Darknightdestiny's Stitching

MOVED. AGAIN.

Sat, 17 Nov 2007 04:42:28 GMT

I have a lot of places out there on the Internet, and this was only one more. I back up my stories on the pit, and on my home page. I even have samples of my original things on the FictionPress site and on my home page, and my fanfiction is everywhere. Since darknitedestiny belongs to so many communities, I've decided to post my stories in that journal and the communities to which it belongs. nighty_night will no longer be an active journal. I may use it as an archive in the future, but don't look to it for updates. It will mainly be character lists and finished drafts, just because it's good to have a lot of copies of things I don't want to lose.

I am sorry I threw the extra journal out there for you in the first place. That was a tease, and I didn't mean it. I thought it would help, but in the end it only made things more complicated. I keep forgetting I own web space. LJ-strikeouts can't reach me there.

Update your bookmarks accordingly.

♥ —Darknightdestiny

Crossing

Thu, 01 Nov 2007 03:25:15 GMT

Title: Crossing
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Characters: Vincent/Tifa/Hellmasker
Rated: PG-13

Summary: Long ago, people believed the soul was connected to the body. Vincent had always thought Tifa seemed like the... introspective type.

Notes/Warnings: Violence, assault. It starts out as Vincent's thought process, then turns into something consensual, and then it runs away from him. It's not rape, because they don't have sex (Vincent and Hellmasker don't have the same intentions for her anyway), but I've been told it's very dark and I should warn people. Better safe than sorry.

The Pit has this weird word-wrap thing going on with its HTML, and the LJ editor reads it and then translates it so it chops up the paragraphs—so reformatting things for LJ is a pain in the butt. I'm sorry for the trouble, but I'm linking you all back there because I don't have the patience to go through every line of the fic again.

[The human body was an amazing thing...]

~Darknightdestiny

Note to ff_press: Please credit this under the username darknitedestiny instead of nighty_night. Thank you!

ICON POST.

Mon, 22 Oct 2007 03:40:25 GMT

I've made 36 icons and 2 friends-only banners for the Final Fantasy VII Compilation (AC, DC, BC). It's my first icon post, so go easy on me.

Previews:

(Follow the fake cut...)

Note to ff_press: Please list these under the name darknitedestiny, rather than nighty_night. Thank you!

~Darknightdestiny

Get Up and Use Me

Wed, 22 Aug 2007 21:19:23 GMT

Title: Get Up and Use Me
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII (Before Crisis)
Characters: Vincent/Verdot
Rated: R // Mature (~~Boys~~ Men doing the dirty, nothing explicit)
Summary: Vincent's figured out it's easiest to make a move on someone (especially an unstable someone who's asking for it) when you're already expecting to get the shit kicked out of you. [SEC.net link]

I've had this song[mp3] stuck in my head all day.

Get Up and Use Me

Summertime in Midgar. The schools are empty, the streets are crowded, and the patchy grass is brown. Buildings just stand around, radiating heat like an oven-tray and offering nothing in the way of shade, and the road ahead of me blurs with sunlight and lingering exhaust. I don't get a vacation, not now and not ever. My job doesn't change, no matter how many bustling strangers fill the city, no matter how they fill their days.

My hair is getting shaggy, and it sticks to the back of my neck. I reach up and run a hand through it—dark auburn, it's almost as bad as if it were black—and I think I could fry an egg up there. The city's hot enough to cook your brains inside your skull this time of year. I've seen it once or twice in the papers—some poor kid faints and ends up in the hospital, not remembering where he was just hours before. That cloud of smog that's starting to gather above us isn't helping, either. Sometimes I think we've created a monster.

It's damned hot in this suit, too. Five more minutes and I'll be seriously tempted to leave him here.

As if on cue, the kid exits the store, his fingers hooked into a twelve-case of beer and a tell-tale bulge in his left pants pocket. He's walking around without his jacket, his shoulder-holster exposed for all the world to see. I know they recognize the suit anyway, but I don't like drawing unnecessary attention—though it's not like he's gotten blood on it this time.

I push myself up from the hood of the car and settle into the driver's seat, starting the ignition. I'd thought I could cool off outside, but the breeze wasn't what I had hoped for, and damned if it isn't hotter now than when I'd first gotten out. Should have left the air running.

Valentine sets the beer in the back seat and sits down next to me while I wait for the vents to get going. I hold my hand out in expectation, not even looking at him really—I try not to do that as much lately. He hands me the pack, and I smack it against my palm a few times, but pause in tearing the plastic away. Then I do look at him.

Goddammit.

"They didn't have non-filters," he explains, shrugging. "I could have gotten you another brand, or this." And then he turns that damned crooked smile on me. It's flashy, only not. It's not the kind of smile you give your colleague, and I swear he does it just to fuck with me.

"Could have asked," I mutter around one of the cigarettes, lighting up and putting the car into drive.

"I didn't want to put the beer down, come out here and then go back in."

I frown. I know he didn't get laid last night—if he had, he might have considered doing someone else a favor. Then again, maybe not. I've never really understood why Valentine does anything. Something's off about him. He's not without emotion—it's just not based on anything. He channels anger and sass at whim, like getting into character for an act. Unpredictable.

Though I wonder now, why he didn't go home with the girl from the bar. We had a late morning—he would have had the time. She was attractive and easily impressed—one night with Valentine probably would have ruined her for anybody else. I would have thought he would jump at the opportunity.

"Just pull the filter out," he says. "That's what I do."

It's a perfectly good third of a stick gone to waste, but I do it anyways. It's not like I get to sit around and enjoy much of anything leisurely and uninterrupted these days, certainly not an entire cigarette. In fact, it's getting worse—sometimes I'm so unfocused I can't even think straight. I blame most of it on the kid, though part of me hopes it's just some phase I'm going through. If that's the case, it won't last, but I know the kid will stick around for a long time.

Valentine's unnaturally good at his job.

He's smiling again as he raps the backs of his knuckles against the window, and I fight to keep my eyes on the road. I knew that if I let his eye catch mine early today I'd end up watching him all afternoon. I'm a diagnosed obsessive-compulsive—and while most of the time I have no problem keeping my outward composure intact, my mind is an entirely different story.

His body is slouched in the seat, sprawled out across my leather, something that used to drive me up the proverbial wall—still does, especially on bad days. My own fucking shadow, and whenever he's around, my bad days get worse for completely different reasons. Especially when he's readjusting himself constantly in the corner of my vision—his legs, his arms, the headrest.

The road is clear for about twenty feet ahead of me, and my eye flicks over in his direction to find that he's already staring at me. His eyes are hard and intense like crunching broken glass underfoot, and for a second I want to forget about driving. Then his mouth twitches, and he looks out the window.

This isn't normal for me. I'm—I'm not like that. He knows this, because it's come up before, and I think he thinks he's got something I want, and it makes him feel even better about himself. If that's all it is, then he's right—but I don't have to say it, and I won't. It's just a phase. I can't be that, because I've never been, and the last thing I need is for him to be thinking it's his doing.

That's what I keep telling myself. But the situation seems to be arguing with me on that one.

I'm not in love or anything like that. It's a hard life, and everyone needs something to hold onto—everyone except maybe Valentine himself. His lust for mayhem is the very thing that keeps him going—that and those guns of his.

Of course that's not all it is, but I try not to think about it. That sort of thing can get well-meaning people into trouble. Not that I'm the poster-boy for good intent, or that I have much control over my thoughts lately. I in fact hold no intentions for most people, but when it comes to Valentine—he's more able to take care of himself than even I know sometimes, self-sufficient and resourceful in the field and out, but—I'm responsible for him in a lot of ways.

We're almost to the apartments when he finally speaks, asks me what we've got lined up for the rest of the day. Only he's not simply asking the question, he's running through scenarios. Will we be spending time in the office? Will we end up with some boring assignment, done in a matter of minutes and finding ourselves in some dive? Maybe we could go back to that one, he says, because I took so well to it the last time.

He's a jerk for that low blow, but I'm barely listening to what he's saying, just the way he's saying it. He's talking deliberately, with purpose, slowing things down and unnecessarily. His voice is smooth and even as he wraps his mouth around the words he normally wouldn't waste, and I—I need out of this car.

I pull the sedan to a stop and nearly rip my seatbelt from its harness, exiting the vehicle and taking long strides to the front door. It's just a phase—it's not real. I know I'm in some kind of denial, but if Valentine ever gets to the point where he does need something, it shouldn't be me. He'll make bad decisions, and he'll have an even harder time dealing with the ones I make. I know, because I'm already there. And it doesn't matter, I tell myself, because he has to be fucking with me.

"Veld!" He laughs like it's ridiculous, but he knows me well enough by now, and that's just not the case. And I can feel his gaze hardening on my back as I continue to walk, because Valentine never stays light-hearted after a laugh like that, not when I'm brushing him off. I can hear the incredulity in his tone before the words even leave his mouth. "The hell has gotten into you?"

It's hot out—you kept me waiting. I'm tired. I've got the wrong pack of smokes. Go home, kid.

Valentine follows me in, and I take the stairs, because I don't need to be in an enclosed space with him. I'm so damned frustrated I could kill him. I could. Only this time, he hasn't done anything wrong—in fact, he's almost been kind of nice these past few days, and I find that suspicious. This—this is what I've become, a paranoid mess. Conditioned—this is what he does to me. And it's probably for more than shits and grins, but again, I don't want to think about it.

Did I just say in a round-about fashion that he's training me?

It's like that story, where the man kills the other man just because he can't stand to look at his eye, and then he starts hearing heartbeats under his floorboards. How did that man get rid of his nightmare?

I throw my keys down once inside the apartment, and Valentine puts the beer in the fridge. Indecisive, I take off my jacket and set it down on the back of one of the chairs next to my kitchen counter. Part of me wants to retreat to my room, part of me wants to stay in open spaces. I don't need him following me, cornering me. I think that maybe I can stick him in the office and run around town today doing other assignments. I could use the break.

But I don't get the chance.

"So," he says. "Are you going to tell me what's going on, or do I have to drag it out of you?"

It's not like a Turk to care about someone else's problems, Valentine especially—he lives in his own world. But lately he pokes and prods at me like he's got some vested interest, turning business into personal shit, and damned if I don't have mixed feelings about that. "I'm in a bad mood, kid. Just leave me alone for a while."

"Well, are you going to be like this all day? Because I need to know."

"The fuck am I supposed to know?" I growl. "What do you care?"

"I'm your partner, Veld. We have to work together, and your mood affects me. And frankly, I'm getting a little tired of your manic bullshit." Something snaps.

"Piss off, I said!"

I might have made some threatening gesture—certainly not out of the question, given my state of mind—because he slams me up against the wall then, and hard. Valentine can turn ugly real quick, and before I know it we're grappling on the floor. We're both wiry little shits, but although I like to think I'm meaner, the kid is taller, heavier and stronger, and he's got one hell of a reach. I want to hurt him—I should be proud, but some belying part of me wants to break his face, because he's almost laughing. "What's gotten into you?" he asks—amused? I don't know. Confused? Doubtful.

My hands are pinned above my head, and I swallow the sound of my defeat, because it's just as much a confession. And suddenly I know he knows it—he can feel it against my leg, I can see it in his eyes—and rather than succumb to shame, the fighting part of me wants to throw him out on his ass, just so I don't have to deal with it. But I can't move—he's sitting on me.

"Oh," he says, eyes lighting up with some smug sort of satisfaction. "That's it."

Can't, or won't? I throw my weight against him, and he rolls away without a fight. I'm up in seconds and walking away from him—to where, I don't know. "I told you to get the fuck away from me," I hiss on my way out of the room.

"Oh, okay. Sorry, I must have misread you."

And there it is. He shrugs it off like it doesn't bother him, and I know I can walk away and leave things where they are, or I can turn around and blow this thing wide open. But there's a jibe in his tone, so very contrary to his body language, and I know what he's getting at—and the urge to do something about it is addictive. I turn, glaring, and advance on him. "You goddamn son of a—"

I push him. He pushes back. Without even thinking, I try to take a swing at him, but he ducks. Suddenly his hands are on me, and again there's a wall at my back. My body flushes hot, and I'm frightened to hell by the tingling in my limbs—dumb and panicky, and I don't know what to do with this. But we can't go back—we work together. I see him every damned day.

Where do we stand? I don't know. Valentine isn't immoral, he's amoral—the rules don't apply to him. He just does what he does, sometimes for no reason at all. I think to myself that he'd make a terrifying lover, all selfishness and possessiveness. Not like he's ever been in any real relationships, not like they've lasted that long. His only long-term love affair is with violence. He doesn't—doesn't know how to handle it. I don't know, either.

A last ditch attempt—but I suppose it's a lot easier to make a move on someone when you already expect to have the shit kicked out of you. Because then, what have you got to lose?

He kisses me.

Just giving me what I want, and I don't need that kind of charity. So, I push him away—he grabs me by the collar and pins me again violently. And then his mouth is back on mine, muffling angry words. I want him to know I'm more trouble than I'm worth, but when his tongue slips in, warm and wet, I fail to stifle my reaction.

He breaks away, and I make a frustrated sound in the back of my throat.

"I see," he answers, hot breath against the side of my face, and then he's at it again with that mouth of his. A fiery brand on my throat—it's good for more than sass. His knee forces its way in between my thighs, his hand fists itself in my hair, yanking back—I'm caught and exposed, trapped between my own wall and Valentine's firm hands, his teeth and tongue—and I let loose a shuddering breath, tinged with a deep moan which grows louder the harder he presses into me.

Cocky. He's got me where he wants me, where I want me, and it's making him feel all sorts of powerful. But if I'm honest—honest—I don't mind if that's how he wants to get off. I'm tired of wondering, tired of fighting. One hand wraps around my throat to still me while the other undoes my tie.

I surrender.

It isn't long before I'm pressing back, my hands just as busy grasping the starched fabric of his shirt, the buckle at his waist. It seems like forever since I've felt this alive, seen someone else act this alive, and I'm practically climbing my way up his body, hard knees knocking together as he advances and I stumble backwards into the bedroom. We land half-on, half-off the bed—and I finally realize, my chest trapped underneath his own—he was right about me, about me and him. I've all but come undone.

Valentine's demanding, but not quite selfish. He's looking for something, adamant about breaking me down. It turns out he really likes making me writhe about for him, comfortable or not, even better when I talk back or offer some resistance, drawing things out. There are so many ways to do this—I've got my dignity, I'm not some needy pup, and I want him to know—but his hands, his mouth, are so damned convincing. It's my reaction that gets him off. Can't wait to see Veld's face when I push this or that button, can't wait to see what he does when I cross this line right here, when I touch him here, there—yeah, that sounds about right. Even in this, he's the same Valentine through and through.

I smirk beneath the bruising force of his kiss, but he doesn't break away or question. The giving side of him is something new. So deliberate and unyielding, and I'm not ready for it to end when it does.

The air is cool on my sweat-soaked skin, exposed again and flushed with that pulsing heat, and I'm sore all over. My back, my legs from being crushed under his weight and smothered—among other things—it had been a while for me to begin with. The room is hushed, save for the sounds of traffic out on the street, until there's a rustle at my side. Valentine settles in next to me, those hard knees against mine, tangled limbs heavy with exhaustion. And god, the smell—it's going to be here to greet me when I come home.

He's quiet for a moment, studying the freckles on my shoulder like he might find some intricate pattern. I can feel the ghost of his breath as his nose follows the curve of my neck, shoulder to jaw, and my heart resumes its pounding. Suddenly the way his chin not-quite holds my neck down is suffocating, and I shift away—but then his rust-russet eyes flick up to mine, a question dancing inside.

"Feel better?"

I think about it. I've just had the best sex of my life with the kid—not my kid anymore, but I still feel accountable—and I'm reminded that we have to be back in a couple of hours. Valentine's lying there next to me, probably feeling very proud of himself, and if his tone is any indication, he's already got the answer he wants.

Gloating, it sounds like—and he's going to be around for the rest of the afternoon, at least.

He flashes that same god-awful grin at me, and I want to jump his bones all over again and pummel him at the same time. He's got no shame—flirtatious, cocky shit—and I've just come to the realization that no, I don't feel better. Temporarily, yes—but that will fade quickly, is fading now with the knowledge that our fights are going to be worse, and they'll probably be over different things—and I know already that I'm going to want this again and again, that he's already made an addict out of me.

But Valentine...

Valentine doesn't need anything, never wants anything—not yet, but he'll give me what I want in the meantime. I don't know why, don't know where to even begin with the assumptions that will get me nowhere. Just another thing I don't need to drive me crazy. He's—he's a damned fool.

And so am I.

End

Listening To: Franz Ferdinand - 'I'm Your Villain'

Notes: I was writing this for a contest, pressured to write a piece within a month. I waited for a while, and then this poured out of me within a day or two. I had the ending in sight, knew what I wanted to happen, but it just fell out of me at the last second. I like these two—they get shit done, and they get it done right. XD

Who caught the Tell-tale Heart reference?

I Don't Want Anyone Else

Mon, 23 Jul 2007 18:08:56 GMT

Title: I Don't Want Anyone Else
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Characters: VincentxTifa, Yuffie
Rated: PG-13

Summary: The memory of a night with Vincent keeps Tifa's judgement in check after a night of drinking. Part of the Agapé storyline, can stand alone. Because I needed something from her perspective, and this hit me hard. [ff.net link]

I Don't Want Anyone Else

Tonight, she was going to simply let go—what a wonderfully elusive concept she had seemingly forgotten over the years. It was late, and they were tired, and certainly there would be hell to pay in the morning when it came time to buckle down and kick ass like usual. But it was Yuffie's suggestion in the first place that they go out, and it had been such a long time.

Not since...

And perhaps she wasn't doing her job as a coach—perhaps she should have said, 'Yuffie, you need to get a good night's rest so that you can be alert in the morning,'—but the girl was only really in it for the fun and the experience to begin with.

For once, Tifa Lockhart wasn't going to feel obligated.

That's what she told herself when she walked into the bar that night, arms linked with her ninja-friend and gal-pal, ready to let loose and simply forget, if only for one night. They deserved it, after all; Yuffie had done a damned fine job of representing Seventh Heaven at the competition, proof that the time spent training her had been well worth it. And Tifa—well, she felt that a break, even a short one, was long overdue.

She wasn't going to think about how, when she returned home in a few days, it would be just in time to watch the kids leave for their first week away with Cloud at his new place. She wasn't going to think about how, months prior and just hours after a nasty break-up with said swordsman, she had gotten a wee bit tipsy and bold and slept with her best friend—and she loved Vincent to death in so very many ways it hurt—which had radically altered her perception concerning her situation with Cloud and had ultimately solidified her decision not to get back together with him. She also wasn't going to think about how she would also have to slip back into that comfortable-but-not routine with Vincent when she returned to Edge, trying to pretend that nothing had changed and waiting for the day when she thought she might be ready for him.

And gods, he had been so patient with her. It was almost enough to drive her mad—but that was what she'd needed, after having been so patient with everyone else for so long—patient, yet unrelenting, and damned if he hadn't practically committed himself to her already.

But she wasn't going to think about that tonight. No, not at all. To be sure, it was the furthest thing from her mind, and she promised herself—she promised herself that whatever happened tonight, she was not going to sit around and rehash drama. No business, no children, and certainly no men.

Tifa was about half-way through her third beer that first hour when she received her first proposition. The lighting was low, the music a repetitive thrum, and she almost didn't hear him—she hadn't even noticed him approach, not until he was speaking. Yuffie was sitting to her left, chatting away with the bartender—some young and scruffy thing, strangely attractive with his piercings and tattoos—and Tifa had since resigned herself to unwinding within the little invisible box she had made for herself.

As it turned out, the night wasn't quite finished with Miss Lockhart.

This one had a nice smile, light hair and dark eyes. Tifa smiled back at him, but when he offered to buy her next drink, she politely declined. She wasn't going to assume where he was going with this, but she didn't want to feel like her time was being bought. She didn't need to feel obligated to spend time here, should she decided that she was most certainly finished.

And she was, for the most part, when he addressed her as 'Hey, beautiful.' But his grin was light and easy rather than wolfish, and she was content to let him sit and talk—it was a free world, and she'd worked hard to make it so. It would be rude of her to tell him where to go, so she let him set his vodka tonic next to her and chat away.

Peter had been married once before, and had a five-year old son. He was in business management, had several restaurants under his belt, and recognized Yuffie from the competition. Tifa admitted to being her coach and the owner of Seventh Heaven—at that, Peter insisted that they exchange information.

"Ah..." Tifa stalled, "it looks like I don't have a pen." She didn't want to exchange information. This wasn't why she had come out tonight.

Peter only smiled kindly, which made her curse inwardly. It would have been much easier if he hadn't been so nice about it. "I'll tell you what—if you have your phone, you can just program it in."

She blinked. Her phone? "Yuffie," she said, turning to the younger girl who was very much preoccupied, "I left my phone upstairs, didn't I?"

"Guess so," she chirped, turning her attention back to the man behind the counter.

Tifa shrugged at Peter. "Sorry," she said.

"Not a problem," he said. "Hey, buddy," he piped up, gesturing to the bartender, "you think I could borrow a pen?"

The man handed Peter a pen from a glass behind the bar, and Peter grabbed a napkin and began scribbling his number on it. "Here," he said, sliding it across the table to her. "If you'd like to get together sometime before you leave, my phone's always on."

He handed the pen to Tifa—and she smiled genuinely, offering a smooth thank-you as she handed it back to the bartender, without so much as writing her name down. Yuffie stifled a smile at that, knowing Tifa wasn't interested, but Peter seemed to take it in stride. He nodded politely and grabbed his drink up from the counter, sliding from his stool.

"Nice meeting you, Tifa," he said with another confident smile.

"You, too."

He left his number as he walked away, and Yuffie snickered quietly to the bartender. "Hey," she said, "you get a lot of regulars in here? Can you tell the good catches from the sleaze? You know, just in case Teef here decides to warm up a bit." She laughed out loud and flashed him an unashamed grin, which he returned.

"We get a few," he said, "but to be honest, I don't get too intimate with anyone here."

"Is that right?"

He chuckled at the suggestive tone. "Aren't you from another town?"

"I go where life takes me."

