Prelude To Perfection - Part IV
Title: Prelude To Perfection (Part IV)
Author: silence_laughs and calvi_sama
Summary: What do you do when the one you want the most in the world is right in front of you, but doesn't yet share that desire? The persistence and patience of one man will be sorely tried; will Cid achieve his heart's desire? Will Vincent ever be free?
Rating: Definately 15+, I'll say R just to be safe (you never know these days)
Pairing: Cid x Vincent
Timeline: FFVII canon - on their way to intercept Meteor, but with a slightly more relaxed schedule to account for Jenova taking sightseeing tours. XD
Disclaimer: We do not in any way own, nor profit from, the FFVII characters - we're just borrowing them. Avatar art is by (the amazing) Spade.
Warnings: the typical angsting associated with Vincent, yet more fluffies, definitely yaoi this time XD - kissing (not so chaste) *dizzy*, and uh *coughs* some “me” time (the polite way to say jerkin’ off, spankin’ the monkey, beatin’ the meat, chokin’ the chicken…y’know - masturbation). *laughs* I think I need a ‘warning’ for the Warning! XDDD
A/N: Silence still has Cid's back (he's sure to keep a wary eye on her - you should see his face) and yours truly is still trying to get Vincent to cooperate (I’ve finally gotten him listening to me, when he’s not sidetracked watching The Weather Channel that is^^). Please Read: Okay folks, first I have to apologize for the long-ass paragraphs, be patient with us, yeah? And now you’ll see me taking a little more creative license with Vincent as he inches further out of his little angst egg. It’s my own personal interpretation while trying to keep him VC (Vincent Correct^^), and I hope I pulled it off *crosses fingers*. Lastly, I’ve got him being a little creative (with mixed results and a need for Band-Aids) so I hope you’ll forgive me for that; the Vincent muse demanded I do it - that’s my only excuse. Good luck and thanks for reading! XDD
Part IV
Vincent had spent the night pacing his quarters, thinking, always thinking, and those thoughts centered on a stubborn, foul-mouthed, eccentric, big-hearted pilot named Cid Highwind. He had said that he trusted Cid. He had lied? No, emphatically no. He trusted Cid as he had trusted no other, and he had sealed it with a kiss. Did he regret that kiss? Yes, if only in the sense that it left him wanting more. More of what? He didn’t know, and that was driving him crazy. Highwind was his friend. He felt that, deep down in his gut, and it made him want to do something for Cid, but again, what? More pacing, this time accompanied by muttering, as he passed the time running his circuitous track both in his quarters and in his head. The next day found Vincent greeting the sunrise, much as he had the day before, from the exact same spot. As the familiar cold air brushed his cheeks and whipped his hair, his fingers came up to his lips and he remembered again, and wanted… What is wrong me? What am I feeling? Cid is my friend, it should be wrong that I’m feeling something stronger than that. Shouldn’t it? And then…Cid had invited him to help him with dinner. Vincent had every intention of going, as he now hated his quarters and their empty, hollow walls. These little meetings with Highwind were giving him something to look forward to, and he found that was infinitely better than just existing day-to-day, cold and dead, waiting for whatever the future might bring. Back to the kiss…Cid had leaned into it, nuzzled his hand with his cheek. Could it be possible that the man felt something for him in return? Vincent shook his head and pulled up sharply when he realized that he was pacing and muttering on the deck of the Highwind and must be presenting quite a view for those who surely had to be watching. Surely not; no one would find him desirable, his twisted and scarred body, the demons living inside his very cells! He was terrifying, an abomination, and yet Cid had said that he wasn’t scared of him…that he trusted him. You have no idea what you are talking about, Highwind! I’m a monster, a creature that belongs chained in a basement…and then there was the kiss. Cid had returned it, was reluctant to let it go. What am I going to do? In the end, Vincent had returned to his quarters as the sun reached the mark in the sky that indicated four o’clock, deciding that he would wait and see what happened. He removed his cape and mantle, laying it carefully on the bed - yesterday, upon returning to his room, he had discovered a blueberry sauce stain and had no desire to risk further fabric ruination - followed by his gauntlet. He didn’t need to be destroying any more of Cid’s furniture. He would just have to reacquaint himself with silverware. He removed his right glove but the left one remained on. He didn’t want Cid to see that little legacy of Hojo’s; they were going to eat, not vomit. He paced and fidgeted for a few more minutes before…get a hold of yourself, Valentine, the man is your friend. Just go to his quarters already and try and have a good time. So, with that little internal pep talk, (and feeling more than a little exposed without his cloak and gauntlet), Vincent sneaked from his room and down the deserted halls to the Captain’s quarters. The door was open, and he slipped inside and shut it behind him. Leaning on it, he looked around the living space and his eyes landed on a picture on the wall. Cocking his head slightly in curiosity, he walked over to the framed photo and stood in front of it, staring, a tiny smile on his face. An idea began to form in his brain. Idly he flicked his carmine gaze around the room and they lit upon a pile of wood scraps- the table. He spotted a small square of wood and his smile spread until he was grinning like an idiot. Looking around for Cid and seeing no sign of the pilot, Vincent picked up the square scrap and stuck it on the table by the door so he could swipe it on the way out. Then he returned to the photo on the wall and concentrated on studying every minute detail. He had a highly eidetic memory, one of the reasons he had been such a good Turk back in the day, and he now focused that amazing mind on the picture in front of him. When he was satisfied that he had sufficiently captured the photo in his mind’s eye, he let his eyes wander to the other pictures on the wall. While he was squinting and tilting his head at an odd photo of a man, woman and a child that had to be Cid (but what is he wearing?), Cid came around the corner, looked up and saw him, and very nearly dropped what he was carrying.
