Learning to Live

Tifa:



Tifa smiled and gave a quick nod. "Good. I know it works well enough on me."



She stepped away from the chair, letting her hand slide off his shoulder. Her eyes fell for only a second on the ugly scars of his left arm, exposed to her for the first time. She'd never seen him without the gauntlet before, or at least the glove, and now knew why. She'd been studiously keeping her gaze off of it, knowing that the man was self-conscious about it. Why else would he always hide it?



Damn that bastard scientist, she thought, doing well to keep the scowl off her face as she returned to her previous position on the couch. Hojo had been such a sick, twisted man, and the ringed scar on Vincent's forearm bore enough testament to what might have been done to make it. Sympathy washed through her for a moment as she glanced at it once more when she noticed he wasn't looking, and quickly returned her gaze to his face.



She had her own scar... it ran between her breasts for a few inches, ending just below the part in her ribs. But hers was nothing like his; hers had been tended and had healed to nothing more than a fine, thin line on the skin. The blade of the Masamune had been slender and sharp, after all. Yet, his... She almost shuddered. She didn't want to imagine what sort of tool had made that.



The broken lines of spidery veins were noted, but with whatever had happened to his arm, it didn't surprise her. She pulled one of the sofa pillows out from behind her and placed it on the arm rest, leaning belly-down on it as she watched him. The rain could still be heard outside.



"So... I guess you're off this weekend?" She didn't think he was in the mood for conversation, but needed at least a little to draw her attention from morbid thoughts. She'd noticed his tension at her touch, but dismissed it. Another one of his peculiarities that she found almost endearing, and she was one of very few who did.



Vincent:


From the corner of his eye, Vincent saw her staring at his left arm and hurriedly dropped it back to the armrest, out of sight, hidden behind his body and the chair. He lowered his gaze to stare at the thick carpet beneath his toes, finally opening his mouth to say, “…surgical saw.”



He knew Tifa wouldn’t ply him with questions but the need to speak of it beat at his soul with relentless wings. As if he could justify his reasoning for keeping his flaws hidden by explaining them.



“…shortly after I was…revived. Hojo thought it fascinating to…judge the amount of pain I could tolerate.” He fell silent for a moment, damning himself for pouring this out to Tifa, of all people on the Planet, but blamed the alcohol for making the words float to the surface of his tongue.



“…they started by using random torture devices, ‘old-school’ methods, I suppose. Then they used drugs, various nerve altering substances and hallucinating agents. When Hojo grew bored with that and I was still alive, he decided…amputation would suffice.” Vincent’s voice was flat in the still room.



“He decided on my left arm, since I was left-handed before. My ‘strong arm’, so to speak. I was drugged, but not unconscious. But I felt it. And I screamed. Until I couldn’t. She cauterized my arm so I wouldn’t bleed to death. Hojo…” Vincent’s voice choked a bit, but he cleared his throat and went on. “…cut up my arm as I watched.” His left arm lifted and turned a bit before lowering.



“That’s where the lines come from. He repaired it afterward, and reattached it, but I still don’t have full usage of it.” His eyes never left the carpet. “I don’t know why he bothered.” A deep melancholy sigh.



“I donned the glove to avoid questions, but when I realized I couldn’t fire left handed again, I decided to take on the claws as well, to get some use from it.” He dared a glance toward his guest. “I abhor questions regarding it, and here I’ve told you the entire tale. Must be the alcohol.”



Tifa:



The conversational smile slid from Tifa's face into a look of shock, then her mouth opened, but no words came as he recounted the entirety of what had happened to his left arm. Chapfallen, she stared at him, unblinking until the mist coated her eyes. Dear Planet, how had he lived through that? The epiphany came then, that he hadn’t. Not all of him, at least. Not the part that mattered.



