Very little in Jean Strife's life had been planned. She wasn't really the planning type. Too much time and preparation. If she wanted something, she went for it. If there was something interesting to do, she did it. And if there was an attractive man hinting things in her direction, well, she fucked him.

(And make note: she fucked him. There was no lovemaking here.)

There had been no plan. (And no protection.) He'd been a client, somebody from Cosmo Canyon paying for a guardian to get them safely to Mideel. A fun road trip, all things considered, and by the end of it they'd fucked no less than five times.

It wasn't an emotional thing. He was fun and all. Nice, as far as that went. Smoking hot. But by the end, Jean Strife took her earnings, waved over her shoulder, and took off for home, bothered by it none whatsoever. It had been fun and profitable for everyone involved, what more was there to think about?

Of course, 10 weeks and no periods later, there was something to think about.

Jean's first thought had been, what would bother the village more: aborting the baby, or actually having it? And on the tails of that, she knew she was going to keep it. The fact was, having a child… it sounded… good.

She'd done the rest of it, after all. Left home early, traveled, worked as a soldier and a scavenger, a blacksmith and a bartender, come home only to keep working as a swordswoman here, there, and everywhere. She'd seen her share of the world.

What she hadn't done, was settle down with some bozo and pop out a few. All the girls in Nibelheim were doing it. Raise a little bumpkin, take care of them until they were older, then kick them out of the house, and have their little bumpkin grandkids over on weekends. A family.

She hadn't had one of those, yet.

So, Jean Strife kept the baby. Nine months and 14 excruciating hours later, Cloud Strife was born into the world. He was a screechy, scrawny thing but he was hers. Her son. Nothing else mattered, not the good opinion of the people of Nibelheim, not her reputation, not the father, nothing. She took one look at that tiny, squealing red face cutie and fell completely in love.

Course, there was trouble. He was a Strife after all – it came with the name. Cloud had a temper like his mother, without the brawn to back it up. The boy was puny. But momma could fix that; she trained him in every discipline she knew, taught him everything she'd learned, from yoga and meditation to kickboxing and judo.

Swords were his favorite, of course, just like Momma. Unlike her, the boy favored a monstrous claymore that looked comical next to his tiny frame. The first one he picked out in the store at age seven he couldn't even lift. The poor thing had about stabbed his toe trying. She'd gotten him into endurance training then, hiking the mountains, running the trails with him. In no time that sword was his.

Still looked ridiculous, though – but he loved it. So much so he wanted to drop out of school and take up swordsmanship like her. No surprise – it was what she'd done, but for the first time in her life Momma Strife found herself making plans.

"No, kiddo," She'd told him, ruffling that fluffy head. It made no damn sense, how that hair worked – and she'd never know. It certainly didn't come from her. "You stay in school."

Oh, how he'd pouted. How those bright blue eyes had begged. But by her age Jean knew what an education could do for you, even one as piss-poor as the Nibelheim Public School system. In school Cloud stayed, and he got bullied, and he got in trouble for fighting, and he grew taller and broader and brighter eyed the more years passed. Never had many friends – the Strife family curse. But they had each other, and once he was big enough for the wider world, the things they'd see.

She had plans. Oh, Momma Strife had plans.

But there was a reason to not make plans, because things always happened, things always got in the way. You get older and your sword arm starts to shake, and your knee starts to give way, and those wounds don't heal as fast as they used to. And as her boy got taller, she began to shrink, and by the time he was sixteen, she retired altogether.

Cloud had been devastated. Their weekly hunts were the highlight of his life, she knew, but – she just couldn't do it anymore. Jean Strife was getting old.

Life went on; Cloud kept hunting on his own, and Momma trained him as best she could, in everything she knew. The two of them got on well enough. One winter Jean caught a cough that never seemed to go away again. Not only could she no longer work as a freelance swordswoman, she really couldn't work at all. Cloud became the sole breadwinner, earning as much as he could from freelance work to cover general expenses and medical bills.

He tried getting a job in town. But being the gay bastard son of the local town weirdo did not endear him to people. The only place that even considered him was Jerry's Bar, but it… didn't work out. Too many drunks and loose lips.

