INCOMPLETE.

[foreswear]

Who: Vincent, Duke.
When: tonight.
Where: their house.
Rating: TBD.
Warnings: TBD.
Summary: So. Duke's afraid that Vincent's going to sneak out in the middle of the night to find Rinoa. He remedies the situation by making Vincent sleep in his bed. ): GOOD PLAN, DUKE. GOOD PLAN.

Comments

[el_legendaire]

This was not about Veld and his 'date.' Absolutely, definitely was not, had nothing to do with Veld and him back to being the asshole punk that Duke had fallen hard for when he was eighteen and back to ignoring and baiting Duke the same way he had in the old days. Or sort of the same way.

He remembered a lot of that time as being unsure whether he wanted to kiss Veld or punch his lights out. Veld had been so unpredictable. Charming, oblivious, obnoxious, before Vincent's disappearance had stripped everything from him but bleak professionalism.

As much as Duke was cautiously pleased to see Veld's past given back to him, the resurgence put Duke off his balance. It had been thirty years, and that Veld would never have teased him about the things this Veld was, and Duke honestly didn't know how to respond. The eighteen year old he'd been would have scowled and thrown a punch, or sassed back, but the man he was now was too used to never bringing such things out in the open.

"Are you jealous, Alex?"

It still made his jaw clench. What the hell did Veld expect him to say to that? What was he supposed to do?

For once, thinking about how to deal with Vincent was actually easier. Vincent might have the sense to keep his mouth shut. Vincent might at least act predictably, and not taunt him, and not slip under his guard, and definitely wouldn't be talking about going on dates with random girls.

What Vincent might do was worse, actually, but at least it was something Duke could be prepared for.

He slipped inside the room that he'd claimed for his own in Veld and Vincent's old home, stripped down to an extremely faded tanktop and loose pants (both sporting numerous holes from chemical burns, as Duke preferred not to mess about with acids in his work clothes) and freshly wound bandages. Most of the injuries were healed but he'd decided not to waste curatives to get rid of the rest, and endured the aggravation of a few unhealed gashes.

And stopped, because there was Vincent, and for some reason his breath chose to stutter.

Stupid.

This was for Vincent's own good, and had nothing to do with Veld, and had even less to do with an empty office in the Shinra building and Vincent writhing underneath him.

Nothing at all.

He swallowed hard and covered it by turning away, going to the omnipresent work table covered with his tools and materials and re-arranging things that didn't need to be re-arranged.

"...I apologize, Vincent." It was easier not to look at him, so much easier to be glib over the terminals. "I'm sure you're tired of hearing the words 'for your own good,' but."

But what. But 'trust me?' I know what I'm doing?

Bullshit. He didn't know what he was doing anymore.

"Take the bed. I've slept on the floor before."

[foreswear]

Vincent heard Duke before he even opened the door, and before he even slid into the room. Fine, careful, sensitive hearing could make out his footsteps throughout any part of the house, and he counted the seconds it took him to enter the room, to shut the door behind him. He paused, held silent for a moment, and it was a little strange, at first, a little curious, because he didn't notice a change in the pitch of Duke's breathing, didn't recognize a shift in the way he moved. Almost as if he didn't realize that Vincent was in the room at all, and maybe if he weren't so distracted by everything else, maybe if he weren't so horribly frustrated over Veld, he might have smiled a bit at that. Instead, he tilted his chin a bit, glancing over his shoulder, red eyes focusing through the darkness to narrow in on Duke who was--

Who was shrugging off his clothes, and not all of them, of course, but the shuffling of fabric had him catching his breath, regardless. He glanced away. Back toward the window. Back outside. Back where it was safe. Sort of. Not really. He wondered where Veld was, wondered what Veld was doing, and he wondered about everything else that had nothing to do with the way Duke looked when he was stripped of his defenses.

Duke noticed him eventually. Vincent didn't move when he spoke, when he moved about the room, slowly, cautiously, as if he was thinking a little too hard about something. Vincent didn't move until Duke paused, and he turned, leaning back on his heels a bit, shoulder pressing into the glass pane behind him.