They'd found him in a coffin, one he'd obviously stayed in by choice. Someone of his strength could have easily gotten out no matter how many locks were placed upon it... but he didn't. He'd just lain there, day in and day out, for longer than she'd been alive until they'd happened on the clues Hojo had left behind. Physically, he survived, but emotionally...



She'd always known he wasn't all there when they found him. Not in the mental sense, just in how he reacted to things. Mostly that he just didn't. Not until they found Lucrecia. He was better now, much. It seemed that way at least. Yet, looking at his arm, hearing the breaks in his deep baritone and seeing the way he kept his eyes averted, she doubted anyone could truly get over something so heinous. Not only Hojo, but Lucrecia...



By the time he did look at her, she knew her face was pink. It had to be, it was hot with the effort to keep the water in her eyes from running down her cheeks. She almost hated it, the empathy she had for others. It'd nearly gotten her killed in her younger days, on the streets of Midgar and in AVALANCHE. She knew she must have looked stupid, sitting there nearly crying over something that he didn't tell others probably because of this reaction. Or maybe disgust? Was he ever afraid of that? Maybe just the reminder.



It really must have been the alcohol that made him tell her, but just maybe, she thought, maybe he needed to tell someone. "Vincent," she whispered, and found she could not convey enough with the tone, so she sat up, leaning forward on the edge of the armrest so she could reach across the small end table between stacks of books to take his right hand.



"I... I'm glad you told me. I did wonder." Gods, she hated the tremor in her voice. It sounded weak to her ears. She cleared her throat and fine brows pulled low over dark eyes.



"If anyone deserved to die over and over, in as many painful ways as there are stars in the sky, it's Hojo." She lifted her eyes from his arm, where they'd been on the last word, and turned them to his. She hoped he didn't take this as pity. She pitied few people, the clones, Sephiroth (she'd stopped hating him, at last) and even Cloud in times past.



Not Vincent.



Vincent's words made her feel pain, and anger, not at him, but the one - no, ones, she reminded herself - who did this to him. Still, there was so little she could say to explain that.



"I can't say I know what all that was like..." There were few, if any, left alive who might. "But I hate that it happened to you." She squeezed his hand gently, looking at the smooth, pale flesh of that arm and being thankful that it had left been untouched.



Vincent:



Valentine inhaled a ragged breath as Tifa moved but started in surprise as she gripped his right hand, her fingers strong. Indeed, the strength in her grip surprised him. Unconsciously, his long fingers tightened around hers as glassy vermillion eyes lifted to her face, her dark eyes soft and liquid, filled no doubt with her deep, wrenching pity. But what he saw in those eyes made him blink.



There was sympathy there, yes, but writ across Tifa’s classic countenance was a deep simmering anger, a shared pain, an understanding. He heard the quaver in her voice and readily agreed to her statement about the deranged insane scientist.



“Yes,” he whispered, eyes falling to their joined hands, resting atop the chair’s armrest. “Sometimes I wish he had suffered more.”



Dark lashes closed and he felt Chaos stirring, deep within. White were his knuckles, pale even against the ivory skin. But he screamed silently and forced the beast back down to its prison inside him and took another deep breath.



“I am sorry for burdening you with it, Tifa.” A soft sigh. “I know you have been curious over it.” He tried, desperately, for a bit of levity and forced his lips into a crooked half-smile. “It is the one failing you have.”



Vincent looked up at her, seeing her still-flushed cheeks and wide hurt eyes, teeth unconsciously nibbling her lower lip. With a silent snarl at his traitorous brain, Valentine resolutely pulled away and rose to his feet, striding around the couch and to the kitchen.



“Apologies,” he said, flicking on the room’s light. “Would you like a drink? There’s beer, soda, or water, if you prefer…”



The microwave clock read 1:15. Gaia, was it really that late? No wonder he was so off-kilter. He usually claimed unconsciousness around ten or so.



Tifa:



She stared after him as he pulled away, hiding. Oh, try as he might to brush it off as being all better, she knew better. She'd seen it before. A different face, a different reason. But the hiding was the same.



