She'd called again, you noticed. You didn't listen to the
message, not then--but you knew what it was likely to say.
She would go on a long rambling description of her day, with tart
interjections--"Like you'd know, what with you going and sulking in that
coffin again"--and frequent uses of that obnoxious nickname.
It could be worse, though, you thought. She could have been calling you Vintage.
It was close enough to your name, and close enough to the truth that you could
only be thankful she hadn't thought of it yet.
You knew it was only a matter of time before she discovered it, though.
So you put off listening to it until later, until everything you considered
important that day was finished and all that was left is to sit and stare into
the fire.
It was just what you expected, cheerful and all over the place, just like her.
You weren't sure why, exactly, she seemed to think your phone was her personal
journal--
--but you couldn't bring yourself to erase those messages.
Lucrecia--she never would have done anything like that, but she'd
been a woman grown when you'd met her. And your teammate--your friend--was
still young.
Young though she was, there was still a maturity there--a sense of something that
she had never shown. Despite how often you tried, it always eluded your
efforts to pin it down and discover what, exactly, had been missing in her.
And so you sat and stared at your campfire, and listened to her ramble.
It was just to annoy him, you told yourself as you hung up.
And that was the first thing to motivate it--that urge to jerk his chain,
an attempt to yank him back from his self-imposed exile.
So you called him, and left him a message--did he never pick up his
phone?--and told him about your day in excruciating detail--all the while making
snide remarks about how he'd disappeared.
After a few days of it and no response, you'd lost interest, mostly--
But sometimes after that you got a twitch, an urge, and so you picked up your
phone and called him, just to get no answer--
And just talked about your day.
You couldn't remember when you realized it had become a habit--when you looked
down at the call history to find that you'd called him steadily, day after day
after day, just to tell him what had been going on.
Knowing him, however, you knew that he probably deleted the messages without
even listening.
But you still called him--maybe still in an effort to drag him from his hiding,
maybe to try to show him that there were other people in the world than him and
that damn woman.
Maybe it was just that being able to talk about your day, without anyone to
judge you, was the most soothing thing you'd known.
You knew, after all, that he would just end up erasing them.
It wasn't like he'd ever listen to what you had to say.
It had fallen into a comfortable pattern, you calling him as the last thing you
did in your day, leaving him another message that he'd never listen to.
Eventually, though, one morning you woke and scrambled desperately for the
phone, dialing his number while half asleep--
--and you found yourself pouring out words, coming close to admitting something
that you'd only recently reluctantly admitted to yourself.
It took more effort to cut off that flood of words than you wanted to admit, and
you hung up, flustered.
Even if he didn't listen to your messages, there were some things you just
didn't want to say to him.
And admitting that you might have had not-entirely-clean dreams about him was
one of them.
So you cut yourself off, and hung up, and knew that he wouldn't listen to it,
and knew you were safe.
And so when your phone rang later that day, you answered it with no qualms--
At least until you heard his voice speaking.
He said your name in that smooth voice of his, concerned and reminding you--not
on purpose, oh gawd please not on purpose--of that dream--
It took a few seconds before you realized that the phone had fallen from your
hand and clattered on the ground--you dove for it and pressed it to your ear in
time to hear him say your name again, puzzled this time.
You almost couldn't get yourself to speak.
After what felt like hours but must have been only seconds, you managed to force
out a greeting, and it was like that breached the dam holding your words
inside--you were able to find something suitably teasing to add to your
lackluster greeting.
You started thinking you might be able to get through this without dying of
terminal embarrassment after all.
That was only the case until he dropped the mountain on you.
He asked what the deal with the message that morning had been. And the only
thing that came to mind were words that would feel right at home in Cid's mouth.
You stammered something in reply--an excuse, you think it was--and hung up. A few
moments later your phone rang again, and you didn't answer it--you knew that it
could only be him.
Later, when you checked your messages, you found a terse message from him,
telling you to call him back.
You didn't.
Calling him would have meant explaining, and explaining would have meant--
You didn't want to think about what it would mean.