Take the bed. I've slept on the floor before.

Right. Like that was going to work.

Vincent was rather tired of being coddled by the sort of people who had no business coddling him. Especially not Duke. Because it was different with Duke. Made him hurt in places that always ached, except it was a different sort of pain, and it made him a little uncomfortable, a little anxious and panicky. Sometimes, Vincent wished Duke wouldn't bother, and at the same time, he figured it was too late for any of that now. Much too late. Vincent would have reacted differently to it now than he would have in the past. It was unfortunate, really, but most truths were.

But he wasn't stupid, either. Not stupid in the way that he should have been, which might have saved him a whole lot of grief in Purgatorium, but. That hardly made any difference. Vincent wasn't stupid, and he took note of Duke's injuries, and he felt a little guilty, maybe, that he had already healed, that he was already fine, that he even goddamn healed quickly in the first place. Vincent wasn't stupid, and he felt a little insulted that Duke honestly assumed he'd take the bed, because he wouldn't. Of course he wouldn't. No, not when it was Duke's room, and no, even if Duke was forcing him to do this, and no. Vincent wasn't stupid, and that's why his shoulders dropped in a heavy sigh as he pushed himself away from the wall, steadying his balance as he moved over to the other Turk standing stationary across the room.

He hadn't wanted to touch him, but his fingers closed around Duke's shoulders, cool and gentle and firm, and he turned him a bit, drew him back a little, closer to the bed, closer to the wall, until the back of Duke's legs were brushing against the mattress. Vincent hesitated, tightened his grip on his shoulders, and then leaned forward to push him down until he was seated.

"I'm not a fucking girl, Duke," he muttered, and it was supposed to be gruff, supposed to be hard and cold and irritated, but it came out softer than he meant. His fingers burned when he pulled them away. "It's fine. Take the bed."

[el_legendaire]

Someday, he thought, he would come up with better plans that involved Vincent. Better plans than this one, and better plans that most of them had been recently. Planning used to be his forte. Planning used to be something he excelled at.

Vincent and plans didn't go together at all, though, and Duke had no idea why.

This plan had involved the very simple concept of Vincent being somewhere at all times where Duke could keep an eye on him. It didn't involve Vincent standing there half-melted into the shadows like he was one of them and no more substantial, and it didn't involve his touch, and it didn't involve Vincent pushing him to sit on the bed like he was the one doing the babysitting here.

It especially, most definitely did not involve Duke capturing Vincent's wrist before he could pull back entirely, looking up at him searchingly, his thumb brushing gently and apologetically over the soft skin of Vincent's wrist.

Maybe it did have a little to do with Veld, and thirty years of memories wiped clear or left only in patches, and Veld hadn't ever come to him in thirty years even after Duke had everything he could to be that person.

What chance did he have now, without those memories, without those years of devotion, and Veld's mind as young as his face?

What chance did he have, when Veld had Vincent, and Duke supposed he had Jericho, but Jericho wasn't here, and maybe Jericho wouldn't understand even if he had been here, and that wasn't his fault.

Thirty years of loving a man who does not love you back will drive you insane, the thought whispered, and hard on the heels of it was Vincent's voice, Vincent's eyes, the desperate and miserable honesty of his confession.

Duke supposed, suddenly realizing, that he had never been with anyone who said they loved him and meant it. Even Roxanne hadn't meant it because there were parts of him that she hated, and told him so. She'd said they would be able to work around it, and he'd always wondered if she'd meant that he would eventually change or she would, because neither of them had in the end, so she still hated, and now he was fairly positive that the hate had drowned out any bit of the love.

He didn't love Vincent. He didn't know how he felt about Vincent, except that it was not like what he felt for Veld, but it was getting closer to what he felt for Veld, and he didn't know if that was because he was falling in love with one or falling out of love with the other. They were both part of his life now, fixtures he had to structure himself around.

He didn't know. He didn't know how this started. Wasn't he old enough to know better? Wasn't he colder than this?

Vincent's skin was so pale, and cool under his fingers, and so soft when he lowered his head and brushed a kiss against the pulse in his wrist.