“Vincent!” He straightened and set down his armful of scraps left over from building the new table. There was actually a hefty pile of them now, between what he hadn’t needed for the basket and what he was adding now. Taking in the view, Cid realized that by Vincent-standards, the gunman was quite nearly naked. No cape, and one arm was bare. He was too much in shock already to process the gauntlet’s absence. “M’glad you came, honey.” He had dreamt the night before of making love to Vincent. Too happily, his mind began supplying images of what had come after, what Cid craved more than the sex. In his dream, they had lain together for hours, spent and exhausted but enjoying each other’s company too much to worry about sleeping. Vincent had been resting his head on Cid’s chest, warm and relaxed and happy. Happy. And so out of reach. But maybe, he thought, maybe not so much. Stepping forward, smiling, he wrapped his arms loosely around Vincent after a brief, one-sided internal debate over whether it would be allowed ending in he kissed me first, dammit. He squeezed once lightly, then, on second thought, again, this time much tighter. He stepped back and rested his hands on Vincent’s hips. “Take yer shoes off, Vin, make yerself at home. Floors’re clean; I did ‘em this mornin’.” His mind slowly focused on the lack of metal on Vincent’s left arm. He wondered for a moment why Vincent was still hiding it, and decided to find out. Gently, he took the left arm in his hands and locked eyes with Vincent. “You don’t need this, Vincent. Not here. It don’t make a difference t’me what’s underneath it.” Cautiously, never letting his eyes leave Vincent’s, he reached for the straps. “How ‘bout this- you share this with me, an’ I’ll tell you somethin’ about m’self I ain’t told no one else. Well, I prob’ly owe you that already. Okay, plus I won’t ask you any questions ‘bout yourself, but I’ll answer any you have fer me. If you don’t want to, I’ll respect that, an’ I won’t mention it again. But you shouldn’t hafta feel afraid, shouldn’t feel self-conscious. Not with me, honey. Never with me.”
Caught completely off guard by Cid’s rather abrupt and intimate welcome, Vincent just stood there, blinking stupidly. But when the pilot had reached for the straps holding the elbow-high glove on his left arm, he came back to himself. If Cid had asked even a week earlier, he would have gotten defensive and perhaps even reacted violently, but between the warm smile on the other man’s lips and his own conflicting feelings, Vincent gently withdrew his arm from Cid’s hands and glanced away, clearing his throat. “You don’t need to see this, Cid. It’s not pretty…even I don’t like looking at it.” He rubbed the arm absently; almost wishing the pilot would press him to see it. “I know you wouldn’t judge me for it, Cid, but Hojo was…thorough…” He trailed off, glancing back up at the blond and wondered briefly what his face must be saying because of Cid’s expression. A little lopsided smile found its way to his lips as he gently pinched Cid’s chin with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, “And oddly, I do not feel nearly as self-conscious with you as I ever have with anyone else before…and never afraid.” He echoed Cid’s words in a whisper.
Cid nodded, accepting Vincent’s words. “Well, the rest of it still stands. I asked you enough questions already.” He stepped back and allowed Vincent to step farther inside. “I really am glad you came, Vince. And you really can take off yer shoes. I ain’t wearin’ mine.” He gestured at his feet. The left foot was missing the second toe, and Cid was ridiculously amused by its absence sometimes. “So anyway, I was thinkin’ meatballs an’ spaghetti fer t’night, that all right with you? And, uh, I wanted chocolate chip cookies, but you know I can’t bake worth shit, so if you wanna try yer hand at it, I got the recipe an’ all the ingredients t’make ‘em from scratch. Might wanna use the electric mixer -s’in that third drawer there- so you don’t hafta ruin yer glove. I’ll mix the meatballs, an’ we’ll set the spaghetti boilin’ when we need to. The sauce’s my own recipe, but I might have to have you do the actual puttin’ it together. An’ you oughta mix the cookie dough now so we ain’t waitin’ on that after we eat.” Cid was in leader-mode now, giving Vincent cooking instructions as he would instruct a trainee in landing or handling turbulence. “Eh, sorry. Unless you wanna just kick back an’ wait, or whatever. S’up t’you. But we ain’t havin’ cookies ‘less you make ‘em, just so y’know.”
Vincent’s voice came dangerously close to squeaking when he pointed to himself and said, “Me?” He cleared his throat again and his voice sounded a bit steadier, “You want me to bake…cookies? Cid,” he said as he bent over to unbuckle his armored boots and sabatons, slipping them off only a little ungracefully, hopping when he got to his left foot and his balance teetered precariously. Finally they were off and he straightened, “Assuming I even know how to bake…which I don’t…it has been nearly thirty years since I have done anything…creative…in the kitchen.” He made a reluctant face when Cid eyed him and he sighed, “I am willing to try, though I do not guarantee the outcome will be edible.” He gestured for Cid to lead the way into the kitchen feeling a little weird walking about without his boots on. “And I shall help where I am able. If I am to join you in eating this meal, it is only fair that I assist in preparing it.”
