A/N: For those who haven't seen the Advent Children movie, there's a part where Cloud tells Sephiroth to stay in his memories where he belongs and Sephiroth responds that he'll never be a memory. (There's a line in this chapter based on that, so just fyi)


"They're… blankets, ma'am?"

He returns from the void slowly… whoever he is. Mind fuzzy. Body missing. A weight like silken warmth holding the rest of him in place.

It's almost comforting, he thinks. He just wishes he wasn't quite so warm.

"He shivered. I didn't want him to be cold."

His hand twitches, tries to bat the encroaching heat away, or at least find a more acceptable compromise. But the only grand feat he manages is ghosting a finger across the plush cloud he's floating on.

Wait.

Cloud…

Wasn't that his name?

…Why was he floating on himself?

"I sleep with a single blanket, ma'am. But I acknowledge that I'm not nor—that my cold tolerance differs from other people."

He decides to investigate. To figure out what was actually going on here. He had been nestled up against a disturbing mass of silver, hadn't he? …Or was it endearing? …Alluring? …Silver that he wanted to run his hands through to see if it was really as soft as it looked?

"Oh… I understand."

None of it makes sense.

Least of all the web of kaleidoscopic colors he finds on the other side of his eyelids, or the soft, resonant rumbling all around him, like a waterfall come to wash all of his problems away. But why was there a waterfall this high up in the clouds? And why did it glow pastel pink as it rippled closer?

He almost asks, he just never gets a chance to. The pink waterfall recedes and washes the excess warmth away with it. Cloud can finally breathe. Can finally move. Thank you, he means to say – it's only appropriate (even if he had never thanked a waterfall before, much less a pink one). However, when his lips fall open, all that comes out is a miserable, "Hrghh?"

"Woof!"

Water laps frantically at his hand, and then the pink blob lurches forward again, a hint of that confounding silver mixing in. "Cloud? Are you awake?"

"…Ha?" is his witty response, his mind far too preoccupied with the pink-silver blob above him. He's not entirely sure about silver just yet, but he knows for a fact that pink means safety.

He has nothing to fear here.

Yet, that thought sets off a torrent of unsettling questions. Where was 'here', then? What was the blob? How had they gotten there? And what should Cloud actually be afraid of? Darkness? Danger? Death?

None of it sounds right.

"I beg your pardon? …Oh. Yes, of course. Give me a moment…"

"Cloud, baby? Can you hear me?"

Monsters?

Demons?

…Men?

A sharp pang of terror rips through him. The maintenance facility! How could he have forgotten? He's not safe here! How could he ever be safe? He's got to—!

"Cloud?" the pink-silver blob – no, the man advances on him, and Cloud can't quite help the whimper that bubbles up out of his chest.

"N-No…"

"Cloud… what's wrong?"

"D-Don't!"

"Woof! Woof!"

"Sephiroth, what in Gaia's name did you do to my son?"

It's like magic, the way that just the mention of Sephiroth's name can calm the horror coursing through Cloud's body; can ignite a spark of hope so deep, so strong within Cloud that he's sure it'll never go out. He forgets about everything else. The fear. The pain. Even the wet nose nudging at his arm and the soft whine that accompanies it. For none of it matters when he hears the sound of Sephiroth's unusually strained voice. "You have my word, ma'am, that no further harm has come, nor will come, to him on my watch."

"This is the second time in two weeks, General, that he's been attacked on your watch. Do you honestly believe that your word means anything to me?"

It's familiar. Whatever's happening. The voice. The scolding. The feeling of not being good enough. So familiar, that Cloud tenses, head to toe, readying himself to be chided next, like when he had dumped that entire bucket of wolf guts all over Butch's head.

(Asshole had deserved it for calling Cloud's mom a whore.)

The reprimand doesn't come, though. Not one that Cloud notices, at least. Not when he's so enthralled with the silver in front of him, with the sight of Sephiroth's face coming into focus. It's so wonderous, so breathtaking a sight, that before Cloud even realizes what he's doing, he's sagging back against the pillows with a breathy sigh.

Silver had never looked better.

"S-Seph—" iroth, I'm glad you're here, he tries to say (and, oh, how glad he was). He just doesn't make it that far. He dissolves into a series of coughs, his throat drier than Tseng's sense of humor.

"Woof!"

Sephiroth is by his side in an instant, surprisingly gentle hands lifting his head up and guiding a glass of much needed water to his lips. "Easy now," his salvation says, and Cloud revels at the feeling of the water quenching the arid plains of his throat. At the novelty of his vision slowly returning to him.

He recognizes Darkstar by his side now, slobbering happily away at his uncovered arm (don't look at the needle, Cloud). Realizes that what he rests against is not actually a cloud (or himself… what the hell had he been thinking?), but rather the biggest bed he's ever seen, topped with the puffiest, cleanest, whitest comforter ever. And notices that the rest of the room is just as extravagant.