"...I'm tired, Vincent," he confessed softly to the white palm, head bowed as he cradled Vincent's hand between both of his. "There's no point in faking it. I don't have the energy to play this game right now. We're both going to have to take the bed, because when I fall asleep I won't wake up even if you paraded a marching band through here, and I know you're very good. I won't catch you. You'll slip away and I won't even know until the morning."

"So. You're either going to have to agree to being restrained in some fashion, or we can stop pretending that it would destroy the world if we share a blanket." His voice grew softer. "It's hypocritical at this point, don't you think."

[foreswear]

Sometimes, Vincent wondered if Duke really had any idea what the hell he was saying to him, and what the hell he was doing to him, and he had to pause for a second to lock the joints in his legs, because he nearly buckled when he felt his lips brush along the inside of his wrist. He wasn't stupid, no, but he was. He was, because a Turk never admitted any sort of weakness no matter what, not even to their own coworkers. Not when it could be used against them. Not when Duke knew damn well that he couldn't pull back, or pull away, or even leave the room when he spoke to him like that, when he pressed soft kisses to his wrist like that, when he held his palm in his hand as if his request that really wasn't a request meant something to him.

That wasn't fair. Duke wasn't playing fair, and Vincent wanted to hate him for it, but the most he could do was shift back one step and pull his hand away, drop it down to the holster at his waist. The buckle gave easily, and he moved the leather and steel away from his hip and let it drop next to the bed. That same hand moved down to the holster at his thigh, and once it was laying next to its counterpart, he moved forward again. Long fingers curled beneath Duke's chin, and even though his brain was mumbling something, telling him not to push his luck, not to do something he'd regret (but not really) later, he stepped a little closer. His fingers moved up past his chin, pressed gently against his cheek, against his temple, thumb brushing lightly over strands of hair, and he resisted the urge to sigh again. Kept his expression indifferent, though his eyes spoke when his mouth didn't, and tried to remember what it was that he had been doing before, what he had been planning on saying, but. Nothing.

It wasn't fair, but Duke rarely ever played fair, and Vincent couldn't say a damn thing about it, because he didn't, either. Not all of the time. Not usually. He tried to play fair when it came to Veld, because he didn't know how to be anything other than honest around him, and he supposed it was something of a curse. It would have been nice to lie, maybe, lie every once in awhile and be able to get away with it, but. Maybe that had something to do with Vincent being a terrible liar. Maybe that had nothing to do with Duke. Maybe that had nothing to do with Veld.

He didn't care.

Vincent dropped his hand after a second's hesitation, and he glanced away, refocused, tried to keep his heart from beating out of his chest. He should have been used to it by now. Kind of like how he should have been used to Veld being stubborn, and Veld trying to get under his skin, and he had been so good at ignoring it before. Had been so goddamn good at just brushing it off, at turning his head the other way, but it was different now. Both of them were different, and Duke was different, too, and that was a problem that Vincent couldn't fix, and Vincent hated not being able to fix things. If it can't be fixed, then fucking kill it, but the same didn't apply when it came to people he cared about it, and that was a problem, too. It made sense. Unfortunately.

"Fine," he relented softly, and for a minute or three, he didn't move. Just stood there, wondering what the fuck he was going to do, and didn't Duke know better, and that sometimes he was naive just like Jericho, but he wasn't, but he was, but he wasn't, and he did know better. He did know better, and he didn't particularly care, because he had his reasons, and Vincent hated those reasons. He didn't move, and he tried not to breathe, and then his legs were threatening to buckle again, so he shifted down onto the bed, sliding past the other Turk, dark hair brushing along the nape of his neck as his head ducked down, as he edged over to the other side of the mattress until the side of his shoulder was pressed against the wall.

Wasn't going to get under the blanket. Refused to.

Prayed to God that Duke wouldn't say anything else, because he was too fucking close now, and Vincent shut out the patterns he had memorized, the ones that surfaced whenever he could make out Duke's heartbeat and the sound of his breath. Counted to five. Five was always there, and it never helped, and he really, really, really hoped Duke didn't say anything.