Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Vincent choked, clawing at the velvet lining of his coffin until his hands—claws—got purchase. The coffin lid held until he let the Beast at it—it gave with a splintering crunch, the squeal of tearing hinges—and Vincent took a deep breath of stale, dead air.

It could be a nightmare. It could be a hellish trap, letting him think things could be better. But one thing he knew was that they would not get better if he didn’t try. It COULD be exactly what it was supposed to be.

He hurt—he had forgotten how much the first few years after had hurt. The sleep had been an extravagant sulk, he knew, to his shame, but it had also been a way to cope with the sense of his bones shifting around under his flesh. His teeth grinding and becoming loose again. Lengthening. He hurt. But hurting was something he knew how to do, and it didn’t matter. He had been given another chance.

It took a long moment to stand up, and he stumbled as his thighs grew an inch and immediately shed it. He took a deep breath to steady himself, and kept walking.

First, daylight. Then…

Then he needed to find Lucrecia’s son.

***

He slipped around the denizens of the manor easily enough—he had been a Turk long before he was a… whatever he was now. Shapeshifter. Gunslinger. With a little help from his other forms and a few dead monsters, he was outside of the manor. He was almost disturbed by how easy it was. He knew so much more about how to use his forms now, and how to rein them in.

Daylight was something of a shock. It burned his eyes with it’s brilliance—it usually did, his eyes were so sensitive now, and he could see clearly where most people couldn’t at all. Then… it was strange. The world before Meterorfall wasn’t something he was used to anymore.

When he first reached town and there were fresh new signs up for the Shinra Electric company, he actually stopped in place to stare at it. After… well. The public hadn’t been any better pleased by Shinra’s actions than his friends had. At best, signs had been defaced. Assuming giant mako infused monsters hadn’t torn them and anyone close enough TO deface them down.

There had been a lot of those.

“Are you lost?” a woman asked, to his left, and he jumped sideways, hand sweeping down under his cloak to his gun—he stopped himself. The woman looked only a little taken aback, and then, to his surprise, smiled. She had long dark hair, and reddish brown eyes. “Are you okay?”

“I… apologize. I’ve been out in… the wild for a long time.”

“Ahhh. I’d be jumpy too. The Deathclaws have been… frisky lately.”

Frisky. That was one way to describe it. He just sighed and nodded. Better to let her come to her own conclusions…and it was very easy to remember how bad the things had gotten. The Mako probably hadn’t helped. Worse, he recognized this woman now, or thought he did since he had never actually met her.

She looked like Tifa Lockheart. She had to be her mother.

Strange, he had no reason to feel guilty. When she died, it was because of a medical problem—a heart defect that had no treatment. She had known it was coming. Had lived each day to the fullest. He had heard Tifa talking about her, had listened.

He still felt guilty for not telling her what was coming.

“I’m… not familiar with the area,” he said instead, though the lie tasted foul. “Where would one get supplies from? Or a newspaper?” All he wanted from the newspaper was the date, but he would gladly pay for that. And supplies… he did not need to eat, or drink. But it still hurt, to starve, and he wouldn’t be at full strength until he was eating regularly again. It was something he had learned the first time, when Cloud and his friends had pried him out of his coffin and given him something to work towards—the women made a point of making sure he had something to eat when they stopped to make camp. Tifa had been the one to think of it, he was relatively sure—but Aerith had been the one who looked at him worriedly until he actually ate. He hadn’t realized how much of the pain he had been in was due to hunger until that moment.

“I’ll show you.” The woman—Tifa had never called her by her first name in his hearing—smiled. She was pale—presumably the heart defect was already taking a toll. “This way!”

So cheerful. And… careful about everyone around her, as if she could shatter them like glass if she did not take care. Vincent dipped his head so his collar would hide his expression. What would his friends think of this madness? They would be children now—they wouldn’t know him. He couldn’t ask. They would have understood, surely. Barret and Cid, at least. Nannaki, likely.