“Heh, Vin, I never figured you’d have hairy toes. That’s cute. An’ I can guarantee they’ll be more edible’n mine. Friggin’ Nibel wolves wouldn’t even touch the damn things. I tried.” The way Vincent referred to his past kitchen moments made Cid wonder if he used to regularly do “creative” things in the kitchen. Though…he was getting to be quite certain that Vincent’s definition of creative and his own mind’s definition of the same were quite drastically different. “You know you don’t hafta help if it don’t go well. Won’t hold it against ya.” He wanted to talk tonight. It was odd; normally he talked to prevent himself from acting on urges, but now…he wanted to spill his guts, not that there was much to spill. Cid began assembling the necessary utensils and ingredients, sectioning off the tables and the counters so each component of the meal had its own station of sorts. He pointed Vincent in the direction of the large pot on the stove. “See the paper next to it? That’s the recipe. I chopped an’ diced everythin’ an’ all that shit before hand; it just needs the spices added. Go ‘head an’ bring it to a boil, add what’s in that last little box, an’ then head over to the table. All the cookie stuff’s there.” Turning away with a smile on his face at Vincent’s apprehension -which, he reminded himself, he shouldn’t be enjoying- he stuck his hands into the ground meat and mixed it up a bit before starting to add the ingredients. “Let me know if y’come across somethin’ y’need help with.” Cid began humming a tuneless melody and shredding slices of bread.
Vincent’s jaw dropped. Hairy toes? I do not! “I believe you need to get your eyes checked Cid…that would be sock lint. I am blessedly devoid of excess and unnecessary body hair, thank you very much.” He turned away and stalked over to peer into the pot grumbling, “Anyway I am sure you need your back shaved on a regular basis.” Right, boil water…that’s easy enough. He turned on the stove, making sure he had the right burner and said absently, “It surprises me that you are insisting the one person who doesn’t require food to survive help you prepare it.” He picked up the paper and squinted at the handwriting, “Your penmanship is atrocious, Cid.” He muttered, picking up the box of spices and comparing what he saw with the paper he held, frowning. Umm, I think this is right…yes, this is it. He started generously adding the strong-spelling herbs and when the pot began to boil aggressively, he turned it back to simmer, figuring it would burn if he left the heat on too high. Next, he turned to the ‘new’ table and saw all the necessary ingredients laid out along with a recipe. Vincent huffed and strode over to the table and began to study the paper, but got sidetracked with the battery-powered mixer. He picked it up, turning it around and over on itself, looking for a power button. He finally located the button next to a broken knob and pushed it. He started, nearly dropping the damned thing as it came alive with a quiet whirring sound, the mixer blades spinning at a dizzying speed. Hn, it could be me, but this seems to be spinning rather fast, but Cid said to use it… Shrugging, Vincent began to mix the indicated ingredients together into the large mixing bowl that Cid had set out. When the parts were all assembled, he picked up the mixer and went to stand next to the pilot to talk to him, the bowl held at an angle under his arm. As Vincent looked for something to say, he turned on the mixer, which promptly proceeded to disperse the contents of the bowl all over Cid. Cid froze, Vincent jumped and shut off the mixer, “Um, oops?” he said, fighting a grin as the dough ingredients spackled the blonde, “Cid, I apologize…the, uh, mixer is set too high and the…uh, knob on the back is broken…” As Cid turned to face him, the man’s expression was too much and Vincent burst out laughing.
Shit, that’s a beautiful sound. But think about that later. Get ‘im back. Right. Even Cid had enough tact not to slam raw meat into someone’s face. Eyebrows raised, wondering how sorry Vincent could really be since he was laughing so hard, he reached inconspicuously for the remaining chocolate chips. Discreetly wiping a hand on his pants, he reached into the bag, grabbed a handful, and began flicking them at Vincent, taking him by surprise, as he had still been doubled over in laughter. “Oh, whoops,” he said, not bothering to hide his grin. “Didn’t mean t’do that, Vin.” He flicked another, and this one hit directly between Vincent’s eyes. “Meant to do that.”
Vincent jerked a little, laughter dying as quickly as it had come forth, as the chocolate chip ‘boinked’ in between his eyes and of their own accord they crossed a little as he tried to track the projectile. He was an ex-Turk after all; training was training. He frowned faintly and looked affronted. What are we here, children? He started to turn away and spotted an extra stick of butter sitting on the table. He wandered over to it, his back to Cid, his body blocking what he was doing. He held still for a minute, neither moving nor speaking before he picked up the butter and weighed it in his hand. Children? Yes, we are children. He turned around, hiding the butter in his back-turned hand and walked up to Cid, who was leaning cockily against the counter, and smiled sweetly. “Cid I was wondering if you would show me how to make meatballs?” Cid’s grin widened and as he turned his back, Vincent grabbed the back of the man’s shirt and dropped the soft stick of butter down his back, then smashed it with his hand. He grinned evilly at the yelp it caused, “…And that was on purpose as well.”
Well. “Oh, that’s how you wanna play, huh? A’ right, I can play too,” he muttered to himself, scoping the kitchen for suitable weapons. There was still a bit of half mixed cookie dough in the bowl, but…there was also about a cup of milk left. He seized the carton and dumped it over Vincent’s head.
Vincent spluttered as the milk slid down his face and neck, then he set his jaw and dove for ammo…then war it shall be! On the table were two raw eggs. He grabbed them on the fly, whirled around, and with the precision of an expert marksman, threw them. One popped in the dead center of Cid’s chest, and when the pilot looked up, startled, his forehead caught the other. Vincent chuckled as he watched the slimy contents run down Cid’s face, “Here’s egg in your eye!” he said gleefully.
Eggs. Fuckin’ eggs. “You asked for it, honey.” He darted to the refrigerator, barely getting past Vincent. Reaching inside, he pulled out and uncapped the chocolate syrup. Cid held it around knee-height for a moment, then squeezed and slashed upward with it simultaneously. Within moments, Vincent had chocolate dripping from his body, head to toe.
Oh, how disgusting…Vincent thought as he smeared the syrup with his hand before bolting back to the table. He grabbed the flour container and was back at Cid before the man could react, and this is when my cursed modifications are useful. With a jerk, he tossed the contents into Cid’s face, and in a second, the pilot was engulfed in a cloud of flour as he coughed and waved his arms, the substance turning to paste where it hit the egg.
