Not even at Yuffie's wedding."
Vincent's mouth arched to one side. "I guess we can put the rumors to rest, then. It's not grafted onto my arm."
Tifa giggled, recollecting the whispered comments about Vincent's penchant for wearing the small golden armor, betting whether it was a permanent feature, another horrifying experiment. Her eyes trailed up his arm and down the black shirt beneath his blazer. "I like your new clothes," she said. "I think anything would suit you."
"I'd hate to be a humiliating date," he replied. "You're always stunning, and I thought—this might work for a night out." He spread his limbs slightly as though to show off his outfit. "Guess I'm just an average guy after all."
"No doubt," she agreed. "Well—except for the hair. That's a little wild with the bandana. Like a rockstar." Tifa winked at him.
He fingered a lock absent-mindedly, and she worried for a moment her words had been hurtful, making him self-conscious. But then he said, "Maybe I should ask Barret for his barber."
"You're talking to his barber," she replied. "I cut everyone's hair, except Cloud's. He sees a professional," an eye roll as she said it, and Vincent chuckled at the petty gossip.
"Maybe you could add me to your esteemed list of clients," he said, boyish charm dangling at his lips.
"Seriously?"
He shrugged. "Why not?"
"But—why? You don't think—I mean—that I need—prefer you to do that. Do you?" Tifa chewed at her lower lip.
"Maybe it'll help me blend in." He ran a hand over his hair. "I don't think I can deal with it too short, though. I've grown accustomed to the shelter."
A relief at that. Long hair agreed with him, and she'd refuse if he requested Barret's buzz cut. "I think I can handle a bit of trimming."
Maybe Elena had the right idea, and he was overdue to change. His old-fashioned, conspicuous clothes represented the old him, a person stuck in the past. So did the hair. Waking beneath the mansion, Vincent's last interest was his attire. He cared not a whit for human vanity; his mind had always been occupied with more significant challenges. The cape, the leathers, gauntlet, and scarf had weighted the burdens he'd carried—things—sins he couldn't rid himself of. But he'd known how others judged his costume. How intimidating his appearance was to those who encountered him. He imagined Tifa supportive either way, but Vincent liked the idea of impressing her, proving he could shed his traditional outfit with subdued trends occasionally.
He deliberately chose this café, her favorite. She'd confessed this to him weeks ago when Reeve accompanied them with the kids. The commissioner viewed Tifa and the group as his family. They all did. And the more frequently Vincent had joined them, the more he agreed.
Tifa scanned the wreckage beyond the balcony, pretty in a summer green, flaring skirt, eyes fiery in the sunset. Vincent reminded himself this was real. She was real. And she was the kind of woman he'd dreamed about—the type of person he'd hoped Lucrecia—
A knuckle dug into his eye socket. Comparing the two women would only trigger his anxiety, to suspect things in Tifa not in her character.
"Just know, I approve," she said after another moment.
"You approve?"
"Of the jeans," she replied. "And the blazer—and whatever you wear."
Never were flushed cheeks so lovely, and he wished she wouldn't avert her eyes. Tifa fretted unnecessarily over what he would think or say whenever she complimented him. She'd never had an issue talking to him before, but then—this step in their relationship was fresh. Maybe she was unsure how to navigate their burgeoning romance or having misgivings he'd have to allay.
The waiter interrupted his musing and brought their food, and Vincent suppressed his sudden annoyance. He was so fixated on her, he'd forgotten they were in public, sitting at a restaurant.
Tifa poked at her salad. "The crews are starting this side of Midgar soon," she said sadly. "But I kind of wish they'd leave it. As a reminder, you know?"
Vincent followed her gaze to the broken buildings and rubble stretching the horizon. He could've prevented this from happening. Could've stopped her—Lucrecia and Hojo.
"Hey," she said. He experienced a tinge of guilt at her furrowed eyebrows. She knew where his mind had gone. "Can I ask you something?"
Vincent nodded and reached out for her hand. She was wistful as she looked at him, linking their fingers before asking, "What made you decide on ShinRa? Did you always want to be—in security-type jobs or—" She took a bite, eyes round as saucers as she ate, anticipating his answer.
