COMPLETE.
Who: Vincent.
When: literally right after he arrives back in Purgatorium.
Where: around the city.
Rating: PG-13ish.
Warnings: Language. Lengthy.
Summary: Vincent disappears from Purgatorium and is thrust back into the city about a day later. Even though it's only been 24 hours (OKAY 22 HOURS) for Purgatorium, he's been back on Gaia for 30+ years, annnnnd Vincent takes it all reasonably well. Kind of.
He knew where he was even before he opened his eyes.
There was something about the ground of Purgatorium, he decided. He'd figured it out a long time ago, really, back during his first month within the city walls, back during his first day, and the ground hadn't felt right. The soil had been too cool beneath his fingertips, and it twisted and trembled with the pulse that beat steadily in the curve of his throat, in the delicate line of his wrist. It had felt alive, except not really. Not exactly, because it felt dead, too, and it had been unsettling then. Had been unsettling to wake up to, and it wasn't any different right at that second, and Vincent thought, this can't be right.
It was too bad, then. Red eyes flicked open and were met with predictable darkness, and he drew in a quick breath of air, gloved palms flattening beneath him as he all but lurched forward into an unsteady stand. At first, not a lot seemed familiar, and part of him feared that he wasn't actually in Purgatorium. Maybe he was somewhere worse. Somewhere deeper, and darker, and colder, except not a lot of things were worse than Purgatorium, except for Gaia. Except for Gaia when psychotic madmans razed villages and killed innocent people. Except for Gaia when everything was going wrong, and when he was giving advice he had no right to give, and when he was being jerked awake by a blonde with strange eyes and by several pairs of curious eyes.
He remembered thinking (with a bit of a sinking feeling), well, they had been right. He had slept in a coffin. A terribly uncomfortable coffin, too, and it wasn't the way he had wanted to wake up. Wasn't the way he wanted to be tugged from Purgatorium, and he wasn't ready. Wasn't ready to deal with the head of dark hair, longer than it should have been, and there had been too much red, and he fucking hated the color red, and he wanted nothing more than to say, no, I don't want to. I can't go with you, Strife, and I can't go with the rest of your party, either, because if I do, I'll learn all the sort of shit I'm not supposed to learn. We can't have that. I'll change.
And of course he changed.
Of course.
The glove* had been discarded in the coffin along with the uncomfortable shoes that he had no idea how he was supposed to walk in and had been quickly replaced with more reasonable items that were easier to work with. Cerberus and Hydra hadn't come with him, and so he had found replacement weapons, Quicksilver and Outsider, and everything went on. Gaia went on, and Gaia kept moving, and Vincent had to move, too, because it turned out that people needed him more than he ever wanted them to, and it turned out that a certain Cloud Strife was terrible at taking directions, and it turned out that one Yuffie Kisaragi was a bit of a thief. He shouldn't have known those people. He didn't want to know them. Not at first, because.
If he knew them, then who else in Purgatorium would he be leaving behind? Veld, Verdot, no, Veld, and then Iskander Kaplan, except not really, except Duke, and Jericho, and Rinoa, and Namine, and he remembered. He had to remember, and he had to focus, and Vincent sucked in another sharp breath of oxygen, stumbling out of the building he'd manage to end up in and out into the frozen night air. Definitely Purgatorium. There was no mistaking the plate above his head, and not even twenty yards from him, there was the clock tower. Still standing, and it couldn't have been that long, could it, and dark hair shifted over shoulders clad in red (he still hated the color red, didn't know why he wore it) as he leaned forward, as he attempted to catch his breath.
Too many memories. Too many people left behind. Too many years. Too many goddamn years, and the silence was killing him. The demons whispered, were stirred awake by the promises of sin and helplessness and vulnerability, and Vincent ignored them, fingertips sliding over knees wrapped in leather as he kept breathing, as he kept thinking. It was easy to ignore them now, and he supposed that was a bit of a good thing, but it was still too quiet. Wasn't sure if that was a curse or a blessing, and he didn't really want to know, didn't really want an answer, either way. The clock tower.