Tifa attempted to roll her eyes at the scene, but she couldn't find it in herself. Yuffie was Yuffie, and none of it would matter in the next twenty-four hours. By this time tomorrow, Tifa would be safe and sound at home, and Yuffie would be on her way to Rocket Town to spend the weekend with Cid and Shera before she headed back to Wutai.

She could probably curb any interest right off the bat, if she simply told anyone else who might approach her that night just that. She wasn't even from around Kalm—she wasn't interested in any of them. And she certainly wasn't going home with any of them. They didn't know her from the next woman. Not like—

... Gods, but that had been in early winter. Was it really spring already? She almost couldn't believe how far away it was, when it seemed like only days ago. Sure, she'd had months to weather the aftershock, but it had never left her.

Her best friend—who, five years ago, she would never have imagined in such a state. And it had been sloppy and unplanned, a disaster even—but waking up that morning to whatever consequences, though stressed and confused as she was and too unwilling to face the undisguised love in his eyes, she had never felt warmer, never felt safer in her entire life. A feeling she would never allow to be muddled by any random encounter with any random—

"Hey, you think I could get another one of these?"

The bartender—Luke, she thought she'd heard Yuffie call him—took her empty bottle and popped the cap off another, setting it in front of her. She gladly took it and downed a long swig of the cold beverage. She was exceedingly glad they served beer chilled in this bar; most of the restaurants in the Kalm area served theirs at room temperature, like in so many other parts of the world. Cold brews were mostly an old Midgar tradition, and for once she was glad that something of the long-gone city had caught on.

She could drink quickly this way.

Peter wasn't the only chap to approach her that night. There was Brian the school-teacher; Jack the local sports-caster; and Morgan, who was 'in-between jobs' as he put it, but seemed to have a wealth of useless facts stored up in his spongey brain. All of them were nice, well-behaved, and attractive—and all of them were wrong.

Wrong, wrong, all wrong.

Last call. The bar closed at three in the morning, but they pulled drinks at two. Yuffie had returned to her side after Morgan had left—and that had been a very interesting conversation, certainly random if she was looking for an example—and Luke was making his trips around the circular bartop, closing tickets and collecting tabs.

The young girl flashed Tifa one of those winning smiles and waggled her eyebrows. "So?" she asked. "You gonna meet up with any of those guys before we leave tomorrow? We can probably squeeze in time for lunch, before we call the car rental."

Tifa pushed the remainder of her beer away from her body—she'd had enough for the night, and knew she would probably be suffering the next morning. "Yuffie, we're not even from around here," she said, smiling softly to herself.

The ninja tossed her choppy hair back, shrugging casually. "Just a little fun. That's all."

Tifa bowed her head, contemplating the lines of her palms on the counter. "No," she said. "I think maybe you and I should just catch lunch together, and then go home." She smiled. "Unless you wanted to see somebody, in which case I can go by myself. I'm okay with that."

Yuffie blinked. "But why? You should go out and have some fun. It's just lunch. Come on, what was wrong with those guys you were talking to? They seemed really decent."

And they had been decent. Peter was so proud of his son, Jack so passionate about his job. Morgan was odd in a good way, and Brian believed he was making a difference. Peter cared about his employees, and Morgan had made her laugh at least twice—and a real laugh, not a false or sympathetic attempt. No, nothing wrong with them at all—not on a first-date level of understanding, anyhow.

But there was something wrong, she realized. And it was the same thing with every man in the room, in the hotel—hell, any man on the street. Generally speaking, any one of them had just as good a chance with her as the next; there was nothing particular about a one of them which would sway her either way. Of course, if she got to know them, she might find out what was so special about them, their quirks and preferences and endearing mannerisms. Right now it was all surface, but certainly everyone had something which set them apart from the rest of the world.

The thing was, she didn't want to find out. She didn't need to know if Peter liked his coffee black, or if Jack took his dog to the park to play fetch. Tifa didn't care if Brian liked spicy food, or if Morgan brushed his teeth five times a day. For all she cared, they could be Guy Number One, Two, Three, Four. She didn't even need their names—she just wasn't interested.

There was nothing there. Peter could be Mr. Bleeding Heart, and Jack could introduce dying children to their heroes, and while all of that was fine and good, it wouldn't make a difference. Tifa was completely impartial.

When Tifa was just starting her bar back up on the outskirts of old Midgar, she had a temporary waitress who used to come in and run shifts for her every once in a while. And this woman swore up and down that she was in love with two different men, but she simply couldn't decide between them. While Tifa didn't doubt that it was possible to love more than one person at a time, she also knew better than most that there were many different ways to love a person. So, she'd asked her.

'What is it about either of them that really does it for you?' Tifa finally questioned one slow and rainy day while they were wiping down glasses. And she knew the drill—the one had the most gorgeous eyes, and the other wanted children. Sally wanted children, and she got along well with that one, but she just didn't feel like there was that spark, she said.

But that was silly, Tifa had thought even then. There were many men in this world who had gorgeous smiles and washboard abs, and there were plenty of men who would love to have children. She told Sally just as much, but that wasn't what she had asked exactly, so she reiterated. 'Yes, but... what makes each of them special to you?'

Sally hadn't had an answer. And Tifa herself had been there before—like a mental road-block, and no detour. But if Sally had just admitted then that she didn't know, save for the fact that, 'He's Tommy,' or 'He's my Jimmy,' then that would have been all right with Tifa. She would have accepted that, and it would have been enough. But Sally hadn't said that, not at all. She'd sat there instead, weighing pros and cons.

Well, that was ridiculous. Everybody had pros and cons.

And if Tifa assessed these men with some sense of detachment, then she could admit that most of them were actually quite appealing. But she herself wasn't attracted to any of them in the least—not physically, not mentally, and there was certainly no emotional investment, or even the desire to form one. They had been good conversation and pleasant company, but when Tifa walked out that door, she would forget all about them. She didn't need to get inside their heads, to find out who they were—because she already knew who they weren't.

They weren't familiar or personal to her. They weren't any of hers—not her friends, not her family, not those special few she so desperately clung to when she'd expected the world to end. She hadn't really been fighting for these people down here, who lived every day like the one before it—the weight of an entire planet was far too much for one person, and she didn't know how Aerith had ever managed to bear it—no, Tifa had been fighting for those standing to her left and her right, for the hopes she had for each of them and their futures.

She hadn't had anywhere else to go. They were her family, her reason for fighting. All of them. And as much as she'd always wanted for Cloud to move on, for everyone to find some happiness in this new freedom, she found that she herself had grown so comfortable—

The hazy memory of a cinnamon kiss under bright lights—voices outside the car, talking, after months and months of easy comfort and testing boundaries until she could tease him and curl up in his arms like an apology—the look he gave her before he rose up to meet her and she brought him under, took him in her arms and pressed him up against that hard surface...

Waking up atop his warm body, his hips flush against hers and his breath against her ear, the noise he made as she fought to catch herself and the moment his arms were wrapped around her before he pulled away and she was left alone and damning herself for her desire to forget the consequences and drag him back into the mess she'd made. The feigned calm of his features as he reassured her that she wasn't alone, even though she'd thought she'd known better, had wanted to tell him that it was something she had to handle on her own.

Tifa had always been the strong one like that, even in this—she'd needed to be, for everyone she told herself—but she distinctly remembered pulling the sheets down between them and curling into his shoulder, resisting the urge to kiss his skin and revel in the scent of afterglow, if only because she was afraid she would hurt him later. She'd been confused, still recovering from fresh wounds, and she'd needed time to figure herself out, she'd thought. It couldn't be real, what she'd felt then, because it was too soon.

She still watched him sleep, when she could catch him.

"Yo! Paging Tifa," Yuffie said, snapping her fingers and waving a hand in front of her face. "You okay?"

Tifa tilted her head in Yuffie's direction, her eyes slowly coming back into focus. She nodded minimally, and turned her attention back to the counter.

"You sure? You got this funny, far-away look on your face, like you were slipping into a pleasure-induced coma."

Tifa smiled to herself. Maybe the alcohol had something to do with it, and maybe it didn't, but she would know when she saw him. "I think I'm ready to go."

"Yeah, I think you've had enough." Yuffie reached into her pocket and produced a wad of gil, and Tifa threw some money down on the counter. The younger girl reached behind the counter for the pen, ignoring her friend's comment about how one 'should never reach behind the bar' and how much it made her blood boil when people did it back home, and wrote her number down on a napkin, leaving it for Luke along with a particularly generous tip. "Okay," she grinned, offering Tifa her arm. "Now we can go."

The walk next-door was almost quiet, both Tifa and Yuffie seemingly lost in their own thoughts about the evening—Yuffie presumably wondering if Luke was going to call her, and Tifa trying to focus her attentions on reconciling the fluttering flip-flops in her chest with the sudden queasiness in her gut, the flush of warmth through her body with the growing ache within her head.

"It was Vincent, wasn't it?"

Tifa turned to face her friend, too tired to form a questioning expression. Yuffie just smiled.

"You left those numbers at the bar," she said. "Four napkins up on the bar, minus mine. Counted them and everything."

They slowed to a stop at the front door of the hotel lobby, and Yuffie hit the buzzer on the door. When the tone chimed, she slid her key-card in and yanked the door open, and the cold air hit them both like a shock to the system. Tifa kept hold of the younger girl's arm as they stepped inside the elevator, only letting go when she'd reached the wall and slumped lazily against it.

Yuffie was smiling at her haggard form, taking note of the still-removed look that wouldn't leave her eyes. "Are you going to talk to him when you get back?"

"Mm." Tifa closed her eyes and swayed as she lowered herself to the floor. "I should, shouldn't I?"

"Why don't you call him?"

"Don't know what to say. Besides, it's two in the morning."

"Ha!" Yuffie barked. "It's never too late for love!" Her expression changed then, to something more relaxed and passive. "Seriously though, you might want to get up. We're almost to the room."

As if on cue, the elevator bell dinged—too loudly, Tifa thought—and the grown woman on the floor let out a defeated moan.

"Come on, you can't stay here," the ninja said, and stooped down to help her up. She frowned at Tifa's non-cooperation, and settled her hands on her hips. "If you don't get up, I'm going to do what you used to do to me—I'm going to strip you down to your skivvies and throw you under a cold spray."

Tifa groaned and shot her hand up exhaustedly, and Yuffie helped her to her feet.

Eventually, they made it to their room, and Tifa to a tight bundle of covers. She'd stopped at the doorway first thing, saying that it was fine to leave her there, and began to lie down on the floor beneath the small table across from the bathroom. And so, Yuffie had made good on her threat; she stripped Tifa down to her underwear and somehow managed to lift her limp form into the tub, where she turned on the freezing cold shower-spray. Tifa had screamed and called her a jerk, and Yuffie had just smiled, toweled her off and helped her into bed, where she'd burrowed underneath the heavy comforter and held on for dear life, shivering as she dried in her bedsheets.

At some point during the night—she wasn't sure how much time had passed, though she'd heard Yuffie bumping around in the dark as she got ready, kind enough to leave the lights off—she felt a weight settle on the side of the bed. She didn't open her eyes at first, but then the girl placed a smooth, weighty object in her hand.

Yuffie reached out and brushed the hair away from Tifa's forehead. "You got a message," she whispered softly in the darkness of the room.

Tifa opened her eyes slowly, wincing in the bright-blue glare of the display. And suddenly it was like another heavy hand on her shoulder, another blanket around her shuddering form.

Vincent.

Tifa selected the voice-mail command and pressed the confirm button, holding the phone to her ear. She could see Yuffie's teeth and eyes glowing in the small, harsh light as she waited patiently. And a slow smile crept over the young ninja's face—a comforting, knowing smile.

"Tifa, it's Vincent. Ah—I'm guessing you're either asleep, or you've gone out. I was just calling to see how you are. This is kind of odd—I can't remember ever leaving you a message, because you always seem to pick up. Hmph... stage fright, I suppose."

She missed that chuckle. So different when she wasn't right there with him, wrapped up in those damning thoughts and unable to look outside of herself and notice. When had they gotten so serious?

"Listen—I wanted to ask you, if when you return tomorrow, you would be willing to spend some time with me after Marlene's play is over. I..."

When had she ever said no to that?

"There are some things I've been wanting to say." A pause. "I don't know, maybe I can't do anything but say the same things in a different way." Another, slightly longer pause. "But there's not much else I can do. I have to get this out of the way before any more time passes us by—and it has to be in person."

She swallowed hard. She wasn't crying, wasn't crying—"Yes."

"Anyway, I hope you get this message. I don't mean for you to be thinking about this in the morning—don't let it get to you. It's just me, Tifa. I'll be here when you're ready."

She was so ready, so painfully ready and yet so scared. But if there were ever anyone who she could trust, who she would even want to—

"You can tell Yuffie I said good luck."

Because she'd finally realized that the only reason she'd ever have for backing away, for hurting him, was her own bundle of conditioned fears, something she knew now that she would never have to run from when she was with him.

"I'll see you when you get back. I—"

Another pause, and she clutched the sheets to her chest.

"Sweet dreams, Tifa."

"Love you," she whispered. And then it was silent, dead air.

"... I love you."

Click.

And then the tears began to fall freely, and Yuffie was readjusting herself on the mattress, hovering, asking—

"Tifa, what's wrong?"

She just shook her head, wiping at her eyes. "... Nothing," she sniffed. "Nothing's wrong. I just—"

A slender arm reached over and pulled a couple tissues from the box on the nightstand, and Tifa accepted them gratefully. "So," Yuffie began again. "You're going to talk to him?"

Tifa laughed, in spite of herself. "Yeah, I'm going to talk to him." She breathed tiredly as she wiped at her eyes and nose, and sank back into the sheets as Yuffie made her way over to perch herself on her own bed.

"Good. You going to call him in the morning?"

Tifa smiled to herself. "No. I think I'll say it in person." And she knew that Vincent wouldn't be able to wait, either—that it wouldn't come out the way he'd wanted unless he could see her.

Yuffie returned the grin as she lay down, although it couldn't be seen in the absence of light in the room. "I'm glad, Tifa."

"Me, too." Tifa curled in on herself then, snuggling deeper within the blankets. "Vincent said to wish you good luck for him."

"Yeah?"

"Mm."

"That's cool," she said. "I've been sending you two good vibes for months. Though I'll be sure to send you extra good ones tomorrow."

Tifa could hear the excitement in her friend's voice, and she was filled with warmth. "Thanks. Goodnight, Yuffie."

"'Night, Tifa."

As she pulled the blankets up around her shoulders, she couldn't help but imagine Vincent's arms coming around to hold her from behind. And for a moment, the pounding in her head seemed to lessen, and the air seemed to grow warmer. It wasn't long before her eyes fluttered shut, and her breathing began to even out.

Rest had finally come.

End

Final Fantasy VII and its characters © 1997 Square-Enix Co., Ltd.

Agapé, chapter 17

Fri, 20 Jul 2007 06:51:32 GMT

Title: Agapé, chapter 17
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Characters: VincentxTifa
Chapter Rating: PG-13

Summary: In this chapter, Tifa has forgone a dinner with Vincent in order to fulfill her promise to accompany Yuffie to the bartending competition. Vincent spends some time missing her, and Marlene has questions. [ff.net link]

17

Miles Apart

The restaurant's debut really was something to behold. The place was set up in a very large, very old house, which was gutted and outfitted with white-clothed tables. Such places should not have existed in Edge after Meteor—this one had been transported from Kalm.

Yes, these things can and do happen.

The entire scene was lit by candlelight, low and pleasant, save for the kitchen and the meager lights above the bar on the far side of the house. Tifa would have been radiant in the calming flicker reflected in the glass of the window next to our table. I had wanted to bring her—there was no better excuse really, for an innocent and formal night out with the woman of my dreams—but it was impossible, given her promise to the ninja.

Solid wood floors stretched from wall to wall, and as guests and staff alike crossed them, their steps left a hollow and resonating sound. They did not creak under the weight, but they were not intimately acquainted with the foundation of the building, and I found myself wondering what might lie between the fashioned material and the dirt below. A morbid curiousity perhaps, but this was nothing new. I'd always been in that frame of mind, even before.

By now, I do not think I have to explain what I mean by the word 'before'.

In all honesty, the interior reminded me a bit of ShinRa Manor—in design, not in size—after I had woken up to find it abandoned and everyone else gone. But in my fury, I had neglected to be kind with their drapecloths and fixtures. The manor's kitchen was completely destroyed, a stark contrast with the bustling, stainless steel room beyond those double doors. Its washrooms were shattered glass and crushed porcelain, unlike the floating candles and petals atop undisturbed waters in the vintage tub upstairs.

I never did have much self-control back then—but that was another life.

Instead, I watched with some amusement as the young woman across the table from me perused the menu, taking it all in with no small amount of fascination. Every now and then she would frown, and she would silently mouth the sounds to a word she didn't know, and it filled me with an odd sense of importance, thinking I might have found an almost comfortable role. She propped her elbow up on the table, and I grinned in the moment she caught herself, removing it to wind a finger in one of the glossy curls piled high atop her head.

She lifted her head and placed her finger on the plastic coverlet, turning the sheet around to face me. "What is... pist-ow?" she asked, mispronouncing the word in an unassuming manner.

I smiled, scanning my own menu. "Pistou," I answered, enunciating the last syllable, "is a basil and garlic sauce."

"Oh," she said. "Well, what is chever?"

I straightened my tie. Not quite, but close enough. "Chèvre, is goat cheese."

She made a face.

"Would you like me to order for you?"

My 'date' nodded, putting her menu to rest on the table. "But no goat cheese," she said shyly, as if it might be asking too much. I laughed in the affirmative.

"No goat cheese."

I browsed the wine list until I found something that looked appealing; a petít verdot. The grape was known for its color and aroma, but was usually lent to other blends in small quantities and almost never on its own. It was a rarity, and while most would say it couldn't hold up, the description promised a darkly rich, chocolate-currant flavor, smoky and with a long finish. I wanted to try it, despite the expense.

"What would you like to drink?" I asked.

She shrugged, pretending to look at the menu again. "There's too many choices."

"I'm going to have a glass of wine," I offered. "If you would like, I can order a sparkling cider for you. Or you can get something else. They have a frozen slurry at the bar, made from sorbét. I'll just tell them to not add the alcohol."

"That sounds good," she nodded. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," I smiled. "After all, our job is to try something from every area of the menu."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. We have to."

She giggled. "Okay, then."

It was then that our waiter approached the table, bringing with him a pitcher of water, some crudités, and some tapenade. I ordered my wine and the lemon smoothie, along with some roasted almonds with honey and lemon thyme, because I thought she would like them, and because I thought we should have an appetizer. He was polite and professional in the way he addressed us and in the way he carried himself. I tried not to note these things too obviously, so as not to let on why I was there, but it made it all the more enjoyable. I felt like some kind of educated lurker. My father would have loved this sort of thing—my old partner would have loved this sort of thing. Either one of them would have been better at it than I—I briefly wondered if there might be a complex there, but didn't think on it for too long, as my phone began to vibrate once our server had retreated.

I felt a swift rush of simple gladness when I saw who it was. I flipped the phone open, careful to keep my voice low and mind my manners in the fancy bistro. "Tifa."

"Hi, Vincent," she said. "Ah... what are you up to?"

I smiled. "I am having dinner. You?"

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "That's right, I forgot. You're doing that thing tonight for the magazine."

"Yes. How goes the competition?"

"Well, I called to say that Yuffie placed third out of eight contestants today, so I guess that's pretty good. She did set a record," she laughed. "Most air-bound rotations in thirty seconds, or something like that. Anyways, whatever it was called, she's in the books now. She's very proud of it. You'll probably be hearing about it for the rest of your life."

"Godo would be proud," I joked. Chances were, he didn't even know where she was. My company mouthed the question as to who it was I was speaking with—or rather, whether or not it was who she thought it was—and I grinned back at her. "You may tell her that she has my congratulations."

"I'll do that," she said. "So... did you find a date?"

The uneasy pause and the tone of her voice was a dead giveaway, if I'd learned anything about her in all our time spent together, and I liked to think that I had. She had said that it was unfair of her to ask me to wait, but it was obvious to me that if I didn't, it wouldn't be so easy for her, helplessly caught in her indecision when she simply was not ready. And thusly, I couldn't help the ridiculous smile plastered to my face, even if it did make me feel like an idiot. "As a matter of fact, I did."

"Oh." She sounded disappointed. "Well, I don't want to interrupt..."

"Not at all," I said. "In fact, I think she would like to speak with you."

"What? Why? Vincent, I don't think that's a very good—"

But I handed my phone over before she could protest, and stunted, pink-polished fingers took it happily. "Tifa!"

I watched the animated conversation, arranging the items on the table as they were brought, and thanking the waiter. When it was over, my phone was returned to me, open and waiting.

"She wants to talk to you."

I put the receiver to my ear, a funny feeling of warmth spreading through my chest. "Tifa," I hummed.

"Vincent," she said sweetly, "you took Marlene. Gods, that was so wonderful of you. I bet this means a lot to her."

She also sounded a bit relieved. I tried not to be too happy with that knowledge, but I was. It was quite cruel of me to tease her, however. "Do you think?"

"Well, it's not every day a girl gets to dress up and go out on the town, or eat at a fancy place like that. Not to mention, she's on your arm."

I chuckled. "Perhaps."

"How does she look?"

"Like a china doll," I replied, smiling. "And pink. Very pink."

She laughed.

"Shera even put her hair up in curls." Barret would have been proud, to see her like that—proud, or infuriated. But I think that rather has to do with how he feels about me.

"Well, I bet she's enjoying herself."

"Hm, I would hope so." I paused. "After all, I turned down the opportunity to ask Cid."

"Oh, gods!" Her laughter grew in its intensity. "He's such a meat and potatoes kind of guy. I bet he wouldn't know what to do with himself. Although, I think I'd like to be there to see that one."

I hummed thoughtfully. "Perhaps another time?"

"All right." I could hear the lingering smile in her voice, that tone which kept my nerves in check around her. "Listen, I have to go now, but I'm glad I got to talk with you. I'll see you when I get back home, okay?"

"See you then. Goodbye, Tifa."

"Bye, Vincent."