“Shit!” Cid grabbed the plate of meatballs he’d managed to finish before this…war…had started. He ducked under the table with them, chucking them at Vincent as he peeked around the edge. It was only temporary shelter, he knew, but it gave him time to plot. He let out a “hah!” of triumph when one hit Vincent’s shoulder and splattered messily. He just needed a catapult…
Dancing nimbly around most of the meatballs, Vincent lunged and grabbed the diced tomatoes. He was a bit more prudent with them that Cid was with the meat, zinging small handfuls when he had a clean shot, and more than once diving and rolling in order to peg Cid in a vital part with the messy fruit. He chuckled, grinning devilishly when Cid stuck his head over the table to scowl at him and was hit with a handful.
Shaking off the fact that he was most indubitably losing, Cid gave up on the table when he ran out of ammo. He snatched the onion slices from the table, held firmly to the back of the plate, and flung the entire contents at Vincent, who was still laughing. Typical of someone so agile, he evaded most of the attack. “Dammit…” he tightened his grip on the one remaining meatball. “Hey, Vince,” he said, taking a few steps closer and lowering his eyes. “Got somethin’ t’tell ya,” he continued from a safe distance. In his haste, he forgot to actually wait for Vincent to react and just threw. It landed in the pot of boiling water, which was quite close to Vincent. “Shit!” Cid jumped at him, bringing him to the ground.
Vincent landed in a slimy, squishy pile of food and Cid. It was so unexpected he couldn’t prepare himself to absorb the impact and fall, and wound up hitting his head, hard on the ground. For a moment, his vision went white and a spike of pain shot through his skull causing him to cry out reflexively. Slowly the pain receded and his vision returned. Blinking rapidly he focused on Cid, then up at the pot of slowly boiling water, “Well…that was a bit dramatic, wasn’t it, Cid?” he rumbled, “A little boiling water, though painful, is not the end of the world.” He didn’t want to admit it, but having Cid lying on him, he found to be rather…no. Not now. “M-, Cid?” he said. He had, after all, made a promise of sorts. He waited for the pilot to acknowledge him by looking down at him with wide blue eyes, “…I…” he coughed, “I believe I am aroused.” He returned the stare levelly and could feel his cheeks heating up. Quickly he changed the subject, “And I am positively disgusting, thank you.”
Cid couldn’t move. Didn’t want to. “Sorry,” he said, but it came out so low that he wasn’t sure Vincent even heard it. Trying to control his breathing and not rub against Vincent at the same time was proving to be unnecessarily difficult. He allowed himself two small almost-thrusts, which, if asked, he would blame on shifting position trying to get up and allow Vincent to stand. He should not have even allowed himself that, because it wrenched a small groan from him before he was ready to fight it. “Vincent? I hafta kiss you right now. You know that, right?” He felt it was only fair to give a warning before something so major. “An’ you could never be disgustin’, ‘specially not with, uh, chocolate covered onions on yer face.” With that announcement out of the way, he lowered his head to Vincent’s and kissed him with no more force or depth than the one they’d shared the day before.
Vincent’s mind pinged back and forth between NO! and Yes. Oh, yes! when Cid’s lips met his own. In the end, his desire won out, and he cupped the back of Cid’s head, pulling the man into a deeper kiss. Tentatively he opened his mouth to the blond and slid his tongue over Cid’s lips, teasing them open so he could probe inside. A breathy moan escaped him as he tasted chocolate - Cid had been sneaking chocolate chips earlier that evening - and bourbon. Vincent’s kiss became more aggressive as he devoured the mouth above him, a tingling tightness causing a delicious, yearning burn in his groin. He pushed his pelvis up against Cid’s, rubbing his thigh in between the pilot’s legs. Suddenly he got a whiff of egg, and his mind snapped back. What am I doing? This is highly inappropriate! He pushed up on Cid’s shoulders, panting, “I-I can’t do this, Cid…I’m sorry…I mean, I…I need.” He studied Cid’s mouth, licked his lips, and murmured, “I really could use a shower.”
Gently -always gently- he resisted Vincent’s halfhearted protests and leaned down to kiss him again, this time swiping some of the chocolate with his tongue first. He brushed his tongue over Vincent’s lips until they opened for him again. He allowed himself finally to show a little aggression, something other than gently, and kissed Vincent with such fervor that he knew immediately that if someone had kissed him that way, he would probably have melted a little. Pulling back, he whispered, “Don’t run from this, Vincent. It scares you; I know that. But remember what we said? Never afraid with me, honey. An’ I know what you need right now, an’ I’ll give it to ya without takin’ anything in return, if you’ll trust me to do it.” One more look at Vincent’s conflicted face tugged at Cid’s heartstrings, and he sat back, giving Vincent enough space to stand if he wished. “M’sorry. I’m a pretty hypocrite, ain’t I? Tellin’ you not t’be scared an’ then pushin’ something like that on ya. Bathroom’s the open door over there,” he said, pointing, “an’ I’ll find somethin’ you can wear ‘til yours’re clean. But, uh, I don’t have anything black.” Standing, he reached for Vincent with one hand, eager to help him sit, stand, shower, or get off, so long as it meant more time with him, more contact. “One more kiss first?” he asked, having no idea what to expect in answer.
