Chapter 7: A Terror

As a professional private investigator, a certain decorum was expected of him. That meant professional manners, a certain level of emotional detachment from his clients so he can observe things with a critical eye, and looking the part. The last part of that was a bit difficult when one needed certain clothing that was typically a bit pricier. He had found, through the years, that people took him more seriously while he was in a suit, even if it was one scarcely held together by the threads. His suit had been already worse for wear, but the scuffle in Seventh Heaven had been its final straw. He needed something new, that meant he needed to head to a shop to replace it.

It was always a dreadful experience. Between crowded individuals and pushy sales folk, he attempted to avoid the experience as much as possible. Most sales associates tended to catch the hint that he wished not to be disturbed after a couple of cold shoulder visits. There is difficulty when it came to his shopping, he was long skinny limbs, with a waist often considered too lean. At least the difficulty in finding the right waist size in a pair of pants made it seem as such. He could find the right length often enough, but a belt to cinch the waist together was always the trouble. Not to mention finding a pair of slacks that would match a suit jacket when the primary shopping experience occurred in thrift shops and secondhand shops – both a dime a dozen in most of the slums.

He didn't need to travel far from his office for the experience fortunately. He had plenty available. The slacks he hunted down first, something to replace the patched up ones he typically wore. He found a pair of black ones after twenty minutes of investigating racks. They were older, the fabric getting that telltale gathering of lint on the surface of them that signaled their age, but otherwise they were the perfect size in all the right ways. A blessing truly, he considered. As it typically took far longer than that to find something. The jacket seemed to be the difficult thing to come by. "Could I perhaps help you find something, sir?"

It was an unusual occurrence for an associate to bother him three times in one outing but this was proved to be persistent. Perhaps it was the refusal to admit that help wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing to have on occasion. Or maybe he just stubbornly desired to be nothing short of self-reliant that had Vincent offering a cold "No." in response to the inquiry, followed by a louder than necessary clang of the hanging in his hand settling back onto the metal rack. Either way, Vincent received what he only wished for: privacy.

Even if the experience was proving to be fruitful. Never let it be said that Vincent actually enjoyed the shopping experience. Still, he felt a little guilty for borderline snapping at the sales associate – it wasn't their fault he was soured by the whole experience. He made a mental note to control his response next time. Although, based on the fact that he could feel them approach behind him again, and so soon, he may not be able to be as patient as he told himself.

They didn't say anything, just stood behind him, ever a presence as though he might have changed his mind any minute. Vincent finally exhaled quietly before he turned around to tell them for the fourth time he wouldn't need help. He got as far as opening his mouth before he stopped.

Not the sale's associate before.

No. This was someone else Someone looking amused as though they just caught him about to have an outburst when he was generally more control of himself.

He might still.

"I get the feeling you thought I was someone else, Mr. Valentine." Her ever-feminine charm present in her humored voice, eyes looking borderline teasing. Was he suddenly the end of a joke in her mind?

"Miss Lockhart." He greeted, pleasant. After all, manners are important, especially toward a client. Even if the client in question had kicked him all over her hallway the night before after he accidentally broke into her place.

With the greeting over, Vincent did what he did best: he fell silent and stared. Asking with his eyes that his lips refused to do. What is she doing there. "Didn't expect to run into you here while I was shopping." This was the valuable thing about his technique: it was an obvious answer to what would have been a student question. Of course that is why she was there. It was a place of retail after all. "What are you doing here?" There it was, the silly question with an obvious answer. Vincent quirked an eyebrow and glanced at the rack to his side. Something that was obvious enough. A roll of her eyes showed that she knew the obvious answer: shopping. "No, I mean, is there a special occasion you're shopping for."

"Just in need." It was then and only then, that Vincent got the distinct impression that Tifa was actually scrutinizing him for the first time. Wine-colored irises shifted ever so slightly, her head bowed as her gaze dropped to study him from foot to head. He got the impression that she didn't spend a lot of time in actually taking in the physical details of another individual. Not surprising given that she was probably always feeling like being the subject of gaze.

While her hair bowed down slightly to look to his feet, the muscles in her neck tightened subtly, pushing out the main artery at the side of her neck out. An subtle pulse, one that was unnoticed by normal observers was caught by his red hues, a pump of blood, just one noticeable before her head shifted up again as she looked him over the rest of the way. "Is…that a fashion accessory?"

The object in question was his left hand. Or what counted as a left and. The sleeve of his suit jacket normally hid most of the prosthetic. Prosthetic was the gentle description of the horrific brass clawed gauntlet that makes up his left hand. With his normal jacket having been tossed aside in his office, the full extent of it was out on full display.