Polished mahogany floors, covered with Wutaian throw rugs. An ivory sectional located conveniently in front of a wall-length bookcase, a matching plush chair situated next to Cloud's side of the bed. Dove grey walls with gold trim. A potted Wutaian maple tree bathing in artificial sunlight. And a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the dark city below.

The only thing that looks out of place is the pile of blankets in the middle of the floor.

"Wha's with da blankets?" he asks, partially so he can hear that baritone again.

But it's the invisible voice that answers this time, far more sarcastically than Cloud feels he's used to. "Apparently, the greatest tactical mind the world has ever known thought that the best cure for a slight chill was every single blanket Shinra Company owns."

Sephiroth fidgets – something that seems off, but Cloud is too busy memorizing the way the man's chest moves beneath the pink covering it. "Your mother was kind enough to inform me that I didn't need to cover you in as many blankets as… mattresses covered a pea?"

"Yeah, I'm not a princess," Cloud answers absent-mindedly.

"Uh… I don't—"

Wait a minute.

Pink?

"Wha' da fuck're you wearin'?"

"Language, young man."

Cloud doesn't listen, even though the voice is oddly familiar. For in front of him, Sephiroth proves that even a genius forgets what clothes he has on. The man glances awkwardly from his pink fitted dress shirt (the same shade as Aerith's dress), to his dark grey slacks, before turning his attention back to Cloud. "The President advised that my usual outfit might not be appropriate given the current situation. So, Genesis took it upon himself to find me more suitable attire."

The concession shouldn't bother Cloud so much. Shouldn't have jealously rearing its ugly head at the idea of Genesis rooting through Sephiroth's wardrobe or, more likely, knowing the man so well that he could pick out an outfit that hugged every muscle and highlighted every curve.

It shouldn't make Cloud feel this way.

But it does. Oh, it does.

And he hates it.

So, he takes a moment to breathe deeply and swallow the dreaded feeling back. However, once he finishes; once he eyes land on Sephiroth again, he finds himself on the opposite end of the spectrum, appreciating how well the pink brings out the green in Sephiroth's eyes and the silver of his hair. "Huh," he hears himself say. "Pink is a surprisingly good color on you."

He should be ashamed of himself, he thinks, but the shy look of surprise on Sephiroth's face and the fog still clinging to his mind make it so he doesn't really care.

"Should I change my wardrobe, then?" Sephiroth asks.

And Cloud snorts. "The Pink General," he teases, and is rewarded with a rare smile in return.

"…Cloud—"

"As cute as this is, are you ever going to let me talk to my son?"

The voice (and the word 'son') finally register, and Cloud nearly jumps out of his skin as a result. "Ma?" he asks, turning apprehensively to the PHS lying on the nightstand, Darkstar still nuzzled up against his side ("Woof!").

"Don't you 'Ma' me, young man," his mother snaps back (and, oh boy, he's in trouble). "You promised me you would be careful, and yet here you are! On your death bed! It hasn't even been two weeks!"

"But Ma—!"

"Nuh-uh. I just spent the past 6 hours playing phone tag with the President and your friends just to get ahold of you. I'm not playing this game again. You better be packed and ready to go by the time I get there."

"Ugh, it's not that—" bad, he almost says, even though he knows it's a lie. But his mother's words catch up to him before he can finish his sentence. "Wait… Whaddya mean 'get there'?" he asks, dread already rising in the pit of his stomach.

Next to him, Sephiroth clenches his jaw. "Your mother is on her way to Midgar and plans to take you back home to Nibelheim with her."

"What? No, Ma!"

"I will not sit around and twiddle my thumbs while Shinra and your mentor—" she practically snarls the word – "look for new ways to endanger your life."

"But I'm needed here!" he yells, and turns pleading eyes to Sephiroth. "C'mon, tell her!"

However, Sephiroth doesn't tell her. He doesn't do anything, except continue to stand ram-rod straight, his eyes fixed on a spot above Cloud's head.

And Cloud knows his answer before he hears it. "…You agree with her?" he asks, the mere thought chilling him to the bone.

"I have proven I'm incapable of keeping you out of harm's way," Sephiroth all but agrees.

It's the worst betrayal yet.

"So, what, you're throwing me away then?!"

"…If it keeps you safe, then yes."

Cloud's heart shatters, and not even Darkstar's concerned whining can lift his spirits again. "…Yes?" he repeats softly, bile rising in his throat. "…Yes? What happened to being better?! To stopping Jenova?! To being sorry for everything that you did?!"

"Cloud—"

He doesn't hear his mother. Doesn't hear anything except for the roaring in his ears. "Were you just lying when you told me that I was the only one who could stop you?! Were you just telling me what I wanted to hear?!"