The second assault from Cid left Vincent dizzy, confused and painfully aroused, but this time he kept his lips firmly together. His body wanted everything Cid had said, and all that had gone implied. It demanded more, but his brain was backpedaling so fast he was feeling lightheaded. You don’t do that to your friends, especially when they trust you. Cid trusts me, and what do I do? Rub all over him like a beast in heat! I don’t think I could find a hole deep enough to crawl into to atone for this. Vincent looked everywhere but at Cid’s face and when the man asked for another kiss, he tightened his lips together and gave a small shake of his head, “I-I can’t Cid…shower,” was all he could manage as he felt his face grow even hotter. Vincent carefully walked around the pilot, taking pains not to touch the man, and fled to bathroom.
“Fuck,” Cid told the empty room. “Fuck!” Frustrated, he brought both hands to his face, not even registering the dried egg-paste. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to calm himself. When he felt stable enough, Cid went to the dresser and searched for clothes Vincent could wear. The only button-up shirt he could find was white, but there was a pair of black pants that had somehow survived his purge of the wardrobe some years earlier. He walked into the bathroom without knocking, not thinking. “Shit!” He clapped a hand over his eyes. “Sorry, Vin! Promise I ain’t peekin’. I’m just gonna set these down on the counter here, a’ right?” He was very tempted to see what he could see, but his honorable side prevented him from lifting his hand from his eyes until the door was safely closed. Cid retreated to the bedroom and proceeded to indulge in fantasy, certain that Vincent’s shower would take at least ten minutes.
Vincent had stood against the farthest wall in the bathroom with his arms wrapped around his waist after he had shut the door, breathing hard. In fact, he was still there when Cid just walking right into the bathroom then promptly smacked his hand over his eyes and then scooted out again like his ass was on fire. Vincent lowered his arms and looked at the ceiling as tried to get himself back under control. He then slid to the ground and just sat there for several minutes, staring off into space as he replayed what had just happened in his mind. I cannot be trusted if my body betrays me so readily, he finally concluded. Pushing himself off the tiled floor, he began to remove his clothing after briefly glancing in the mirror. He shuddered. He strongly disliked mirrors; not only did they show him his fake beauty, but he always saw shadows flitting to and away from him, darker ones hovered around his body and he knew them to be his demons…and then there were the wings…great, hideous bat-like wings, tattered and frayed. He turned completely away, but not before he threw his soiled shirt over it. Next came his leather pants, and finally he unwound his headscarf. He dropped the whole lot into a pile by the door before glancing at his left arm and its sheath. The thing was held onto his body by buckles and straps. Slowly he began to unfasten them. He would have to look at it, there was no way he could just ‘ignore’ it. Vincent kept his eyes tightly shut while he pulled the glove off, but he had already seen the red striated lesions running down his bicep to disappear into the gloved elbow. Finally the thing was off and he opened his eyes and looked. The sight of it always made him a little queasy, and he didn’t understand how something that looked like that didn’t hurt. The lesions ran the entire length of his arm, but beginning at the elbow the skin was mottled and scarred from stitch marks, burns and multiple needle tracks from where he had been hooked up to the machines. He also didn’t understand why it didn’t heal and the scars remained, but they did, a gruesome reminder of what had been done to him. He could see his veins under the surface where the skin was nearly translucent, and tendons were prominent on the backs of his hand while his fingers were not quite withered, but most certainly atrophied. It had taken a conscious effort for him to keep his hand in a ‘normal’ position for when he relaxed, his fingers tended to curl into claws resembling rigor mortis. His gauntlet had helped with that, which was why he never took it off until he had retrained the muscles of his hand to hold it in a certain shape. And through all the grotesque frailty of appearance, the appendage was just as strong as his “normal” hand, if not more so, augmented by something Hojo had inserted into his body or his blood. Vincent never found out, nor had he cared to. He fisted his destroyed hand and turned on the shower, stepping in before the water had a chance to warm. The combination of his arm and the cold water killed his arousal, and quickly and thoroughly he scrubbed off, using generous amounts of soap and shampoo. His mild surprise distracted him momentarily when he noticed that Cid had conditioner. He cocked his head frowning. He didn’t know why that surprised him but it did. Vincent squirted some into his hand and worked it into his hair. He gave a little sigh as he scratched his scalp, he had always liked that - call him weird - then rinsed it out. He turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, snagging one of the large, soft towels as he did so and began to dry himself off. That done, he finger combed his hair as best he could and put on the clean clothes. Okay, so Cid is a bit bigger than I am, he thought with amusement as the shirt hung off him in a formless lump rather resembling a bed sheet. The pants were not much better; besides being too short in the leg, they very nearly slid off his hips. Now this won’t do, he thought and looked around the bathroom. His eyes landed on his dirty headscarf. He nodded, and, picking it up, he wound it around his waist and tied it off. Tacky, he thought, but serviceable. He picked up his dirty leathers and draped them over his left arm. He took a deep breath and opened the bathroom door.
He was beginning to push into his own hand with a ferver he had not felt for quite some time. In Cid’s fantasy, Vincent was lying beneath him, legs spread as he moved between them, so deep inside that he felt he might never be released. Vincent had already come, and Cid was close. A few more thrusts, and he climaxed, spilling (into Vincent) over his hand and (whispered) shouted his name into (his ear) the air. Panting, spent- but not satisfied. Cid changed into some old work clothes that would hold him over until he got a chance to shower. After one last look at himself in the mirror, he stepped back into the hallway, intending to see Vincent out.
Vincent was walking down the hallway, nose buried in the collar of Cid’s shirt. His eyes were half closed in pleasure as he inhaled the smell of cigarette smoke, faint cologne and something else that was crisp and fresh and reminded him of the wind. He very nearly crashed into the pilot and pulled up sharply in surprise. “Cid!” He said, startled, mouth quirking when he saw the man’s ‘pasted’ face, but his smile quickly died when he looked into Cid’s eyes. He cleared his throat a little uneasily, “I believe I should begin cleaning the kitchen while you take your shower. After all, we did make quite a mess.”