And the years had gone by. Cloud worked, and he grew taller, and he traveled further and further from home, and he explored and fought and tinkered and created and blew past all her plans and expectations. He was brilliant. And she couldn't love him more.

Even when he went and brought home General Sephiroth out of fucking nowhere for dinner.

"Hi, ma,"

"Don't you 'Hi ma', me," Jean Strife grunts, glowering slightly. Despite the tone, she is sincerely pleased to see him, though the extra two threw her off a bit. Vincent, of course, she expected. "Git in already, the neighbors are staring."

With that, she steps out of the door frame, leaning heavily on a cane, moving further into the house.

"Are you certain our being here is appropriate?" Sephiroth asks. "We can go to the Inn –"

"No, really, it's fine." Cloud waves him off. "The Inn is crappy and tiny and full of bed bugs. Don't worry; Ma's like that with everyone."

"Don't expect me to stand to attention, General," The woman says as they walk in, clearly having overheard. "By the time you're a mother my age, all the grown men in the world are just boys in bigger britches."

"Good evening, ma'am," Zack murmurs nervously. "Thanks for having us, uh, rather unexpectedly."

"I tried callin'." Cloud shrugs. "You never answer the phone."

"That's cause you only let it ring two damn times, by the time I get over there –"

"Well if you'd buy more than one house phone –"

"You only gotta pick up one phone, it's a waste of money."

"Is this… normal?" Sephiroth murmurs quietly to his second. It isn't his fellow SOLDIER who answers.

"For them it is." Vincent replies with a small smile. This is clearly an exchange he's seen often, by the slight display of fondness. Beside him, Sephiroth turns to see that expression and something tightens in him, like he's choking on nothing but air.

Within the hour, Cloud finds himself outside the house again. One of his thicker jackets on, the hood pulled over his infamous hair, he strides out into the bitter cold with a dark look on his face.

He just… needed to get out.

Cloud's mother was a singular woman. No one would disagree with that. Most days, it was a good thing. There was just something galling about sitting there watching his hero and the man of his dreams getting on better with his mom than he ever had with the man. Within ten minutes they'd been trading bloody war stories as if they'd been together in the field.

It made sense, though. Both of them were blunt, to the point, and blisteringly cold to most people. It just… sucked.

Sure, this whole mission was for Vincent (and for Sephiroth) and was completely charitable and not at all about his hero worship, buuut… how could he really say there wasn't a speck of longing in him that this whole venture might mean something? That Sephiroth might be grateful to him or acknowledge him somehow. So far, the man had been grating and rude when he was paying attention to Cloud's existence, which was rare.

Of course, that was reality. Crushing your dreams without remorse. It was just… hard to sit there and watch.

So, with a heavy sigh, Cloud starts walking through the snow, only vaguely bothered by it. It isn't the coldest Nibelheim could be, and even so, Cloud was used to it. He enjoys the cold, in fact. Midgar was much too warm for him, not only due to the different climate but also the excess heat built from the close quarters, the maddening amount of people, and the constant mechanical grind.

A huff of breath colors the world in front of him white for just a moment. Slowly, Cloud comes to a halt in the town square. There's the well, where he and Tifa made their promise. He hadn't spoken to her in a while. Was she working that night? Maybe he should pay her a visit…

Turning, he heads for Jerry's. It's a small, locally owned bar, the only good place for booze that hasn't been brewed in a basement. For the last forty years someone in Jerry Godwin's family had owned it, until the last owner, Drew, passed away. He bequeathed it to Tifa in his will, which upset the family but shocked no one else.

The woman had started work at the bar in her teens and quickly became the driving force keeping it afloat. She was the one with the knowledge and know-how to run it, and a few years later, it was hers. Cloud couldn't have been prouder of the one person he could almost call his friend.

Jerry's is pretty crowded when Cloud steps in. Already he can smell the usual aromas of fried fish, stale beer, and day old man sweat. He removes the hood and steps to the bar, smiling at the brunette behind the counter.

She waves in acknowledgement, not leaving her customers. It takes a minute but before long Tifa Lockhart is leaning on the bar in front of him, a smile on her face.