Sephiroth doesn't answer. Doesn't even acknowledge him, his face nothing more than a blank slate.

It turns Cloud's heartache into rage.

"Goddammit Sephiroth! Look at me when I'm talking to you! Look me in the face and tell me that you don't want me anymore! Tell me that I'm not good enough for you after all!" Cloud struggles to push himself up, only to fall back down onto the pillows, his arms giving out on him.

"Cloud—!"

A dark and slightly hysterical laugh bubbles up out of him – maybe Sephiroth was right after all. Maybe he really was just a useless weakling.

"Cloud. Strife." his mother cuts them off, her voice harder than he's ever heard it before. "That is enough out of you. Is that clear?"

"But I—!"

"Don't you backtalk me, young man. You're to keep your butt in that bed until I arrive. Do you understand?"

"I—"

"Excuse me?"

Cloud wants to argue. Wants to yell and scream at Sephiroth until the man tells him why he's doing this. But then his bubble bursts. He deflates. And he crosses his arms over his chest with a huff and turns his eyes away from Sephiroth and the IV somehow still nestled in his hand. "…Yes, ma'am."


Claudia slips the PHS back into the pocket of her dress and leans her head against the bathroom mirror, praying that the chill of the glass will be enough to calm the fire burning in her. She doesn't like this. Not one bit. Not the pain she could hear in her son's voice, or the… the meekness in Sephiroth's.

It wasn't right.

It wasn't fair.

And it almost has her stomping her way out onto the bridge to demand that that surly Mr. Highwind put a step on it.

Nothing would stand between her and her son.

The only consolation she has so far (and the only thing stopping her from going full mama bear) is the fact that Cloud apparently isn't too afraid (or too devout) to yell at Sephiroth. She still has time, even if the strange things Cloud had said and the peculiar way in which his friends were acting didn't bode well for her.

No, stop. Claudia pushes herself away from the mirror with a sigh. This wasn't going to get her anywhere. The best thing she could do, she decides as she slips quietly from the airship's restroom and back up the stairs, is to get as much sleep as the nightmares would allow. She could leave scolding Cloud and confronting Sephiroth for later.

But once she reaches the landing, she can't help but think – would her Stormcloud really be alright without her? He had sounded so distraught, so lost. And it broke her heart.

She shakes her head, grasps the colder-than-she-was-expecting doorknob, and lets herself back into the room that Mr. Highwind had led them to earlier. It would be hard, but she could handle a few more hours of the unknown—

"Snrrk!"

—Especially if Mr. Wallace kept snoring like that and drowned out all of her maudlin thoughts. Honestly, she should probably be more afraid of waking up in an hour and thinking that a dragon had snuck its way on board. (It was impressive, really, how loud he could be with that curtain drawn closed around his bunk.)

"…Mrs. Strife?"

Claudia halts in her failed attempt at tiptoeing back to her bunk, and sends a guilty look Tifa's way. "Go back to sleep, dear," she tells her, surprised at just how light of a sleeper Tifa was (though perhaps Mr. Wallace had already woken her up). "We'll be there before you know it."

She doesn't quite believe the words herself, but she offers Tifa a kind smile and slips back into her bunk before her misgivings can give her away.

Just a few more hours, she thinks. A few more hours before she could hold her baby in her arms again and never let go.

And before she can decide otherwise, she fastens the seatbelt around her waist and surrenders herself to dreams of fire.


"What do princesses have to do with blankets and peas?"

The question is so sudden, so unexpected, that Cloud finds himself ripped unceremoniously from his thoughts (and not silent moping that Sephiroth doesn't want him anymore), and turns to stare incredulously at Sephiroth, one hand still on Darkstar's head. "…What?" he asks far more sharply than he intends, half-convinced that the man had lost whatever marbles he was still trying to hold on to. (A thought that should have been more concerning than it was, but seriously… what?)

"You said you weren't a princess," is Sephiroth's almost sheepish response. And it's something Cloud does vaguely (and with no small amount of embarrassment) remember saying. He just wishes he had known that this was going to happen, that Sephiroth was going to use his words against him. If he had, he would have pretended to have gone back to sleep when he still had the chance.

But the taunting never comes, though. Not like it would have before. Not with Sephiroth staring awkwardly at his lap, his posture stiff in the chair he sits in. "I don't… understand the significance of princesses in relation to blankets, peas, and mattresses."

Cloud gapes at him, the cogs creaking noisily in his head. Princesses, blankets, peas… what? And next to him, Sephiroth tenses further as the seconds tick by, the only sound that of Darkstar's snuffling as he tries to convince Cloud to start scratching him again.