Marlene and I shared a nice dinner of veau normande and coq au vin after that, followed by orange crépes flambé. She told me that she was learning multiplication in school, and so I taught her what a square root was and threw her some simple questions. She seemed genuinely excited to know something that her other classmates did not.

We went for a short walk after dinner, because she'd said she wanted to look at the crystalline animals she'd spotted in a shop window. Marlene was a well-behaved kid, and I didn't have to worry about her running off or breaking anything valuable, so I let her peruse the items for a while. On the way back to the parking lot, a street vendor asked me if I'd like to buy a rose for my daughter—there was no resemblance there, and I almost glanced around, wondering who else he might have been talking to—and I did buy her a pink one, not bothering to correct the man, because her eyes had lit up when she'd seen them.

She was quite the chatterbox really, once she got going. During the ride home, she must have prattled off a week's worth of conversation I would have with any normal person, talking about teachers, friends, projects and reports, not to mention the play that was coming up. In the end we arrived safely at the bar, and as I ushered her inside, she bounded over to where Shera was leaning against the counter, sharing a drink with Cid.

"Hey, kiddo!" he greeted her with a wave. "How was dinner?"

"Great!" she exclaimed in full force. "Look!" she said quickly, turning to Shera and handing her the flower. Shera held the bloom to her face and smiled adoringly, and I hoped I would not have to endure her fawning.

"It smells lovely," she said, stepping around behind the counter. "You know what we can do with that?"

Shera grabbed for an uncorked wine bottle from the back shelf—empty, but then Tifa sometimes kept odd things for strange reasons—and began to clean it in the sink.

"Here," she said, gently taking the rose again from the girl and snapping the base of the stem off. "This bottle is plenty tall enough, don't you think?"

Marlene nodded emphatically, admiring the display. "Thank you!"

It was no vase, but something about it was appealing. Not because flowers in wine bottles is a romantic concept; the neck of the bottle was a strange sort of elegant, and out of place in a good way. Sometimes odd thoughts like that come to me, and I do not know why.

Shera looked at her watch and yawned. "It's getting late. Run along and put it someplace safe," she told her, "and then get ready for bed. I'll be up to tuck you in soon."

"Okay," replied Marlene. "Night, Vincent!"

As she turned to go, taking the bottle with her, I had a thought. Surely, I wouldn't have expected Shera to know her way around the house, much less where Tifa might keep a vase, but I wondered. Had I ever seen flowers in Tifa's home?

I turned my attentions back to the bar and found Shera grinning at me. I rolled my eyes and scooted an aluminum tin across the bar top until it reached Cid's elbow. "There. I brought you something."

Cid grinned. "Animal, mineral or vegetable?"

"Why don't you find out?"

I walked behind the bar and slid the ice chest open, the metal lid reverberating with a loud shucking sound. "Still warm," Cid said from behind me, as I ran the tap and fixed myself a glass of water. "Real warm."

"It should be. They made it while we went for a walk. You will have to tell me how it is," I said, taking a sip from my glass.

He popped the lid open, and Shera peeked over his shoulder as she skirted around him. "Looks creamy." He frowned at the box. "What is it?"

"Just eat it."

I set my glass back down on the counter and took a seat, loosening my tie while Cid grabbed a set of silverware from the bin behind the bar and tested a bite with his fork. "'S good. Chewy, but it's good. What's in this?" Shera muffled a laugh behind her hand and stole the next bite from him.

"Roughly?" I asked, unable to hide my grin when he nodded. "Those would be snails."

Cid froze and his jaw went slack. Then Shera's fingers crawled their way up the back of his neck, and he shuddered away from her. "Oh, gross, Cid," she teased, stepping to him and nipping his jaw. "Maybe you should stop now and leave that for me." And with that, she snatched the fork from him and took another bite.

He frowned at me. "Y'don't say. Not bad, actually. But really, Vince, you din' hafta feed me an' the wife slimy critters."

"Stop it, Cid," Shera scolded. "I'm eating here." She then grabbed her purse and fished out some money, approaching me with it. "And honey, I asked him to pick it up when he left."

I waved her hand away, shaking my head and dismissing the money. She grabbed my hand and tried to place the money in it, but I pushed it away. In the end, she slapped my fingers and tucked the bills into my shirt pocket, finishing with a self-satisfied smile.

"I'm going upstairs to tuck Marlene into bed," she said, heading for the stairwell. "Save some of that," she nodded to Cid, laughing. "I know it'll be hard, but you'll just have to try."

Shera disappeared from view, and Cid studied the tin in front of him. "Are you going to eat it," I asked, "now that you know what it is?"

He grimaced and dipped the fork into the sauce, trying it again on his tongue uncertainly.

"It's not like the ones you find on the sidewalk, you know."

"Shaddup," he said, half-heartedly. "I'm tryin' somethin' here." I chuckled as Cid took another bite and paid very close attention to what was in his mouth. Then suddenly, he was trying to pay as little attention as possible, his face contorting into a most worried and queasy expression. "Can't do it. I'd rather have a steak."

"Then get yourself a steak," I jabbed, and then I reached across and placed the money Shera had given me in the front pocket of his work-shirt.

He didn't protest or even make mention of it, only poured himself another glass from the bottle on the counter and attempted to purge the memory of what had been in his mouth by washing away the taste. "Shaddup," he repeated, wincing at the burn and clearing his throat. "So tell me," he finally said after a moment of silence, "what's the deal with Tifa?"

I tilted my head. "What do you mean?"

"Are you seein' each other at all? Casually, I mean?"

"Like before?"

"So it's like that, huh?" Cid took the seat a couple down from me and swiveled around so he could prop his head against his hand and still make eye contact. "Nothin' more on her end? Because I could've swore—"

"She needs time, Cid."

"Right, right." He was silent for a moment, taking another sip of drink and mulling something over in his head. "...Y'know she's not like any other girl. This is big. This is you an' Tifa."

I smiled sadly, barely. "I know."

"You gonna hang around like always, if she decides to move on without ya?"

The idea was painful. I'd told myself that yes, I would stay. I loved her, and she was my best friend, and I would always be there for her. But—what if the day came when she no longer needed me? I knew that she loved me in a lot of ways, in some of the ways that mattered most, but what if it became awkward for the both of us? I hadn't given it much thought other than telling myself I was determined to always be there. But what if—

What if the pain was actually too much to bear?

"I'll always be here," I affirmed. "But, I don't know. Maybe I would need to take a break or stay away for a little while." I sighed, turning my glass on the bar, condensation gliding against the smooth varnish. "Then again, I wouldn't want to make her feel like it was some kind of ultimatum, or a punishment. She needs to not feel obligated for once in her life."

"Shit, that sounds like break-up talk to me," he grunted, shifting in his seat and leaning an arm on the back of the chair. "You," he gestured, "are seriously invested in her. She couldn't 'ave missed it, not by a long-shot. She'd hafta be blind to not know what she was doin'."

"Does drunk and guilty count?"

"She'll come around, Vince." He nodded, as if to reassure himself. "She'll come around."

I frowned. "I don't want her to feel obligated," I repeated.

"No one's gonna make her," he said. "She's takin' time, ain't she? But I think... yeah. She's gonna come around. Maybe not right away—an' you should be prepared for that, 'cause you can't always be breathin' down her neck and knowin' who else is interested—but she'd have to be crazy to choose anyone else in the end, knowin' what she does about you."

"It doesn't matter, if she doesn't feel the same way."

"Bullshit," he said. "A woman doesn' just curl up next t'you for no reason. She doesn' spend all her free time with you, an' she certainly doesn' get hammered just so she can kiss ya. All that shit was on purpose, Valentine. She might be confused now, or even scared, but that doesn' change what I saw."

I didn't bother to ask him if he was sure about that, didn't have time to think about the countering, negative things to which I hadn't given enough thought and suddenly feared—Shera was already making her way back into the bar, having finished with the girl upstairs. Meanwhile, the wine from dinner and the water were getting the better of me, and I nodded to the two of them, amused as the petite woman resumed picking at the contents of the tin with the fork. "I'm going upstairs to use the washroom, and then I think I'm going to head home."

"All right," Shera said, offering Cid another bite of the food. He clamped his mouth shut and turned away, which earned him a snicker from his wife. "You know where it is."

I made my way up the stairs, the sounds of her teasing fading into the background. Past the children's room—they had their own bathroom which was connected to their living space—and past the den where Tifa and I had spent many a comfortable evening, was the topmost level of the house. This level had a very clean, very quiet sense of peace about it, despite more recent events. It reminded me of the calm after a storm. I did not go through Tifa's room, but instead went to the washroom reserved for guests.

The mirrors, though the children had their own, were framed by bright, squiggly scrawls and stick-up decorations—other than that, the room was neat and tidy, and even smelled pleasant. Marlene's name was proudly displayed in disjointed loops along one side of the glass, presumably in some sort of wash-off gel. On the other side, an algebraic formula.

Clever.

I finished quickly and washed up, and I was almost to the door leading down into the bar when I heard a small voice call out to me. I stepped over to the half-open doorway on my right, peering into the darkened room. Marlene was sitting up in bed, looking after me.

"Vincent?" she repeated.

"Yes...?"

I stepped into the room, careful not to make so much noise as Denzel was asleep—but then I saw his empty bed and remembered that he had begun sleeping upstairs. Marlene adjusted herself on the mattress, bringing her knees up underneath the blanket she had tucked around her. I took it as an invitation to sit on the edge of the bed, but remained standing for a moment.

"Aren't you tired?" I asked. It was reasonably late for a girl so young, but her eyes showed not even the slightest indication of weariness.

Marlene smiled and set her chin atop her knees. "I wanted to say goodnight. And thank you."

I nodded. "You're welcome." I then noticed that her hair was still up in those stiff curls, and I gestured with my hand. "Are you going to sleep with those in?"

"I like them," she said, smile widening. "Are you going to visit us at Cloud's?"

I did sit down then, knowing that the innocent question might turn into a complicated discussion. The small twin mattress protested my slow weight as I settled in. "...No, I don't think so. But I'll be here when you get back."

"Why not?" she asked, and I could see that she was slightly disappointed. She had chosen to focus on the 'no,' instead of what came after it; but she was used to being told 'maybe' and 'later' and 'we'll see'. Used to being let down.

"Well," I started, picking and choosing my words carefully, "I think that Cloud would like to have that time with you to himself." Then, feeling the need to justify that, I added, "After all, he doesn't get to see you very often, does he?"

Almost immediately, I wanted to take those words back. I hadn't meant to make it sound quite that way, but I was afraid I'd already taken that first step towards bad-mouthing him—and unintentionally, of all things—which I'd promised myself I wouldn't do. But Marlene only wrinkled her face in thought. "I guess."

Maybe this would be better, I thought. Marlene had missed out on a lot of her childhood—though she might be shuffled around some more, at least Cloud would make sure that all of his time spent with her would really count for something. And it wouldn't kill me to learn something about bartending, I found myself thinking. I could take over on a slow night, and Tifa could spend some quality time with the kids.

"Do you still have your cape?"

My mouth twitched at the quick change in subject, and at the object of its focus; of course, it hung down in the back and fastened at the shoulders. She would call it that, though the image of myself in a cape was amusing in a... disconcerting kind of way. "I do still have my cloak, yes."

"Why don't you wear it anymore?" Her eyebrows were raised so high, a child-like exaggeration. I smiled.

"Well, because I don't need it anymore. I did once, but I haven't in a long time."

Marlene smiled back, as if she'd stumbled across a secret. "Because you're done fighting?"

"Yes."

"So you don't need it anymore. Like a secret identity, right?"

I was ready to laugh it off, to reply back with something in the negative. But then—it was like that, wasn't it? "I suppose you could say that."

"How many people know the real you?"

"Hm... not many." And I returned the conspiratorial smile. My eyes wandered a little to the left, and they caught sight of the bottled flower sitting on the nightstand by the window. Like a shock, it hit me—the bottle was one of ours, something split between us months ago, before we'd decided not to drink in each other's presence.

"Vincent?"

I shook it away. "Are you ready to sleep now?"

"Yeah, I guess," she sighed. I got up from the bed and straightened myself. "Are you coming to my play?" she asked as she shifted around beneath the covers, trying to get comfortable.

"I am," I said. "Now try to get some rest."

"Okay. Hey, Vincent?"

"Mm." I was half-way to the door.

"You should take Tifa to a restaurant."

She was smiling unabashedly then, and I wondered if anything in my expression gave me away. Tifa and I went out to dinner all the time. "You think so?"

"Yeah, I think she'd like it."

One side of my mouth turned up. "I'll keep that in mind, then. Goodnight, Marlene."

"Goodnight, Vincent."

I left the door in the position in which I'd found it, and returned downstairs where I bid my goodbye to Cid and Shera. The old man gave me a clap on the back, and his wife hugged me—something she didn't normally do. Which meant they had been talking.

Minutes away from home, it began to rain. When I reached my complex and went to head upstairs to my apartment, I discovered that the elevator wasn't working, and so I had to exit the garage and walk around to the front of the building in the rain. Once inside, I found that the entire building was out of power. With nothing else to do, I locked my door, made for my bedroom, stripped down to my bare skin and slid beneath the bed-covers.

I didn't go to sleep for a long while. All I could do was think about Tifa. I wondered if she was out with Yuffie that evening, or if she was already curled up in her foreign hotel bedroom. I wondered if she was thinking about me, like she'd said she sometimes did—or if she was wondering about me thinking about her. Maybe she was trying to not think of me.

But this trip she'd taken, along with what Cid had said to me earlier, had made me realize that I couldn't always be there. It wasn't just my waiting game—Tifa was trying to figure herself out, and there were enough ways to do that which were completely out of my control. Just standing around, wondering who else might step in, could drive a man crazy, could make him stop eating and working and anything else useful. That sort of thing could turn a man obsessive where he had no right to be.

If someone else did step in—even if she never intended for it to become anything more than an occasional dinner, or a friendship much like the one we'd had before it had been blown wide open—all of my affections and attentions would fade into the background and become less important, because she would inevitably see less and less of me. And I realized, while I didn't want to make her uncomfortable or pressure her in any way... gods, to do nothing after what had passed between us might as well be a step backwards. I could still lose her, and not because of one earth-shattering decision built upon months of suspense, but rather very slowly. Very painfully.

And that friendship we'd had, I'd begun to realize when Cid had said, 'So it's like that... nothing more,' had been quite something. He didn't even know that half of it, and it took his understatement to bring it back to my full attention. It had grown slowly over time, but we were so very unlike simple friends—he'd been right, about Tifa's unashamed gesturing. Would I want to see her that close with someone else?

Of course not. But what more could I do? And it did feel like a break-up. Was this... how I had made Cloud feel?

I wanted her, more than anything. I wanted for her to come to me, to strip my senses bare and recolor every tiny thing in my world with the knowledge that it meant just that little bit more, that she wanted me, too. That she loved me—not just loved me, but in every way that I loved her—and nothing would ever be the same again, down to every shared breath.

Yes, I would fight for that. But Tifa already knew how I felt, where I stood. I could not make her choose me—and I had been patient for so many years that I had forgotten how to be the brash man I once was. Even if I rehashed my words, tried to better express them, none of that would matter if she found out that she didn't feel the same way. She wasn't yet mine—fighting for her now might as well be fighting against her, against the choice that she so deserved.

And though I wanted to believe that she would be mine—maybe not now, and maybe not for a long time, but someday—there really was nothing more to be done.

End Chapter Seventeen

Final Fantasy VII and its characters © 1997 Square-Enix Co., Ltd.

Agapé, chapter 16

Thu, 28 Jun 2007 03:46:13 GMT

Title: Agapé, chapter 16
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Characters: Vincent x Tifa
Chapter Rating: PG-13

Summary: In this chapter, conversations about histories, family and ghost-hands. Slightly sweet. [ff.net link]

16

Looking Back and Facing Forward

Over the next couple of months, I witnessed a change in Tifa. She seemed to grow more comfortable in her skin. She held her head up; she didn't slouch anymore, and she didn't avert her eyes. And her smiles, they were so genuine, a far cry from the ones she'd been giving me in the months prior—those ugly-beautiful things that only a crying woman can manage. Tifa no longer had anything to hide, or to hide from.

It really was beautiful.

"So, the word on the street is that you have a ghost-hand," she said, winking as she plopped down onto the couch beside me.

She'd been talking to Denzel. I didn't bother to ask what else they might have talked about. I didn't think I could bring myself to, and I didn't really want to know what her reactions to the same questions he'd asked me might have been. Curious, yes—but still so afraid. "Hm," I hummed, forcing a smile. "Is that the word now?"

Tifa nodded, then reached out and snatched the bottle in my hand away. "What is this?" she asked. "Do you mind if I—?"

"You won't like it."

She shook her head, and tipped the glass to her open mouth.

Her disposition was decidedly brighter. I sometimes found myself wondering if she'd ever been like that in Midgar, before I'd met her the first time. I couldn't understand how anyone in their right mind would let this fantastic woman slip right out of their hands, and passively, with signs all over the place. Gods.

"Ahm." The bottle left her lips then, and she shut her eyes, tilting her head to one side. Her eyebrows shot up, and she blinked at me for a second. "What's in that?"

I grinned. "It's an ethnic drink, something they make in the canyon. That's the real thing, there—you can get it anywhere, but I went to a special store to get the original."

"It tastes like someone poured espresso on my corn flakes," she said, frowning.

"Can't say I didn't warn you," I chuckled. "I told you that you wouldn't like it."

She lifted an eyebrow at me. "What would the other kind taste like?"

"Sweeter," I said. "Artificially. So... like creamy coffee on sugary cornflakes, I suppose."

"Huh," she clipped, narrowing her eyes. And then she smiled. "Let me try it again."

I handed the bottle over with an amused expression, thoroughly expecting the same reaction. I enjoyed little moments like these with Tifa. They seemed to be happening more frequently all the time. We spent so much time together, anyone else would have called it dating; I would have called her my girlfriend, had it not been practically stated that it wasn't that kind of relationship—at our age, those things are assumed, not stated. But it was. I wondered if she realized that's exactly how we were, excepting the fact that we didn't sleep together.

"Well, I guess it could grow on me," she laughed. "Where did you first pick that up?"

I relaxed into the cushions and let my head rest on the back of the couch. "My mother used to make it back home."

Tifa readjusted herself, leaning on an elbow. "Where is home for you, Vincent?"

Sighing, I smiled to myself as I tried to piece together my mother's face. I remembered her smile, her eyes, her long, dark hair, but I could not see the entire picture anymore. It had been too long. "I was born in Cosmo," I said, "but I was raised in Kalm."

"Which of your parents were from the canyon?"

I turned to look at her. "My mother was a Cosmic native."

"She must have been very pretty," she said, and I grinned at her.

"She was."

"Not too dark, though," she joked, and I laughed. The cosmic natives were known for their dark hair and eyes, and their red-brown skin. My mother was a vivid example of their natural beauty. But I...

"I never did go out much," I said. "My mother wasn't very dark, but she was always darker than I was. I have my father's skin."

"Where's he from?"

"From a small village near Kalm. He met my mother while on an archaelogical dig in Cosmo. They got married and stayed there a while, then when I came along... well." Tifa's sudden interest kept me going somehow. I never did like talking about myself much, but she seemed to be enjoying it. I would have told her anything she asked of me, as long as her face continued to light up.

She raised one eyebrow, her smile playful. "Your father went on digs, and you didn't like to go outside?"

"Not during the day much, no." Our mouths seemed to widen at the same moment, each driven by the other. Oh, the others would have made some joke by now. "I never could tolerate heat very well," I explained. "A Turk gets used to all sorts of conditions, but that was always the hardest for me. Besides," I said, "a dig site isn't exactly a place for children."

Her smile turned wistful then, if only for a moment. "I guess I just figured like father, like son." Then her eyes began to dance. "I always pictured you as some athletic kid. I mean, I knew you were well-read, but I thought the reculsive thing was... new."

She looked a little lost then, and embarrassed at her choice of words, and I felt badly for her. I smiled to ease her discomfort. "I never had to work very hard to keep a good body image," I said, "but that doesn't necessarily mean in shape. To be honest, I was pretty easy-going."

Tifa snorted. "You?"

"Yes, me." I laughed. "I had a hard time adjusting to military life."

"I guess I had you pegged wrong," she said. "It was never easy to picture you as a kid, but then I thought, maybe you were one of those rich kids who went to a private school and did perfectly at everything because you had to."

"Do I really come off as being that miserable?"

She looked taken aback for a second, perhaps worried that she'd offended me. But then she caught the twitch of my mouth and slapped me on the shoulder. "Gods, Vince. Do you have any idea how much some people would kill for that kind of an education?"

But I did know—I'd killed to earn mine, only after the fact. "Well, I wasn't rich," I said. "My father's work was funded by ShinRa, but that was later. And I wasn't privately educated. Not until the academy."

"What was that like?"

I frowned. "What was what like?"

"You know," she said. "Graduating from school, going on to do other things. I never graduated, so I'm curious."

"I never graduated, either."

"But you said—"

"I took an early out," I told her. "It was a ShinRa program-mostly for soldiers, but they made an exception. I finished my schooling there."

"So you did graduate," she reiterated.

"I got a pseudo-diploma, yes. But I'd already made up my mind about what I was going to do with my life, so it didn't matter much."

She narrowed her eyes at me. "Then why did you finish at all?"

Why, indeed? I was stumped. A Turk's job was more than secure—it was a prison, albeit one to which I'd freely assigned myself. Once there, the only other option was termination, and we went about that quite differently.

Quite differently.

"I suppose... to show myself that I could." I paused. "So that the previous years meant something."

"Then why not graduate with your friends? Why choose to give up on having any kind of social life already?"

I pursed my lips. Already, I knew Tifa was thinking I was crazy for throwing away the one thing she had missed out on. And I also knew that if I hadn't, my life would have turned out much differently. For certain, we wouldn't be sitting there, having our conversation. "It was a one-time only sort of deal," I said. "And I never could relate to many people. Although, if I'd had a friend like you back then, I might have stuck around."

"Might?" she repeated, a hint of false indignance in her voice. She grinned smartly up at me as she made herself comfortable against my side, pulling my arm up and around her.

Well, of course. There was no need to remind me exactly how head-over-heels I was for her, even if the comment was purely innocent. She was merely falling back on an old routine, and I had no choice but to follow. "...Do you ever want to go back?"