She rubbed her eyes and stood quickly to follow him into the kitchen. She watched his back, feeling so lost on what to do, yet so firmly resolved to do something.



For the moment, all she could do was mutter, "Um, brandy if you have it." The malt scotch from earlier hadn't been enough, not on a night like tonight. Not after what she'd just seen and heard.



As he was opening the cabinet, she blurted, "You don't have to, you know. Apologize. You never had to. And I'd like to think of it as a simple trait, rather than a fault. My curiosity, I mean..." Planet, she felt so stupid. She waited on her drink while her brain kept fumbling.



Vincent:



Vincent nodded to her request, crouching to open the bottom cabinet and retrieve the dark bottle of rather expensive peach brandy he kept at all times. Fetching a tumbler from the upper cupboard, he removed the stopper and poured a generous amount of the dark peach liquid. Rather than simply slide it across the cabinet to her, he picked it up in his left hand, concentrating on making the digits grip the cool glass.



“Peach brandy,” he told her, offering the glass. “A vintage year, actually, three years old.” A spark of irony lit his eye and a hint of a smirk curved his mouth.



Tifa:



A smile tried to tug one corner of her lips, but only partially succeeded. He was ever-so-good at avoiding the subject and ignoring her words. She took the glass from him, glancing once again at his hand. A vintage year, indeed, she thought as she sipped the liquid, trying to savor it, then giving up and downing more than half of it a little too quickly.



The warmth hit her stomach and should have made her feel better... but it didn't. She should have been happy, or flattered, that he was sharing this with her, and not just liquor but this moment. She set the glass on the bar as the alcohol began to add to the muddle of her mind. At least that would be an excuse for it.



"Vincent..." she began in an uncertain tone that gained strength slowly, quiet but resolute. "I know... I know it bothers you to be close to people. Even your friends. I can't imagine the kind of pain you've been through, but you're here now, and we're here for you. With you. Don't hide, not anymore." She looked to the floor, almost bitterly.



"Cloud hid. For so long and so completely that he forgot who he was. Even after that, after Sephiroth was gone... he kept things from all of us until it was almost too late. From me... and I thought I knew him best." Brown eyes turned to red again.



"Please... don't do that. I almost can't believe you did tell me everything, and you can't know how grateful I am that you did." It was a torrent that she couldn't stop, even if she wanted to. But she didn't want to, he had to know this.



"Don't stop there. Don't let me in the door just to turn out the lights so I can't see the rest. I'm your friend, Vincent..." She stepped forward and took his right hand again, then, more gently, his left. "Let me act like it."



Her voice fell to a whisper as the hurt and angry look returned, now subdued by concern. "Let me be mad for you, or hurt for you, or be sad. Just let me understand you, Vincent. There's no way you can tell me you don't need it." The words tumbled out, and she couldn't help but be afraid that she'd let out too much.



Vincent:



A forlorn sigh escaped his lungs at her words. “Tifa…” he began, but there was no interrupting her. Thus he was obliged to let her speak, listening against his will. For he did, he truly did, care for Tifa. She was such a good woman, a good friend, no matter the circumstances. A light he’d dared not step into for three years now.



He turned from her, both hands resting atop the counter, head bowed. But the change in her voice as she spoke of Cloud caught his sensitive ear and he glanced at her, brow furrowing to see the sadness cross her face. It surprised him yet again as she looked up at him and resolutely took his hands, both of them, even though he flinched a bit as unfamiliar touch graced his left. The sporadic muscles of those fingers involuntarily twitched in her grip. Vincent stared down at their hands, her tanned skin a stark contrast against his pale, pale flesh. After she fell silent, he could feel her eyes desperately searching his face and Vincent carefully schooled his features to a smooth mask.



When he spoke, so carefully did he choose his words. “…I know you are my friend, Tifa. That is simply your way. I…cannot refute you to feel anger, or pain, although I wish you would not.” Quite against his will or even conscious thought, his right thumb gently slid over her knuckles.