He smirked, stirring the greens around his plate. Security was a nice way to describe the Turks. The subject was one they had not yet broached, though he supposed it qualified as conventional date conversation.
"No one predicted ShinRa's rise—how powerful they would become," he began, ruefully. "They had all sorts of opportunities, though-for scientists, like my father. For soldiers and secretaries and mechanics—you name it. They had a job vacancy.
"My father wasn't overjoyed about my decision, but weapons interested me more than science. So, I applied to the academy in Junon. I scored top marks on every scale and test, and soon after, ShinRa's auditing department recruited me. But, of course, I was already on their radar because of my father."
"And what did your mother say?"
Vincent grunted; his mother had objected profusely to his fascination with guns. "I think she prayed for a pediatrician."
Tifa laughed, a beautiful, contagious sound. "Wow. There's an image. Vincent Valentine, the family doctor. Taking temperatures of squalling four-year-olds and handing out lollipops."
A shuddering vibrated his seat, a short staccato rhythm, like a beating drum. He spied well-manicured toes peeking out beneath the table. Tifa's slim foot, adorned in the same straps that had contributed to her serious dilemma the night before, was knocking a nervous cadence into his chair. He resisted the urge to reach down for the adorable, pink-colored digits. Never mind that he'd never had a fetish before—Vincent suddenly chortled at himself, and Tifa stilled her feet.
"What's so amusing?"
"Your shoes," he lied.
Tifa eyed her sandals, wondering what drew his attention to her feet. "I can walk in these—deadly skills, remember?"
"It's not the walking I'm thinking about," he flirted with a wolfish innuendo.
"Oh? Afraid I'll start a bar fight?"
He chuckled, finding her misinterpretation endearing. "I guess your ankle is feeling better?"
"I've suffered worse injuries. Besides, a quality doctor cured me. It felt great this morning."
Then, he did catch her foot, cradling it next to his thigh, hidden from onlookers. He rubbed her ankle and met her gaze. "Nothing?"
Tifa shoved another fork full of salad into her mouth and only shrugged coquettishly as she maneuvered her leg onto his. Vincent studied her face, continuing to slide his thumb along her foot and ankle as she swallowed her food, immensely thankful they'd settled in an isolated location of the café. She let the fork linger, a wet tongue flicking along the silver spikes and ensnaring his imagination.
The damn server interrupted, inquiring about the meal, then left swiftly after Vincent offered him money with a clipped 'Keep it.'
Between bites, Tifa talked, and he listened with contentment at the intimacy and familiarity she was permitting with this contact. She spoke about people and businesses in Midgar, asking him what it was like before the plates. Vincent remembered little of the city before ShinRa started building their metal pizza in the sky—through pictures. He'd only come to the developing metropolis on few occasions as a young Turk.
"Thing is, I never visited the city before they started construction," he said as he dropped his utensils on his napkin. "My mother disliked Midgar and wouldn't leave Junon after father started his research with the company."
"Huh? Are you from Junon?" Tifa asked with her head cutely canted.
He smirked, lopsided. "Actually, I'm from—"
"Tifa!" A feminine shriek peeled through the air, and Vincent caught sight of Molly towing a sheepishly grinning Pete.
"Molly! What are you doing out? I thought the doctor told you to stay off your feet as much as possible!" Tifa hugged her friend, and Vincent gave Pete a perfunctory nod.
"Hello, sir. Uh—sorry for the intrusion." Pete swiped at his neck, casting a side glance toward his wife.
"No trouble, Pete," Vincent said as he rose. "We were just finishing up."
"Oh! You're done? Goody! Let's all go to this new club by the monument," Molly replied, gesturing for Tifa and Vincent to leave with them.
Vincent bristled at the third and fourth wheel. He lagged behind the ladies, who marched ahead of himself and Pete, and spoke minimally to the equally miserable-looking younger man.
"Thanks for all your help clearing Deepground, sir."
"Vincent."
"Sir?" Pete tilted his ear.
"It's just Vincent."
"Oh, right—Vincent. Uh—well, we're practically done with the northern side. The commissioner ordered that section cleared first since it's closest to Edge. Makes sense."