You remember that, his brain spoke up, and Vincent sighed, straightening and pressing his palm against the holster at his waist. You remember everything.
You remember more than you want to.
There's nothing I can do about that.
I wonder what Duke and Veld would say.
I don't care.
Yeah. Definitely remembered. Remembered everything, and in great detail, and he had hoped that with age, his memory would fade in a way that his body refused to, but. That wasn't how it happened. Remembered being tugged against Duke, and remembered being pinned down against a desk by Duke, and remembered Veld pinning him back against a wall, possessive and beautiful and honest, and remembered finding Veld because that's what partners did, and remembered killing anyone that had ever meant anything to him, and remembered that black and bottomless pit that Purgatorium had shoved him into. Worst of all, he remembered how desperately he hadn't ever wanted to leave, and worst of all, he remembered how he had reveled in that insanity.
And worst of all, he remembered everything he had ever said. Worst of all, he remembered saying too much. Worst of all, he remembered loving too much.
Violence and love went hand-in-hand, it seemed.
Twisted, maybe. Twisted, always, and he wanted to blame it on ShinRa. Wanted to blame on something he couldn't really place, but it didn't matter. Turks didn't matter, because he wasn't a Turk, and he hadn't been for awhile, and it didn't matter. He excused the dull ache in the bottom of his ribcage as nothing more than tired nerves, and stepped forward.
Gaia wasn't good for a person. Neither was Purgatorium. Purgatorium had destroyed him in the way that Gaia had built him up, and now he wasn't sure if he was crumbling all over again, or if he was better than he ever had been before. The demons whispered, trembled, quivered, and Chaos squirmed in the pit of his stomach, and Vincent smiled tiredly.
The demons whispered, trembled, quivered, and Chaos was silenced with long fingers against a slender throat, and Vincent silently tugged silver metal from awaiting leather and kept moving.
(ooc: * OKAY, so. for those of you who aren't aware, that claw that vincent wears? it's just a glove, kids. ): and he abandoned it back in gaia because, lol, he really had no desire to wear it.)
When: literally right after he arrives back in Purgatorium.
Where: around the city.
Rating: PG-13ish.
Warnings: Language. Lengthy.
Summary: Vincent disappears from Purgatorium and is thrust back into the city about a day later. Even though it's only been 24 hours (OKAY 22 HOURS) for Purgatorium, he's been back on Gaia for 30+ years, annnnnd Vincent takes it all reasonably well. Kind of.
He knew where he was even before he opened his eyes.
There was something about the ground of Purgatorium, he decided. He'd figured it out a long time ago, really, back during his first month within the city walls, back during his first day, and the ground hadn't felt right. The soil had been too cool beneath his fingertips, and it twisted and trembled with the pulse that beat steadily in the curve of his throat, in the delicate line of his wrist. It had felt alive, except not really. Not exactly, because it felt dead, too, and it had been unsettling then. Had been unsettling to wake up to, and it wasn't any different right at that second, and Vincent thought, this can't be right.
It was too bad, then. Red eyes flicked open and were met with predictable darkness, and he drew in a quick breath of air, gloved palms flattening beneath him as he all but lurched forward into an unsteady stand. At first, not a lot seemed familiar, and part of him feared that he wasn't actually in Purgatorium. Maybe he was somewhere worse. Somewhere deeper, and darker, and colder, except not a lot of things were worse than Purgatorium, except for Gaia. Except for Gaia when psychotic madmans razed villages and killed innocent people. Except for Gaia when everything was going wrong, and when he was giving advice he had no right to give, and when he was being jerked awake by a blonde with strange eyes and by several pairs of curious eyes.
He remembered thinking (with a bit of a sinking feeling), well, they had been right. He had slept in a coffin. A terribly uncomfortable coffin, too, and it wasn't the way he had wanted to wake up. Wasn't the way he wanted to be tugged from Purgatorium, and he wasn't ready. Wasn't ready to deal with the head of dark hair, longer than it should have been, and there had been too much red, and he fucking hated the color red, and he wanted nothing more than to say, no, I don't want to. I can't go with you, Strife, and I can't go with the rest of your party, either, because if I do, I'll learn all the sort of shit I'm not supposed to learn. We can't have that. I'll change.