“You of all people do not deserve to be burdened with sins of the past.” Long black hair, now dry and loose, fell over his shoulder, brushing against their hands. Despite his good sense, Valentine discovered he hadn’t the slightest urge to break that careful contact. But Gaia, Vincent knew the alcohol would pay dearly for this night. He’d abstain for a year if he lived through it.



Forcing a swallow to dampen a dry throat, he asked softly, roughly, “…what is it you wish to understand? I must warn you, the secrets of the past are best left there, Tifa…for monsters roam in the dark.” As he said the last, he lifted his eyes to hers, the deep wine-scarlet orbs smoldering with carefully restrained emotion.



Tifa:



She saw him through mist again, and blinked to clear the blurry image and push back the tears caused by the look in his eyes, the sound of his voice and the surprising openness that was there mixed with the pain of his past, and lastly by relief that he hadn't pulled away.



"You..." She answered at last. "It isn't a burden, and I don't mean to cause you hurt by dredging up old memories. I know... I know someone hurt you." That, she could understand all too well, in one sense. But that was past. Slender, strong fingers tightened around his hands as she forced herself to keep that crimson gaze.



"What I really want is to know you, like I know the others. I want to understand you... and part of me knows that I can't fully do that until I know what made you, you." She inhaled a shaking breath and did what she'd have done for anyone else in their little group of heroes. What she'd always held back from him, because he never seemed to want it.



Tifa released his hands in favor of slipping her arms under his, hands pressed to the firm muscles of his back as she embraced him, head resting against his shoulder. "I just want to help." She pulled back enough to look up at him and offer a half-smile while quickly wiping her eyes with the fingers of one hand. Good sense caught up with her and she chuckled softly, mirthlessly at herself. "Gods, I must look like such a mess right now..." she muttered.



She could blame alcohol, but knew that it was more than that. Here was someone who, out of all their comrades, had faced unspeakable pain, and did it all alone. None of them, Tifa knew, could have done what he had. Not one.



Vincent:



He knew it had to be the liquor.



And how bloody long are you going to keep blaming the booze, gunslinger? came the sardonic niggle in his brain. He formulated a snarled reply but it was never delivered because he incredulously felt Tifa’s arms sliding around him and her head coming to rest against his shoulder.



Frozen wasn’t the word. Concrete might have come closer, because Valentine doubted he could have moved if Jenova herself had leapt from the refrigerator and aimed a blade right between his eyes.



Flesh, warmth…touch.



It rendered his mouth immobile, hanging halfway open and shocked eyes wide as he stared unseeing at the opposite wall.



She just wanted to help…



Vincent thought he might drown. Completely absent of water. But to return such a gentle gesture to a friend…what would he give? Much, he realized belatedly; as if sensing his desperation and uncertainty, his arms lifted to awkwardly enclose the woman in a tentative careful embrace.



As the ever-sensitive fingers of his right hand encountered the cool softness of Tifa’s hair, he suppressed a groan and closed his eyes. His innate attention to detail sent messages to his brain, which in turn spread them through all the tiny nerves in his body, messages he’d quite rather ignore till all nine hells froze completely over. Vincent dimly heard her chuckle and felt her shift against him, eliciting another hard swallow and he bit the inside of his lip.



He was a man and she was a woman, You finally noticed, did you, gunslinger? Gaia, you’re beyond pathetic, Valentine, there was alcohol thick in their blood and desperation, frustration and aggravation all three were riding his back with cruel whips, the effects of which Tifa never would deserve.



Throwing vicious reins on his willpower and the thoughts running rampant through his perfidious brain, Vincent carefully took hold of Tifa’s arms and gently moved her back a few steps. He knew his face was flaming as he somehow managed to grate, “…Tifa…talking about the past…” he sighed, then went on, a bit more earnestly than before, “…it just that, the past. It hasn’t the power to harm me, anymore. I finally managed to leave most of it behind in that cave.”