"How's your arm?" Vincent eyed the limb, and Pete offered it for inspection.
"Yeah, that. It's not really healing as fast as other injuries. But the color looks better." His forearm was peppered with a patchy gray hue, the veins too dark. Nevertheless, there was at least improvement since Vincent last saw Pete, though he was shocked the enhancements had not yet shed the poison entirely.
"Baby, put that down!" Molly jokingly slapped at her husband. "You're gonna make people sick with your zombie arm."
Molly hauled Tifa and Pete like toddlers, occasionally resting to chitter on about the accoutrements and baby supplies she needed to purchase before the tyke's arrival. Vincent scuffed his shoe as he stared at Molly's favored bassinette through a window display. This inane little jaunt ticked on his nerves as each second passed, but Tifa window-shopped with contentment. So, he endured the prattling, wordlessly knotting his hands in his pockets.
Eventually, the pregnant little chatterbox pointed to a small bar adjacent to a laundry service. Vincent stared at the blazing sign overhead. Old Midgar. Music from his youth spilled out of the tavern as Pete ushered the ladies in.
"What—are we doing here?" Tifa asked dubiously.
"Well, I couldn't sit still no more, and Pete here was gnawin on the walls, needin a purpose in life. So, I said, 'Baby, why don't we go for some eat out and dancin?' And here we are!"
"Dancing?" Tifa replied, scrutinizing Molly's enlarged belly.
"This body can survive a jiggle or two—thank you very much. Now, quit your judgin me before I make a fuss and embarrass these boys!"
Boy indeed. Vincent ignored her silliness and perused the scene appreciatively. It was a throwback atmosphere, copying an artistic style not seen since the forgotten days before ShinRa became monstrous. He thought he might visit again, bring Tifa but not the spares.
The hole-in-the-wall dive would've earned her dad's approval, sporting vintage advertisements and vinyl records that were popular decades before her birth. The décor complimented the music, which wailed from a jukebox, not unlike the one in her bar.
Piling into a booth near the bar, the unplanned party ordered cocktails, a fruit juice for Molly. Tifa watched a few patrons dancing on a modest dancefloor, young and old alike twisting their hips to the bubblegum pop music.
For the next hour, the couples talked, occasionally singing along to a famous tune. Molly and Pete were blatantly in love, and Tifa blushed every time their maws exchanged fluid, which was often. Vincent struck an oblivious demeanor, staring at the dance floor respectfully. But his arm wrapped around her, and he was charmingly attentive, whispering in her ear, asking if she was too cold or if she'd like another drink. Surprised if she knew the words to a song, even sharing personal stories about a remembered music piece.
Molly insisted they all dance whenever a popular song beckoned. At one point, even swapping partners when she teased her husband, comparing his lackluster rockabilly gyrations to Vincent's professional ballroom abilities. But Tifa reclaimed him quickly, missing his elegance despite Pete's efforts to imitate the debonair moves.
Pete escorted his wife to their table when she tired, and Tifa reluctantly plopped next to her friend, sipping a plum wine and doing her best to hide her sudden boredom. She'd rather not have an audience to their first date but perked up when Vincent claimed her thigh under the table, tapping her leg to the music. She doubted he was truly entertained, probably merely bearing the impromptu double-date for her sake.
Molly babbled incessantly, and Tifa guiltily wished they had a polite reason to leave. Vincent wasn't complaining, but he'd also gone silent. And after a short while, Pete shifted, discomfort evident, and asked his wife if they should go home.
"What else are we gonna do with all this pent-up energy, Pete? Oh, all right," Molly huffed. "But just one more song?"
The SOLDIER cuddled into his wife and whispered, "One more, then we'll buy some ice cream." Molly shrieked, then sloppily kissed him.
"Excuse me a moment," Vincent muttered into Tifa's ear and then strode toward the jukebox. She nearly glared at Molly, assuming their amorous antics had annoyed him so much he needed to distance himself from the indecent squealing and smooching.
"This isn't at all weird?" Molly nudged her.
"What's weird?" Tifa asked, confused at the out-of-the-blue question.
"I'm not sayin the man's not gorgeous; he's about the finest hunk except Pete. But—I mean—what do y'all talk about?" Molly inquired as Vincent fumbled with the jukebox. "He's the same age as your father; gods keep him."