"What, home?"

"No, school."

She shifted, and I resisted the urge to pull her into my lap. "I don't know. Sometimes I think about it, but it's been so long, I think I'd have a horrible time. Besides, I'm pretty set in my ways. I do miss home, though."

"Everybody does," I said, sighing. Heroes and villains were no exception. It didn't matter what we'd done or where we'd been, how strong we grew or what we'd accomplished. We would always be the same, at the very heart of things. "I wish we could do something about that, but we can't."

"Do you mean that?" she asked suddenly. "Would you go back if you could?"

I blinked. "To... what?"

"Would you go back if you could—thirty years ago. Would you do it?"

She wasn't looking at me then, but I could hear the uncertainty in her voice. It didn't matter that we weren't together; already I felt compelled. My answer was honest. "...No. I'm glad I'm here now. There isn't much sense in looking backwards; there's no way to know how things might have turned out if I'd done things differently. But I don't really feel the need to think on it anymore," I added, smiling a bit. "I like the life I have. In fact, I rather prefer it."

I met her questioning eyes when she turned around in my loose hold, and she looked... puzzled. And lost. "You wouldn't? Not even after everything you've—"

Tifa cut herself off there, and waited—impatient, behind those eyes—for me to confirm it. I leaned my head against the cushions. "No," I repeated. "I wouldn't."

There was a slight tremor in her, which I felt in her movement as she returned to her position on the couch, thinking. My admission had sobered her. Perhaps it was too much.

"Do you think that it is selfish of me?"

"No," she said, turning her head to the side and immediately taking the gesture back. Thoughtful, pensive. "No," she repeated, more to herself than to me. After a moment of silence, she spoke again. "But then, what did you mean?"

My eyes were starting to drift shut as I leaned against the back of the couch. I nearly began to stroke her arm with my hand, more for my own comfort than anything else, but I caught myself. "Hm," I said. "Remind me."

"You said you wished we could do something. About missing home."

"Well, everyone longs for that feeling." She shifted again and rested against my body, and I lifted my head to peer at her. "Familiar faces, sights and sounds. Family, and the people we grew up with. Everyone is looking for the place where they belong."

I tried to quell the uneasiness in my gut, knowing that Cloud was the only remnant of Tifa's childhood, whether or not they were close. Like myself, she had to build her own family out of the people that drifted in and out of her life. We had to decide for ourselves where we belonged.

I hoped she didn't take my words and pity my position. It wasn't her responsibility to give me that place. No, I didn't want that to be her burden.

"What do you miss the most about your home?"

"Hm," I smiled. "Family dinners. Even though my father wasn't there much, I miss being around the table with my sisters and my mother. Her cooking was to die for."

"You had sisters?" She sounded surprised. My smile grew.

"I had five of them."

Her eyes were wide when she whipped about to look at me. "Five?"

I laughed quietly, lazily. "Five."

"What were their names?"

"Anna. Cecilia. Maria and Margaret, and Gina. Yuffie actually reminds me of Gina a bit."

"Does she now?" she asked, grinning.

"Yes," I sighed contentedly. "She was most annoying." Tifa sent a scolding look up at the smile forming on my face.

"I'm guessing you were the oldest, then."

I nodded.

"Gods," she said. "How on earth did she do it? I could never handle six kids."

"She had help. And there was a bit of an age gap between Cecilia and the twins, so we helped take care of each other when we got older."

Tifa shifted against my side, a pleasant sensation. "You know, it's funny how much and how little we know about each other."

"Mhm," I said, shifting back at her. "It seems like two different lives, really. Before—"

"I know what you mean." She sounded a bit wistful, but didn't give it much more thought. "So, tell me about your training."

I cracked a smile. "I would have to kill you, I'm afraid."

"Nah," she sang. "You said it was hard adjusting. How long did it take you?"

The smile grew. "I said it was a hard time, not a long one. I had someone there who knew very well how to put me in my place." Bastard enjoyed it, too.

"Lucky you," she snickered.

"Of course."

She was quiet for a moment, her head rising and falling atop my side as my breaths grew steady and relaxed. Simply content to be sharing the same space, but it was becoming increasingly hard for me. Regardless, I had made my choice to live with her decision and stay near, but that didn't mean I had to sit still in that stifling silence at that particular moment.

So, I broke the silence. "What is your favorite memory of home?"

"Climbing in the mountains," she said with a quiet fondness. "Sitting on top of a cliff-face and looking down on the town, and feeling... just so above all of the little things. I didn't have a care in the world up there."

"It sounds inspiring."

She nodded, and then was still. "I miss my parents, Vincent."

I had since accepted that I was not responsible for Sephiroth's madness, or Lucrecia's mistake. But I still would feel a pang of guilt whenever I heard or was reminded of the things that had happened because of the project. I was a Turk, you see—an enforcer of ShinRa's will. I was around before the company became what it was the day that Sephiroth went insane, and it was because of people like myself that it garnered the sort of power it did. We scouted for those brilliant minds that aided the heads of research—captured them by force, if necessary—we killed for knowledge and resources, funding and power, and rid ourselves of any competition. The monstrous entity known as the ShinRa Corporation was built on the shoulders of men like myself. I had personally disposed of those who opposed ShinRa's controversial agendas before; sometimes I knew why I was told to kill, and other times I did not. Back then, it didn't matter to me.

Not until I began to see the consequences of my actions unfolding in front of me, and so close to home. But by that time there were other things lurking beneath my skin—that, or the same old things had grown more fierce—itching to be let out. And I could not bear to watch. I had to go away.

But if I had told Tifa that I was sorry, even as anyone would if they were being sympathetic, she would tell me that it wasn't my fault. Not only that, but she would feel badly for bringing it up. So, instead I simply gave her frame a slight squeeze, casually wrapped in my arm as she had made herself.

Again, it didn't last long, but I wasn't going to press the issue. "How does this ghost hand of yours work?" she asked, sitting up a bit and looking down at my false appendage.

I let my eyes close. It was a grey sky that day—no rain yet, though. A day made for drowsing. "Nerve signals get crossed sometimes. Not often."

"You feel pain?"

"No." I was half-inclined to lean my head to rest atop her own, but I didn't think my neck would bend that way. "I feel things sometimes, if I remember what it was like to touch them. Or maybe if I've touched them with my right hand."

"Why only sometimes?"

"Because you have to catch me by surprise, before my brain can realize what is happening."

"Oh." A pause. "Vincent?"

"Mm."

"Vincent, are you going to sleep?"

One of my eyes opened the tiniest bit to peek out at her as she turned in my hold and craned her neck to look at me. For a second I thought she was inspecting my lashes, to see if they were really touching my cheeks. I closed it again. "I think that it's time to take you home now," I said, but didn't really feel like getting up on second thought. "Or you could stay here while I take a nap, if you don't mind it."

"Uh-oh," she teased. "What if I'm a snoop?"

I gave a small, content smile. "I don't own anything that isn't functional."

"Well, that's no fun." She drummed her fingers against my artificial limb, and I felt it in the flesh above it. Her steady rhythm was interrupted by a sudden exclamation. "Oh, I just remembered!"

"What's that?"

"The bartending competition. It's scheduled next month from the twelfth to the fifteenth—I have to be there, because I'm registered as Yuffie's coach. I wanted to ask you if you would come."

Asking me to go out of town with her for a few days? I supposed we wouldn't really be alone, and with everything that Yuffie was undoubtedly signed up for, I didn't think it would be quality time. I was on the verge of saying yes anyway.

Until I remembered.

"I knew that date sounded—" I yawned. "Familiar."

"You can't come?"

"There's a new restaurant opening in town on the night of the twelfth," I explained. "My boss asked me to go and write a review. I might start doing more of those—" And another yawn. "It pays better, at least."

"Okay," she said, full of understanding, but I suspected she was a slight bit disappointed. "You'll go to see Marlene's play though, on the sixteenth, right?"

My mouth twitched in response. "Of course."

The room was very quiet then, and my thoughts began to blur along with the splotchy patterns behind my eyelids. Not a lot of light in that room, and I was nearly asleep when I felt a bare tug on my left shoulder. My eyes slowly opened, blinking back the sleep they fought against.

Tifa was sitting there in front of me, my left hand clasped in between her palms. Once she saw my entirely slow reaction, however, she let it fall to her lap. She wore a slightly bashful expression as she ran her fingers distractedly over the metal, avoiding my attention. I smiled at that, laying my head back against the cushions and closing my eyes once more.

"Nice try."

End Chapter Sixteen
Final Fantasy VII and its characters © 1997 Square-Enix Co., Ltd.

At the Edge of Oblivion

Sun, 24 Jun 2007 04:26:42 GMT

Title: At the Edge of Oblivion
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Characters: TifaxYuffie
Rating: PG-13

Summary: For Yuri Challenge 2007 - Prompt: "I'm wanting your anger, I only want to see if I can shake you out of sleep." The girls are half-way up the mountains near the crater, sharing a room adjacent to Cid and Vincent. The climb is starting to take a toll on young Lockhart, much to Yuffie's chagrin. Cloud wasn't the only one who lost something important. [ff.net link]

At The Edge of Oblivion

It was snowing—no big surprise there—as Yuffie made her way back to the cabin. Outside, it was cold and dark, the only real light being that single, shining beacon in the tower above the watchman's own house. Inside, a warm fire and a cozy bed beckoned to her.

"Hey honey, I'm home!" she joked, shaking off her boots at the door and shrugging out of the heavy parka. She didn't dare remove her long-necked sweater, and even kept her gloves on for the time being.

The door slammed behind her with little to no effort; the winds were picking up, and Cid had gone and returned hours ago, gathering what wood he could find so that they would keep warm through the night. It would be the four of them together this time—Cid and Vincent shared the room opposite the kitchenette, and Yuffie shared hers with Tifa. They each had their own bathroom, and... gods, but the layout was odd.

Not a peep out of the figure lying across the room. Tifa was tucked safely beneath her blankets, all bundled up like some... sad snowbunny. It was no wonder, really. They hadn't stopped, not since that night in the Forgotten City.

It was hard to forget, the way that Cloud had looked up on that altar, holding the honey-haired girl. But Yuffie hadn't been looking at him, no. Her eyes had been riveted to Tifa's expression, something so achingly indescribable that it hurt—it really hurt to look at her.

Yet she had been unable to tear her eyes away.

If anyone had known the Cetra, really known her, it was Tifa. Sure, Cloud might have liked her, but Aeris had been full of secrets. Yuffie had been jealous on more than one occasion, to see them standing off in the corner or to the side, talking amongst themselves like there was no one else around. Those girls were close, and Yuffie had envied that. Hell, she thought, staring at the door which separated the two rooms. She was probably not the only one.

But Tifa had known Cloud for ages, or so it would seem. She had been there, ready to bear the brunt of his burden, ready to soothe and calm in that way she did only with him. If it were Yuffie herself, or Nanaki, or Cid, Tifa might have told them to be strong, to keep their chins held high and plunge right through. If it were Vincent, or Barret... well, that was the thing about Tifa. She seemed to know what everyone needed to hear, and at the right time.

Yes, she and Aeris would have made quite the team. Almost counter-active, at times, but always in the right doses.

But Cloud, he had pushed it all down—way, deep down inside of him—after that night. He had looked so distraught when he'd walked away from that lake, and Tifa had been a faithful shadow, up until the time he disappeared, gone off to his bed to sleep it off and hopefully wake up sane and sound the next morning. But when the next morning came, it was like he was a completely different person.

None of them had really gotten the chance, the time, to mourn after that. They had just plowed on, and Tifa had done the dutiful thing and supported him. But Yuffie could see, she was aching on the inside. She hadn't slept, hadn't eaten in days. The climb was beginning to take a toll on her, even being the experienced guide that she was, and no one else seemed to notice these things; Yuffie was, after all, the one who shared her room.

The ninja girl set the small box she'd brought in with her on the nearby wooden table. "I brought back a radio," she said, not really bothering to even plug it in. "We can get the weather reports for Icicle Inn—they get all their snow from up here anyways. Not like they care about what's going on in the middle of nowhere..."

Tifa made no move to show that she'd heard her, or that she cared. Truthfully, Yuffie didn't care much about the radio, either; it had been all but shoved into her hands by the watchman's wife, but did it really matter how the weather was? No, not really. They would be pressing onward anyway.

It was at that precise moment that Yuffie heard a door slam, followed by loud chanting and a familiar twang. She rushed to the window, spotting Cid trudging through the snow towards the house, his arms wrapped about himself as he shouted into the night.

"I wanna be an airborne ranger! Live a life of sex and danger! Blood, guts, sex and danger! That's the life of—"

"Cid!" Yuffie yelled, swinging the door open with an out-of-control bang. "Cid!"

He stopped in his steps then, a lone figure against a blanket of white. Her voice was nearly lost in the wind, but she waved her arms at him, telling him to return. "Whatcha want, kid?" he shouted, also nearly lost amid the mountain howls.

"Cid, I already checked in with the others! Got a radio if you want it!"

The pilot glanced at the house ahead, then strode back toward the cabin, his tune changing on cue with the change of direction. "They say that in the ShinRa, the coffee's mighty fine! It looks like muddy water and tastes like turpentine! Whoa, I wanna go! But they won't let me go—home!"

Yuffie shook her head, reaching for the radio and holding it out as some kind of offering. Cid took it with a goofy grin, then swiftly turned on his heel and marched next door, his tone-deaf rantings changing key as he launched into another verse.

"They say that in the ShinRa, the pay is mighty fine! They give you a hundred gil and take back ninety-nine! Whoa, I wanna go! But they won't let me go—"

Yuffie shut the door and leaned against it, hearing a muffled baritone break into the song with something that sounded a lot like a "Would you knock that off?" to which Cid responded with a more-distinct, gruff, "I'll sing whatever I godsdamned please, 'specially if it helps keep warm." A quiet mumble answered, followed by a "Fuck you," and then all was silent.

Her shoulders slumped, eyes rolling as she pushed away from the woodwork and walked towards the center of the room. Tifa lay seemingly still beneath the blankets, but every now and then she would hear a rustle and knew that the girl wasn't asleep. She kicked off her boots and padded over to the occupied bed, hopping up and standing straight, towering over the martial artist.

"Don't say hi or nothin'," she teased, plastering a big, fake grin on her face. She shifted her weight on the mattress, back and forth in some spur-of-the-moment rhythm, but she got no response. Yuffie frowned and crossed her arms over her chest, giving her sad roommate a once-over. "Hey, I know," she smirked. "Let's play a game."

"No thanks," came the muted reply.

Well, at least that was something. Yuffie began to bounce on the mattress excitedly. "Come on," she said. "I'll go get the guys. It'll take your mind off of—"

"I don't want to take my mind off of it!"

Yuffie reeled back as Tifa sat upright in the bed, and she scrambled down to her knees to keep from falling onto the floor. She blinked, surprised by the sudden and uncharacteristic outburst. "You—"

Tifa's face was contorted in some mixture of pain and anger, and there was a pressure behind her tired eyes. Russet irises were sunken in, shielded by unkempt tangles of messy brown hair. Her skin was pale, no color from even the wind—just a dull, blank canvas. Oh, this had been wearing on her for far too long.

"I was just trying to help," Yuffie offered.

"I don't want help!" Tifa half-shouted, half-begged. "I just want to rest! We haven't stopped in three days, Yuffie. Three days!" Her pitch rose higher as she cried, and Yuffie was beginning to think she might witness a reality-snap. "I don't want to play a game!" she continued. "Does it seem like a good time to play a game?"

Good point, she thought. On the other hand, this was the most she'd seen out of her friend during those past few days, the only thing that wasn't practiced and mechanical. Hell, even her fighting spark seemed to have dwindled. But...

She was angry now. And maybe this was a good thing.

"Then why don't you talk to Cloud!" Yuffie heard herself shout back. Tifa went silent then, but her expression was changing again, from stress and struggle to something more like a dangerous rage. She tried her best to ignore it—Tifa wouldn't really beat her into a bloody pulp, would she? "You look terrible!" she braved on. "You feel terrible. And we're stuck here in the middle of nowhere, and you haven't slept or eaten. You're going to get sick, Tifa. And does he give a damn? Has he asked you how you are doing?" Yuffie paused for effect, and saw that Tifa's eyes only narrowed. She swallowed hard. "No. He hasn't."

"You don't have to tell me that, Yuffie." Her voice was dangerously low as she spat the girl's name.

Yuffie slammed her open palms down on the sheets, tempted aside from fight-or-flight to rip them up out of frustration. "Then why don't you tell him to slow down?"

Tifa rose up on her knees then, gesturing wildly to the windows as she screamed. "Because we don't have the time!"

"'Ey-!"

Time seemed to stand still as the two girls froze in their face-off, Cid's angry banging bouncing off the walls and ceiling. His muffled voice came through the woodwork just loud enough to invoke some sort of fear in the Wutaian, but Tifa remained unflinching.

"Keep it down over there!"

Yuffie's eyes flitted nervously from the wall to the girl in front of her. Her heart beat wildly in her chest as she saw Tifa's fists clenching and unclenching. Carefully, she tried the words. "...I'd never make it, if we lost you, too."

Tifa inhaled sharply at the soft plea from the girl. Her face relaxed from the angry scowl it was to a wary look of warning. "Yuffie..."

"I'm scared, too. And you're the only one who talks to me, and the only one who watches my back. We all need you, Tifa, but I really do. And I hate to see you like this. But if you're gonna help yourself, you need to talk to Cloud. Because you're the only one he listens to."

Bang-bang-bang-! "Hey!"

Yuffie jerked in place. Tifa threw the covers off and stalked over to the door, slamming it behind her. There was a muffled shout, and another loud bang, and then something crashed down onto the floor. Yuffie rushed to the window, just in time to see Tifa retreating from the neighboring room. She almost swore she heard a low chuckle, but it escaped her full attention with her heart pounding in her ears like it was.

A cold rush of wind followed Tifa into the room, and she pushed the suddenly wind-heavy door shut with her weight, falling back against it. Yuffie stood silently, unmoving from her spot only a few feet away. And that was when she noticed the tears welling up in her friend's eyes.

"...Tifa?"

The martial artist let out a shuddering sigh, her shaking hand grasping the knob as she stared up at the ceiling. "I just want to be the weak one for a second," she said quietly. "When... when is it my turn? I need—"

Yuffie took a cautious step forward, and then another. Soon, she had Tifa wrapped in her arms and leaning on her for support, clutching at her sweater with her face buried. "Shh," she soothed, smoothing the girl's hair down. "It's all right."

"Sometimes I just want to curl up and forget," she sniffed. "But I'm supposed to be the strong one, right? It's not even for them, always. It's—"

The ninja felt the warmth spread through her shoulder—and her chest—as the older girl continued to cry, shuddering against her like a frightened animal, her weight surprisingly heavier than she had guessed. Her head surprisingly warmer, underneath all that hair.

"It's just so hard to admit."

Tifa held on tightly and stepped into her then, and Yuffie just held her. The room was silent, not even a crackle of flame from the fireplace or a howl from outside the cabin. And she resolved not to let go, not for as long as her friend needed it.

"I'm cold."

Yuffie smiled against Tifa's neck as she began to disentangle herself. Her scalp was warm—and sweet-smelling—but gods, her hands were like ice. "Here," she said, leading her back to bed. "You should rest up while you can."

Tifa snorted, somewhere between rue and humor. "That's what I tried to tell you," she said, climbing back underneath the covers.

"Well, I knew you needed to vent." Yuffie didn't bother to ask, simply climbed in next to her, wrapping her arms back around her, rubbing her arms reassuringly. "Yes," she declared, rather matter-of-factly, "I think a good yell was just what the doctor ordered."

"You're so full of yourself," came the muffled reply. But Tifa didn't ask questions, only turned around in the too-small bed and snuggled in beneath the younger girl's chin. Yuffie readjusted her arms, grateful when Tifa scooted further down on the mattress, the older being the taller of the two.

She smiled to herself. "...And don't you forget it."

The sunlight wasn't quite so harsh when the ninja awoke the next morning, filtering in through snowy panes as it was. The flakes were slowly melting, and the rays cast a funny glow on the room, refracted by the strange and out-of-place mirror on the wall with its cracked painted edges. She shifted on the bed, noting that she had awoken on her back, and that she was not alone.

Ah, right. She had not remained awake long enough to return to her own corner of the room.

Tifa had sunk down into the covers during the night, one hand curled to her chest and the other draped over Yuffie herself. Her head rested half-upon the girl's meager chest, and her breathing was still steady and deep, her body moving gently against the ninja's side with the movement, and her head rising and falling with Yuffie's own breaths. The young girl reached down and gently brushed the hair away from the fighter's face, tucking it back behind her ear.

Her fingers lingered in the wayward strands for just a moment longer, until Tifa's eyes fluttered open. Yuffie's hand jerked back in one smooth, practiced motion, and then it was hidden at her side beneath blankets. "...Morning."

The older girl took a few second's look around the room, and then she relaxed back against the pillows, carefully disentangling her leg from Yuffie's. She inhaled deeply the scent of the new day—the cold mountain air, the pinewood interior of their humble room. Yuffie tried not to notice the way her eyelids fluttered when she did this.

"Feel any better?"

Tifa breathed in again and held it, as if she were contemplating. "You know," she finally said, sighing against the pillow, "I think I am. Thanks for staying, Yuffie." The look she turned on her then was meaningful, and it did funny things to the young girl. But then she was getting up, and suddenly the chill air of the room hit Yuffie like a runaway sail flapping in the wind. "I'm going to wash up. Then maybe—"

A loud shot rang out from the front of the cabin, and the girls nearly tumbled over each other as they hopped up and rushed to the yard. Yuffie swung the front door open, and was thrown into the snow as Tifa landed against her backside, unable to stop herself in time. The ninja jumped to her feet, dusting herself of the snow on her hands and knees before bringing her arms around to hold herself. Her head lifted in time to catch the sight of Vincent in the distance, picking something up from the ground, rifle in hand.

"...Maybe I'll get a little creative in the kitchen," Tifa finished. Yuffie laughed in delight, and turned to follow Tifa back into the cabin.

A minute later, there was a knock on the door.