Surely, for Aerith’s sake at least, they would have approved. Maybe come back with him, if he had asked. Too late now.

“Are you a traveling monster-hunter? If you’re looking for a job, the town would be thrilled to hire you.”

He hid his smile under his cowl too. “The Deathclaws?”

“Among other things, unfortunately.” She offered him a wry smile. “The path to and from the manor and the reactor are getting more and more dangerous lately. I’m Sasha, by the way.”

“Vincent. And… I have been known to do that from time to time. I’m… short on funds at the moment, but if they were willing to pay on a scalp by scalp basis so I could regain my ammo,  I could handle their problem for a bit. Mako reactors tend to… excite the wildlife. I can’t linger too long… though I might be able to come back.” He would need gil. It was almost a strange thought.

“Don’t they just. Still, times are changing and we have to change with them.” She turned back and looked at him, concern making her eyes narrow. “Have you had anything to eat lately? It’ll take a little bit to call the mayor and set up a meeting—but you could come to my home for a few hours, rest and eat? We haven’t had a visitor in a while—I’d enjoy being able to cook for someone besides my husband and myself.”

Vincent opened his mouth and shut it. “That’s… kind. But—”

“I insist!” She turned and smiled at him, blindingly, and for a moment he saw Tifa there in her face. So he gave in.

He hoped he would get to see Tifa in this life too. Cloud. Nannaki. Everyone from Avalanche. If they… but no. He had been sent back for a purpose. If the price was that he never met them again…

Then he would try to be happy knowing they were alive.

He would not succeed, but he would try.

Chapter Text

Three months.

He allowed himself three months in Neibilheim, and prayed it would be enough. Three months to remind his body what it was like to eat and work and sleep regularly. Three months of hunting monsters and making the paths safe. Three months of cheerful townspeople, three months of Tifa’s parents all but dragging him to dinner, and Cloud’s mother offering him the spare room of her home to rent.

That much, at least, he managed to refuse. It had been a powerful enough shock to see her in the street—Tifa’s mother looked quite a lot like Tifa, but Cloud’s mother looked like a mirror image of Cloud. Except in a dress. There had been a lot of jokes about that in camp.

He missed them terribly. They didn’t exist yet.

“I need to move on,” he said, and disliked himself for his abruptness when the two women turned to look at him. Claudia merely raised her eyebrows—exactly as her son would have—and Sasha frowned.

“I thought you were… pleased with working here?”

“I… am.” It felt wrong to be here. In another life… in another life, he could have been overjoyed with this town, and this work. It was good, noble work, keeping the people safe—and his charges were quite agreeable, to be honest, if only they did not make his heart ache every time he looked at them. And… maybe it just felt wrong to be content, at the end of a day. “Very much so. But… I need to go do something.”

“And then come back?” Claudia asked hopefully.

“Probably,” he said, before he could help himself. “The monsters are starting to get a bit thinner—perhaps I should spread my services around a bit. But not now—I got a message. An old friend needs me.”

Technically true. And it made the ladies relax—how they managed so consistently to corner him when he was attempting to shop, he had little idea. Perhaps the shopkeeps tipped them off. Thank heaven their husbands didn’t get the wrong idea—the very last thing he wanted was to deal with yet another ill-fated romance, but close to that was the notion of NOT having a romance and still having all of the associated problems. But they seemed to regard him largely as an overlarge lost dog that occasionally talked back to them, whom their wives had decided to befriend.

Which… he supposed he was feral enough.

Claudia’s eyes had softened, and Sasha looked concerned. “Is something wrong?”

“Can we help?”

“I… no. But I’ll try to be back before any Deathclaw pups can mature. It’s… complicated.” Also true, but they took the implication and seized on it, shooting each other knowing looks that were not… altogether displeased.

He looked up and found the shopkeeper, a sturdy man who didn’t talk much, offering him a commiserating look as he put out new rolls of ribbon. Pink. “May as well give in and tell them everything. Those two ARE the town matchmakers… and the worst gossips.”