Tifa resented the remark. Not Molly, too. "Technically, he's 10 years older than my dad," she replied icily. "But why should that matter—given the circumstances?"
"Honey, I don't mean nothing," Molly backpedaled, taking Tifa's hand in her own. "Don't listen to me. If the two of you are cheerful as a wolf fang in a chocobo farm, then go on and get some feathers. I just wondered what you had in common, is all."
Vincent returned as a new song began playing—his choice. Tifa recognized the tune as one they'd danced to at the wedding. She beamed as he motioned for her. "Well, we like to dance, I guess," Tifa said as Vincent assisted her out of the booth.
"What was that about?" he asked, guiding her body close to his. She smiled sweetly as he swayed to the music.
"Nothing," she sighed and burrowed under his chin, relinquishing control of her body as she mirrored his movements. His grasp tightened a degree, protectively.
Vincent rocked her, soothed her, avoiding the intricate spins. She knew he sensed her sudden mood swing and kept their dance effortless and reassuring.
Tifa lifted her face, curious if his eyes were open, and noticed the worry etched in his brow. She traced the edge of his chin, enticing him closer. His head descended towards hers, and he nudged her nose softly—something to get used to.
Vincent's lips finally pressed against hers, his touch soft and tender. Her own answered, pleading as she caressed his collar. She briefly felt his tongue sweep across the seam of her lips before he nuzzled her cheek.
The song ended too soon, and Vincent led Tifa to their table, where Pete drank, and his wife gawked with a sly leer. "Well, that got my blood pumpin!" Molly winked cheekily at Tifa before lumbering out of the booth, Pete helping his wife stand as he reached for her purse. "But—we'll skedaddle. I'm due any minute if you believe everythin Simon says."
Tifa embraced her, feeling guilty for getting irritated at Molly's concern. "Tell me as soon the contractions start. Ok?"
"We will. Now you go on and find a room," Molly said, pinching Tifa's backside. Molly snickered at Tifa's glare as Pete hurried their exit.
The lightbulbs flickered, and the bartender shouted for last call. Vincent pulled Tifa close as he laid Gil onto the table. "Maybe we should leave. Unless you meant to stay a little longer?"
"Um—let's head back to the bar. Whaddya think?"
"Won't it be a little crowded?"
Tifa checked her phone display. "Nope, the girls are probably shutting down." She toyed with his lapel. "We can have a drink, just the two of us."
His jaw clenched, and vivid red simmered beneath pitch-black lashes. He stood fixed with an inner debate for a few, brief seconds before he smiled and caressed the small of her back, leading Tifa out.
The streets were nearly empty as they strolled to Seventh Heaven, thankfully alone. No words were exchanged; she only needed his company—and the anticipation of seduction. She wondered if his thoughts drifted the same.
They entered through the family kitchen. A single light shined above the stove, and Tifa was grateful for its romantic glow. Vincent stationed himself against a counter, tall and godlike as his preternatural eyes swept over her body—her mind went blank. It had been a while for her, and she wasn't too sure about him. She was afraid to ask.
Tifa fetched a bottle of wine and poured two glasses to the brim shakily. She gave him his drink. "Should we toast?"
"To—um," his voice caught in a tiny squeak, like a pubescent boy discovering his best playmate was female, and he reddened with a chuckle.
Tifa giggled, relaxing as she realized he was shy, too. "To the future?" She clinked her glass against his.
"To the future," he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, resonating through her bosom. She was mesmerized by his nimble movements, the way his throat bobbed as he gulped the wine, and she sipped her own timidly.
Vincent focused on his wine, letting moments tick by—neither speaking nor making a move. Then, he quickly downed the remainder of his drink before snatching hers and deposited both glasses into the sink. His eyes met hers, their intensity softened, and he stroked her cheek before ghosting his lips across hers.
Tifa's mouth parted as she relaxed into him, and he cupped her cheeks. She flicked her tongue, eliciting a rumble from his throat that ignited a fire inside her belly and weakened her knees.
Vincent took a jagged breath. He shuddered, and chill air pimpled her skin as he stiffened and retreated.