"The rumor mill has been turning today," The girl grins.

"It does that." Cloud grumbles back. "My usual." He didn't even have to ask; she lifts a hand, reveal the beer bottle already in her grasp. As she cracks it open he can't help but crack a smile.

"Yeah, so," Tifa slides it to him. "Was that really Sephiroth or just a costumed hooker or what?"

Cloud's first sip is promptly spat back out.

"I'm sorry, did you just –"

"Gross." Tifa whips out her bar towel. "You don't even have the excuse of being drunk."

"Seriously!?" Sputtering, Cloud shakes his head. "You hit me with that –"

"It's a legit question. It sure looked like him but how the hell would you pull that off?"

Cloud's ire falls a little. Sighing, he lowers his arms. "No fucking clue, but I did. That is him. And his second in command. The fuck knows how long they're staying."

Big brown eyes stare at him. "You're serious?"

"As a heart attack."

"By Bahamut, how the hell," She throws her hands up, mouth agape. A nervous laugh interrupts her words. "You. You are something else, you know that? You've been in Midgar for what, half a week, and come back with the General of Shinra?"

A few patrons on the opposite end of the bar are beginning to notice Tifa's absence, looking down the opposite end with disdain and irritation. None would approach, for fear of catching the gay cooties, but they all wanted their barkeeper back.

"Hey, Teef, I wants another –"

"You can wait, Tyler," Tifa snaps back without even looking. "This is so much more important than anything you've ever done." Leaning forward, she rests her elbows on the counter. "So. Whole story."

The first time they met, Tifa gave Cloud a bloody nose.

It was mostly an accident. She'd been practicing her technique in the woods outside of town, so into the kata that she didn't notice him approaching. And him, well, he'd been so entranced by the sight of another person his age who actually fought, that he got too close. Wham. Right in the face.

Tifa had felt so bad. Hitting her teacher's son in the face? Way to give a good impression. It didn't help that she was already so much trouble. Her father had forbidden her lessons and she had to pay in secret using her allowance. At 12 years old, she only made 20 bucks a month for doing the dishes, the laundry, and sweeping. Luckily it was enough.

(It would be many years before she learned that Momma Strife had dropped the prices – and she would've done it for free if Tifa hadn't insisted.)

Still, from that point on, the two were rivals. The only students of the Strife Studio, so to speak. Everything they did together was a challenge. Who can get water from the well faster. Who can wash up for dinner quicker. Who can fall asleep first. Their whole childhood was a race to be better, faster, stronger.

It was also a secret – a relationship no one could know about, because Tifa was the precious only child of an overprotective town mayor. She wasn't allowed to learn martial arts, she certainly wasn't allowed to learn it from the town weirdo, and most of all, she couldn't be best friends with the town weirdo's gay bastard.

That didn't stop her.

When she put her mind to something, nothing could stop her. By the time she was fifteen she was a black belt in three disciplines, training not just under Momma Strife but teachers from other towns, Dojos she traveled to on her own dime. Her father was having a harder and harder time stopping her, and he blamed the Strifes.

The whole bridge thing didn't help. Tifa was outright forbidden from seeing Cloud – not that she listened. They had a bond no one else could understand, something antagonistic and complimentary all at once. Completely different people who fit together perfectly as if one was never without the other.

Sure, they made promises to each other; promises so vague and practically impossible as to only seem accomplishable to children. Or, so ludicrous as to be laughable. By the time they both grew up, they would realize most of them were foolish, the products of childhood, and that they didn't matter. Especially the ridiculous ones.

"So… how old should we be?"

"Hm," Cloud, 16, shrugged. "25 maybe? I don't know when people get married."

"Okay," Tifa nodded. "If you and I aren't with other people by then –"

"Or if your dad tries to make you –"

"Right, then you and me will get married." She said with a nod. "But secretly we'll both still be gay."

"Right."

"And we won't have sex."

"Ew, no!" Cloud grimaced. "Of course not! You don't even have to say it."

"But if we have to have kids, we'll adopt." The boy grunted in acknowledgement. "The girl will be named Samantha after my mom, and the boy –"

"The boy will be 'Maximillian'." Cloud said with a wave of his hands towards the sky. The silence that followed was not encouraged. "… I like that name."