“Slander!” Sasha declared, as Claudia hid something—a smile, from the look of her eyes—behind one hand. “We are not gossips! Merely the very best of information gatherers!”

“The matchmaking part is true, though,” Claudia admitted, straight faced, to Vincent. He groaned and dropped his forehead against the butt of his palm.

“Well? Plan on giving us your secrets so we can make a match for you properly?” Sasha asked, impish, hands on hips. Vincent looked up at the shopkeeper again, who laughed.

“You’ll get no help from me, buddy. They already had their way with me long ago—I have no defenses against them.”

Vincent took a deep breath, but his eyes strayed back to the ribbon. “Not… today, at least, ladies. I rather need a break from romance. But, if I may change the subject… sir. That ribbon. How much for a strand long enough to tie around one’s arm?” He had missed the minute weight of the last ribbon. He wanted it back.

“uh…. One gil sir.”

Vincent tossed it to him, underhand, and took the length of ribbon from him carefully. “Claudia, before I leave, if you would do me a favor?”

“Vincent?”

“I need this ribbon tied around my arm. High on the bicep, tightly, so it will not come off. Would you mind…” She was already doing it, with firm, deft movements, and the slight pressure on his arm felt… right. Like somehow, his friends were right there with him after all. “Thank you. I had one before, but…”

“Monster hunting probably leads to getting a lot of things torn,” Sasha said, eying his duster/cape unhappily. Then her eyes sharpened. “Is this a romantic gesture of some kind? A memento of a lost love?”

“No.” Aerith… everyone loved her, but he had certainly not been attached to her in that particular way. It was more like loving sunlight. Rain. Tifa may have been the group’s mother, but Aerith was the breath within their lungs.

And now her memento stood for all of them. For a moment the grief of it was almost too much, and as he took a deep breath, Claudia must have seen it, for she elbowed her companion sharply and cut her off. “Let’s not talk about the ribbon then.” A wicked smile graced her features, and she looped an arm through his gauntleted one. “Let’s talk about what you said earlier. You need a break from romance?”

He barely managed to suppress a groan, and shot a glare at the man behind the counter when he heard a snicker. He thought that if the women hadn’t been making such a point of dragging him into the town’s social affairs, the man might have flinched instead of smiling back at him… but maybe this was better. “Ladies, I beg of you. Not today.”

It was almost two hours later that he managed to escape their grasp—not with all of the information he had come in with, but not with all of it in their hands either. Somewhere along the line, Sasha had made him promise to stop by for dinner as soon as he was back in town.

The two would have made very good Turks.

***

                Hiking across the wilderness required little effort, and indeed, little time—he took the liberty of using Chaos as a form of transportation, though it’s fury at being used so casually made him shake and sweat for a bit. He soothed it with visions of the violence he might have to resort to to find the child, and it did as he made it. So it took no time at all to get to Midgar.

                Strange how much difference a few decades could make. The upper plates were only starting to form—less like the malignant mushroom it became and more like an elegant steel flower. Sunlight got everywhere. This place was still a place where people could work and live, not an animal that would kill for little thought or reason.

                He hesitated, but he made one stop before going to Shinra HQ.

                The Church.

                Aerith wasn’t here of course. Probably wasn’t even conceived yet. But the Lifestream—time did not apply to the Lifestream quite the same way, and it loved this place because she WOULD be here. Because she WOULD love it. The floor was mostly still intact, though it was one of the few abandoned structures around, and although it did not have the patch of flowers his teammate would one day make her living from, it was clearly still… blessed. Even his demons quieted when he walked in, as if they dared not make too much fuss here. Tiny flowers, for now—hardy dandelions poked up between floorboards, and forget-me-nots crawled up pillars, though not very far.