"Apparently," his mother's voice returns to him, "the greatest tactical mind the world has ever known thought that the best cure for a slight chill was every single blanket Shinra Company owns."

Oh.

Right.

Sephiroth was… Sephiroth. Meaning that he probably wouldn't recognize a simple fairy tale even if it came up and bit him on the butt. "The Princess and the Pea?" Cloud still verifies.

There's no sign of recognition on Sephiroth's face, no glint of understanding in his eyes. Just the slightest crinkle to his nose. "Is that a riddle of some sort?"

Cloud almost forgets about his anger. Almost coos out loud. Because this man. Oh, this man in front of him, who everybody always pegged as being cool and confident, was practically shy now. Was willingly showing Cloud the vulnerabilities that most people didn't think existed.

Did he… Did he really trust Cloud that much?

Gaia, he's so cute.

Wait.

No.

Sephiroth's not cute. Not at all.

Cloud clears his throat, attempting to distract himself from his traitorous brain. He just doesn't realize that that simple action is all that's needed to draw Sephiroth's undivided attention back to him. "N-No, it's a bedtime story," he stutters under the full weight of Sephiroth's gaze. Thankfully, though, (for his nerves) if the man notices the pink dusting his cheeks or the tension in his shoulders, he keeps that observation to himself. "About a woman who proves she really is a princess by being able to feel a pea through, like, 20 mattresses."

"Oh. I've never heard that one before," Sephiroth admits, the definitely not-cute crinkle smoothing itself out. "The only stories I know of are about angels, with halos of gold, whom descend from the heavens to fight for the weak and save the world through the power of their love."

Sephiroth trails off there, a bittersweet smile on his face and a distant look in his eyes. Cloud's not entirely sure what's going on. And he's not entirely sure what he's doing either, but he reaches out a hand entirely on instinct, because he knows he needs to console this man. "Sephiroth…?"

Sephiroth, though, doesn't seem to notice his efforts. Instead, the man chuckles – a soft, almost mournful huff of breath – and says, "Professor Gast was a great many things, but a master storyteller was not one of them."

The name is familiar, Cloud thinks. But he focuses on Sephiroth instead – that's all that matters to him right now. "I like it," he tells him.

And it's totally worth it. For even with the surprised and somewhat wild look in Sephiroth's eyes, the man seems to realize that he's no longer alone. He squeezes Cloud's hand in thanks, drops it just as suddenly, and then sorrowfully admits, "…I did too."


Cloud had meant to stay angry at Sephiroth, at least until his mother arrived. Not out of some secret, pathetic hope that the longer he gave the man the cold shoulder, the more likely Sephiroth would be to beg him to stay. But rather because he refused to have anything to do with Sephiroth when the man planned to toss him out like last week's trash.

He was trash, of course. He knew that. Knew he was weaker than anybody cared to believe (or perhaps, just cared to tell him to his face). Yet, he still had his standards. If Sephiroth was done with him, then Cloud sure as hell wasn't about to reward him for it.

And he had kept to his bargain, too. Had focused all of his attention on Darkstar, and left things professionally distant between him and Sephiroth.

Genesis had gotten him settled in and would be back in a few hours to take over the next watch?

"Hn."

Aerith had insisted on coming earlier, but had finally caved when Sephiroth assured her nobody would touch Cloud without his permission?

"Hn."

The noisemaker was Vincent's idea, though if Cloud doesn't like the sound of waterfalls, then Sephiroth is happy to change it?

"Hn."

It wasn't until Sephiroth mentioned that they were in Rufus's guest room and that that same man had visited Cloud while he slept, that Cloud nearly faltered. Only the revelation that Reeve, Vincent, Reno, and Rude had stopped by too had kept the instinctive 'gross' from slipping from his lips.

Yet, his real test came when Sephiroth finally noticed Cloud's mood and told him, almost dejectedly, that he would let him get some sleep. That he wouldn't bother Cloud any more with his foolish ramblings.

Cloud had nearly caved, then.

Had nearly forgiven Sephiroth on the spot and begged him to keep talking.

He hadn't, though. He had decided that that sorrow was just a figment of his imagination. And instead, he had kept silent, one hand still scratching from the base of Darkstar's head tentacle to the nub of his tail and back again.

But now?

Now, the jagged edges Sephiroth always drew to the surface had been smoothed over. Now, Cloud could feel his irritation fizzling away, like a can of soda quickly becoming flat.

It should annoy him.

It doesn't.

How could it with this talk of what was probably the only human kindness Sephiroth had known as a child? Sure, Hojo was a dick. Cloud hadn't forgotten about that one. But he hadn't actually stopped to think of the ramifications of it. Of how Sephiroth probably hadn't been viewed as anything but a weapon from the moment he was born.