"You are forever banned from naming our future children."

"Wow." Tifa, leaning back, whistles. "That's – you know I wouldn't have believed it if anybody else told me, but,"

Cloud shrugs. He's halfway through his beer, eyes dark. "That's me. Miracle worker."

"Something like that." Tifa puts her hands on her hips. "You gotta bring him to the bar sometime, I wanna arm wrestle him."

A sputtering laugh escapes Cloud, and he hangs his head. "Only you. Seriously?" The beaming grin on her face gives him his answer. "Alright, alright. I'll see what I can do."

"Barkeep –"

"Yeah yeah hold up." Sighing, Tifa trots over to the crowd to do her job, giving Cloud a small wave that says 'hold on'. He simply nods; he's not going anywhere.

Least, not until the door opens. Cloud hears the voices before he sees their faces and stiffens. All he has to do is glance at Tifa's face to be sure. She's stock still, fist clenched, staring at him.

He shakes his head. "I'll see you later," Then stands, keeping his head down. No point putting on the hood; they saw him already. Old classmates of theirs, some of the regulars who used to give him shit. He doesn't bother looking at them. Just brushes past and out the door, into the frozen world outside. It's late now; long past sunset, the dim streets lit only by flickering lamp light.

If he's lucky, they'll decide it's not worth it, and stay where it's warm. Cloud keeps walking. A few feet further, he hears the chime go off as the door opens again.

Apparently he's not lucky. Big surprise.

Nibelheim is nothing impressive at all. A tiny village housing 152 inhabitants, most of whom were the elderly and the older generation whose children had gone elsewhere looking for opportunity. Cloud was one of a few who stayed, according to his mother, and had no plans to move anywhere else.

Sephiroth wonders why.

The man clearly has potential. He could have been a SOLDIER, if he'd wanted. If not, perhaps a Turk, given his penchant for information gathering. He'd certainly done a lot of it – the journal he'd given Sephiroth when they exited the helicopter was proof of that.

"Something I've been putting together." He'd said with a shrug, not meeting his eyes. "Hope it helps."

It just… doesn't make sense.

He's not thinking about his parenthood; no… he's come to almost certain conclusions about that. There's still things he wants to know, questions he wants answered… but he's relatively sure he knows the story by now. It's such a strange thought, that he was born in this tiny village he's never seen. This blip on the map of the world.

That his parents were murdered here.

The mystery that bothers him now is Cloud. Cloud Strife is the one who makes no sense. He's an anomaly, a puzzle Sephiroth can't quite solve.

The man's room is remarkably clean. It's on the top floor of the house, technically the attic, and spills across the whole floor. It's an open space, lacking actual walls or flooring beside the wood panels placed over the insulation. There's a bed beneath the window, a desk in the opposite corner, and bookshelves upon bookshelves slammed full of – stuff. Metal and gears and books and notebooks and pencils crammed into the middle of textbooks like awkward bookmarks. There's drawings tacked to the entire ceiling, rough models sitting on crates, and so many swords.

"Remarkable, isn't he?"

In the center of the room is the staircase, leading to the bottom floor. On it stands Ms. Strife, one hand on her cane, the other on the railing. Sephiroth nods to her.

"He certainly seems inventive."

"Taught himself," The woman says. "They don't teach this shit in grade school," She continues, pointing her cane at the sword laying on one of the tables, half scrapped together, welding tools all around. "There's even more in the garage. Damn kid's building himself an arsenal."

"Why?"

She shrugs. "He likes puzzles. He likes building things." Stepping upward, she puts both hands on top of the cane. "And I think… it makes him feel good, making something useful. Like its proof he's good for something." Sighing the woman turns to the general. "Folks in small towns aren't kind to people who are different."

Ah. "Social stigma." Sephiroth nods. He's… familiar with the scenario.

"He's frickin' smart, and he's small, but he can still kick anybody's ass to Mt. Nibel and back," Ms. Strife says, hand on her hip. "Plus he's got a mouth to him and doesn't take shit from nobody, and it don't help that his mother's never married. And," She adds, with a shrug, like it's an afterthought, "He's bout as straight as a glazed donut."