His hands started to shake, and he withdrew them to his sides, fearing she would think something wrong.
Vincent awkwardly tugged at his blazer. Even discounting the years he'd slept beneath the mansion, ages had passed since he'd landed at this threshold. His thundering heart threatened to erupt within his lust-fueled body.
And if he failed to pacify his surging blood, he might break that limit before either of them could achieve mutual coital pleasure—that is, if she was so inclined. But he was appalled at his body's response—the betrayal—the speed at which it flooded to that brink. Like a boy experiencing his first—
"Are you ok?" Tifa separated from him a step, shame flashing. "You want anything?"
His eyes darted to her curves, regrettably buried under green fabric, and he squeezed them shut, trying to jumpstart his mind. "Um—I want—" He peeked at her beneath lowered lashes, struck dumb by her wanton beauty. "I want—my hair," he sputtered out, feeling like the stupidest man in existence. My hair?!
"Your hair?" Even puzzled, she was lovely.
"Yeah," he said, a thickness constricting his throat. "Uh—you said you'd cut my hair."
Tifa scratched her elbow, embarrassed as she stared at him in near disbelief. "Oh." Disappointment dripped in her voice. "You want that—now?"
"Why not?" A breathy, insecure chuckle. Idiot!
"Oh—um—well, ok." She was dazed as she ambled toward the stairs. "Let's go the bathroom, that's—um—where we normally—go." Her voice wavered, dispirited.
They wordlessly climbed to the apartment. Tifa carried a chair into the first room on the left and set it in front of the bathtub, satisfied with her makeshift salon. Vincent examined the cramped area and spied an interior door.
"Oh, that's my bedroom," Tifa said, blushing. "Um—if you wanna sit?"
He glanced at her skeptically. "Is there enough room?"
"I'll stand in the tub—so the clippings will fall into it. Uh—your blazer. I'd hate for it to get hairy."
He presented his back to remove the jacket. She helped, grabbing the garment and sliding it down his frame. When he turned back, she hesitantly pointed to his bandana and watched, wide-eyed, as he removed it and a mass of thick, black hair spilled out. A smile played at her lips as she gazed at his face.
He cleared his throat and awkwardly tried to maneuver to the chair. A soft form bumped his own as she wiggled past him and carried the blazer and headpiece to her bed.
Vincent bent over the basin and splashed water onto his heated face. The next few minutes promised a challenge.
When Tifa reappeared, he'd already seated himself, hands clasped in his lap like a schoolboy. She flashed a diverting smile, then draped a large towel around him, and he inhaled her scent as a delicate wrist, smelling of springtime peonies, grazed against his chin.
He wanted to beat his forehead as she rifled through a drawer and found her shears and brush. She handed the items to him, then steadied herself on his shoulder as she clambered into the tub. Vincent inwardly counted his real age, reminding himself he wasn't actually 7 years old.
Her face suddenly emerged next to his, and she said, "Trust me." She seized her styling tools, then pecked his cheek, and disappeared behind him.
Tifa divided the lengthy tendrils, gently freeing the knots and tangles—ones he never bothered when he roughly washed and combed his hair. She gathered the mass at his nape and stretched the hair in her fist down his spine.
Vincent cringed—almost panicked—almost cried 'Stop' at the initial snip of the scissors. But he unclenched his muscles when a lock swept forward, and he could see the ends easily reach his chest. Then, as she worked, he tuned out the clipping noises for his emotional well-being.
Suddenly her fist thrust a rat's nest of ebony hair under his nose. "Can you believe I cut this much?" She giggled. "And there's so much left; several inches past your shoulders. Let's layer a bit, and you'll keep that rockstar aura."
He released a stuttered chortle, idly recalling his first glimpse at his messy hair, passing a mirror in the mansion. The old him. That Vincent wore the tangled weave as a scar, a mark of deserved punishment. He welcomed the wide berth it garnered from people. An untouchable.
"Tilt your head," she said, voice sultry, and he complied.