Whoever this Professor Gast was, he had treated Sephiroth like he was more than just a test subject. Had treated him like a child. And Sephiroth remembered him fondly because of it.

And now, Cloud can't find it in him to stay mad. Especially not when he finally remembers everything that Sephiroth had done for him. When he realizes that Sephiroth had rescued him, carried him back to the Tower, changed out of his usual outfit so Cloud would feel more comfortable, and then kept vigil all night long while Cloud slept.

How could he honestly stay mad?

…Wait.

Back up a second.

Sephiroth had decided to wear pink clothing cause he didn't think his usual outfit was 'appropriate' enough? Rufus had offered up his guest room so Cloud wouldn't have to worry about any doctors? And Vincent had procured a noisemaker so Cloud would subconsciously know that he was safe?

What the hell was going on here?

"Sephiroth," he calls and waits for the man to focus on him rather than the task he had decided to distract himself with – those blankets could be folded and returned to the closet later. "What are we doing here for real?"

It takes a moment or two for Sephiroth to decipher his meaning, a tufted blanket dangling from his hand. When he does catch on, though, that strange camaraderie is gone, bricked back up behind walls that Cloud never realized he had torn down in the first place. "…What do you remember of last night?" Sephiroth asks, an almost apprehensive look in his eyes.

Fear, is Cloud's instinctive response, an involuntary thrum of terror racing down his spine. It's what he distinctly remembers, even when most of what happened the day before was a blur. Fear, anguish, and pain. So much pain.

"Woof?"

Darkstar curls into Cloud's side and nuzzles at his slack hand, like he knows exactly what's going through Cloud's head. He probably does. He's smart like that. But Cloud doesn't acknowledge him. Doesn't admit out loud that even the mention of yesterday still haunts him. He can't. If he does – if he proves just how weak he is – well, that'd just be another notch in the belt, another reason for Sephiroth to ship him back to Nibelheim with little more than a 'stay out of trouble' to show for all of their time spent together.

He doesn't want that.

Doesn't want to be the one reduced to a memory now.

"Yesterday…" he forces his body to relax while he mulls it over. "I was going to visit Aerith, but noticed I was being followed once I got to the slums."

This isn't what he wants to be doing right now – reliving the horror of what happened yesterday. However, he knows that if he just buries his face in Darkstar's flank or snaps at Sephiroth, like had become a knee-jerk reaction for him, then that'd be it. He'd lose whatever credibility he was still trying to build.

So, he does what he does best – he pretend-SOLDIERs on. "Without my enhancements, I was—" terrified – "mindful of my limitations, so I called you for backup."

He pauses there and prays to any deity listening that he appears thoughtful as he swallows the bile back down his throat. This was the part he didn't want to think about, that he had actively been trying to avoid. The part that almost had him clamming up all over again.

"Not Biggs?"

Cloud's train of thought derails, and he turns a slack-jawed look Sephiroth's way. "…What?"

It's pure fancy, it must be – the bitterness he swore he heard in Sephiroth's voice; the surprise mirrored on his face; even the way his lips hang ever so slightly open now, like he can't believe what he just said. "…It's nothing."

Cloud doesn't believe him. Not because he thinks Sephiroth's jealous or something (regardless of what silly part of him wants him to be). But because he recognizes Sephiroth's battle stance when he sees it, even with the man decked out in that distracting pink outfit, a blanket still held loosely in his hand.

Sephiroth thinks Biggs is a threat.

"Hey," Cloud says, the same way he might soothe a Chocobo (a large, silver and pink Chocobo). "Biggs is my friend. He's ok."

It does nothing to reassure Sephiroth, though, the man's jaw clenching even further. (Or was Cloud just seeing things?) "Is that all you remember?" the man asks, his voice holding all the sourness of a lemon.

It's a dismissal, plain and simple. And Cloud doesn't like it. "What's gotten into you?"

"Answer the question, Cloud."

"You first!"

"Woof!"

"See, Darkstar agrees with me!"

Sephiroth sighs, like Cloud was being the difficult one. (He wasn't.) "If there are any gaps in your memory, I need to know." Cloud scowls – was the Biggs thing just a test then? To see if his memory was up to snuff? That jerk. "…I can wake Genesis from his beauty sleep and have him examine you, if you'd prefer."

It's odd hearing the words beauty sleep fall from Sephiroth's lips. Or at least it would have been if Cloud was even paying attention to that. But he's not. He's far too focused on how quickly Sephiroth wants to be rid of him. Not to mention how desperately Cloud himself doesn't want anybody else seeing him like this… Seeing him so weak. "I got attacked, you saved me, and then once we got to the hospital, Rufus was a dick," he rattles off testily, silently daring Sephiroth to quiz him again.