"I… see." Stiffer than a board, Sephiroth stays very still. He's not sure what the woman is trying to do and has no idea how to respond.

"What I'm saying," The woman begins again, stepping closer, looking up at Sephiroth's gaze from beneath his long bangs. "is Cloud Strife has got it in him to be a great man. A good soldier, hmm? He's too good for this town." With that, she turns slowly making her way back to the stairs and down. "He just needs somebody to help make him see it."

At last she vanishes, the light in the hall shuts off, and Sephiroth hears the door downstairs shut behind her.

The tension eases from him and he relaxes. Now, he understands. And to be honest, he agrees. Seeing what he's seen of the man here and in Midgar, he understands what his mother is trying to say. (And now realizes why the woman had told Sephiroth he could have her son's bedroom for the night).

Cloud is the biggest mystery in Nibelheim – and one Sephiroth is determined to solve. With that thought in mind, he leaves the attic bedroom, and heads for the streets of Nibelheim.

"Hey, asshole! I know you can hear me!"

Cloud keeps walking.

"You scared, chocobo-shit?"

Pft. Cloud almost laughs. But he'd rather not piss them off. He just wants to get home without creating an incident but it doesn't look like it's going to work. There's still half a mile between him and the house and all this snow is shit for running.

Damn it.

Sighing, Cloud halts, turning around. "Whaddya want Aaron?"

There's five of them. The leader is Aaron, a pasty tall farmer's kid with too much time on his hands in the winter season. "Still hidin' behind your demon pet, huh, Strife?"

Cloud smirks at that. The memories are so delicious. "Vincent's not here today, lucky for you." The last time, the man had about torn them to shreds. Aaron's buddies seemed to remember it too.

Maybe he should've lied, should've said the man was nearby somewhere, but… it's not in him to hide behind other people, even as a ruse. And he can see the bullies relaxing somewhat. He snorts.

"Shut up!" One of them lifts a metal bat, smacks it into the palm of his hand – for the first time a shiver of real fear hits him. This will not be fun. "We heard you were back in town. Go to Midgar lookin' for some dick, bring back a silver haired whore?"

Fury unfurls inside his chest, overflowing like boiling water. "Say what you want about me, but you shut up about the General!"

"Oh!" A chorus of laughter and jeers answers him. Aaron's grinning. "Like you really brought the General Sephiroth back with you. You little piece of shit, you aren't good enough to be the dirt on his boots, you think the General would hang around with a little gay turd like you?"

His face is flushed, hands clenching, this is getting out of hand. Cloud tries turning his head. "Shut up."

"What, you think he'd want you? Is that it? You want the Silver General stick his big ole' sword up your gay ass?"

"I said shut up!"

He moves – the first punch takes Aaron completely by surprise, and he's flung back twenty feet, slamming hard into the snow. The sight of it is enough to shock Cloud out of his anger. It always is. If not for the weather, the other man might be dead now.

Horrified, Cloud lowers his hands. And he doesn't defend himself when the bat swings at him the first time.

It hurts. By hell it hurts, and he goes down to the feeling of more weapons hitting him, steel-toed boots and bats and a beer bottle. He covers his head, the world spinning as he curls up, tasting blood in his mouth. Another smack hits him in the ear before it suddenly stops altogether.

The world is ringing. Bells all around. His vision blurs and shakes as he's moved, someone holding him upright, looking into his eyes. Vincent to the rescue again, apparently. Cloud chuckles around the blood in his mouth.

"Hold still… just a moment…"

It clears; the pain, the blood, the ringing in his ears. Cloud blinks and sees not red eyes, but bright green staring at him. The man about jumps.

"G – General!" He rushes to stand but falls, still woozy, against the man holding him. Blood rushes to his head. Cloud steps back, trying to stand by himself, but the gloved hands on his shoulders stay where they are.

"Are you alright?" The man asks, brow furrowed.

Cloud stares; his eyes dart around. The others are gone, no sign but the chaotic mess of footprints to show they'd run for the hills. Sephiroth is the only one there and why is Sephiroth there.