He still wouldn’t say the woman’s name. “I am humbled more than you can know that you want to understand, but I honestly don’t know how you can.” Vincent lowered his eyes, then lifted them once again.



“It is a strange place, here.” Lidded vermillion softened to deep russet and his right hand, that so traitorous appendage, slipped over her shoulder to rest against her throat, calloused thumb stroking over the fine pulse point in Tifa’s neck. Before the thought even crossed his mind, Vincent damned it to immortal hell forever and dropped his hands, an exhaled breath escaping as he half-turned away.



“It is quite late,” he rumbled. “Perhaps we should call it a night…unless there is something else on your mind?”



Tifa:



As he turned away, Tifa felt the corners of her lips turning down and a building desperation to not let it end at that. Tomorrow would bring sobriety, and that probably meant more closed doors. She didn't want that, dammit. Here she was, standing in his kitchen watching him turn away again. She'd felt his hand in her hair, heard the unsteadiness in his breath and saw the color in his face and the need in his eyes. He was human, more than so many others.



Her neck still tingled where his touch, so well guarded before, had been bestowed carefully, and then she'd watched him force himself to pull it away. The past did hurt him. Maybe it didn't make him who he was anymore, maybe it didn't define him. But the past had never been her primary goal. Damn it, perhaps he was right that she'd never understand that part... but him? That was the part she wanted to know. Only that was even more difficult to get to.



She grabbed his hand again, the left one, and pulled him back to face her. He cared for her enough to wish she wouldn't hurt for him, and it moved her deeply. It couldn't stop her, though. How much had he denied himself these years? How much did he still deny himself? Touch was so foreign to him, made him so tense yet she could see the need for a touch not unkind in his eyes, and the vulnerability caused by that.



Warmth she could give. Touch she could give. Maybe understanding would come later.



Before conscious thought caught up with her, high-strung emotions, liquor and the late hour pulled her forward, close to him again. Close enough to stand on tip-toe and press her lips to his in a firm, fervent gesture. Fire ran through her... and Tifa understood then that she needed this as well. She held it as long as she could keep her good sense of some propriety away, then pulled back to gasp for air, her eyes wide with shock at her own actions. She still held his left hand, but now her grip slackened.



Even more odd than what she'd done was that there was less shock over that, less fear of the repercussions, and more surprise over how good it had felt. Red flooded her cheeks as she stared up at him and stammered soundlessly, waiting to be damned.



Vincent:



Completely prepared to offer goodnights and his bed for her usage tonight, Vincent opened his mouth at her move and started to say just that, but was abruptly surprised as Tifa rather impatiently grabbed his hand and pulled him back around. Puzzlement furrowed his brow at the determined expression she wore but as he began to inquire, another impossibility occurred and all of a sudden Vincent Valentine found himself backed up against the sink in his own kitchen with Tifa Lockheart’s lovely lips pressed firmly against his. All conscious thought fled.



If he’d been concrete before, he was granite now. Save he was melting, melting into a gradually heating mass of emotion, emotions he’d thought long dormant or vanished completely. His temples throbbed and he knew it wasn’t from inebriation this time. Warmth was stealing through his blood, igniting nerve endings in places he’d thought useless. But he didn’t resist her; he couldn’t resist her. By Gaia, she was there, reaching out to him; he’d have to be a stupid clod indeed to refuse such a tender offering.



But his right hand was firmly clamped to the edge of the sink behind him. Before his short-circuited brain could catch up with the events and analyze them properly, Tifa stepped back and stared up at him with doe-wide eyes, shocked. Vincent could relate; he was sure his own eyes were glazed and surprised as well. Seeing the flush creeping her cheeks, Vincent realized she’d no more planned it than he had.