Gentle fingers ran over his scalp, and he lowered his lids as she began to brush his hair. Another person had not touched him this way in forever. The sensation was staggering. He inhaled through his nostrils as his senses became lost under her fingertips. Vague awareness of the scissors snipping tiptoed at his consciousness, but it was her kindness that enthralled him. He could get used to this—to her—in this way. Loving ministrations and compassion that deserved reciprocal affection. It was—the stuff of dreams.
She stepped out of the tub and wriggled in front of him, a soft breast grazed against his shoulder, and he blushed. "I'm—I'm sorry," he muttered, but she only gave him a bewitching smile.
"Don't be," she said and stole a soft kiss.
Tifa forced his legs apart as she stepped between them, and his loins flared, and air sucked from his lungs. No words came to mind as he savored the feel of her tending his hair. He watched her graceful movements as she inched around him to trim the strands hanging around his face. Resisting the impulse to glance at the chest directly in front of him was painful, but he'd endure. He guessed Tifa expected more of him than that.
With the cutting and brushing finished, she tucked his hair behind his ears. He looked up at her as her fingers curled into the hair at his nape.
Then, she claimed his lips, and he relished the taste of her tongue. Her kiss was as soft as her touch and ignited every sense lying dormant in his immortal bones. Vincent couldn't process any sound or sight that didn't blaze with erotic need. He subdued an unbidden—unwelcome urge to ravish, battling decades of celibacy, as he gripped the edges of his chair, knuckles whitening as he let her set the pace, surrendering to her tempo as he craved for a merciful release.
Nails traced along the column of his throat, summoning his hands to her waist. He skimmed her ribs and firm breasts, clenching his teeth at her sigh.
This was—torture.
His hands trembled as fluid burned deep in his groin—And he fused his mouth to hers, standing with her in his arms, maddeningly eager to feel the weight of her body. He let her slide to her feet, and she backed into the counter, dragging him with her.
They embraced harder with each deepening kiss, heaving with unabashed thrill. Vincent's power surged, hungry and fierce, and he lifted her again, hoisting her onto the countertop with unnatural speed. Tifa sucked in a hushed scream, ripping at his shirt as she desperately held on. He could feel her pounding heart through her rib cage, uncertain if it was passion or terror driving its rhythm.
He braked—tempered his lust.
He softened his kisses, gliding along her cheek to her chin, then down her neck. Movement stilled, and he only exhaled a moment, hovering over her as he cradled her ribs.
Vincent searched her face. "Sorry," he said, trying to cool himself and give her a moment to consider. Maybe he scared her, moved too fast, too strong. Or maybe—she thought it was too soon.
But her body lured him as she wound her limbs in his. "Are you afraid you're going to hurt me?"
He pressed his forehead into hers, shaking it in answer. "I'm afraid of many things."
"I won't break," Tifa muttered, covering the fingers he rested on her hips with her own. "I trust you." She pawed at his arms and slid her nails under the sleeves of his t-shirt, lightly scraping his skin.
Vincent barely breathed, couldn't tear away from her swelling, puckered lips. He firmly gripped her hips and yanked her to the counter's edge. They kissed. Her hands swept under his shirt as his vanished beneath her skirt, fingers traveling upward. A leg snaked around his hip, flexing to drive him closer still.
Tifa melded against his hardened flesh, and Vincent growled into her mouth. She was alluring, utterly sublime as her head rolled to the side and small teeth bit into her lip. He yearned to taste her and lapped at her collarbone as the fingertips beneath her dress discovered the edges of her panties, then rubbed against the wet fabric. A purr escaped her throat, and she nipped his chin, sending a pulsing shiver racing down his abdomen.
They were wearing far too much. He raised his arms as she jerked at his shirt, tossing it onto the floor. Lips and tongues fused, his hands rushing back under her skirt as hers sketched the contours of his stomach, wandering down to unbuckle his belt. And she trembled under him—quaked with rapture when he sought out the moistened nerve cluster between her thighs, curious and craving her reaction.
She desperately fumbled at his zipper. And when she finally freed him, he froze—gaping against her—she stroked gently, as he massaged her—and a hoarse groan echoed from his chest. She molded her tongue to his and encouraged him nearer.