Sephiroth doesn't. He hesitates, almost like he's afraid to rip off whatever bandage is hiding the rest of Cloud's memories from him. "…And after that?" he asks, sounding far more unsure than Cloud has ever heard him in his life.

It concerns Cloud. Even more so when he realizes that everything between then and now is covered in a thick black fog. "After that…" he trails off, running a hand along Darkstar's back as he sifts through the murk. As he sorts through his memories, trying to find that one loose string that would help him unravel everything else he couldn't quite remember.

A strangled cry – "C-Cloud!"

A painful confession – "It's our fault!"

And a heartbroken plea – "H-He'll be ok, won't he?"

It's fuzzy, like he's watching everything from underwater. But he knows that voice. Knows those tear-filled eyes. His… His roommates didn't actually hate him. They blamed themselves for the attack.

"…Cloud?"

"Woof?"

Cloud swallows around the lump in his throat and bites the inside of his cheek so he won't cry. (Not with Sephiroth still there.) "My roommates asked after my well-being, and then we were led to separate rooms." That last part isn't actually something he remembers, but seeing as his roommates aren't there, he figures he's not too far off the mark. "And then…"

Then… there was a woman, wasn't there? A wizened old doctor, comforting only in her femininity.

"Alright young man, you're gonna feel a big pinch."

The needle stings as it enters his arm. Burns, really. Consumes him. Engulfs him. Til everything he's ever known and loved has turned to ash before his very eyes.

He opens his mouth to beg, scream, anything to show his hatred for the one-winged angel who had come to collect.

Only bubbles come out.

He's drowning. He can't breathe. He's surrounded by glass and green and white white white.

A cackle sounds above him, a different nightmare pressing it's face up against the glass. "Imagine the irony! His would-be murderer turned obedient pet!"

"N-No…" he whimpers, and all of a sudden, silver and slitted green are in front of him.

Savior. Murderer. Hero. Villian. Lovehatedeathdeathdeath.

Everything slips away – the pain, the fear, the devotion – until all that's left is a rage that eats him alive.

"I'm not your puppet, you asshole!" he cries as he reaches for Tsurugi, ready to end this blood-soaked game of cat and mouse once and for all.

For Zack.

For Aerith.

For a mother whose face he could barely remember.

"Cloud, what are you doing?"

"Little bird, put that down!"

"Take the damn needle out!"

Blonde hair… Brother?

The thought doesn't last. The good doctor slaps Cloud's face between his hands and holds him there. Immobile. Unmoving. No matter how hard Cloud struggles, thrashes, and writhes. "Cloud! Come back to me!"

"Woof! Woof!"

Hojo's there one moment, and then, with a nauseating blink of the eye, black is replaced with silver; white with pink; and it's Sephiroth who's in front of him. Sephiroth who cradles Cloud's face between impossibly strong hands, a desperate kind of panic clear in his eyes.

Cloud shudders. Nearly retches. And reaches up a trembling hand to clutch pathetically at Sephiroth's harmless pink sleeve. "…What happened?" he asks, his voice wretchedly small.

"I'm sorry," Sephiroth pleads, the pads of his fingers grounding Cloud more thoroughly than Cloud's friends ever could. (It should terrify him, but he's more afraid that Sephiroth will let go.) "I should have realized that the infirmary would bring back bad memories."

"…What happened?" Cloud repeats, his voice no stronger the second time around.

"Later, Cloud."

"Dammit, Sephiroth!" Cloud tugs aggravatedly on the pink sleeve. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Cloud—"

"You tried to kill him with a medical swab," a new voice cuts in.

Sephiroth jerks away, Darkstar growls in warning, and Cloud turns his head to face their visitor.

Vincent stares back.


Between visions of flaming birds and the weight of a stolen gun bearing her down, Elena was certain that this was it. That she had run through all nine lives Rude had sworn she had and had landed herself a permanent spot in purgatory. (Returning to the Lifestream would have been nicer, of course, but the flames told a different story…)

Yet, the next thing she knew, she was blinking herself awake to a too bright room, her head pounding like a drummer's plaything and her throat itching more than if she had swallowed a scouring pad whole. (She thought she had learned the hard way never to drink with Reno again, but apparently not…)

Her problem isn't Reno, though. She realizes that once her eyes uncross themselves and the four masses hovering by her side converge into one. Converge into Kunsel slumped awkwardly in the chair next to her bed, a bandage wrapped around the crook of his arm.

Confusion and concern hit her first, because she knows that that position is going to kill his back. Then comes anger – how dare he enter a lady's room without her permission. However, neither of those last long. Not when horror takes over once all of the puzzle pieces finally click back into place.

Elena had gone toe-to-toe with Scarlet behind the President's back and against his express orders to wait until she was older. So, even though she had won the battle, had she lost the war?

Lost her job?

Lost her family?