"Come in!" Yuffie called. The door swung open then to reveal Vincent's patented smirk, his eyes aglow with satisfaction. She noted the young hare hanging limply from his claw. Oh, he was very pleased with himself.

"Breakfast," he said, simply.

Yuffie shifted on the mattress and stopped fiddling with her brush and pack to shoot him a smile, grateful for the break in routine. "Tifa's washing up, but I know she'll be glad to fix it when she's done. Although, you might want to prepare that first." She wrinkled her nose at the bloodied creature, its head and body swinging helplessly from its broken neck.

"I had planned on it."

His eyes then wandered over the bed, noting Tifa's things lying at its foot and Yuffie happily sprawled atop the rumpled sheets. He also noted that Yuffie's bed remained undisturbed, and that the majority of her belongings were still sitting on top of the comforter. Even if she had made the bed—which wasn't really true to her character—he found it odd that she should be lounging in Tifa's.

He shot her a curious expression, his dark eyebrow arching with the unspoken question.

Yuffie caught his eye's wanderings, and willed away the pitter-patter in her chest. "She was upset," she answered, shrugging unconvincingly.

"She is better now, then?"

The ninja ran a hand through her choppy morning 'do. "That's what she told me, when she woke up."

His mouth quirked a little, quickly growing into a grin as he turned to go, and her eyes narrowed at him.

"Shut up."

An angry shout from the kitchenette interrupted him, and Vincent yanked open the door which separated their rooms from the efficiencies.

"What's a man gotta do t' get a decent plate of fried steak in th' mornin'?"

"I think," Vincent said, his eyes crinkling as he leaned against the woodwork, "our country boy has grown tired of the rations."

"I'll show you what!" came the gruff reply. "I've had enough of that shit to last me a lifetime! Fuckin' Jodies..."

They both winced at the crashing sound that followed. Vincent was looking wide-eyed and aghast at some mess in the next room, and Yuffie really didn't want to know what could make Vincent look that way.

"They say that in the ShinRa, the chow is mighty fine! A biscuit rolled off the table and killed a friend o' mine!"

"Cid," Vincent said, calmly. Yuffie waited as the noise subsided, and then he held up the hare.

"'Bout fuckin' time! Damn near starvin' in this place, I tell ya. And—!"

Vincent stiffly palmed the door, and it fell steadily shut, the captain's words fading into the background. This earned him a giggle from the ninja, who hugged her knees to her chest and smiled back at him. "I think," he said, "that I will go take care of this outside." And with a brusque turn on his heel, he was out the front door.

Tifa emerged from the bathroom in thermal pants and sleeves, toweling her hair off as she walked to the bed and perched herself next to Yuffie. She bent over and rummaged around on the floor for her pack, hoisting it up and searching through it for the clothes she had bundled away. "I heard noises next-door," she said. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah," Yuffie replied, smiling. "I think Cid had himself a bit of a fit. Vince's outside, skinning a rabbit."

Tifa smiled. "That'll be nice. Comb my hair?"

Yuffie blinked, looking up from her pack at the proffered comb. "Um... what?"

"Would you mind combing through my hair?" she said. "There's a lot of it, and it's such a chore to do by myself sometimes."

"O—okay." Yuffie accepted the comb, and Tifa turned around on the bed, crossing her legs beneath her as Yuffie took the ends of her hair in hand and began to work her way through them. It sure was a nice smell...

Tifa sighed. "Yuffie," she said, her shoulders relaxing as she stared at the ceiling. "Thank you... for being you."

Yuffie paused when she caught a snag, inspecting it with her eyes and fingers instead of ripping the comb through. "Um, thanks. I guess." She thought it was a compliment, but something told her she'd gotten a reputation for being irritating. "You're not mad at me? For what I said?"

It was worse than she thought it might be, waiting those few seconds. "...No."

"You'll talk to him, then?" Don't push it, stupid...

Tifa bit her lip. "If you'll come with me."

The grin that the ninja wore was unmatched in its brilliance. "It's a deal," she said happily, returning to her task.

"Maybe when we're done, with... saving the world and all," Tifa said thoughtfully, a smile growing on her face, "we can hang out more often. Like this, just the two of us. It's nice, don't you think?"

The ninja smiled. Yes, they would make it through—there were eight of them, and only one of him for the gods' sakes. There would be plenty of chances for late nights and girl-talks and just sitting up in the morning, enjoying the simple stillness. Yes, even Yuffie could enjoy stillness too, once in a while. Especially when she had something in her hands to busy herself with.

"Yeah," she said. "I'd like that."

End

Final Fantasy VII and its characters © 1997 Square-Enix Co., Ltd.

Fighting Dirty

Mon, 07 May 2007 23:04:14 GMT

Title: Fighting Dirty
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Characters: Vincent, Veld
Rated: PG13, for language

Summary: Veld has got it into his head that he has something to prove. Or disprove. [ff.net link]

Fighting Dirty

Rachel "D" Winslow

"Hey, kid." Gods, that voice was annoying. Gruff, and gurgling and demanding. "You gonna stand there all day, or are you gonna come in?"

Vincent all but ignored the large, sweaty man at the front of the building and continued idly flicking his lighter. It occurred to him then, that Veld was in the habit of calling him kid all the time. Funny how he never really noticed that, or minded it, now that he thought about it. Maybe because it felt like comraderie with him, and not like an insult.

'Rookie,' was a different story. But he hadn't called him that in a week. Maybe he should give the guy a break.

"You hard of hearin', boy?"

Vincent didn't much like waiting around, especially in places like these. He didn't know his way around, his partner was nowhere to be seen, and he didn't have much authority in these matters. One false move could cause trouble for the both of them.

"You fuckin'-"

"Rookie."

Vincent glanced over his shoulder to see Veld poking his head through the entrance, motioning to him. He brushed past the irritated hench at his post, mouth twitching as he offered his soft and smug, "Excuse me."

"They're ready for us," Veld said. Then he nodded to the confused and upset gargantuan. "Take it easy, Charlie."

That bastard had called him a rookie again. "I'm tired of doing fucking errands."

"This is not an errand," Veld said. "This is important." He grabbed Vincent by the arm. "Stop for a second."

Vincent stood in the hallway with Veld, just outside the lounge. Ah. So it was time for the briefing, again. Honestly, he didn't think it was necessary. He wasn't some child, and he did know something about tact. Why Veld always approached him before a job like he had no common sense, Vincent didn't understand.

"When we're in there, you follow my lead. Let me do the talking. And if I tell you to sample something, you do it."

Vincent blinked. "You're fucking kidding me." It was then that Vincent also noticed he'd been saying that a lot lately.

"I mean it," Veld said. "And fix your fucking tie."

He raised an eyebrow at the hand that unwittingly reached out and straightened his tie. "I think I can manage that, at least," he grinned.

Veld paused, as if he'd been unaware of what he'd been doing. And then recovered. "No being a smart-ass," he threatened, pointing his finger at Vincent. "Or you'll be sorry."

"Will I, now?"

One of the things Vincent had come to appreciate about his partner was that his bark was worse than his bite, where the people closest to him were concerned. And it turned out that Veld didn't keep many people close; Vincent was just the sort that grew on people like that, begrudgingly or not. He had a way of getting under one's skin.

Frankly, Veld just didn't intimidate him anymore. Even less so when he had brain-matter dangling from his chin. That had made for a very amusing scene, Vincent noted. Sure, Veld was a force to be reckoned with, but no matter how loud he spluttered or how forcefully he waved his arms, Vincent just never felt like he was on the receiving end. No, Veld was hardly a threat to him.

And it had only been a few months. Considering the reactions his slight superior got from other people, Vincent figured he was doing quite well.

"Yeah you will."

Huh. He hadn't elaborated on how he would make him sorry that time. Maybe he was beginning to realize that it had no effect on him. He followed on the heel of Veld's brusque turn then, and they entered the lounge.

Ariel Feguera was the top drug pusher in the eastern hemisphere. He had a hand in everything, from blow to heroine. He'd sell a man spores that had been grown next to a mako fountain. And he was at the top of the chain.

But he had some competition. Non-threatening, of course, to a man of his... influence, but it didn't hurt to have help. Hence, their meeting with he and his Kalm distributor, Geno Gallo.

"So," Feguera said, as the men took their seats. "Geno say to me... you make competition go away."

Gallo would think he knew what he was talking about; he was the closest major dealer to the inner city. Midgar was full of small-time crooks, but the Turks ran the show. No one else did big business in Midgar but they.

"Yeah, I think we can manage that," Veld said with narrowed eyes, one side of his mouth tilted up.

"Now, I don't want you to... destroy product," said Feguera. "That help me, if you are looking for cut."

"Oh," Veld said. "It's a one-time fee."

Feguera frowned. "You are offering... your support... for what favor?"

Ariel's Midgirian was broken, but he understood the question. "For the sum we discussed," he said, "we'll make the Wutaian drug cartel disappear."

"But for how long?" Geno asked.

Veld's smile grew. "Men," he said. "We'll make them disappear."

Vincent wanted to ask why the hell Veld didn't use this to keep the men under his thumb, rather than calling it a one-time thing, but he supposed it was too late for that. And then he remembered that Veld didn't like dealing with people, especially the type of people who would hold you to things and make trouble.

Feguera looked happy. "That is good. Very good. Armando!" He gestured to the man hanging around in the back of the room. "A round of drinks, for our new friends!"

Shit.

"I can't believe you would have made me your guinea pig." It was said with a small measure of disbelief, as if he was shocked that Veld would even joke about something like that. Because he had to be joking. Veld wouldn't do that to him.

Veld's answer was as if he'd been reading his mind. "Why not?"

"What if they'd tried to give me something lethal?" Vincent asked, ducking into the passenger's seat.

"They wouldn't have."

"Oh, well that's a relief." Vincent rolled his eyes.

Veld slid into the driver's side and adjusted the rearview mirror while he checked his tie in the sideview. "People are afraid of us, Valentine."

"I know," he said. "Why didn't you use your position as leverage?"

Veld didn't have to ask what he was talking about. "Because I'm not greedy," he said. "And they're more trouble than they're worth. Besides," he said, unable to help the twitch at the corner of his lip, "Wutai is already a target, and those two won't be around for much longer, anyway."

Vincent narrowed his eyes at Veld, and then it hit him. "There's a schedule?"

"Cleaning schedule. Yep."

That was morbid. But for some reason, Vincent took to the idea. "Wait a second. Is this even ShinRa business?"

There was a click as Veld fastened his seatbelt. "This time it is."

"...You make money on the side."

"Yes," he said, sighing. "We do that sort of thing." Then he glared at the road in front of him. "Or do you want to talk about that, too?"

Veld didn't look so amused anymore. That was the creepy thing about him; he was imbalanced and unpredictable. And perhaps a tad bit schizo.

"You talk too damned much. Now, buckle your seatbelt, kid."

Judging by Veld's tone, Vincent had clearly done something to annoy him. This didn't faze Vincent much at all; that smug bastard had called him a rookie again, and was still nonchalant enough about everything else going on to the point that he would sacrifice his partner to an overdose. Vincent didn't really believe this, but damned if he wasn't furious that Veld would act like it.

In the short time they'd spent together, Vincent had learned a few things about Veld; his quirks, his disposition. Namely, Veld had a thing about space. And 'thing'... might not have been a strong enough word.

Vincent looked at him as though his mind was a hundred miles away. "Why?"

"Because I said so."

"That's not a reason," he said, smiling in amusement as he turned to look idly out of his window and waited for Veld to start the ignition.

He didn't turn the key. Veld had a policy, mainly to protect his own ass from liability. Unless, of course, they were dodging bullets; in that case, there were bigger things to worry about. But this was just stupid. "Because I don't want your lanky ass sprawled out all across my leather? Buckle your seatbelt, or I'll throw you out of the car. How's that for a reason?"

"No," Vincent said, calm as ever, as if he didn't believe him. "I don't like wearing it."

This was going nowhere fast, and Veld's frustrations with the kid were getting the better of him. He didn't even care about the godsdamned belt anymore, just that Valentine was out to piss him off and undermine him every step of the way. "Just do as I asked," he shouted, "and stop being such a lousy, obnoxious fuck!"

Vincent snorted. "Don't knock it until you've tried it."

Veld might have choked on his breath, had he not been used to receiving smart-assed comments from the kid. Oh, everything was a fight with this one, almost as if Vincent was trying to make him snap. And that smirk - that godsdamned smirk. He was going to erase that one, permanently.

It turned out that Valentine was much easier to remove when he wasn't strapped in. Not unlike a cancer. And so it was that Vincent found himself face-down in the pavement on the side of the road, tires squealing as the company sedan sped away from him.

He stared after it for a short while, until it rounded a corner some several city-blocks away, thinking - no, knowing - that Veld would have to come back for him. Because Veld was responsible, and Veld was impatient, and more importantly, Veld was without an excuse as to why his partner was missing. Sure, Vincent could easily find his own way back to the office, and that was probably what Veld was expecting; he'd eventually have to walk, and he'd learn his lesson.

But that wouldn't be nearly as fun. And hell if he wasn't going to make it hard on the bastard.

Veld didn't spend too terribly long a time alone in the office before he realized that Vincent wasn't coming back on his own. It was only a few hours, really. Or however long he thought he could get away with, without pushing his luck. He hadn't forgotten, he was just... stubborn.

It was late afternoon when he finally pulled out of the garage and headed back downtown. He kept his eyes peeled for tall, lanky, suit-wearing kids on the sidewalk, but he didn't see any. He figured if there were any, they'd be easy enough to spot.

Half an hour of searching didn't turn up anything. He didn't want to think that Vincent would have gone back into the lounge, but he really hoped the kid wasn't that stupid. And Vincent had turned his phone off. Probably did that just to piss him off, Veld thought. Damned punks... everything was a game to them. And he didn't like admitting that maybe trying to teach Valentine a lesson had bit him in the ass.

"Hey, buddy."

Veld turned sharply in the direction of the voice and found a shabby-looking man, probably mid-thirties, leaned up against a wreck of a car.

"You lookin' for your friend?"

Veld frowned. "What would you know about that?"

"Tall, dark hair? Got the same jacket as you."

He looked down. Oh, right. "Did you see where he went?"

"Sure," the man said, grinning. "He's in there."

He followed the direction of the man's finger, to the sign above the bar. And stared, stumped and furious, and disbelieving. "Fuck me," he muttered. But Veld was responsible, moreso than that Valentine punk ever was, so he gathered his pride, stomping his way over and trying not to make eye contact with anyone who might be watching him.

The air inside the place was cool and clean, surprisingly. Then again, it was still the afternoon. It was also less... flashy than he had expected. At first glance, it looked like a regular old bar. But there was music, faint and humming. Veld didn't much care for it. Scanning the room, his eyes found his target.

He'd been planning on walking in and out with little to no incidence. But as he eyed the crowd Valentine had gathered, he realized it wasn't going to be as easy as all that. Well, that was silly. He was a Turk, and those men were hardly threatening. So he walked over.

"So this is where you've been."

Vincent's head popped up at the sound of his voice. "Hey!" he said. "I was wondering when you'd get here. I was just tellin' these guys about you."

Veld narrowed his eyes. "I see."

"Hey, relax, man. We weren't gonna steal him or nothing."

Veld nearly choked on his spit. Oh, that wasn't it. That wasn't it at all, and he was going to kill the kid for dragging him into this and making it look like they were... were...

And the man with the soft voice was laughing. Just what in the hell had he said to them? Not like it wasn't bad enough that Valentine was prancing around in his uniform. But by Odin, if he'd said anything to insinuate and embarrass him, there would be hell to pay.

Oh, but Veld was only learning that when Vincent fought, he fought dirty.

"But you came for me!" Vincent launched into Veld's arms in an exaggerated display of relief, much to the older man's chagrin. "I knew you would!" he sighed, leaning against him.

A chorus of drunken laughter echoed in his ears. If Veld let go at this precise moment, Vincent would drop straight to the floor. "You're piss drunk."

"No I'm not."

He was. Veld could smell it walking up to the table. The kid's breath and body reeked of it, and his voice was a mix of high slurs and low murmurs. "Time to go now," Veld grimaced, trying to lift the boy up.

"Okay, okay," Vincent said. "Hey, Veld?"

"Yeah."

"...You're the only partner I ever want."

It was very quiet, and he realized belatedly that no one had heard, save for himself. And Vincent's fingers were doing funny things with the lapel of his jacket. Veld started and stared at the kid for a long time. Finally - finally, after Veld felt the temperature of the room rise a full ten degrees - Vincent cracked into a snigger, and that quickly escalated into hysterics. Veld growled. "That's not funny."

"Well, I thought it was," Vincent said, pushing himself up and off the other man and straightening himself. It was jarring, how quickly he could turn it off. "You know, you really are a bastard. Fine," he said curtly. "Let's go." He waved animatedly - again, exaggeratedly - at the door.

While Veld waited for Vincent to lead the way, a man walked up to him and handed him a drink. Veld frowned.

"I didn't order this. We were just leaving."

The man nodded in the direction of the bar. Veld turned, and caught the eyes of a balding, waif-like man with a goatee. Who smiled with his crooked teeth. And waved.

He grabbed Vincent by the arm and dragged him outside.

"Gods!" Vincent hissed, when they'd made it to the car and Veld finally relinquished his hold on him. "That fucking hurts!" He jerked his arm back and glared at his partner.

Veld looked like he was about to yell at him, when the man who had handed him the drink ran out to meet them. "Hey, man," he said. "I don't mean to interrupt... whatever. But usually when people leave, they pay me."

The frown on Veld's face deepened, if it were even possible. He shot Vincent a look, and the kid shrugged. Oh, hells no. Valentine was going to get the ass-whupping of the century. "Here." Veld dug into his pockets and shoved some bills into the man's hands. "That should cover it. If it doesn't, you know where to come find me."

He did. And he wouldn't. Veld knew this.

"Let's go, kid. Now." Veld yanked his door open and seated himself inside, slamming it shut behind him. Vincent followed half-heartedly. "I don't care what you do on your own time," Veld growled, "but when you go and fucking pull a stunt like that-"

"That's not what I do in my off time," Vincent sighed, rolling his eyes.

"Oh," Veld snapped. "So this is just for my benefit, is that what you're trying to tell me?"

"Maybe you shouldn't act so high and mighty."

Veld was furious. "You made me look like a-"

"Like you had something to prove?"

He stopped shouting for a moment and took in Valentine's accusing glare. "...What?"

"Please," Vincent said, his smile returning as he relaxed in his seat. "Shit, you go in there, all pissed off to begin with. You make a big deal out of how you can't possibly belong there, when all anyone has to do is look at you."

It took Veld a few seconds to process his words. Vincent was loud in the sloppy way, but he seemed not to be as intoxicated as he'd previously thought. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? If you're fishing for something-"

"I'm not fishing. You're in denial. I've never seen you with a woman, ever. Or without your fucking tie."

"A man who wears a uniform ought to take pride in his appearance. Besides, this isn't about me. This is about you."

"Whatever. You ought to just admit it."

"I ought to off you and dump your body. I'll just explain to the boss that you're not coming back, and I took care of it."

Vincent took in Veld's matter-of-fact expression, and nearly laughed. The man was too damned proud for his own good. "Like you would really get out of that."

"You think anyone would miss you?"

But maybe he'd read too much into things. Maybe Veld didn't really care, and he had his own reasons. But his actions, even if they didn't mean what Vincent was having so much fun at Veld's expense making them out to be, said that he did care. "Then why did you come after me? I was having fun, at least."

Veld frowned, starting up the car. Apparently, he wasn't going to bicker with him over the way he was sprawled this time. "I'm kind of responsible for you. Or did you forget?"

"I think you'd miss having someone to piss all over when you can't handle yourself."

A sharp intake of breath, and Vincent could read Veld's anger in his white knuckles over the gear shift. "I'd be able to handle myself a lot better if you weren't always making things hard on me."

Vincent laughed anyways, because he wasn't threatened. "I make things hard on you because you can't handle yourself. You make it so easy." And entertaining, he did not add. But if ever he caught him with brain on his face again, he'd be sure to take full advantage of the opportunity to push his buttons.

"So this is funny to you?" Veld asked, speeding down the road. "You fucking like making me come all the way out here to search for you, scaring me half t-"

Veld stopped there. Suddenly, Vincent felt very satisfied with himself, not to mention more than confident enough to fill the silence that followed. "You are the one who left me in the first place."

"That's because you're an asshole."

But he wasn't yelling anymore. "Fair enough," Vincent said. "But you're stuck with me, and that's not going to change, so I guess you'd better find some way of dealing with it, other than leaving me to rot."

"You've got legs," Veld said, now concentrating more on the street than on the man in the seat next to him. Vincent grinned again.

"Exactly. Maybe next time you'll remember that they have a mind of their own."

Veld snorted, and then was quiet for a minute. "...I can't believe you made me look for you in a gay bar."

"I can't believe you made it look like we were an item."

"That was your fault!" Veld's outburst was more incredulity than volume. "What the hell did you tell those men about me?"

By now, Vincent's face held no amount of shame - not that it had before - but was full of self-congratulatory pride. "Nothing."

Contrary to his expectations, his partner didn't push for it. "...I'm not gay."

"Fine."

"...And if I were, it wouldn't be with you," he muttered.

Vincent smiled to himself. Veld's awkward hesitation when he'd called him 'partner' hadn't gone unnoticed. "You're not my type, anyway."

The car was quiet then, and all that could be heard was the sound of the tires rolling over the street and the objects whizzing by. Veld cleared his throat. "You're...?"

"Not exactly."

"So I don't need to watch my back, then."

He laughed. Veld's sense of humor always was a bit awkward, and his attempt to lighten the mood was piss poor. "I already told you, you're not my type."

"You just said you weren't..." Veld cut himself off and took a deep breath. "That's good, then."

"Yes. It is."

"...Good."

"Fine."

The rest of the ride was silent, and without interruption this time. But damned if Vincent wasn't a little bit smug and grinning inwardly the whole way back to the office.

Veld was so full of shit. And they both knew it.