"You instigated the fight." The man begins. Cloud stiffens like a SOLDIER being dressed down, horrified and embarrassed. "Yet… you didn't fight back."

He droops a little. "I didn't mean to start it," Cloud admits. "I try to avoid fights."

"Because of that?"

Sephiroth gestures to the twenty foot line of snow that was dragged when Aaron went flying. Cringing, the blond nods.

"… yeah."

"You are very strong." Sephiroth remarks. "I noticed that your mother keeps an astounding amount of cookware and cutlery in her house, despite her insistence on having a single phone to save money. They are for you, are they not?"

Humiliated, Cloud's head sinks between his shoulders. "… I break them a lot."

"Hm,"

The General doesn't seem offended. Doesn't seem mad or – well, anything at all. Cloud can't read him. He's a blank slate, a cold wall of distance, much like Vincent was in the beginning. Cloud's had years to practice reading the brunette – he has no idea how to understand his son.

Not that he's gonna get the time to try.

"Why don't you fight back?"

Cloud blinks. "Huh?"

"Those men were goading you, and clearly you have had negative experiences with them in the past." Sephiroth says. "You could have easily defeated them. Hurt them. But you didn't."

"That's why," He says in answer. Sephiroth cocks an eyebrow. "Because I could hurt them."

The eyebrow lowers. Strong, curious eyes stay narrowed on him. "Hm."

What does that mean? Cloud thinks, half-terrified, half-confused. He keeps staring at me!

After a prolonged moment of silence, Sephiroth shifts his feet. "Hit me."

"What!?"

"I want you to hit me." The man says again. This time, Cloud could swear there's a small smile on his face. "I am curious about this strength of yours – I would like to test it."

"I – I'm sorry," Shaking his head, Cloud holds up his hands. "I can't. That's – ludicrous. I don't want to hurt you!"

"Are you insinuating that a small-town country boy such as yourself could hurt me?" The man's voice goes smooth, almost taunting, a small smirk on his face. He settles into his defensive stance. "Now, I order you to hit me, you gay bastard."

Cloud sees red.

When his vision clears, there's a Sephiroth-shaped hole in Jaxton Holly's barn.

Since being freed from the trap in Shinra Mansion, Vincent Valentine has taken to trailing Cloud around town.

Strife is an apt name for him. The boy has always attracted trouble like a magnet, practically a human natural disaster. It would be comical if not for how desperately the boy attempted to keep such things from happening and how bad he felt about it all. It wasn't really his fault – he was a strong, talented kid in a small closed minded town whose motto was "Get the hell out."

It really was. Somebody carved it into the town sign and nobody bothered fixing it.

Vincent had little to do in the world, anymore. No family, no friends, just – Cloud. The boy to whom he owed so much. He'd never have awoken from the Mansion, never left it, never really… tried to live again, if not for the boy. And there were times… times when it seemed even Cloud could not do anything for him.

He'd go catatonic, sometimes. Curl up in a ball in the mansion and just sit, staring at the wall. Trapped in his own mind. Wouldn't move, wouldn't do so much as blink. Sometimes, he'd twitch. Or scream. The first time it happened, Vincent came to with a teary eyed blonde leaning over him. Every time since, he can remember…

Cloud was always there. There wasn't much he could do for the panic attacks or the PTSD or the episodes Vincent fell into. But he was – there. Every day after school during times like those Cloud would be there. For hours. The boy would just talk about his day, sitting by the far wall out of reach. He'd already learned by then that during these times Vincent didn't always recognize him, that sometimes when he was trapped in these memories he couldn't control his strength.

But Cloud was still there, trying to talk him through it. Every day, until he came back.

Most people would have run the day they found the red-eyed man in the basement. Smart people would've burned the damn mansion down. But Cloud kept coming back. He came back when Vincent yelled and cursed and melted down, destroying the mansion around him in anger and agony. He came back when Vincent wouldn't talk or move or even look at him. He came back the first time Vincent turned into a demon and surprised the hell out of both of them. First Galian, then Hellmasker, Death Gigas, Chaos… Cloud wasn't scared away by any of it.

The least Vincent could do in return was protect him.