Because if your stupid dreams resulted in losing one of your only friends--
You're not sure if you would ever be able to forgive yourself.
And so you turned his game against him: you stopped answering your phone--screening,
you remember hearing it called once--and call back only the people you want to
talk to.
It was a bit sad that he's one of those people, and you didn't dare call him.
You weren't sure if you were more worried or annoyed.
After that one message, where she'd sounded half asleep and started to say
something about a dream before she cut herself off with a muttered curse, and
your call to make sure it was nothing serious--this is foolish, Valentine,
you told yourself, but you couldn't help worrying--
There was nothing.
It's odd, you thought, that your roles could be so reversed.
Because she was the one who wasn't answering, now, and you were the one
constantly calling.
You didn't even know if she'd even listened to the messages you'd left.
But at the same time, she was ignoring you, and that was something you were
never sure how to react to. As a Turk, there were those who were slavishly--fearfully--attentive,
and those who were arrogantly dismissive, but rare was the fool who ignored you.
You'd never had a chance to learn what to do.
Just by being herself, she'd always brought such ambivalent emotions out in
you--irritation and amusement, a degree of protectiveness and a warrior's
respect.
You could still remember that point in time where you knew she couldn't be
trusted, but some instinct said she was to be trusted.
You told yourself that you would give her two weeks to reply.
You gave in after only three days.
You told yourself that it wasn't that you missed those long daily messages of
hers--that the reason you obsessively listened to the old ones was to listen for
any hint of distress.
You didn't quite believe that was it, but you put it out of your mind.
It wasn't too far to Wutai, and you knew that she wouldn't be able to avoid your
questions in person.
You were met with a large degree of respect and astonishment when you enter
Wutai. You knew that it had been quite a while since the last time you'd been
seen in public, but the welcome you got--
You found it ridiculous.
You were escorted in to a room to find Godo waiting for you. You really hadn't
interacted with him on the short trips that AVALANCHE had managed during Meteor,
but--
Sometimes you wonder if he remembers you.
After a few minutes of polite chatter, the door opened again, and she entered,
brashly asking what her father wanted her for--
And then going silent, her eyes wide, when she saw you, face paling, and then
flushing, and paling again.
You merely nodded in greeting. You could wait to ask her about that strange
phone call until later--from her reaction, it was probably nothing she would want
her father to hear.
Knowing Godo, though, you were pretty sure that you didn't want to talk
about the subject in front of him, either.
There were points during that conversation with her father that you were glad
you were already known for being a man of few words. There were a few parts
where, had you not been known for not explaining much, would have put you
into a situation that you were certain that you wouldn't have enjoyed being in.
Being asked what your purpose for coming to Wutai was happened to be one of the
smaller pitfalls.
Surprisingly, she was more than willing to help you get through the verbal traps
her father was spreading--surprising, because you weren't sure what her reaction
would be, but had expected it to be bad.
Her initial reaction when she saw you had reinforced that expectation.
Eventually something came up, and he dismissed you into his daughter's company--
Except she made her excuses as soon as she could, and removed herself from the
area.
You think that was about when you started to get suspicious.
The last thing you expected was for him to come here.
You thought he would figure out that you didn't want to explain, that he would
understand--
But he didn't. He'd come--
And the last thing you wanted to do was to let him corner you.
If that happened, everything would come out.
And you couldn't let that happen.
Your father was being his normal overprotective self--more so than normal,
truthfully--and asking the same questions he asked every male past puberty
who had come into contact with you.
Needless to say, when your father asked him about his reasons for coming to
Wutai, that was the least of his worries.
You knew your father was just trying to make sure that the line of succession
wasn't--blurred through any actions on your part, but you really wished
sometimes--most times--that he would just let you live your own life.
It wasn't like you'd do anything that would disgrace your family--
Nothing that was too bad, at least.
You knew that he was a believer in fair play, and that he'd probably figured out
that the situation wasn't exactly favorable towards him--
So you helped him out when you could, in little ways that your father wouldn't
interpret as signs of attraction--
Even if attraction really was the case, and that Vincent had come because
you'd messed up.