He's had it for so long that he didn't notice it anymore – and most people were too absorbed in themselves, or too afraid to ask, or simply didn't care enough to question it. The slums had plenty of people who had strange clothing or an odd prosthetic or two.

A simple "No" would have been answer enough. Vincent? He shifted the black slacks onto his left shoulder before he grabbed the wrist of the prosthetic at the wrist, gave it a twist, a harsh metallic clink and he removed it midway up the forearm and held it in his right hand to demonstrate that it was a prosthetic. A moment before he reattached it.

Tifa shook her head, a smile playing at her lips. "No, I mean, why that? There are some pretty realistic prosthetics nowadays. Even in the Slums."

"It's what I woke up with."

"At the hospital?"

"In a manner of speaking. I've grown accustomed to it."

"How'd you lose it?"

"…"

"Sorry, I suppose that's a bit too personal to ask. Well… at least it wasn't your right hand?"

"…I was left-handed."

"Oh!" Now she looked embarrassed. Flushed for drawing such an assumption in an effort to lighten the topic but only making it worse.

Vincent would admit he got a sick sense of pleasure over the fact that it made her uncomfortable. That's only because he's secretly a monster. A terrible, terrible man. Not that he would tell people aloud. He tended to keep his own cruel humor to himself. And the fact that he had a bit of nihilistic view of the world in general.

"Anyways. I think you might be looking for something like this?" It was then that his keen observations were put into serious self-questioning because he hadn't even noticed prior to that moment that in her right hand she was holding up a piece of clothing that looked unmistakenly like a suit jacket. Black. Plain. Did she notice the surprise he felt? Surely she hadn't because Vincent was confident in his ability to keep his features trained. But the subtle lift of her lips, the way her eyes crinkled ever so slightly suggested she might be aware that she caught him by surprise.

Silently he reached out with his right hand and took over the offered jacket and looked it over. She managed to pick his size too. Apparently, she had a keen eye for such a thing, at least one that Vincent recognized. "Here, this too." During his study of the jacket, she had successfully turned to a rack and pulled off a used dress shirt, a deep red in color. Almost… blood in color. "It'll match your eyes." She chimed as reasoning for a way he didn't ask for.

Still, he accepted the offer regardless. It made for a complete outfit and completed his own shopping experience. "Thank you." He stood, suddenly uncertain of what he was supposed to do now. They weren't there together, he hadn't asked for help. By all reasoning he could leave now.

"What do you think?" Tifa held up a blouse, light blue. Much like the sky outside of Kalm where the pollution is lighter compared to Midgar. It took him a moment that she was actively seeking his opinion on a matter that wasn't his business. He shrugged, lightly. "So, no?" Tifa arched a brow at him, seeking clarification on his response.

"I don't know."

"So no." A more definitive response before the blouse was returned to the rack. She started to fish through the rack of odds and ends and Vincent shifted in a move to turn away and potentially walk away.

"How's the hand?" He was stopped at the question and as though the question had some sort of control over him, he naturally turned his palm up and looked down at it. "I noticed you didn't bother rebandaging it." That sounded suspiciously like she was mothering him.

"It's –"

"-fine." She echoed right back at him. She glanced over her shoulder and smirked, "You're getting a bit predictable, Mr. Valentine."

What was this teasing that she was doing? He felt his brows draw together. Predictable was not something that he would normally hear people call him. Truth be told, people didn't call him much of anything, at least not directly to his face anyway. He also didn't know how to respond to such a statement. Did it even warrant a response? No. No it did not. Instead Vincent opted to take a step away again in the hopes of escape.

"How about this one, instead?"

Vincent was started to get a distinct impression that this encounter was going to be much like the phone calls over the weeks. Where he wanted something brief and to the point but Tifa had managed to drag out the call until she was satisfied with the encounter. This was very much starting to seem like an encounter that should be reserved for one of her friends.

'if she has any' The cynical thought crossed his mind. But he did theorize that he job as a bartender left little time for a social life and the Slums were not known for the most warmhearted individuals. Everyone was on survival mode, which meant looking out for themselves. Surely, however, she had friends that she cold normally call on.

He humored her regardless, his body turning back to her and looking to what she was holding. This one was another blouse, a small v-cut at the center. Not enough to be provocative but enough to tease a gaze. The color was darker this time. at first he thought a dark blue but a moment longer in study showed that it was more of a royal purple in color. The color would be far more complimentary to her skin tone. She was fair, the color was dark. The previous blouse had been too light that it might have blended a bit too much.

"This one it is." She responded. Vincent shifted his gaze off the blouse and quirked an eyebrow up slightly in question. She smiled back in response, in a way that suggested she knew or understood something that was beyond his current understanding.

"I will see you tonight, Miss Lockhart." There, no room for intent in the message. He was leaving. He had enough socializing for the day.