End

Explosive

Mon, 26 Feb 2007 09:04:35 GMT

Title: Explosive
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Characters: Vincent, Veld
Rated: PG-13

Summary: My first Vineld fic (omg yay!), for Cendri and Drakon. It's Vince's first week on the job, and he's feeling pretty cocky. Of course, Veld is going to need to knock him down a peg. [ff.net link]

Explosive

For Cendri and Drakon

Bang. The sound was pure ecstasy.

Vincent Valentine had had a gun fetish ever since he could remember being old enough to categorize it as such. It was the feel of the heavy-leaden weight in his hand, the smell of the greasy polish on a wave of heat radiating from the tip of the muzzle. It was controllable, and it was exacting. Sleek, sexy, and powerful. There was no other high quite like it.

Bang. Bang.

Mostly controllable. Almost exacting.

Like a child delighted, waving his snub-nosed revolver in Ephram's face. Shining silver and dull, black encased handle firmly fisted in his leather glove. It was a part of him, and it was apart from him, and there would be no bargaining with it, him, no matter how the miserable wretch begged for his life.

He hated old misers, businessmen, the higher ups. Sitting around, stuffing their faces, trying to figure out what to do with all of their wealth and how to obtain more. No matter that ShinRa was on his way to becoming the very thing he hated, and no matter that he was helping him along. The compensation he received was something no man in his position would ever refuse. ShinRa would write him a check at the end of the week, and he could deal with that.

Besides, Ephram was a sniveling weasel, disloyal in his dealings. He was privy to many of the company's secret projects, as he'd been one of ShinRa's financial partners, but rumor had it that he'd begun investing in other sources, competitive ones. As ShinRa had no more use for him, having finished with him only a short time ago, the company had no reservations about ending his life.

Vincent didn't really care whether the rumors were true or not. When it came to protecting his job and his anonymity, he was very adamant about jumping the gun, so to speak. And knowing that he could do whatever he wanted to this man - this discarded, useless shell - and then walk straight out the door without consequence was the ultimate power trip. Any compunctions he might have had about shooting an unarmed man flew out the window with the knowledge that where underground business was concerned, he was - no, he was above - the law, and Turks lived and breathed destruction because that's what Turks were.

He looked at the mess on the wall behind Ephram's fallen body. "This...damned thing," he cursed softly, frowning at his gun. "It's off."

Meanwhile, Veld had turned his attention from the older man's bookcase, attracted by the noise of excess fire. "Shit, kid. Are you using magnums in that thing?"

"Maybe," Vincent replied distractedly, holding his Quicksilver up for inspection. "I'll have to file the sight-"

"Don't be stupid," Veld said, walking over and stooping down to assess the damage his partner had dealt; one to the shoulder, one in the chin and the third to his head. "Use thirty-eight's next time. If it's still off, then you can worry about filing, or bending, or whatever the hell you want to do with it." He scoffed. "No wonder you can't handle the damned gun. A three-fifty-seven is overkill for a barrel that short."

Vincent frowned and pocketed his revolver in the shoulder-holster beneath his jacket. He liked overkill. And it wasn't his fault Ephram had made a futile attempt to lunge past him at the last second. Adjustments had to be made. Valentine reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette, lighting up on his way to the door and muttering around it to himself. "I'll show you who can't handle what..."

"Rookie."

Vincent turned at the entrance to the dining room and shot Veld a look of annoyance. There was more to that. "Yes?"

Veld lifted his eyebrows in expectation. "...We have a body on the floor."

"So?"

"Get your ass over here."

Vincent walked over to where Veld stood next to the mahogany china hutch, Ephram's blood-pool beginning to creep toward his partner's shoes. He stopped pointedly, an abrupt jerk of his head as he idly surveyed the room. And lifted his eyebrows. "...What?"

The other man reached out and plucked the cigarette from Valentine's mouth, stubbing it out on the wood.

"Hey-!"

"You can do that later. Now help me with this body."

Vincent watched as Veld turned and went into the kitchen, grabbing kitchen towels and rummaging around in the cabinets. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Veld pulled some bleach out from under the sink and set it on the countertop next to the stove, while he searched around in the refrigerator. "Go into the bedroom and strip the bed. Take my knife," he said, unclipping the sheath from his belt and tossing the object to Vincent, "and bring the sheets back here."

Vincent looked down at the knife in his hand. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he repeated, albeit with more indignance. Veld was unfazed.

"I don't think I need to tell you that there are reasons the public isn't wise to us. Now go."

"Let me get this straight," Vincent said, holding up his hand. "I thought we were Turks, not custodians. Explain."

"Later."

Vincent set the knife down on the countertop. "I'm walking."

"Ah-ah!" Veld clipped, pulling Valentine back by the collar of his jacket. "You shot the man full of holes, now you have to clean up the mess."

Vincent shrugged out of Veld's hold, turning on him and raising an eyebrow in question. "Is that how this works?"

"For now, yes." Veld crouched down, frowning as he began to sop up the blood beneath the fresh corpse. "When ShinRa takes office, then you can shoot and walk away. Until then, you're down here with me."

The younger man glared at his superior. This was definitely not what he'd had in mind. "I just don't see why we have to do this," he muttered, stalking toward the back of the house.

"Would you really trust someone else to cover your tracks?" Veld called to him from the other room. "Or give them a portion of your pay to do it?"

"Well, if you'd told me we were going to clean up the mess, I might have been a bit more careful," Vincent retorted, ripping the sheets from the king-sized mattress. "Isn't there an easier way to do this?"

Veld's voice echoed back at him through the halls as he searched the closets for more towels. "We're going to do it this way."

"Why?"

"Because I said so."

Vincent's rust-red eyes rolled in his head as he piled the sheets in his arms. He'd been getting speeches like this all week, and he would rather not hear another. "I can't believe I'm doing this," he murmured under his breath, stumbling back down the hallway, linens hanging from his arms. He dumped the pile at Veld's back and crouched down on the floor beside him.

Veld nodded to the pile beside him. "You still have my knife?"

"Yeah."

"Cut the sheets into strips. We're going to wrap him up."

Vincent blinked. "We're moving him?"

"Sure." Veld reached for another towel. "Look, I've already got most of the blood cleaned up. You've got your work cut out for you," he said, wrapping the larger towel around the man's head. "Just go from the top down."

Vincent just stared at the other man as he grunted his orders. Veld stopped what he was doing when he realized Vincent wasn't making a move.

"...What?"

Valentine's face twisted into an amused smirk, which quickly spread into a full-blown grin. Veld frowned at this.

"What's so godsdamned funny?"

Vincent reached out to pick at the older man's chin fuzz, and Veld jerked away, batting at his hand.

"Valentine! What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Wait..." Vincent weakly protested, getting more humor out of the situation than trouble. "You've got brain on your face."

At this, Veld stopped moving almost instantly, affording Vincent the time he needed to pluck the disgusting grey matter from the other man's beard. Vincent held the offending gook up for observation, and Veld made a sickened face. Valentine nearly flicked it off to the side, before realizing he was supposed to be minimizing the mess; he made a show of looking around nonetheless, and when his eyes met with Veld's rapidly growing stare of annoyance, he wiped the slimy guts on Ephram's own shirt.

"...Ugh."

"Adding insult to injury, rookie?"

Vincent smiled at Veld's almost-amused expression. "I could have simply chosen to not tell you about it."

Veld grimaced, rising from his position on the floor. "Whatever. Let's just get this over with."

Valentine frowned as the other man left the room, towards the master suite. "Where are you going?"

"You'll see," he called over his shoulder. "And don't stop what you're doing. I have eyes in the back of my head, you know."

Vincent rolled his eyes again and began cutting the linens into strips, wrapping them around Ephram's limp carcass and knotting them tightly. He shredded both the top and bottom sheets, and all of the pillowcases, winding extra around the dead man's head. By the time he was finished, there were still some cloths left over, and he was ready for that cigarette.

"Not now." Veld plucked the unlit cigarette from Vincent's fingers and tucked it behind his own ear.

The younger man frowned, taking in his supervisor's appearance. "Where'd you go? And...did you wash your face?"

"Maybe," Veld replied. He dropped a bath caddy down next to their cadaver. "Thank the Missus."

Vincent threw Veld some unused material, and the other man wiped his chin clean. "What's that?"

"Just some goodies." He threw the cloth back at his rookie. "Tuck those into the couch cushions, then come and help me move this body. And leave bits of 'em sticking out."

Vincent's eyes grew as he watched Veld begin to rummage through the caddy, setting items aside, pulling packs and bottles of pills out and scanning through the ingredients. "...You're going to set the place on fire."

"Yep," was the short reply, as his superior set a bottle of nail-polish remover to the side with the other liquids.

Valentine was growing more frustrated with his partner by the minute. "Why did you have me wrap the damned thing up, then?" he demanded.

Veld raised his head, a smug look on his face. "To make a point."

"Which is...?"

"That I don't care how you got here or how good you think you are, and I don't care whatever your reasons. When you're with me, you'll do your job, and you won't be asking any questions about it. You're going to get over that attitude of yours." He smiled, firm and crooked as his face neared the other's. "Got that?"

Not, "...or you'll find yourself without a job," or, "...or I'll kick your ass." Just, you will get over it. Period. Vincent glared at the man.

"Good. Now go and do as I said."

"You're buying me a drink after this," he grumbled, grabbing the material and standing up. Veld walked out the front door, towards the side of the house.

"Like hell I am."

Vincent stalked over to the couch in the next room, stuffing the shredded bedsheets inbetween the cushions. He didn't see how sending up smoke signals wasn't a hundred times worse than shooting and walking away, unless Veld was just messing with his head then, too. Luckily for them, Ephram's property was rather large and secluded; gates, walls, the whole she-bang, and a good distance from the public roads.

Veld breezed back in through the open doorway, stooping down next to the body. "All right, kid. On the count of three."

Vincent met him on the kitchen floor and grabbed Ephram's upper half.

"One...two..."

"Three."

The men grunted as they lifted their victim. The corpse was thick, and Veld and Vincent each only weighed in at around a buck and a half, even with Vincent being as tall as he was. Once Ephram was laid across the couch, Veld began pouring chemicals on him.

Rubbing alcohol, liquid facial cleanser, the nail-polish remover. Vincent lifted an eyebrow. "Acetone?"

Veld nodded, and sprayed the material with aerosol. Then he grabbed some of the old wife's concealer and headed back into the kitchen.

"Now I know that's not flammable," Vincent said, following him.

Veld just turned around and shook the bottle at him once, a devilish grin playing on his face and a dangerous glint in his eyes. "No. It's combustible."

Vincent's heart sped up as he watched Veld reach around the back of the stove and come away with the plug undone. He hadn't been lying when he'd said he would teach him something new.

"Make yourself useful, kid. Go out back and shut off the gas valve."

The younger Turk hesitated as the older man crushed up some pills and unscrewed the cap to the lemon juice he'd found in the refrigerator. He'd thought he remembered hearing something about bleach, citric acid and heat, though he couldn't remember from where. Probably some movie or an old chemistry class. Either way, anyone could tell just by watching that what the man was doing was dangerous. Veld was planning on making one very big explosion...

"Don't just stand there. Go!"

Vincent did as he was told, disappearing around the corner of the house. He quickly located the valve his partner was talking about and shut it off, tight as it would go. He could only imagine what was to come next; he'd never witnessed anything like it.

By the time Veld walked back into the front yard, Vincent was somewhat grateful he'd been stuck with the psycho for his training. His limbs were like gelatin and his bones were numb, but when Veld told him to turn the gas back on, he felt it in his spine. Nearly tripping over himself to get back to the car, falling in and slamming doors and then speeding away to the end of the dirt road which curved just so...

It was heaven and hell from where they stood, fiery clouds billowing upon one another as they reached towards the sky. Leaning against the black sedan, feeling the hot wind rush them as they witnessed their handiwork. A shaken and wobbly sort of pride filled the youth as he was rewarded with yet another loud roar from inside Ephram's house as it burned higher and higher, collapsing in on itself, windows and doors blown out, walls crumbling to ash.

Even Veld, he saw, had a strange look in his eye as he watched the house go up in flames. He had to wonder how long the other man had been at it; the expression on his face told him that he hadn't stopped to watch just because it was Vincent's first show. And to think; before that day, Vincent had thought there was no better feeling than having a gun in his hand.

Veld pulled the cigarette from behind his ear and fished a lighter out of his pocket. Vincent's eyes narrowed at him.

"That's mine, you know."

"Hmm," the other man said, rounding the front of the car and opening the driver's door. "Mine now."

"You still owe me a drink," Vincent reminded him, sinking into the leather opposite him.

One side of Veld's face pulled into that curious, crooked smile. "Like hell I do."

Vincent let it go for the time being as he searched through his own pockets for his pack. There was something in that moment following what he had just witnessed, had just been a part of, that he didn't want to destroy. Something powerful and awe-inspiring, and something that deserved his respectful silence.

As they sped away toward the office, Vincent watched the glorious burning shrink in the view of his side-mirror until it was nothing more than a pile of kindling in the distance, painting the sky black above it.

Some things were better than guns.

End

Every Now and Then - Chapter 2

Thu, 22 Feb 2007 03:31:38 GMT

Title: Every Now and Then, Chapter 2
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Characters: Cloud x Tifa, Denzel, Marlene, Vincent
Rated: PG

Summary: The second installment of Motchi's birthday giftfic. This particular chapter is rather expository, a set-up for the set-up, if you will. There's not a whole lot in this one, but Cloud riding around on his deliveries. But where he ends up spending the night is the real kicker. [ff.net link]

Every Now and Then: Chapter Two

For Motchi

It was early evening by the time Cloud reached Nibelheim. To his credit, he had done everything he could to keep his promise; he had even taken a shortcut through the mountains, by-passing the marshes in order to reach Junon ahead of schedule. But, lo and behold, the last cargo ship had already left the port, and he was forced to wait a full three hours for the next one to return, fuel up and pass inspection.

In smaller towns on his route like Corel and Cosmo, he didn't even have to deliver the items himself. No, he had community drop-boxes for that, ridiculous-looking, armored things for which only he and the town's postal supervisor had keys. Nice of them, to help him out once in a while. But Cloud, he was faster than the postal service - and responsible for lost items, as he was paid for that - so technically, he was lightening their load all year long.

What he hadn't remembered was how many of the packages in the bag had belonged to residents of up-and-coming towns like Gongaga and Junon. Their expanding offices had enough work already, cataloguing the influx of new residents, stagnant WRO members and Rufus' old military recruits from Midgar, who it turned out weren't going to be shipped anywhere. He was responsible for all of his business there, all of the time, and he could have sworn Gongaga was bigger than the last time he was there. He even double-checked the label on the outside of his bag, not to mention the dates on the packages, to make sure he hadn't grabbed the wrong one; there were certainly a lot of people in that town.

Luckily enough, his drop-boxes were devoid of pick-ups, save for one item in Cosmo that was to go to Nibelheim. He'd enlisted Cid's help with Wutai and the Northern Continent the day before, and left him with Rocket Town's personal effects. He wouldn't have to stop on the way home.

But it was just like fate to step in and ruin his plans. On a day when everything actually went right for once, everything went wrong. Either it was fate, or someone up there had it in for him. First the boat, then Gongaga (and an unforeseen incident involving a construction roadblock); and the loud crack of thunder overhead, accompanied by foreboding yellow-black skies, was enough to convince Cloud that it was most definitely the latter.

Probably Bahamut Sin, he noted wryly. Never tangle with a god unless you are willing to accept the consequences.

Cloud rode into the deserted square, Fenrir's muffled engine the only noise in the quiet town. After giving the area a good once-over, he veered off toward the postal office to check his oversized P.O. box. Empty. But...

Tiny raindrops pelted his arms as he shut the lid. No, those were a bit too rough to be made of only water. He looked to the ground, eyeing the clicketty-clacketty ice shards at his feet. Hail. Of all the-

He jumped on his bike and took off through the square. Too late to turn back, and he didn't have enough money for a room at the inn; no, he'd have to save that for fuel. No one in this town he could stay with, and as he passed Tifa's old house, he judged from the sillhouettes in the illuminated windows that someone had already bought the place. He wasn't quite sure why that was disconcerting; that town was full of nightmares, and they mostly just wanted to forget it.

But it had been their town, years ago...

ShinRa Manor stuck out like a sore thumb in the distance, an offending stepping stone to the Nibel mountain range that towered high behind it, not so darkly under the already blackened skies. Cloud sped toward his destination, shoulders bowed to protect himself from the stinging hail, struggling to keep his sight clear and his balance checked despite the slippery cobblestone and strong gusts of wind.

Fenrir slowed to a bumpy stop on the walkway, and Cloud jumped off to unhinge the old gate. The weighty metal screeched in protest, but it was nothing compared to the howls overhead. The rumbling grew into a rage, and as the first crack of lightning appeared in the sky, he opened the heavy doors to the mansion and pushed his bike inside.

Once Fenrir was safely inside the building, Cloud pulled the double doors shut after him. Falling hailstone pelted the pavement outside and ricocheted off the manor, and the sound resonated off the walls and was amplified by the vaulted ceiling. Much of the window glass was punched out, and didn't help with keeping the storm outside.

His footsteps echoed as he walked through the house, taking it all in again. It reminded him of the first time he saw the manor; no more than a footsoldier, and after visiting his mother, he'd gone wandering to pass the time. He remembered his first tentative steps past the double doors, and his disbelief at the state of the place, like a dark warning, something out of a gothic horror novel.

Overturned chairs, and bookshelves nearly gored out. The curtains had been torn, and the kitchen floor was littered with dishes all shattered to pieces. A fallen pile of old records, glasses full of mould, a pair of reading glasses. With so much strewn about, it was a stroke of luck that anyone noticed the one stand-alone note on the floor five years later.

People had been living there. It wasn't long before he was joined by Zack, who pointed out that not a single mirror in the mansion remained unbroken, even the one in the bathroom. It was as if someone - or something - had gone on a long, drawn out rampage, possibly even returning to break what had been missed.

But there was no one there.

Now, Cloud saw that there were piles of furniture against the wall, covered by a large, plastic tarp. A quick walk around the lower level proved them to be the articles from the other rooms. The mirrors were also missing, and the rotted wallpaper in the lobby was stripped down to its ugly-yellow, tattered glue. The only room with anything still in it was the music room. The piano was also covered by a tarp, and the large window, too, from the outside. The stained glass had been ruined, he supposed, as he listened to the rain beating against the plastic and rolling off into the mud outside. But why would Rufus want...?

Or maybe it was Reeve? He hadn't said anything, but he didn't often discuss WRO business with him anyway.

Cloud shook his head and returned to the lobby, walking Fenrir from the middle of the room to the next, beneath the staircase. He then made his way up the rickety stairs, intending to get some rest.

The second level, he soon found, wasn't empty. The furniture was upright and in place, but devoid of any other signs of ownership. All of the books, boxes, clothing and other belongings that had been there four years earlier were nowhere to be found. The beds seemed to be untouched; he sat down on one, not thinking, and was met with a plume of dust. Coughing and spluttering, Cloud jumped from the musty mattress, ruffled through his hair and smoothed his clothes down, ridding them of the dirty residue.

Flipping out his phone, he dialed the number to Tifa's bar. The phone rang once, twice, and then static crept in and the dial tone dissipated into nothing. Cloud checked the display, and found he was without a signal. Holding the phone out in front of him, he paced the room, then the hallway, then the rest of the upper level, until he reached the room that held the secret passageway into the basement. Still no signal.

He made to turn away, but the closed door was enough to pique his curiousity. And with the storm raging heavily outside, he wasn't going anywhere for a while.

No one from Avalanche had been to the mansion in an entire year. But someone had come and moved things around. There were no bodies to speak of; no Deepground soldiers, no monster remnants. And he sincerely doubted Vincent had been given the time, or had cared as much.

One hand wound tightly around the hilt of his blade, he pocketed his phone and stepped forward, rapping twice on the door.

There was no movement from inside the room. Cloud knocked again, and again he was rewarded with nothing. He tried the knob and found that it was locked from the other side. Which meant someone, or something, was probably inside. Or else...

Maybe Vincent had locked it behind him when he'd come up through the sewers. Maybe there were still undesirable things lurking below the mansion. If there were, he wasn't sure he wanted to go barging in there without any knowledge of them. But if the door was locked, then certainly the passageway was also closed? Cloud waited outside the door for a full fifteen minutes before deciding that there was no one behind it.

Instead of breaking down the door or investigating further, Cloud headed downstairs. The rain still came in heavy torrents, and he still wasn't getting a signal on his phone. Tifa would be worried, for sure; it was well past dinnertime, he was hours away on another continent, and there was no way to know when the storm was going to let up. With no way to reach her, she would have plenty of time to get worked up, thinking he had either broken his promise or something terrible had happened when he didn't answer his phone. Either way, things were not looking up.

And, holy hells, what was that? Cloud was awestruck not only by the giant, spider-like thing in the far corner of the room, but more by the fact that he hadn't noticed it. It was crumpled in a heap to the right of the door, clothed in shadow from the balcony up above. Cautiously, Cloud made his way over to the thing. It's dull, blue sensory eye was dead, and he gave it a few rough kicks with his heavy boots for confirmation. Nothing.

There was really no more he could do, but wait out the storm. So, he turned away from the beast-shell and parked himself in the room with Fenrir, on the spot of flooring that was covered in the least amount of rot. Unsheathing his sword, he leant it against the wall and sat down beside it to rest his eyes.

End Chapter Two

Agapé, chapter 12

Mon, 19 Feb 2007 21:55:39 GMT

Chapter 12

Chapter 12 was a pain in the ass to write, and also got the least response. I don't know if any of it has to do with FFnet's constant downtime, or if it was just too laborious a read. But I suppose that's life.

It seems like most of the readers out there are looking for fluff and romance, and poor attempts at forced humor, and oh, the list could go on and on and on. I think the older fans are fading away, and as I see all these new fics coming out repeating the same ideas over and over again, I shake my head. I'd almost feel bad for the authors, if so many of them hadn't copied a bunch of my once-original concepts, not to mention turned them to cheese.

I haven't forgotten about the lemon challenge I received from Jack of Spades. I'm still going to do it. Yup, trying my hand at adult stuffs now (harhar, wordplay).