And of course he changed.
Of course.
The glove* had been discarded in the coffin along with the uncomfortable shoes that he had no idea how he was supposed to walk in and had been quickly replaced with more reasonable items that were easier to work with. Cerberus and Hydra hadn't come with him, and so he had found replacement weapons, Quicksilver and Outsider, and everything went on. Gaia went on, and Gaia kept moving, and Vincent had to move, too, because it turned out that people needed him more than he ever wanted them to, and it turned out that a certain Cloud Strife was terrible at taking directions, and it turned out that one Yuffie Kisaragi was a bit of a thief. He shouldn't have known those people. He didn't want to know them. Not at first, because.
If he knew them, then who else in Purgatorium would he be leaving behind? Veld, Verdot, no, Veld, and then Iskander Kaplan, except not really, except Duke, and Jericho, and Rinoa, and Namine, and he remembered. He had to remember, and he had to focus, and Vincent sucked in another sharp breath of oxygen, stumbling out of the building he'd manage to end up in and out into the frozen night air. Definitely Purgatorium. There was no mistaking the plate above his head, and not even twenty yards from him, there was the clock tower. Still standing, and it couldn't have been that long, could it, and dark hair shifted over shoulders clad in red (he still hated the color red, didn't know why he wore it) as he leaned forward, as he attempted to catch his breath.
Too many memories. Too many people left behind. Too many years. Too many goddamn years, and the silence was killing him. The demons whispered, were stirred awake by the promises of sin and helplessness and vulnerability, and Vincent ignored them, fingertips sliding over knees wrapped in leather as he kept breathing, as he kept thinking. It was easy to ignore them now, and he supposed that was a bit of a good thing, but it was still too quiet. Wasn't sure if that was a curse or a blessing, and he didn't really want to know, didn't really want an answer, either way. The clock tower.
You remember that, his brain spoke up, and Vincent sighed, straightening and pressing his palm against the holster at his waist. You remember everything.
You remember more than you want to.
There's nothing I can do about that.
I wonder what Duke and Veld would say.
I don't care.
Yeah. Definitely remembered. Remembered everything, and in great detail, and he had hoped that with age, his memory would fade in a way that his body refused to, but. That wasn't how it happened. Remembered being tugged against Duke, and remembered being pinned down against a desk by Duke, and remembered Veld pinning him back against a wall, possessive and beautiful and honest, and remembered finding Veld because that's what partners did, and remembered killing anyone that had ever meant anything to him, and remembered that black and bottomless pit that Purgatorium had shoved him into. Worst of all, he remembered how desperately he hadn't ever wanted to leave, and worst of all, he remembered how he had reveled in that insanity.
And worst of all, he remembered everything he had ever said. Worst of all, he remembered saying too much. Worst of all, he remembered loving too much.
Violence and love went hand-in-hand, it seemed.
Twisted, maybe. Twisted, always, and he wanted to blame it on ShinRa. Wanted to blame on something he couldn't really place, but it didn't matter. Turks didn't matter, because he wasn't a Turk, and he hadn't been for awhile, and it didn't matter. He excused the dull ache in the bottom of his ribcage as nothing more than tired nerves, and stepped forward.
Gaia wasn't good for a person. Neither was Purgatorium. Purgatorium had destroyed him in the way that Gaia had built him up, and now he wasn't sure if he was crumbling all over again, or if he was better than he ever had been before. The demons whispered, trembled, quivered, and Chaos squirmed in the pit of his stomach, and Vincent smiled tiredly.
The demons whispered, trembled, quivered, and Chaos was silenced with long fingers against a slender throat, and Vincent silently tugged silver metal from awaiting leather and kept moving.
(ooc: * OKAY, so. for those of you who aren't aware, that claw that vincent wears? it's just a glove, kids. ): and he abandoned it back in gaia because, lol, he really had no desire to wear it.)