Elena swallows back her grief (and the familiar feeling of her last meal churning uncomfortably in her stomach) and reaches out a shaky hand for the glass of water lying on the side table. She knows it won't be as effective at drowning out her thoughts as scotch would have been, but nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Unfortunately, that's where her next problem comes into play – her lack of strength. She manages to bring the glass slowly (and unsteadily) to her lips; succeeds at taking a single and much-needed sip…

…and then proceeds to drop the entire thing all over herself.

She splutters as water seeps into her hospital gown.

Cringes as the glass bounces off the bed and crashes, noisily, to the floor.

And stares on in guilty shock as Kunsel snorts awake and reaches immediately for his sword.

"Who's there?!" he gasps and is on his feet in a second.

But then his eyes land on her, and Elena's world stutters to a stop. She barely breathes as he freezes there, mid-crouch, mouth hanging open. Hardly acknowledges anything else around her as his eyes move from her face to trail the water droplet that runs down her neck and disappears underneath the collar of her gown.

His Adam's apple bobs, his pupils dilate, and then the spell is broken. He clears his throat, mumbles a hasty apology, and turns to lean his sword back against the wall.

Elena wastes no time. With his eyes no longer pinning her in place, she clutches the thin bed sheet between her hands and drags it up to her chin, her face burning more than it has any right to.

This is ridiculous. She doesn't like SOLDIERs. They shouldn't make her fingers tingle or her stomach flip awkwardly in her chest. They're dumb.

So lost in her denial is she, that she nearly screeches when Kunsel clears his throat again and turns to look at her out of his periphery. (It has to be the blood loss, she decides. She doesn't like SOLDIERs.) "F-Feel—" he grimaces at how pathetic he sounds (he's nothing like Tseng, Elena) – "Feeling any better?"

She's startled for all of a second, before she finally remembers that she's a strong. confident. Turk – she doesn't need his concern. And she opens her mouth to tell him as much… but as is her luck, all she manages is a pitifully shy, "…yeah."

"Good. Good." Kunsel says and runs a hand self-consciously through his unhelmeted hair. And that's when Elena notices the bandage again.

"I—" Elena clears her throat this time and very much does not shiver when Kunsel's eyes land fully on her again. (Remember, Elena. Strong. Confident. Turk.) "I suppose I have you to thank for this." She taps the bag of blood hanging from the IV stand and looks meaningfully at the gauze wrapped around Kunsel's arm. Her voice wavers more than she cares for, more than a Turk's should, but Kunsel looks too surprised to tell the difference. (Good. Good.)

"Oh…" he fidgets uncomfortably, and Elena does not think he looks cute. "They said you needed blood and we have the same type. I wasn't about to tell them no."

It's not spoken out loud, but she can see it written all over his not-cute face.

"You better not have thought that I was a damsel in distress."

Kunsel's eyes widen like that was exactly what he had thought, and the action has Elena's fingers tightening instinctively around the blanket she still holds to her chin. "…N-No. Never."

Liar. "What are you still doing here anyway?" she asks (and doesn't pout).

Kunsel shifts, embarrassed, from one foot to the other. "…I just wanted to make sure you were alright."

The words warm her, unsolicited, with their sincerity, but she knows a half-truth when she hears one. "That's not all, is it?"

Kunsel's jaw drops open in surprise and he stands there, a fish out of water, for one, two, three beats, before heaving a great sigh and losing the dang pretense. "You got me," he admits, though the rest of his explanation is not one Elena would have expected in the slightest. "Everybody's been acting super weird these past few months and… I don't know. Those things you said in Scarlet's office… I thought you might be able to give me some actual answers."

Huh. Maybe there was a brain behind that pretty face after all.

(She just doesn't realize that she's spoken out loud until Kunsel's face lights up like a flame.

Shit.)


A swab.

Cloud had tried to kill Sephiroth with a medical swab. Had stabbed him in the ribs with the cotton tip, and had only stopped his assault when Vincent had stepped forward to sedate him.

"Sephiroth. Stand a little closer."

And now, Cloud was stuck here, drowning in self-hatred, while Sephiroth did everything he could to stay away from him and Vincent struggled to figure out how to work the camera app on his phone.

(Cid would have called them bumbling oafs.

Cloud doesn't.

He wants to throw up.)

But he knows he has no one to blame for that but himself. Knows that it's all his fault Sephiroth wants nothing more to do with him; that Vincent is burdened down with even more guilt for his timely intervention; and that they now needed photographic evidence to prove Cloud really had been attacked.

"Closer."

If Cloud hadn't been so weak, if he hadn't let himself be captured, then they wouldn't be in this mess. They wouldn't be racing to contain the rumor swirling about that Rufus had engineered everything – Heidegger's mutiny, Scarlet's scheming, even Cloud's injuries – to get rid of his father's minions and take full control of Shinra Company for himself.