Even though "adult" doesn't always translate into "mature," I'm aiming for an older crowd all around, even with the cleaner pieces. I just don't have it in me to fill my stories up with OOC-ness and fluff (unless the fluff has other, more profound layers to it). I'm a dark, angsty person, and that's just the way my writing tends to turn. I have a lot of dark, angsty experience, and I write what I know, and so does anyone else who isn't forcing their words.

I have a lot of gems hidden away, and a lot of pieces on my hard-drive that a lot of readers don't know about. Some of my constant contacts don't even know about them. A lot of these are unprecedented ideas, and might not be popular, but they will make me feel like I did a good job, and I will be satisfied. And dammit, I guess that means I'll be calling myself a niche writer, doesn't it?

Two more VinTif multi-chaps, but I think I'm going to either combine those, or take the one in the crazy direction that frightens me, but is awesome to the max. If I do, you're all going to get a lesson in ethics and personal space through this very unfluffy and invasive tale (that sounds pr0nny, but it's not). A warning about baggage, if you will, but told in a way you might not have imagined. The other...will also be a quite interesting concept. I'm going to mess with Vincent's character some more, but I think it'll be truer.

Had an idea about their daughter, depending on whether or not I feel like touching on that sort of dynamic.

A few lemons, to be posted on the Adult Fanfiction site.

Many, many giftfics I owe.

I'm going to keep a lot of this to myself until it develops into something more profound, because that's what it's going to take to keep me satisfied with my writing now. No more pointless stories. Unless they involve chainsaws. Because darkfic is fun.

Either way, I have enough ideas to thumb through and develop, so there won't be any shortage. I don't know if you guys can really handle more VinTif, what with the over-abundance of it all lately, but if it turns out to be something good, then that's worth it, in my opinion.

Gonna go jot, mess with my site, write and organize now.

'Tis the way the ball bounces.

♥ Darknightdestiny

Kiss Me, Scenario Two (2007)

Wed, 14 Feb 2007 18:35:38 GMT

Title: Kiss Me (Scenario Two, 2007)
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Characters: Vincent x Tifa
Rated: PG-13

Summary: Valentine's Day scenarios for Jess Angel. It started off as a one-shot in 2004, but this year I thought I'd pick it back up again. Originally, I was just going to rewrite the first one, but then a scene popped into my head that I really liked, and I decided to just make it a tradition. Personally, I think this one reflects a more mature style of writing, but a lot can happen in three years. Happy Valentine's Day, all. [ff.net link]

Kiss Me: Scenario Two

For Jess Angel

"I hate this holiday."

Vincent smiled discreetly in the direction of his sighing friend. Tifa was just putting up the last of the chairs, working with an almost comical fervor in an effort to get the hell out of the bar and into her warm apartment, away from the waning excitement of the day, foisted on herself and every other establishment in town by the marked occassion. She needed no invitation to continue, but for the sake of sharing in the conversation (or rant, as it were) and appearing the ever-attentive listener, he indulged her with an honest-enough, "Why is that?"

"Because," she retorted with unexpected force, "it's all a lie."

He raised an eyebrow at that, humored to be a part of this little insight into Tifa's social observations. "And how, might I ask, is it a lie?"

Tifa turned the last chair upside-down and set it onto the nearby table with a shortened 'clunk'. "Gods, Vincent, where have you been?" she asked, leaning against the counter and crossing her arms.

She was rewarded with another small smile, which she returned upon seeing. "...You know."

"Yes, I do. You tell me, Vincent," she continued, her arms parting to rest atop the bar-top behind her, "were the men and women of your day so frivolous?"

Was she mocking him? It was his turn to cross his arms. "Some people enjoy frivolities."

"That's not what I asked," she countered. "Do you have any idea how many people go out and grab a date just because they feel like they have to? It's like a crime to be alone."

"Misery loves company."

"Right. Well, what about the people who already have someone? Isn't it silly that they celebrate it one day out of the entire year? I mean, why shouldn't they be like this all the time?"

"I imagine they would get sick of each other."

She sighed again. "My point is, no one has to mean anything they say or do today. It's all assumed. One big excuse. I bet none of the people who are in relationships are fazed by this day at all, and I bet none of the people who aren't feel satisfied, either. They're all liars."

"Liars with dates," he couldn't help but point out.

She crossed her arms again, and pushed away from the counter, making her way over to where he sat perched on the corner of one of the booth tables. "Then what are you doing here with me?"

He grinned, very satisfied with himself. "I hate this holiday."

"Then why are you arguing with me?"

"You make it very easy."

"Hmm." She narrowed her eyes at him.

"Hmm." He narrowed his back.

Tifa smiled shyly at him. "So is that it? Misery loves company?"

"Ah-ah," he clipped, silencing her with a raised hand. "While that is true with most, you do know, as we've already discussed, that I prefer to be alone when miserable."

She eyed him with yet more skepticism. "Then you like hanging out late at the bar, helping me close up?"

He grinned. "I must admit, the time spent after is much more enjoyable."

Her fist connected playfully with his shoulder. "Come on, we're going to be late."

"But we are already late," he protested, following her toward the door.

"All the more reason to hurry."

♥
The port city of Junon was unique in that, the further down the coast one walked, the later the bars were open. Certain districts had different liquor laws entirely. While Seventh Heaven closed at a standard hour of two in the morning, The Goblin (her competition in Midgar, she noted with some irony) was open until four. After cleanup and the time it took to make it over there, that afforded Tifa and Vincent enough time to join in a drink with the others.

The Goblin was a stand-offish, square building that shared a rather large parking lot with a nearby bowling alley. There was nothing impressive about its appearance - plain, tan paint job and a placard stating the required age for ladies was eighteen, twenty-one for gentlemen - but inside it was much larger and nicer than it seemed at first glance.

The heavy, double doors opened into a narrow, carpeted hallway, an open billiards room to the left with a miniature bar and a curtained lounge to the right with a vintage cigarette vender in the corner. The main room ahead was dimly lighted, and consisted of a large, circular bartop to the left, another long bar which stretched along the wall to her right, perpendicular to the entrance, and more leather couches on the far side of the room. There was a vacant, wooden dance floor of a decent size in the middle of the room, and a stage across from the main bar with a box for a deejay, but there was no need for one at this time of night. There were a few sparsely-populated tables in the bar, and several unattended touch-screen games.

In fact, Tifa thought, looking around, there didn't seem to be many people there at all. She wondered if it was usually busier than it was currently; surely a place like that wouldn't keep in business without a large amount of regulars.

"How the hell am I supposed to compete with this?" she breathed, half-humored and half-threatened.

Vincent smiled to himself, but made no sound to indicate that he had heard. Instead, he walked in the direction of the couches on the far side of the room, and her eyes followed as he brushed past her to find Cid and Shera waving from their spot amongst the cushions. She recognized them instantly (Vincent would hardly saunter on over to another crazy couple waving animatedly at him in a near-empty bar) and made her way over to join them.

"Vince!" Cid greeted, as Tifa accepted Shera's warm embrace. "How ya been, old man?"

Vincent winced, post the clap he received on his back. "Didn't we do this the last time we saw each other?"

"Yeah, but I figure we don't see each other too often, so I have to take what I can get, when I can get it."

The young-old man's eyes flared with a disbeliving sort of amusement and then quickly settled into a smile as he seated himself. "For every wrinkle you find on my face, I will buy you a drink."

Cid frowned as the two ladies laughed and Vincent brough his hands back to rest behind his head, a certain smugness creeping over his face. "Forget it. S'not fun anymore." And then he flopped back down and turned his nose up in feigned disdain, just to reward the bastard.

"We Valentines age with dignity."

"Shut up."

Shera placed a sympathetic hand on her husband's shoulder and turned to Tifa as they both sat down. "Cloud and Grace went down the street a little while ago to grab something to eat. They should be back soon."

Tifa's eyebrows shot up. "How are they doing, anyway?"

"You'd have to ask them," Shera said smiling, "but they look really happy to me. Tifa, you should see her. She is beautiful."

Vincent raised an eyebrow at Cid, who shrugged in response. Both men watched Tifa for any signs of discomfort, but they weren't always so obvious anymore. Either that, or they were fading. Vincent hoped for the latter. Tifa had never been desperate, never threw herself in his direction and was strangely comfortable leaving him to his own devices, but to those who'd known how much she'd invested in him during the Jenova War, there was still the notion that she had gotten a rather raw deal. There had been a small amount of tension between the two when Vincent and Tifa had gotten re-acquainted, but it had gone when they'd drifted apart.

This didn't stop Vincent from feeling apprehensive about the situation, or from thinking that awkwardness might return.
Neither Vincent nor Tifa had met Cloud's new girlfriend, but they had heard about her. A winning smile, a healthy glow, a pleasant laugh. They would have such good-looking children, people said.

It was on that note that the couple made their entrance, smiling and laughing. Shera stood instantly to greet them with welcoming arms.

Grace was a grinning, perfectly tanned, whisp of a blonde thing, with an eerily groomed appearance and a disposition that made one think she was selling something. She was hanging on Cloud's arm and talking animatedly, comfortable with Shera's easy embrace and instantly caught up in her rhythm.

Vincent winced as Tifa rolled her eyes and motioned to the nearest waiter.

♥

Vincent tilted his head as he leaned casually against the counter, folding his arms as he took in her frown. "Do you miss him?"

Tifa glanced over at him, blinking like she had only just caught the words. "...Oh," she said, her face softening as she lost herself in thought. "No, I don't miss him. That's not it. That's not it at all..." she trailed away, then opened and shut her mouth as if she'd wanted to say something more, then thought better of it. Vincent did not remove his gaze, and after a long pause, he was rewarded with the remnants of her wanderings. "...Did you think she was pretty?"

Silly woman, he thought, comparing herself to that girl. He pushed off of the counter, casually brushing past her to rummage around in a cabinet. "She wasn't hideous," he admitted, biting away the smile which threatened to break through, "and a lot of men would be attracted to that type. However," he added, stopping by her ear and leaning down conspiratorially as he retreated with a rocks glass, "I believe you have her beat."

"...Really," she dead-panned, eyeing his back with more than skepticism.

"Hands down, no contest," he called lightly, as he made his way into her living room.

She followed him out onto the couch, where she plopped down next to him and continued her accusatory glare. "You're a liar."

He frowned back at her, a bit disturbed at her ready refusal of the compliment. "Why would I lie to you?"

"Because you want to spare my feelings."

"I do not lie," he said, twisting the cap from the bottle of scotch and pouring himself a drink.

"No?" she asked. "You were a Turk. Come to think of it, you should be pretty good at it. Why wouldn't you?"

Vincent narrowed his eyes at her, unnerved at the fact that her reference to his past had gotten to him, and irritated that she wouldn't just give it up. "When one is a Turk, one never has to lie," he answered quite darkly, hoping the implications would sink into her suddenly thick skull.

Tifa only crossed her arms and looked away. "Yeah? Did you hear the way Shera talked about her? I've never heard of anyone talking about me like that when I wasn't around."

Upon hearing this, Vincent began to chuckle. Tifa's head whipped around to glare at him.

"What's so funny?"

The corners of his eyes crinkled as he relaxed into the sofa. "Do you listen to yourself? Honestly, if you were hearing these things in your own absence, I should be worried."

"...Huh?"

"That is the point," he smiled, taking a sip and setting the glass down with an audible clunk. "If you are not around to hear it, then how would you know?"

She scoffed. "I doubt it."

"Why do you do it?" he asked.

"Do what?"

"Compare yourself. You said it wasn't about Cloud, so why do you feel the need to compare yourself to his girlfriend?"

Tifa dropped her chin into her hand. "I don't know," she sighed. "It's not just her, I guess."

After a moment of silence passed, Vincent decided to nudge her a bit. "Care to elaborate?" She'd always thought that talking was good for him, so he felt justified.

"Well, did you see the way she got on with Shera? Like they'd always been so comfortable. I'm not like that. It took me forever to build that with her."

"...So you are jealous over Shera, then?"

"No," she sighed. "I know I said I hate this day, but... oh, I don't know. I felt so...plain. Invisible." Tifa gestured with her hand, helplessly. "I just...it would be nice, you know? To have someone say those things about me. I don't need the gifts, or the public displays. I just need to feel like someone out there..."

Vincent waited patiently for her to finish, but she only looked apologetic and waved her hand dismissively.

"But I'm okay," she said, fumbling with the movie case on her coffee table. "I'd probably never find a guy I could stand to be around, outside of Avalanche."

"If you're talking about your regulars," he joked, flexing his claw, "they would never get close. But what is preventing you from seeking out other companions? You don't have to spend all your free time with me."

Tifa laughed as she inserted the feature into the machine. "And settle for some average schmoe who's never saved the world? Please."

Vincent grinned wholeheartedly. "You have very high expectations."

"See? My dating pool is very limited," she said with feigned weariness, collapsing next to him. "No, I'm perfectly content to laze around with you. Why go and mess that up? Not worth it if you ask me."

"Hmm," he mused quietly to himself as she curled up beside his warm body.

"Just...don't mind it if I get a little funny every now and then."

"I suppose you're right," Vincent admitted, sinking back into the cushions as Tifa relaxed against him. "If you are perfectly happy where you are, then there is no sense in doing anything to change that."

Tifa twisted her head around to look up at him, wondering at the strange undertone of his voice, suggestive if she had heard correctly. He must have felt her shift against his side, she was sure of it, but Vincent was staring straight ahead at the television. In fact, he seemed to be looking through it; there was an unusual amount of concentration there, almost like he was trying to keep glued to the screen, but not really paying much attention to the images that were passing over it. She waited for a moment more - he must have felt her eyes on him - before settling back down.
What exactly was she trying to tell him? Was he reading too much into it? Did she know that he'd been thinking all those things she wished someone would outright say for far too long?

In the months following their reunion, Tifa had grown familiar to his presence rather quickly. She was never too shy to lean into his shoulder, or grab his hand and tug him around. Always the aggressor, and he simply did not intimidate her anymore. So when she said, 'Why go and mess that up?' she couldn't really be telling him to back off, could she?

Was she trying to tell him that she wasn't going anywhere, then? Was she looking for a reaction? A dating pool limited to saviors of the Planet, and considering the status of the other members, he was her prime candidate. But no sense in analyzing that; it was a joke. She'd only been kidding, nervous, trying to cheer herself up.

Tifa was lonely, despite his company. Though there was nothing stopping her from going out and meeting anyone else. Maybe she was testing the waters, dropping hints. Maybe she was unsure if he was even an option...

To jump into something as a mere crutch would be wrong, but Tifa never had to settle. She could easily have any decent man, and she was smart enough to tell the difference. But if leading the terribly abundant life she had only dulled her to the idea of normalcy, if they were worlds apart from everyone else and pleasant company but nothing more, then it would be a grievous mistake.

But perhaps there were ways to figure out exactly what she'd been getting at.

Curious digits, human by way of ownership but not in form, slid from the back of the sofa to drape casually over her hip. They were comfortable enough by now to not make a show of noticing those kinds of gestures, but Tifa was aware enough of things outside that busy box of flashing imagery across the room to adjust her body to the fit of his metal arm against her side. Nothing telling, perhaps, but he had her attention.

He was tempted to simply bring his other arm around, hands meeting together in a loose and relaxed hold that was open enough to interpretation that it couldn't possibly be held against him. It would give his uncertain fingers enough distraction, but because subtle and nonchalant was the only way to go about it, he realized it would only be a waste of effort. So he instead opted to force his human hand into an awkward and inconvenient position behind her neck, laying hold on her skin and easing into practiced, circular motions, starting at the nape of her neck.

The unprecedented action caused Tifa's heart to skip a beat, and a pattering, tangible heat ghosted its way up her back, something of which Vincent would no doubt take notice in no time at all. She'd stiffened instantly under his touch, but despite the initial shock, her eyes soon fluttered shut, grateful for the distraction, a respite from her hurried thoughts. It wasn't long before her entire body had gone lax, her flesh like pliant dough under firm, unhurried fingers as they shifted in unison to a more natural position on the couch.

He'd almost not noticed, the way he'd gravitated toward her, and he'd been honestly surprised when he found his chin hovering over her shoulder. Guided by her warmth and her scent, and his mouth was near to her ear. Unable to stop himself, even if he'd wanted to, he smiled and asked in a voice so low and smooth and utterly confident that he almost didn't believe it was his own, "Is that better?"

"Mm-hm." She tilted her head to the other side, lolling limply under his spell. Still not enough, he decided, conflicting courses of thought fighting for dominance behind his eyes. It was easy to get a reaction of that sort, considering what he was doing. So he moved from her neck, down the gentle slope of muscle to her shoulder. Kneading skin and muscle, down the side of her arm and back again.

Vincent became engrossed in his work, lazy in planning and thinking he had done enough for one night. Only he kept at it, pleased with the effect he was having all the same, and unwilling to relinquish his position as of yet. Tifa felt rather than saw his close proximity, barely inches away. Until she opened her eyes.

It was the barest hint of a reflection, in the glassy angle of an open window to her entertainment hutch, but clear enough to impart a stunning revelation. Caught by the way he looked when his lone hand moved over her skin, by the lengthy pause between the moment he closed his eyes and the moment they blinked open again. Soothing himself as much as he was her, it seemed, so much that he was unaware that he was being watched, stared at even, indirectly. Startled into amazement at how close his mouth was to her skin, and unsure if he even realized it himself.

She averted her eyes, lest she be caught observing. And breathed deeply. Something to calm her nerves, and the dizzy waves that were overtaking her, but she'd straightened with the movement, and made contact. His mouth brushed against her shoulder, and his eyes shot open.

It wasn't in the way she'd let him tug on her in return without question, or even in the tone of her voice as she'd sighed under his hand. Everything he needed was to be found in the way she went rigid then, proof that he'd gotten some sort of rise out of her. But the meaning behind her reaction was in the way she turned her head to the side, eyes lost somewhere and unreadable, like she was half-way ready to confront him but not sure of what to say. She hadn't met him with an easy grin and an even easier, dismissive laugh like she might have once upon a time.

When she had shifted around to fully face him, an apology was swift on his tongue, only he couldn't seem to make his mouth work. But the look in her eyes told him he'd been forgiven long before he'd thought to make excuses. There was some kind of wonder there, appreciation, because she'd discovered something new, and gods, but they were so close...

"I'm..."

But she only shook her head and began to smile. And when her eyelids dipped low and her nose brushed against his, his neck seemed to move of its own accord. Soft touches at first, breaking now and then as lips stretched back over grinning teeth, then sobering and warm, breathy and indulgent. Fingertips gracing cheeks and framing shoulders, exploring masterful features and combing through curtains of hair. Hushed voices, humming and sighing in praise and encouragement.

"You are beautiful," he finally murmured, forehead pressed to hers. "I should have told you sooner." A finger delicately traced the upward tilt of her chin.

Her arms were draped lighty over his shoulders, her hands playing with the warm hair at the nape of his neck. "...It means a lot, coming from you."

He was glad to hear that. "I was thinking it, if it makes any difference." You were never invisible to me.

"It does," she said, placing a chaste but sound kiss on his mouth. "All the difference in the world. You know," she mused, "I don't believe I've ever had a valentine."

Vincent raised an eyebrow, a lopsided grin already forming on his lips.

"Don't," she warned.

"I didn't say anything," he said matter-of-factly.

"But you were going to."

He shook his head. "Technically, Valentine's Day was over before we even set out from the bar."

"Spoilsport," she accused, leaning playfully into him.

"Very well then," he ammended, along for the ride. "Tifa, you've never had a valentine, until you've had a Valen--"

"That's it, I'm cutting you off."

He chuckled softly. "I don't believe you."

She sighed, smiling as her arms tightened around him. "You're right," she said, voice lowering. "...Vincent, I'm sorry I called you a liar earlier."

He pulled her against him, resting his chin atop her head. "It's okay."

"...Can we stay like this for a little while?"

Vincent smiled into her hair. "For as long as you wish."

End Second Kiss

The Chimera Obscurant

Sat, 13 Jan 2007 08:03:20 GMT

Title: The Chimera Obscurant
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Writer: darknitedestiny (darknightdestiny)
Artist: kimouski (motchi)
Character: Turk! Vincent Valentine
Rating: PG
Prompt: Dark Themes, #11 - The Chimera Obscurant
Summary: "You're not really sorry, just sorry you were caught."

- X-posted to 20_inkspots and darknitedestiny and kimouski

The Chimera Obscurant

When I was a child, and my mother would punish us, she would often say, "You're not really sorry, you're just sorry you got caught." We would look at her, dumbfounded, and while I knew she was trying to impart some brand of moral wisdom in that simple turn of phrase, the exact implications of which weren't so obvious to my childlike mind. And then she would go on with the deed, and I would think, sure, whatever made her feel better.

When I got a bit smarter, I would reply with, "How can I be sorry, when the straightaway thing you've done is punish me?" And I mean really. There is hardly enough time to sit and wonder on why something was wrong, or how it could have been avoided, when there is a fire-breathing she-dragon hot on one's heels. And I find it is hard to feel remorse for something I've already gone and paid for.

You see, much of the time I learned a thing was wrong simply because I was punished for it. And you would think there would be no repeat offense after something like that, but after a time, a child begins to weigh the consequences of his actions (though when he is an adult, he will seldom do the same - hormone poisoning, perhaps), and determines whether or not the offense is worth the punishment. And many a time, it was.

I was earning my sins back then, so to speak. Or my right to them, whichever you prefer.

Things are quite different now. Life is more than sneaking out of bedroom windows, or swiping Dad's whiskey, or vandalizing the neighborhood, though I still find myself doing these things from time to time. No, life is much, much different now. I kill people. I maim, I destroy. I cut off fingers and toes, and strike with hot iron. Sometimes it is because I want information. Sometimes the information doesn't matter. And sometimes it is just for fun.

But I'm not sorry. I've earned it, with my time, my blood, my efforts. I've been shot, struck down, and held against my will. I've stood inches from fellows blown away with one clean shot. Then again, I've never made it a point to form attachments to any of them, and I am getting paid. Yes, really paid. Money and everything.

So it is that I benefit from a man's death certificate. Yes, benefit. Is that what I did wrong, then? Had I suffered more for it, or not taken the money, would it have been all right, then? I wonder. I wonder if, in the grand scheme of things, it is all about balance in the end.

I wonder.