Nothing existed. He'd fantasized about this for months—years—if he was honest with himself. But she'd been too young—and too Cloud obsessed—and Vincent a fool who clung to the past. And now, in her maturity and his willingness to live again—they'd finally made it to this precipice. They'd earned each other's affections and approached this moment with genuine sentiments. And her intoxicating sighs were gifts.
He captured her eyes as he explored her slick surface and pushed her panties aside. And when his bare flesh finally breached that warm, beckoning abyss, both shuttered their eyes with brazen moans. He kissed her again as both her legs coiled tightly around his waist.
But suddenly, and to his immense frustration, she recoiled and scowled at the doorknob, legs slackening their vice around his hips.
The patter of little feet echoed in the hallway, and a child's voice complained loudly, "I'm still thirsty!"
"Shit," Tifa muttered.
"The kids are here?" Vincent hissed. He hadn't heard a thing. "I'm sorry. I—uh—didn't realize the children were sleeping over." He schooled his features as he refastened his trousers and willed himself to quit stammering, half expecting a child to rush in and catch him—pants down and naughty.
Tifa snorted at him as she scooted off the counter. "It's fine. No one told me they were staying the night, either. But really—it's fine." She whispered. "We can pick up where we left off tomorrow."
Vincent's eyes flashed with animosity, and Tifa stifled her amusement at his expression. He clamped his teeth, curbed the curses before he uttered them. Tifa would frown at his train of thought, all the ways he could destroy Barret for leaving the kids—painfully—with vengeance and—
Cloud's voice drifted through the walls. "That's enough for tonight, Marlene. No more soda. Tifa will kill me if she finds out you drank two. Please get to bed."
And Cloud, too. A gratifying murder indeed.
"I'm not tired! Daddy lets me stay up late—"
But double homicide would only upset his girlfriend, so he exhaled, calming his bitter anger—and unquenched, sexual thirst. "Make that a promise," he replied and planted a fierce kiss, earning him a restrained hum. Vincent whimpered a bit, and Tifa smothered another laugh.
As Marlene's whining faded, Vincent retrieved his shirt and headscarf, then joined Tifa in her room and let her help with his coat. She appeared as disgruntled and mortified as he felt, as though they were teenagers caught screwing in a car.
"Why don't we have dinner at my place tomorrow?" he asked quietly.
"That—sounds wonderful." She brightened, demanding another kiss as she grabbed his cheeks. "We—um—won't have any interruptions there, I suppose."
"If Yuffie even blinks at my house, I'll burn the whole of Wutai to the ground," he breathed into her mouth, then kissed her as she giggled.
She retreated and peeked out into the hallway. Footsteps reverberated through the apartment, and Tifa immediately closed her door; lowering her head, she shook with muted laughter.
"What's so funny?" he murmured, looping his arms around her as he moved her hair aside and feathered kisses into her nape.
"Us. Why are we hiding?"
He turned her to face him, serious as he spoke. "We won't—from anyone. We'll overcome every difficulty." He kissed her again, lovingly, then rubbed his nose against hers. "But for tonight and maybe tomorrow, these will just be our moments. No one else's damn business."
"Ok," she whispered.
Another kiss, and then he thumbed toward the window, backstepping. "Since the kids are awake—and I don't feel like answering 20 questions about why I'm in your room—I'll just leave from here." He winked at her and then opened the window.
Hands covered her mouth as uncontrollable giggling shook her, and he leveled a mock glare at her.
"You know, seeing you sneak out of my window is kind of sexy," she said through her merriment.
"I'll write a list of everything that turns you on." His voice was husky. Their lips locked as he hung his legs over the sill, then he licked her bottom lip and pressed another delicate caress against her mouth before leaping out into the night.
By the time Vincent arrived at his WRO village home, his ardor had dampened, leaving him frustrated and lonely—again. The desire was still present, but distance dulled the overwhelming urges.
He unlocked his phone screen and stared at the messenger app. Then thought better of it and pocketed the device. She was probably already sleeping. There was likely some modern protocol—delaying communication a day or two to avoid acting desperate—something of that nature. Barret surely knew but asking him would invite questions—or lectures.
The house loomed larger than when he'd first stepped inside several months ago. He detested the cavernous rooms that brimmed with encroaching solitude and missed her.