A low growl reverberated through his mind and his own throat echoed it, the sound emerging as a rough purr as he gazed at her, so intently. Something stirred in his breast, a thing he desperately wanted to keep caged but his own disorientation was thin. Red eyes fell from her gaze to rest upon her lips, still flushed and glistening.



“…Tifa…” he groaned, her name sounding almost a prayer of desperation. His left hand slipped from her grasp and lifted to thread long scarred fingers in her hair, the digits cupping her cheek reverently. His thumb swept below her mouth and, hearing her breath catch just so, her eyelashes flutter, forced another growl from his lungs and against all his good sense and careful constraints, Vincent’s right hand let go.



Before a heartbeat passed, he had her in his arms. Embers flickered in flaming eyes before they closed and his mouth fell over hers, needing, wanting, yearning. Both hands flattened to her back, keeping her molded against him, relishing the feel of another sentient being as he kissed her with such intensity. Nudging her lips apart, his tongue slipped inside, groaning at the silky-sweet taste of her mouth. Teeth nipped her lower lip as his tongue explored the forbidden cavern with such thoroughness and then coiled around the smooth wet muscle within.



Vincent stroked her tongue with his, dexterous and skillful, as fingertips glided down her spine, rough through the thin t-shirt. After several breathless moments of this shocking sin, Vincent’s noted good sense returned and clubbed him in back of his brain, and he tore his lips from hers with a ragged breath, averting his face as he released her and stepped back, letting the long black locks hide his needing desire.



With regret, so much regret, for he now knew he’d be forever damned in her eyes, he ground out, a bit breathless, “Tifa, we cannot do this. …forgive me…I did not mean…I’m sorry.”



Tifa:



Tifa thought she could not have been more shocked to find Vincent's hand so tenderly resting against her cheek followed by him enfolding her in strong arms. She was proven wrong by his kiss, deep, pleading, needful. No one had offered this to him in gods-knew-how-long, and Tifa... Tifa had not been kissed in three years. And never like this.



He was skillful, giving and taking, and she found herself breathless as she responded ardently. Heat stirred in her breast and spread outward, up to her face and settled hot in her lips. Not in her wildest dreams could she have imagined the flavor that was Vincent Valentine, and she sought it as desperately as he sought her own. She both heard and felt him groan into her mouth, and realized belatedly the sighs and soft sounds escaping from her.



The fingers that had grasped his hands three separate times tonight found themselves tangled in thick ebon locks, thumbs grazing high cheekbones and brushing feather-soft black lashes that rested on pale cheeks. Passion was a thing undiscovered, unexplored by her. Now, Tifa was suffocating under it, blissfully so. Repercussions were lost on her, consequences and coherent thought had little hold on her mind. Until he broke away.



She watched him make the change from open and passionate to shy and ashamed, and her eyes faded from passion, to confusion, and finally sorrow. She shook her head as he stepped away and she was robbed not only of his kiss, but his warmth.



"We cannot do this." The words sank in slowly and she realized with shock that he was right.



Cloud... Her heart fought her on it, but she locked it away for later thought at his next words.



"Forgive me." She stepped closer again, but did not touch him. Not for lack of wanting, but fear that it would lead to another kiss. She put a hand to her forehead instead.



"No... No, Vincent. There's nothing to forgive. I should be apologizing... I started it." She finally ventured enough of a touch to let her fingers turn his chin to her, hating the regret she saw.



"Vince... it's not wrong. You didn't do anything wrong. I just..." She sighed, frustrated. She wanted to tell him that she'd enjoyed, wanted his kiss. But she knew she would end up showing him, and her heart and mind told her that this would go too far, and someone might be hurt. She already regretted that it made him feel as if he'd wronged her.



She felt lousy for it, but settled on, "Maybe... we just had too much to drink tonight." She wondered if her true thoughts showed in her dark eyes as they stared into his wine-red ones. Planet, but it was so hard not to kiss him, just one more time.



To be continued…