You could only hope that he would take this as a hint--as payment for him
leaving.
After your father dismissed you, though, you made an excuse and left--he might be
the master of self control, but you'd never been one for patience--or control.
You didn't trust yourself to be alone with him, and you knew he would probably
thank you for removing the--temptation--from yourself.
Wasn't that, after all, a kind of redemption?
You did know, after all, how much he liked the idea of redemption--even if he
never did anything with it.
You also knew that he would consider you reaching out to him in the way
that--that you wanted to as something else he had to repent for.
Strange, that you knew him well enough that you could be sure he would blame
himself for something that was entirely your fault.
And maybe there could be some blame attributed to him, but it wasn't his fault
that you could find so much about him appealing.
So you left--he already blamed himself for so much. Why add your foolishness to
the rest of it? It would just be an afterthought, just a footnote on the long
list of what he'd already accepted as his fault.
You told yourself that you wouldn't dream of him that night, but it was an order
your mind refused to follow.
You had to wonder at the logic of where your room is.
She'd mentioned repeatedly in her messages that she'd been forced to move back
into the same house as her father, but you never once expected--given how
thoroughly, and the topics on which her father had questioned you--that you would
be put into the room next to hers.
And that was the least of the surprises that night.
You'd dozed off, despite how off balance you were, only to wake at a short low
sound coming from her room. It was quiet, quiet enough that most wouldn't have
heard it--but you weren't like most.
It was quiet enough, in fact, that had the walls been even slightly thicker,
even you wouldn't have heard it--as it was, you still felt it more
than heard it.
It wasn't even conscious thought that brought you to your feet, gun in hand.
Listening, you heard it again, and padded out into the hallway, feet silent on
the smooth wood floor.
The hallway was empty--it was late, though you weren't sure how late.
Pausing before her door, you felt an unfamiliar prick of propriety.
It had never been a problem before, but before had never been like this--the
darkened rooms you entered late at night was always that of someone Shinra
wanted removed, or the silent, almost sterile rooms that had been
provided for you.
In the end, propriety won, and you rapped quietly on her door with the knuckles
of your claw arm, as you were reluctant to used your human hand--you didn't know
if you were going to need to shoot--and called her name in a low voice.
There wasn't a verbal response, but those soft, low noises continued. It didn't
take much to remind you of her voice speaking of a dream, sleepy and low and
almost musical, sounding nothing like the way she normally spoke--
You open the door just enough to see her sprawled in sleep, just like she always
had during Meteor, and no sign there had been anyone else in the room.
When you hear another of those sounds, you start to relax--it couldn't be more
obvious that it had come from her--but then you freeze, and only years of
training keeps you from dropping your gun.
That low, throaty moan had turned into your name.
And the way she'd said it--
It took all of your restraint to keep from slamming the door shut.
You knew that low and eager tone of voice all too well.
It was the way you had always wanted to make her call for you.
Somehow you coaxed yourself into closing the door--quietly--and returned to
your room. You don't think you'd ever been more thankful for an empty hallway.
You sat cross-legged with your back against the wall--the wall closest to her--and
tried to put out of your mind the thought of her panting and moaning under
you--over you--
That gave you a thrill you didn't want to think about.
You had always been the most attracted to strong women. Women who could--take
care of themselves.
Dominate you, whispered one of the demons--too quiet, too neutral for you
to be able to assign a name to it--and you pushed them all back until they
were just a buzz in the back of your mind.
They weren't right, you told yourself. You had no interest in that sort of
thing.
She had been the exception to the type of woman you liked--brief flashes
of a strength like steel, yes--but almost always fragile. Almost always brittle.
And Yuffie--
Yuffie was one of the strongest people you'd ever met.
But she was young--old enough by the laws of everywhere--and even without
those thirty years in the coffin, there was still too much time between you.