Cid shook his head in disbelief. “You don’t work here, I told you already. I’ll clean it up, Vin.” Not like I’m gonna be able to sleep anyway. Vincent looked nice in his clothes, Cid thought. Nice was as close as he could come to a description, because they seemed to fit him even though they didn’t fit. As he tried to puzzle that one out, he noticed that Vincent was still standing there. He smiled sadly, eyes downcast. “I’m sorry, honey. I never meant t’make you uncomf’table.” Panic seized him for about two seconds before he reminded himself that whatever would be would be, and no one ever changed that by panicking. “You’ll still come back, won’t you?”
He was dumbfounded. “Y-you want me to come back? After the way I behaved? And Cid, I cannot leave without at least helping you clean up, at least half of that mess in there I caused! If not more…” Vincent shook his head as he stared at Cid, “please, let me help at least a little…” He noticed the sorrowful look on the blonde’s face and tried to lighten the mood a bit and smiled. “Besides, you’ll feel much better after a shower. I do, and quite frankly…” he said, reaching up to pick a bit of egg shell from Cid’s hair, “…you are in desperate need of one.”
So if I don’t let ‘im help, he won’t leave? Damn, never mind. That ain’t no way to do this. Cid smiled. “A’ right. I’ll go shower. But y’know what? We’d’a been smarter to clean it up first. Don’t you overdo yourself,” he warned, knowing that he would probably leave the bathroom and walk into a spotless kitchen anyway. “I’ll be right back out. And Vincent?” he continued, stopping and turning from the threshold of the bathroom, “I’ll always want you to come back. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s all on me, honey.”
He didn’t believe that for a minute, but he smiled and nodded anyway, hoping that would placate Cid. After another brief hesitation, Cid walked into the bathroom and shut the door. With a small huff of determination, Vincent walked into the kitchen after first tossing his clothes to the side of the door and started rolling up his sleeves only to get a look at his left arm. Wincing, he returned to his clothes and started rummaging through them looking for his glove only to realize…shit! I must have left it in the bathroom! He stood in front of the door in a moment of indecision before he swallowed his insecurity and made his decision, I cannot leave all the work to Cid; that’s not fair. Vincent turned back into the kitchen area, rolled up his sleeves and got to work. It took a moment to locate all the flung food that Cid had thrown - his own was piled neatly around a central location having hit its target every time - but after that is was quick work to wipe the floors up, and when Cid finally emerged from the bathroom, he was washing the last of the dishes.
Cid had noticed the glove immediately and wondered if he should bring it out. He decided to wait, mostly because he had the feeling that Vincent was so totally disgusted with his un-showered state that he wouldn’t want to see him again until he was clean. He did grab it on the way out, though, and sighed heavily when he saw the clean floors. He would have to tidy up the table, and he would help with the dishes if Vincent would let him. Looking down at the glove he held in both his hands, he walked toward Vincent, running his hands over the material and wondering only vaguely what it was meant to hide, knowing he wouldn’t ask. He knew Vincent could feel his presence, so he did not feel guilty over coming up behind him. He rested his right hand on Vincent’s right shoulder and presented the dropped garment to him with his left. “You keep washin’ an’ I’ll rinse?”
Vincent stiffened when Cid touched his shoulder then slumped in defeat. He had hoped to be finished before Cid came back out, but he wasn’t to be that lucky. “Just toss it by the door if you would be so kind, please? It wouldn’t do to put it on now anyway, so you might as well see it.” He said softly, arms still elbows-deep in soapy water. As Cid walked over to the pile of clothes, Vincent rinsed and turned around, leaning back against the sink as he waited for Cid to come back. I said I trusted him; now we’ll see how he really feels when he sees the truth…
Now that he knew Vincent was going to share this with him, Cid wasn’t so sure he wanted to know. He did, of course, but then it would be over and there would be less of a barrier between them. And yes, that was what he wanted, but now that the moment was here, it seemed sudden and almost anticlimactic, though he wasn’t sure how he would have preferred it to happen. He draped the thing carefully over the pile of black, noticing the lack of deep red and noting that Vincent’s headscarf had many uses. That proved to be another dangerous subject; his mind was busy finding more interesting uses for it than holding up too-large pants. He turned around and walked back slowly, mentally bracing himself for whatever was about to pass between them, and already plotting a way to lighten the mood when it was done. He knew Vincent would likely “go all morbid” and become unreachable, and he didn’t think it was worth it to share this if it would put distance between them. Suddenly he looked back at his thoughts, realized that he really had no idea what he wanted, and came to the conclusion that he was simply thinking too much. Before he knew it, he was standing a few steps away from Vincent, who seemed to be looking at everything but him. “Hey. Not gonna change a thing, you hear me?” His hand lifted to cup Vincent’s cheek, but he thought better of it and let it fall, waiting for the gunman to make the next move.
Vincent took a deep breath and held it, before meeting Cid’s sky-blue gaze. His sleeve had slid down his arm as it had hung by his side and he had made no move to stop it, so his arm remained hidden from view. He wondered if this was some cosmic message saying that it should remain that way, but in his gut, he knew that to be a lie. If he couldn’t trust his friend with this then whom could he trust? “Never in my life have I ever thought that something so evil could exist to do this to another human being. But I have been proven wrong and now that darkness hides within me. No…do not say it, Cid. It wouldn’t change the truth, no matter how you tried to soften it. I fight with it every day, but my biggest fear is that one day I won’t be strong enough to hold it off any longer, that it will consume me. If I had a soul it would be whittled away a sliver at a time by what I have to bear.” He blinked slowly and swallowed, “I want to share this part of me with you, then perhaps I will remain strong enough a little longer. You are my friend, Cid, and I hold that above all else…remember that, and then judge me.” Slowly he moved for his sleeve, hesitated, and then began rolling it up his arm.