I do remember one time, a conversation my mother had been having with a friend. I'd overheard, whilst creeping through the hallway. God made some people just to be evil, he said, as I slipped out the window. It was all part of the master plan; there was no escaping it. An evil man's downfall is a glorious triumph, and proof to an unbelieving people. Such things were necessary.

Well, I concluded, as I landed with a thud in the garden, whoever God was, He certainly had an impeccable sense of timing.

Is that why bad men live like kings on Gaia? They just have a good sense of timing? And I, am I here because I have a bad sense of timing? It seems to be that way, I think. It was always getting me into trouble as a child, and with all these years I've gone on as invisible, it was bound to creep up and knock me over the head at some point. Or, shoot me in the gut, whichever. I should have been more careful.

Am I one of those other men? One of the bad ones? Was I hand-picked, specifically chosen to act as a messenger, to live with the filth, to be filthy, to commit the horrible acts I've committed?

Well, that seems damn arrogant to me. And unfair. I'd rather not think I'm that special, when it would be better that I had enough free will to resist that sort of fate. After all, my questioning the matter in some way proves that I am not in the dark about it, does it not?

Then again, this is all hindsight. I am tied down.

And why, dear doctor? What can I say that will satisfy you now? If I say that I am sorry, does it even count? I mean, really. I'm dying. And for what? To teach someone else a lesson? To teach me a lesson? I hardly think that will matter, once I am gone.

Is that what you want? Do you want an apology? Well, you're not going to get it, because I'm not sorry. Why should I be?

What are you hoping to accomplish? If you keep this up, you must know that I'm going to scream something terrible that I don't really even mean. Many nights I've laid awake, listening to the ragged howls from your bestiary. I know of what you are capable. But truly, honestly, and sincerely? I'm not apologizing to you.

Perhaps you are thinking that you can change my mind. Perhaps you believe, foolishly, that if all that I have done here is come to an abrupt end and I find myself the lesser for the exchange, then that will make me sorry. Perhaps you believe, foolishly, that if my remittance is greater than my sin, then it will force an apology from my lips.

Perhaps.

But would that kind of an apology count for anything? I don't really think so. And I'm not going to be afforded the time to care, am I? To wait, and think, and try to make myself feel something that I don't?

Maybe I am meant to be evil. Not evil like you, but evil in my own way. Maybe. But if that's the case, then again, I have nothing to be sorry about now, do I?

Just following orders.

End

Blood Bond

Thu, 11 Jan 2007 04:29:30 GMT

So I put the Blood Bond prototype up for people to see. Original fiction is much harder when it comes to continuity.

...If you're interested, go have a looksee. It's short, won't take up much of your time. Oh and concrit is love.

Blood Bond, on Fictionpress

WIP 2007

Thu, 04 Jan 2007 03:07:22 GMT

Last edited: May 27th, 2007

So here are my roll-over projects from 2006 and my new ones for 2007, to be done in these groupings:

[1] ~~Bleu's giftfic~~
[2] Kim's giftfic -- 1/2 there!

[3] Fix To Know You
[4] ~~Revamp Kiss Me~~
[5] ~~Chapter 12 of Agapé~~
[6] ~~Chapter 2 of Kiss Me (by Feb. 14, 2007)~~

[7] ~~Aesthetics~~ Come Wander Back to Me (setup piece and gift for Nines)
[8] ~~Cendri's giftfic~~
[9] ~~Seventhe's giftfic~~

[10] Chapters 16+ of Agapé
[11] LuccaXMagus drabbles

[12] His Father's Eyes
[13] Experimenting
[14] Vineld -- 2 done! (2 4 more in progress)
[15] not-quite!CidVin, Nostalgia
[16] Rewrite 'Till Twilight Falls

[17] ~~Fermenting~~ Heart Attack
[18] As They Do

[19] Lew's ~~prompt?~~ giftfic
[20] Sabe's ~~prompt?~~ giftfic
[21] Take it or Reeve It

[22] Flirting With Death?
[23] Ehrgeiz fic?
[24] Earthbound parody?

[25] TifaXHellmasker drabbles
[26] TifaXHellmasker linear multi-chaptered

[27] JackofSpade's VinTifa lemon challenge
[28] Final Fantasy Anonymous Kink challenges/requests (3)

[29] Yuri Challenge -- TifaxYuffie (due by June 30!)
[30] 20 Inkspots -- Turk!Vincent

[31] Veld/Tifa -- The Dirtiest Clean

[32] Dear Self: Fix that damned Vincent's Last Birthday Escapade!! or it will haunt you forever...

[33] (ORIGINAL) Poetry/short story collection
[34] (ORIGINAL) Blood Bond
[35] (ORIGINAL) The Seminole House

[36] Extreme Ways -- FFVII prequel featuring the Jenova Project and the SOLDIER experiment (starring Vince, Veld, Hojo, Lu, Iffy, etc.), beginning with Grim and ending with the beginning of FFVII.

You can see why I have what I've now deemed Writer's ADHD. I don't know where the hell to begin. You thought I was exaggerating when I said I had well over ten projects, didn't you? Haha, NO.

[sigh]

These are not necessarily in any order of importance, except for the ones with due dates, obviously. I honestly didn't know I had this many. But now that I have a list, hopefully I'll take care of everything. Best to bang these out one by one. And soon. I'm moving in March. Big change.

~Darknightdestiny~

Agapé, chapter 11

Fri, 22 Dec 2006 22:06:56 GMT

Agapé, chapter eleven is finally up.

It was hard for me to concentrate on this for an entire month. I could never seem to get the transitions between scenes right. I could never seem to get the dialogue to seem sincere enough. But finally, it's posted.

At first I didn't want to look at it, and promised myself I would wait an entire day to check my inbox for responses. That didn't last. But some people told me it was the best chapter yet in the story. That made me feel pretty good.

But I've gotten a significantly lower response to this one. I'm not quite sure what caused this. Maybe my month's absence. Maybe the subject matter. Or maybe people are just sick of the VinTifa. Well I am too, to be honest. Just a little. But it's not like I can shut my brain off. I have to write what's there, or it will explode. And I can't concentrate on anything else until I clean house.

Plus I want everything I write to be the best it can be.

The responses all stopped rather abruptly after a day and a half. It's gotten about half as much attention as the rest of them. Perhaps it's the season. Perhaps I should wait a bit longer. But it didn't stave off the strange sense of disappointment I got from an empty inbox. And I keep reminding myself that I'm writing for ME. But I have to wonder still, after all the work I put into it, what went wrong.

On the upside, I've been able to concentrate better on the giftfics. I hope people will read them. Getting close and all that.

~Darknightdestiny~

Drabble-Matic

Wed, 29 Nov 2006 07:17:25 GMT

Drabble-Matic is addictive. And hilarious.

I was thinking of re-opening The VincentxTifa Parody Fic to new chapters, and this little meme got me thinking. One of the chapters was going to take a stab at the overuse of certain words in that OTP. So I plugged them in here, along with some funnier ones. And I think...I have a little inspiration now.

Thank you, turk_elena.

Vincent and Tifa
by William Shakespeare

Enter Vincent

Tifa appears above at a window

Vincent:
But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the claw, and Tifa is the chocobo.
Arise, pale chocobo, and clothesline the shiny nailbat.
See, how she leans her hair upon her nose!
O, that I were a glove upon that nose,
That I might touch that hair!

Tifa:
O Vincent, Vincent! wherefore art thou Vincent?
What's in a name? That which we call a foot
By any other name would smell as soft
Dost thou love me? I know thou wilt say "like a void that sucks the life from its victims"
And I will take thy word; yet if thou swear'st,
Thou mayst prove metallic.

Vincent:
Lady, by yonder shiny nailbat I swear
That tips in a swamp the crimson mop--

Tifa:
O, swear not by the nailbat, the black nailbat,
That seductively changes in its ivory orb,
Lest that thy love prove likewise ivory.
Sweet, velvety night! A thousand times velvety night!
Parting is such wide sorrow,
That I shall say velvety night till it be morrow.

Exit above

Vincent:
Sleep dwell upon thy hair, peace in thy nose!
Would I were sleep and peace, so darkly to rest!
morosely will I to my pale foot's cell,
Its help to clothesline, and my soft foot to tell.

Velvety Lang Syne

Vincent sipped seductively at his drink and stood velvety behind a mop. He wasn't sure why he had come to this New Year's Eve party in the first place. He was no good at parties anyhow. They always made him feel metallic and he ended up like he was now, hiding and hoping nobody noticed how pale his nose got when he was nervous.

Well, truth be told, Vincent knew very well why he was at the party: to see Tifa.

Ah, Tifa. Just the thought of her, the chance of a glimpse of her ivory hair made Vincent's heart beat like a void that sucks the life from its victims.

But tonight everyone was masked. Vincent peered darkly through the crowd, trying to guess which guest was Tifa. There, he thought, the woman over by the claw, the shiny one with the chocobo mask. It had to be Tifa. No one else could look so soft, even in a chocobo mask.

She began to walk Vincent's way and Vincent started to panic. What if she actually talked to Vincent?

Tifa came right up to Vincent and Vincent thought that he was going to faint.

"Hello," Tifa said quietly. "What are you doing over here all alone?"

"Oh, just looking at the nailbat," Vincent said and immediately wanted to die because that sounded so crimson.

Just then, a black voice began to count down. "Ten ... nine ... eight ... seven ..."

Vincent's heart leapt. If they were together at midnight, that meant that Tifa might ...

"Happy New Year!"

Tifa swept Vincent into her arms, bent him in a swamp, and kissed Vincent morosely, slipping him the tongue and groping his foot.

Vincent could hardly believe it. How wonderful! And now that it was after midnight, it was time to take their masks off. He reached out throatily and pulled Tifa's mask off her face. It was Tifa! "I knew it was you," Vincent said and took his own mask off.

"And it's ... you," Tifa said. "You know, I'm just going to go get some punch."

Vincent watched her go. She would be right back, Vincent was sure. Just as soon as she had her punch.

And then they would fall in love.

1000 Claw Chocobos

Vincent paced darkly back and forth. Soft dread filled his heart. Tifa should have been home at least an hour ago and it wasn't like her to be late. Oh, my shiny love, Vincent thought. Where could you be?

Just then, the phone rang. It was the police. Tifa had been taken hostage by Wide Foot, a supervillain who had the city in a state of crimson terror. Vincent fainted dead away, like a void that sucks the life from its victims.

When he came to, there was a bump on his hair and the soft dread had returned. "Tifa, my pale honey bunny," he cried out morosely. "What is Wide Foot doing to you?" Probably torturing her, laughing quietly as he clotheslined her in the nose.

In the midst of all the terror and tears, Vincent remembered a story his grandmother had told him. If you fold 1000 claw chocobos, then whatever you wish for will come true.

Vincent ordered in a supply of claw and set to work, folding chocobos until his hair was sore and he could hardly see. It took a week. He was just finishing up the very last chocobo when Tifa walked in the front door.

"Tifa!" Vincent screamed and threw himself into Tifa's arms. "It worked! I folded 1000 claw chocobos and it brought you back to me." He was so happy, he felt like he was dancing in a swamp. He kissed Tifa throatily on the nose.

"Actually," Tifa said, pulling away seductively, "I was rescued by the Ivory Nailbat. He's a new superhero in town." Tifa sighed. "And he's really black."

The soft dread came back. "But you're velvety to be back here with me, right?"

Tifa checked her watch. "Sure. But I've got to go meet the Ivory Nailbat for coffee now to, you know, say thanks for saving my life. Stay metallic, baby." She left and the door banged behind her.

Vincent choked back a sob and started folding another chocobo. Then he went out and got drunk instead.

The Battle For The Mop

In a swamp, Vincent clotheslined his mop. He had been busy with the mop for hours and now wanted nothing more than a soft cuddle or an ivory massage from his lover Tifa.

He said this last thought out loud, and all of a sudden his shiny Tifa appeared at the door, grinning darkly.

"Put down the mop," Tifa said quietly. "Unless you want me to clothesline that mop on your foot."

Vincent put down the mop. He was black. He had never seen Tifa so wide before and it made him velvety.

Tifa picked up the mop, then withdrew a nailbat from her hair. "Don't be so black," Tifa said with a wide grimace. "A chocobo bit my nose this morning, and everything became pale. Now with this mop and this nailbat I can quietly rule the world!"

Vincent clutched his crimson nose morosely. This was his lover, his shiny Tifa, now staring at him with a wide hair.

"Fight it!" Vincent shouted. "The chocobo just wants the mop for his own shiny devices! He doesn't love you, not the soft way I do!"

Vincent could see Tifa trembling morosely. Vincent reached out his foot and touched Tifa's hair quietly. He was shiny, so shiny, but he knew only his crimson love for Tifa would break the chocobo's spell.

Sure enough, Tifa dropped the mop with a thunk. "Oh, Vincent," she squealed. "I'm so soft, can you ever forgive me?"

But Vincent had already moved in a swamp. Like a void that sucks the life from its victims, he pressed his foot into Tifa's hair. And as they fell together in a pale fit of love, the mop lay on the floor, velvety and forgotten.

Seductively Tripping

Vincent tripped along throatily. He was on his way to meet his lover, Tifa, for Valentine's Day. He smiled to see a chocobo hopping along, carrying a mop in its mouth.

Vincent was almost in a swamp when he came across a wide cake, lying alone on a shiny plate. "That must be a treat from my velvety bear," he said to himself, and tripped over to it. The cake looked ivory, so he ate it.

It gave him the most metallic tingling sensation in his foot. "How unusual!" he said and continued tripping to see Tifa.

When Tifa came out to meet him, she took one look and fell over.

"What is it?" Vincent cried darkly.

"Your hair! And your nose!" Tifa said. "They're crimson! Can't you feel it?"

Vincent felt his hair and his nose. They were indeed quite crimson. "Oh, no!" Vincent said. "I'm a woman!" He, or rather, she started to cry. "It must have been that wide cake you left for me. Did you know what it would do?"

"I didn't leave you any cake," Tifa said. "I got you a claw. It must have been that pale man who lives nearby. He acts a little morosely, ever since he clotheslined a nailbat."

"But how can you ever love me, now that I'm a woman?" Vincent sobbed.

"Well, I never knew how to tell you this," Tifa said quietly, "but I actually prefer women. And I think your hair is really soft like that."

"Really?" Vincent dried her tears. Vincent kissed Tifa and it was an entirely black sensation, like a void that sucks the life from its victims.

They spent the night having entirely black sex, until the cake wore off suddenly.

Everything was rather awkward after that.

A Velvety Occurrence

Vincent paced up and down, jiggling his foot. His very good friend, Mary Sue Mop, had arranged to meet him here in a swamp. "I have something black to tell you," she had said.

Mary Sue Mop was late, which was very unlike her. Any moment now, Vincent expected to see her bounce up, her shiny hair streaming behind her and her pale eyes aglow.

Vincent heard footsteps, but they seemed rather wide for a delicate and metallic girl like Mary Sue Mop, whose tread was soft. He turned around and found Tifa staring at him.

"What are you doing here?" Tifa said morosely. "I thought you said you didn't want to see me again."

Vincent had said that, but now he was beginning to wish he hadn't acted so throatily. "Mary Sue Mop asked to meet me here." As he gazed at Tifa, his nose began to throb quietly.

"Oh," Tifa said, seductively. "I'll just go then."

"Wait," Vincent said and caught Tifa by her hair. "I was wrong. I still love you. Can you ever forgive me?"

"Yes," Tifa said, smiling. They wrapped their arms around each other and kissed, like a void that sucks the life from its victims.

From behind a nailbat, Mary Sue Mop watched with an ivory light in her crimson eyes. She took a list out of her pocket, and checked off "Vincent/Tifa". Then, she skipped off to help an embittered man find love again, just as soon as she'd saved the chocobo from extinction.

The Metallic Stranger

The sun was high and the trees stirred lightly in the breeze. Vincent strode along the path, making for Velvety Castle with all speed. Hidden from the eyes of man and beast, he carried the Ivory Nailbat, which no other must touch until it could be delivered into the safekeeping of the Wizard Foot.

A rustling of the dried leaves beside the path gave him warning and he drew his pale mop just in time to face the wide woman who flew at him with such grace that he was almost dazzled.

The woman struck quietly, and Vincent barely raised his mop to meet the attack. They fought long and darkly until all the air rang with the sound of their conflict.

At last, Vincent found himself forced to one knee, the woman's mop pressed to his shiny hair. "I am Tifa of Velvety Castle," she said. "You are an unworthy guardian for the Ivory Nailbat. Prepare yourself, for I am about to send you in a swamp."

But Vincent had been waiting for such a chance and, bringing up his mop with a twist, overpowered Tifa and pinned her to the ground. "What say you now?" Vincent said, looking down upon her.

Tifa's nose shimmered like a void that sucks the life from its victims. "I have underestimated you, Vincent. I was sent to test your fitness for this task. To you I pledge my loyalty...and more."

Vincent's desire was enflamed. His hair throbbed and all his thoughts were to clothesline Tifa like a chocobo. Vincent caressed Tifa's black nose and she responded. They came together seductively, and their joining was as crimson as their battle, and also much louder.

"Ah, my sweet claw!" Vincent groaned and clotheslined Tifa as morosely as he could.

"Ouch!" she yelled. "What the hell is that?"

"Oh," Vincent said. "That's where I put the Ivory Nailbat for safekeeping. Sorry."

When they had finished their romp, they drowsed throatily on the grass, forgetful of all but their soft love. "We will stay together forever," Tifa said, and they began all over again.

And so it was that the Wizard Foot never got the Ivory Nailbat and the forces of evil overwhelmed the land and nobody was happy ever again, at least until the sequel came out.

The Adventure Of The Chocobo

Vincent and Tifa were out for a velvety Valentine's walk in a swamp. As they went, Tifa rested her hand on Vincent's foot. It was the most romantic walk ever. But even though the day was so ivory, Vincent was filled with pale dread.

"Do you suppose it's black here?" he asked quietly.

"You soft silly," Tifa said, tickling Vincent with her nailbat. "It's completely wide."

Just then, a metallic chocobo leapt out from behind a claw and clotheslined Tifa in the hair. "Aaargh!" Tifa screamed.

Things looked shiny. But Vincent, although he was crimson, knew he had to save his love. He grabbed a mop and, like a void that sucks the life from its victims, beat the chocobo darkly until it ran off. "That will teach you to clothesline innocent people."

Then he clasped Tifa close. Tifa was bleeding morosely. "My darling," Vincent said, and pressed his lips to Tifa's nose.

"I love you," Tifa said throatily, and expired in Vincent's arms.

Vincent never loved again.

A Nailbat In Time

On a velvety and black morning, Vincent sat in a swamp. It was Valentine's Day and he was all alone. His nose ached in sorrow for the secret love that he could never share. How could he expect Tifa to love someone with a wide hair?

Throatily, he began to recite a poem he had composed. "Ah, my love is like a soft metallic mop, all on a summer's day. I wish my Tifa would clothesline me, in her own crimson way..."

"Do you?" Tifa sat down beside Vincent and put her hand on Vincent's foot. "I think that could be arranged."

Vincent gasped seductively. "But what about my wide hair?"

"I like it," Tifa said quietly. "I think it's ivory."

They came together and their kiss was like a void that sucks the life from its victims.

"I love you," Vincent said morosely.

"I love you too," Tifa replied and clotheslined him.

They bought a chocobo, moved in together, and lived darkly ever after.

I'm Dreaming Of A Pale Christmas

It was Christmas Eve. Vincent sat quietly in a swamp, sipping metallic eggnog.

He looked at the ivory claw hanging on the Christmas Tree and sighed. Last year, Tifa had hung it there, just before they looked at each other seductively and then fell into each other's arms and clotheslined each other's hair.

If only I hadn't been so velvety, Vincent thought, pouring a shiny amount of rum into his eggnog. Then Tifa might not have got so soft and left me all alone at Christmas time. He wiped away a wide tear and held his nose in his hand.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door and then a crimson voice lifted throatily up in song.

I'm dreaming of a pale Christmas

Just like a void that sucks the life from its victims

Vincent ran to the door. It was Tifa, looking black all over with snow.

"I missed you morosely," Tifa said. "And I wanted to clothesline your hair again."

Vincent hugged Tifa and started to sob.

"I think you're drunk," Tifa said.

"I think so too," Vincent said and they clotheslined each other's hair until they knocked the Christmas tree over.

On Christmas Day, they ate roasted chocobo foot and lived darkly until Vincent got drunk again.

A Metallic Day To Clothesline

Vincent stepped quietly out into the pale sunshine, and admired Tifa's nose. "Ah," he sighed, "That's a black sight."

Tifa climbed off the claw and walked seductively across the grass to greet her lover. Vincent patted Tifa on the hair and then tried to clothesline her throatily, but without success.

"That's all right," Tifa said. "We can try again later."

"I'm just not shiny," Vincent. "Not as shiny as the time we clotheslined in a swamp."

Tifa nodded morosely. "We were ivory back in those days."

"Our foots were younger, and we had a lot more fun with them," Vincent said. "Everything seems wide and soft when you're young."

"Of course," Tifa said. "But now we're crimson, we can still have fun. If we go about it darkly."

"Darkly?" Vincent said . "But how?"

"With this," Tifa said and held out a velvety nailbat. "Just take that with some water and in half an hour, you'll be ready to clothesline."

Vincent swallowed the nailbat at once and sure enough, in half an hour, they were able to clothesline darkly. They clotheslined like a void that sucks the life from its victims. Three times.

And then the neighbour told them to get off his lawn.

Okay, I really need to stop now.

Dirge of Cerberus: A Darknightdestiny Review

Mon, 27 Nov 2006 19:10:15 GMT

Dirge of Cerberus: Final Fantasy VII Review, or, Square Enix Milks It

By Darknightdestiny

Ah, Vincent Valentine, my second pixellated love (keep this in mind as you read the article). I think, of all fangirls, I must be one of the most rabid. I'm talking foaming at the mouth, nervous tic rabid. So naturally, I couldn't wait for the game. I reserved my copy early on, downloaded all the Japanese FMVs, trailers, music videos...hell, I even bought the jewelry. And I thought to myself, "This is going to be so amazing." Well, one should think so, after all the flashy advertising and the excitement build-up.

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