You sat with your back against the wall--her wall--and wondered if driving your
claws into your leg would remove those thoughts from your mind--
But even if you did that, there were still those noises she made--noises you
didn't need to hear. They were echoing in your bones.
You didn't get back to sleep that night. You knew that if you did, you would
dream--
And in that dream, your partner wouldn't be the same woman it had been for all
those years.
He wasn't looking at you.
In fact, he was going to great pains to avoid your eyes, and, as far as
you could tell, any part of you.
If he had been able to leave without causing a fuss, you were pretty sure he
would have already done so.
He wasn't looking at you, and you thought you knew why.
You had dreamed of him, even though you'd told yourself you wouldn't.
You'd woken, breaths coming in quick pants, a moan trying to rise from your
throat--
--tight excitement--almost to the point of nausea--welling deep inside you--
And the sound of movement in his room.
He knew. You knew he did.
And now he wasn't looking at you.
Your father noticed the change, and pulled you aside--you shrugged and managed to
say something to the effect of no one knows why he acts like he does,
probably not even him--and made your escape as soon as you can.
You spend your day staring down at Wutai from the peaks of Da Chao.
Leviathan was always the most pleased with those who did everything to the best
of their abilities, you knew.
And one of the things you did best, you knew, was convincing people of something
they weren't quite sure of.
You didn't know how it would affect him, because you had talked him--along
with the rest of AVALANCHE--into allowing you to stay--
But since he already knew that you were dreaming of him--
Well, why not have the real thing?
You have a sinking feeling the moment that she comes looking for you that you
know what she wants.
And, as you've experienced before, she can be very convincing.
And you're pretty sure that, if she managed to get you alone, she might not stop
at words.
She said your name cheerfully, and you forced down your misgivings. It was
possible--however unlikely--that she wanted something else.
Like you on a leash, came a snide remark from the back of your mind. You
responded with a mental snarl and they dropped back into stillness, leaving
behind only the sound of their laughter in your head.
She smiled brilliantly up at you and tilted her head to one side. And when she
spoke, it was that low and musical voice--
She asked you to escort her to visit the others.
Mesmerized by that voice, you agreed--but when you meet here at the gate you
discovered that she isn't taking anyone with her.
You would be alone. At night. With her. And if you wanted to--you could
have her.
Or she could have you.
Thinking quickly, you asked if you should call Cid and ask him to bring the
Highwind. You weren't certain you could stand having only thin fabric between
you and her, fabric that would do nothing to remove her voice, begging,
pleading you--a dream you--to go harder--faster--
You'd never realized it was possible to be murderously jealous of yourself.
She smiled--a predatory smile, one that simultaneously makes you both hard and
worried--she's standing above you, naked and proud--
She shook her head, claiming that she'd prefer to walk.
You've never been one to fight against events you knew were going to
happen--denied them, yes, delayed them for as long as possible--
But you've never fought against them.
And looking at her, a girl-child turned into a woman overnight, someone who had
gone from genderless to someone who was to be desired--
You wondered if this time you even wanted to try to deny what you could
see would happen.
Looking around the tent, you nodded. You were ready.
He would never know what hit him, you thought smugly.
At least, it was smug up to the point when you realized that you were about to
step outside your tent--naked.
Modesty had never been something big for you, but--there was just something about
the idea of being naked in the middle of nowhere that just made you feel--weak.
Defenseless.
Wrapping a blanket around you helped, somewhat, and you took a deep breath in
front of his tent before saying his name in a sing-song voice--clutching the
blanket to you with one hand as the other pushed the flap to the side.
He was sitting cross-legged on his sleeping bag, red cloak nowhere to be seen.
Swallowing, you stepped into the tent, letting the fabric of the flap fall
behind you.
He watched you approach, red eyes solemn--and yet something in them made the
anticipation in you burn hotter.
It was surprisingly easy, and also difficult, to let the blanket fall.
You weren't entirely surprised when he responded--almost eagerly--to your kiss.
And one of the things that delighted you the most was the discovery that a man
as restrained as him could be so--vocal.