Finally Cid realized how he needed to handle this. He caught Vincent’s hand and set it aside, taking over the job of exposing the arm. His fingers ghosted along it as he went, lingering on some of the more affected areas. “You know I’m nothin’ but a coward, Vin? There’s a part o’ me still wants to run back to Rocket Town and take no part in this. Shit, screw that, I wanna run back home. I fight with it every day.” He turned his scrutinizing, sympathetic gaze on Vincent’s face, happily surprised to again catch his eyes. “When we’re done with this, I don’t think I’m ever gonna fight again. I’m tired of it. You don’t even know how strong you are, do ya? You have more to fight than anybody, an’ more reason to wanna just hide somewhere. But you’re done with that. You moved on, an’ I don’t think you wanna go back to it. Let everyone else judge you, Vincent. I’m damn proud of ya.” He lifted the scarred, trembling hand to his lips and kissed the back of it, leaving his eyes in contact with the red ones he couldn’t read.
Vincent closed his eyes and let Cid’s words run over him like a balm. He drew a shaky breath and unexpectedly felt his eyes burn. Not now! Emotional, insecure, tortured, broken…what is there to be proud of, Cid? He opened his eyes again and his voice came out sounding a little more hollow than he actually felt, “I’m jealous of you, Cid, did you know that?” He sagged a little more, as though burdened by a heavy weight. Perhaps he was. “You have the option of not fighting. It can be over for you. But not for me. Never, ever will it end.” He suddenly felt exhausted and leaned forward into Cid’s surprised arms. He wrapped his own around the pilot’s waist and rested his head on the broad, warm shoulder. He felt safe here like this, being held. He shut his eyes and continued, “Did you know I can see them…in the mirror? And others…shadows, ghosting around me, hiding and hovering.” He laughed softly, “…And I have wings…my other self. ” He rubbed his cheek on Cid’s shoulder and gave a little sigh. Who knew it would feel so good to be held?
Vincent would have been surprised to know that he made Cid feel safe, too. Cid put his arms around Vincent, bringing his hands up, in fists, to rest between his shoulder blades. That left them very close together, and kept Cid’s hands from wandering as they wished to. Without his boots, Vincent was lacking a surprising amount of height, which made this much more comfortable. “Do any of us really have that option, Vince? I’m nothin’ t’be jealous of. Shit, if I didn’t know how much you hurt for it, I’d be jealous o’ you, ‘cause you at least can see your darkness, your demons.” He turned his head so that his lips brushed Vincent’s ear. The dark hair in his face smelled wrong, but nice, like the clothes. “If I could end all your sufferin’ for you, honey, I’d do it in a heartbeat.” Cid knew what it would take in order for that to happen; knew that Vincent could never find complete peace in life. He also knew that if they ever found a way, and if Vincent ever asked, he would help him end his life. It was a morbid thought, and not one Cid really wanted to ponder, but it helped somehow to know that. He loved him, and that was key. If he thought about it, he had come to love all these people, even the brat, but he was not sure he would go to such lengths for any of them. He was surprised to find his hands opened and moving up and down Vincent’s back. He let one go lower purely to satisfy his imagination, stopping it just before it reached what he knew would be a wonderful, perfect…no, Highwind, his mind said in a voice that sounded suspiciously like Vincent’s. Unable to help himself, he pulled back slightly and nudged the head off his shoulder, wanting to at least get another kiss before the night ended. “Can I, Vin?”
The hands were soothing, more soothing than the voice, and infinitely more so than the words. Vincent’s eyes were closed and his mind was empty, so when Cid nudged his head off his shoulder it took him a minute to catch on to what Cid was asking for. As the pilot leaned in, he drifted to the side and kissed the man’s cheek by his mouth instead. Pressing his forehead against Cid’s he whispered, “I shall suffer in my punishment; that is my fate. I have accepted this, Cid, and so shall not speak of it again. Even your heart is not big enough to save me from it, but perhaps it may help give me strength. I am glad you are my friend, Cid. I am glad I am not alone.” He remained like that with Cid for a while longer, neither one moving, arms around the other until he pulled back and offered to help finish cleaning. He wasn’t entirely surprised when Cid vehemently denied his request and began shuttling him to the door. He was a bit saddened, not really wanting to go, but knowing that it was for the best. Rolling down his sleeve, he picked up his clothes, surreptitiously slipped the block of wood inside them and with one last lingering, searching look into Cid’s face, turned away. He never looked back.