He'd always known the boy had been bullied. It was clear from the moment they met; Vincent wasn't a Turk for nothing. He could read the body language, the signs the boy displayed that revealed his lonely childhood. But until he was free, he could never do anything about it.

It had been a mere day after being set free that Vincent had heard the noises. Shouting, yelling, the crack of wood breaking. It wasn't incredibly close but his hearing could catch it. Through it, he caught a familiar voice, shouting insults – Cloud.

Vincent hadn't even hesitated. He'd bolted.

The first time Vincent Valentine stepped outside the mansion in almost thirty years, he didn't even think about it. He just left – because Cloud needed him. Because the boy was curled up on the ground trying to laugh through bloody teeth, arms around his head as a group of local boys took out their ignorance and anger on him. His hand had twitched for his gun, but Vincent had held himself. Just barely.

"Get off of him!"

Apparently, though, he hadn't held Chaos back as much.

Of all the demons, Chaos was… emotional. Galian's strength came and went in a cycle, almost in time with the moon. The other two were dull, dimwitted things that were interested solely in bloodshed. But Chaos – Chaos could feel things. He was awake, aware in a conscious way that they others weren't. And when Vincent felt things, Chaos felt them too – much, much more strongly.

Suffice to say that by the time the bullies had cleared off, they'd seen more than they ever wanted to see of the winged beast with the bright red eyes.

"Are you alright?"

Cloud had… stared at him. Tears in his eyes, mixing with the blood on his cheeks. The pure shock in that gaze tore through Vincent like a bullet. His wings curled around him instinctively, pulling him closer. In that moment, Vincent had never wanted anything more than to actually murder children.

He didn't, though.

What he did was pick Cloud up, despite the boy's great irritation and insistence that he be put down, and carried him home. Tended his wounds, and from then on, kept a close watch on him.

Which was why he was there that night, when Aaron came after Cloud. A mix of the usual group, the same half a dozen rowdy sons of ignorant mountain folk, looking for someone to kick around. Vincent almost growled the moment he saw them; within his mind, he felt Chaos spread his wings and snarl.

As it always does it spiraled into violence. But just as Vincent felt the change about to sweep over him and made to step in – someone else did.

Shocked eyes blink. The demon gives a questioning rumble, but settles down. And Vincent simply watches as Sephiroth heals Cloud, helps him stand, and speaks to him. He watches the man question him about his strength and his life. Can't help a smile when Cloud sends him flying, only for the blond to squeak and chase after.

"By the gods, I am so sorry -!"

Sephiroth's already standing back up, and he's practically grinning himself. Cloud's display pleased him; Vincent watches the blond run up to him, clear horror on his face, torn between trying to brush the dirt off the man and not wanting to touch him any further.

"No need. I wished you to."

Cloud still frowns, red faced, pouting. "You shouldn't have insulted me."

"It was not an insult." The taller man has a fantastic poker face. He might've made a decent Turk. "You are in fact the homosexual son of an unmarried woman, aren't you?"

"… you suck."

They bicker for a few more minutes, until barking dogs and lights flicking on alert them to the presence of others. Sephiroth glances round, and by his posture seems ready to step forward and take responsibility; Cloud grabs his shoulder and pushes him back, a finger to his mouth.

"Shush!"

"I caused the damage." Sephiroth tries to insist. "Shinra can cover the –"

"This is the Holly farm. Aaron's uncle, this is where he works. Those assholes can suck it." Then, with a little grin, Cloud quietly creeps to the opposite side, waving for Sephiroth to follow. The silver haired man seems to hesitate for just one moment, before crouching to follow. Together, the two could almost be mistaken for typical teenage boys trying to get out of trouble. Somehow, the sight sooths Vincent.

It's a good sign. Cloud has always been so lonely in this tiny town, and Vincent has a hard time imagining that Shinra was full of friends for the young General. Both so ahead of their peers in so many ways, ostracized for their differences, isolated due to their exceptionalities. Vincent watches them go, and for the first time in so many years, feels a little lighter.

"Perhaps there's hope for them yet," He murmurs to himself. Yes; perhaps there is hope for all of them yet.