It was another one of Cloud's failures.

Sure, he doesn't want anybody to see him like this. Doesn't want them to see him this weak. But if he had known that this was going to happen, he would have demanded Sephiroth parade his broken body through the slums and past the reporters in the lobby. If only so he could finally be useful for something.

Seeing is believing, after all.

Just like how when Vincent shows them the photo he had successfully taken, all Cloud can focus on are the bruises on his face, the split in his lip, and the haunted look in his eyes. He hardly even notices just how out of place Sephiroth's pink shirt is, frozen in time, or even how fiercely Darkstar must have been glaring at the camera (glaring at Vincent).

Because Cloud can finally see just how pathetic he himself is.

"Get some sleep. Now."

Cloud winces at the words, believing they're meant for him. Convinced that Vincent had realized just how useless he really was. But when he looks up, what he finds instead is a tense standoff between father and biological son.

"I only take orders from the President." Sephiroth says, defiant.

Vincent raises an eyebrow and stares the man down, wordless, expressionless, and even Cloud starts to fidget.

A moment passes in silence. And then another. And then another.

And then Sephiroth's resolve crumbles. "…Yes, Father," he relents.

The man leaves without another word and Vincent watches him go, giving Cloud all of five seconds to get his act together. To piece most of his mask back into place before Vincent could turn around and infer every pain, every ache, every fear that Cloud still had from just an unfortunate slant to his shoulders.

It's not a lot of time, but when Vincent's eyes land on his again, Cloud doesn't tense the way he might have before. He doesn't twitch or bite his lip or turn away, his body surprisingly loose given the circumstances (though that might have more to do with the pain medication than anything else).

Neither speaks for a moment. Neither acknowledges the Behemoth in the room. However, from the pity Cloud is sure he can see in Vincent's eyes, he knows exactly what the man must be thinking.

So weak! his brain agrees, and Cloud has to resist the urge to reach out a hand and touch Darkstar. It's pathetic how quickly he goes from being fine to needing something to ground him now that Sephiroth's fingers were no longer on his face. But then again, he is pathetic.

Still, he refuses to give Vincent any more ammunition than he already has. So, he keeps his breathing nice and even, and opens his mouth to talk, pleasantly surprised when his voice comes out steadier than he expected. "What do you really want, Vincent? I know you didn't come all this way just to take a photo and send Sephiroth off to bed."

It might have been why he came, honestly – Cloud can't say for sure whether Vincent had been monitoring them. But he refuses to admit that the only reason he asks is because he's too afraid to go back to sleep. To be left alone with his quickly spiraling thoughts. So, he makes sure to keep that secret locked down tight even as Vincent looks at him in that same infuriatingly silent way he had Sephiroth, his eyes searching for any chinks in Cloud's armor.

Maybe if Cloud's lucky, maybe if he just acts the same way he normally would otherwise, then Vincent's eyes won't be able to see straight into the deepest, darkest depths of his soul like they always seemed to be able to do.

And maybe Hedgehog Pies will fly.

"The President wants you to see a therapist," is Vincent's shocking revelation.

"Wha—" Cloud wheezes, the air knocked right out of his lungs. He'd almost be tempted to huff out a breathy laugh. To be convinced that Reno had just rubbed off on Vincent in more ways than one.

But then he notices the serious look on Vincent's face – it wasn't a joke.

And incredulity turns to anger.

"No. No. Absolutely not! I don't need a therapist, Vincent!" Cloud claims, his knuckles white with how harshly he clutches the blanket in his lap. But Vincent doesn't say anything, his silence suggesting he thinks otherwise.

Two betrayals in one day.

"Tell me you don't actually agree with him!"

Vincent still doesn't respond. He crosses the room, gliding in that creepy vampire way that only he could manage, and Cloud's horror resonates with each step.

"Come on, Vincent. This is stupid," Cloud scoffs, close to pleading with the man. "What the hell am I supposed to talk to a therapist about, Hojo and the future?"

But the words fall on deaf ears. Vincent still approaches, ignoring Darkstar's warning growl as he lowers himself into the chair by the bed and laces his fingers together in his lap.

And all of a sudden, Cloud knows.

"You're kidding me," he chokes out.

But Vincent, in fact, is not kidding.

"Shall we begin?"


A/N:

Credit for the idea of Vincent as Cloud's therapist goes to my beta reader. Vincent is really the only option in my mind now since he holds the same sort of grief/guilt that Cloud does. I feel like Vincent would be the only one Cloud would be comfortable talking to since he knows there wouldn't be any judgement/pity from him.

Also, tune in next chapter to see Vincent work through Cloud's grief and to find out exactly why Reeve punched Rufus before Cloud woke up 😉