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That evening after dinner, garbed in his borrowed clothes, Vincent had taken his prize and locked himself away in his quarters. He wasn’t coming out until his little project for Cid was done. It was even more important now that he do this after what had just happened back in the pilot’s quarters. He dumped his soiled leathers in a corner - they were already dry, so letting them sit wouldn’t matter - and crossed over to the bed and sat down. Picking up his gauntlet, he first examined the sharpness of the bladed parts of each clawed digit and upon finding them more than adequate, he put it back on his hand and arm. Scooting back on the bed to rest his back against the wall and catch the dying rays of the sun, Vincent turned the block of wood over and over as he contemplated the best way to begin. He finally decided upon focusing on bringing out a rough shape of the object, rather than on just one part at a time. Hn, how hard could this be? He thought idly as the first sliver of wood came easily off of the block. Very hard, Vincent would come to find out, as two hours of working at it left him with badly cut fingers, bloodstained clothes (he would have to replace them), dull blades, and extreme frustration. And on top of that, adding insult to multiple injuries, the damned block still looked mostly like a…well, block! He was rapidly acquiring a deep respect for carvers. But he was nothing if not persistent, determined and a quick learner with his own stubborn streak. He was just getting the hang of it when his blades finally became too dull to use anymore. It was just as well; he was running out of good usable light anyway. Putting the wood on the nightstand, Vincent stood up and stretched. He needed to get to the workshop in the engine room. Cid had a grinder there he could use, but he also didn’t want to run into anyone on the way. He blew at his hair, which had finally dried and fallen into his face…again, before huffing and unwrapping his head scarf from around his waist - where it had held his pants up - and used it to tie his hair back in a shaggy tail. There, that’s better. He sighed, now to find that grinder. Carefully opening the door to his quarters, Vincent stuck his head out and looked up and down the halls. It was dark and most should be sleeping - Cid ran the Highwind on a skeleton crew at night - but Cloud had a tendency to be unable to sleep, a fact that he could sympathize with because he himself never slept- for obvious reasons, besides the fact that sleep was unnecessary for him now. Vincent moved as quickly as he could, taking seconds where it would take others minutes. He had to grudgingly admit that his modifications had some pretty nifty tricks.
In short order, he arrived at the noisy engine room, and with a quick look around, he slipped inside. He had no trouble locating the workshop area and the grinder. He turned the machine on and got to work. Vincent enjoyed the physical labor involved, and the precision it took to sharpen the blades on his gauntlet, taking an odd delight in the shower of sparks the machine sent up as the metal of the claws connected with the spinning stone wheel. When he finally determined the edges sharp enough, he shut down the grinder and exited the engine room. He kept to the shadows as he crept back to his quarters and was very nearly there when he heard a voice mumbling up ahead. Carefully, he inched forward until he could see who was walking in the corridor ahead of him. He was surprised to see Cid, of all people, his hair in wild disarray and clothes badly rumpled as though he had had trouble sleeping. Vincent frowned. Come to think of it, Cid had been looking exhausted lately, and he had a sinking feeling it was because of him. Oh Cid, don’t break yourself because of me. I’m not worth it. He thought sadly as he watched Cid stop in front of what he now realized was his door. The blond just stood there, staring at the door, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips before he placed his splayed hand on it as though by doing so would let him see into the room. Vincent felt that queer sensation in his belly again, and almost stepped forward to say something, but stopped when he saw Cid throw up his hands and walk off down the hall mumbling to himself again while puffing furiously on his cigarette and running fingers through already badly disheveled blond hair. Vincent remained where he was for a few more minutes before slinking out of the shadows he was hiding in and back into his quarters, quietly shutting the door behind him. He gazed at his block of now oddly shaped wood and felt a new determination take hold.
Gathering the two lamps that were in his room, Vincent lit them and placed them next to his bed where he was working. He picked up the block of wood and once again got to work. He hadn’t been working for more than a half-hour before he smelled cigarette smoke. Pausing, he looked at his door and belatedly realized that he had been smelling smoke for so long that he had gotten used to it, which meant that Cid had been frequenting his door. This is why you are so tired, isn’t it? What are you thinking, Cid? He thought, before his deep, quiet voice called out, “Go to bed, Cid.” There was a soft, muffled curse before the smell dissipated once more. He went back to his work and when he finally got the wood into a finished shape, the lamps had burned out, the blades on his claws were dull once more, and the sun was in the middle of the sky. He could hear movement and voices in the corridors so he dared not venture to the engine room and the grinder again, so he decided to clean his leathers. Gathering the whole mess into his arms, he settled himself in the bathroom. It was a sticky, disgusting mess, which took him the rest of the day, but the leather was well-conditioned and fairly resistant to liquid, and he managed to get them clean. When he hung them up to finish drying (head scarf included, much to his irritation) the sun was gone and it was time to go to the engine room once more. The sharpening went much more quickly this time, and on his way out, he snagged some sandpaper he saw sitting out, and once again shut himself back into his room.
He had achieved the shape he was striving for and he carefully sanded it smooth. Now it was time for detail and for that he would need to use his right hand; ambidextrous though he was, his right was his favored hand. Vincent closed his eyes and summoned the image he was striving to re-create and he studied it behind his lids. Then, a single digit held firmly but carefully between his fingers and thumb, he began to give his shaped wood an identity. It went slowly at first, painfully, actually, when the blade glanced off the wood and impaled his palm - that had hurt - but as he became more comfortable, the work proceeded more quickly. Finally he finished, the piece satisfying him. It wasn’t very good actually, as such things went, but one could tell what it was supposed to be without having to squint and tilt his head just so. But the detail was exquisite and he was rather proud of that. With a nod, he turned it over and scratched his tiny initials on the bottom then rose and removed his ruined clothes. His leathers had dried while he had worked, and it was with an immense relief that he once again clothed himself in his own attire. It was early morning, but late enough that Vincent knew that Cid would be at the helm, so he exited his room, made his way to the Captain’s Quarters, and carefully let himself in. He paused just inside and door and reached out with his senses to find the space deserted. He walked over and placed the small carving of the Tiny Bronco next to Cid’s teapot where he knew the pilot would find it, and turned to leave. He paused and on second thought, did a quick search and located a piece of scratch paper and a much-abused pencil and scrawled: Thank You -V. And with one last look around the rooms he had begun to unconsciously call home, Vincent left and made a unerring line for the decks. After the day and nights he had just had - his hands still hurt - he needed to be outside and away from the cage of four walls.
Continued in Part V