                He walked to the middle of where the flowers would be and knelt down to meditate. He had a certain extra awareness of the Lifestream since Chaos had become a part of his being—not enough to converse with the world like a Centra, but enough that if it so deigned to talk to him, he could reply, a little, as if in a language he spoke but not often enough to be fluent. So… he kept his intrusion sort.

                “I ask your blessing. You have made this possible… but I ask your continued blessing just the same,” he said, and shut his eyes to meditate. To breathe. When he opened them again, a lily was blooming just in front of him.

                It had not been there before.

                He thought about taking it with him, but decided it was better thanks by far to let it grow. Then, with no more reason to wait, he stood and walked out the door.

                It might have been just his imagination, but he felt a hand on his shoulder just before he reached it, so vividly that he whirled and drew a Cerberus pistol without thinking. But there was only a teasing breeze, the smell of flowers, and very faintly, the sound of laughter.

                You won’t be alone, he thought he heard, in the voice of a teammate. But it was probably just the wind. Wishful thinking. He had already made his bargain with the Lifestream, expecting tangible assistance beyond that was unreasonable.

***

                He was lucky when he hit Shina HQ, on several fronts. First, they had changed neither the layout nor the security encryption. Why would they? The only people who knew them were Turks, and Turks did not retire unless they died. They had not counted on death not stopping him, so he ghosted through halls after checking security rotations, invisible because no one was there to see him.

                This would be the easiest infiltration he had ever done.

                Secondly, the boy was actually AT HQ today. He had not suspected that would be the case, thought it likely he would have to go to some Shinra-led orphanage—or worse, pry him out of a lab directly. But it seemed that he was more or less enrolled in some form of permanent, solitary daycare.

                Thirdly, the man guarding him was an old friend. His partner. He hadn’t expected that—had his silencer on and his gun drawn, when a sudden breeze made the man look up and they both stood a long moment, staring.

                “Veld.” Vincent whispered, his gun cocked. Hesitated. Across the room, Veld froze too. He looked… so old. So much older than he had when Vincent was his partner. But the way his eyes flicked about was familiar, assessing the situation. The suit. Vincent still remembered how to tie the tie, even if his left hand couldn’t manage it anymore. Partners in the Turks helped each other with that stuff, sometimes.

                The Turk slowly lowered his weapon. “Vincent? They said you were dead…”

                “I was. You should know better than to trust anything that comes from Hojo’s mouth though. A suspiciously large amount of people die in his branch, don’t they?” If nothing else… he could pass along that warning.

                Veld’s eyes widened. Slightly. “I… The branch leaders are all mad. I’m trying to rein them in. Softly.”

                “It won’t work. And if they ever send you to guard Hojo, don’t. Run.”

                “They would kill any Turk that tried.”

                Vincent rolled his eyes. “Run anyway. Once they have you there, mere death is a luxury.” Vincent took a deep breath and lowered his gun, slowly. He didn’t want to kill Veld. Maybe he didn’t have to. “The boy is in the next room, isn’t he? Sephiroth.”

                “How do you—”

                “He’s Lucrecia’s son.”

                Veld sucked in a deep breath. “Still trying to do the job?”

                Vincent growled—not a human, irritated noise—an animal’s growl. Veld froze. “No, Veld. But I…” How to explain the situation—he didn’t understand it himself. Better to explain the truth—the things he should have realized the first time. “The woman was dear to me. His father will experiment on him, if he hasn’t already. I owe… no. No… at this point I don’t think I owe anything. But I won’t forgive himself if I leave him to his father’s so-called mercy.” He hadn’t. Wouldn’t. Whatever he did this time, the last time had happened. It was real. If only to him.

                Veld had cocked his head far to one side, like a confused puppy. “Vincent, he was turned over to us as an orphan. Whoever his father is or was— he has no access to him now-- ”

                “Hojo.” Vincent said, and watched Veld’s eyes flare wide again. “You had a sweetheart when I went to Neibeilhiem, didn’t you? Did you ever get married? Have kids?”

                “A girl.”

                “I’m happy for you.” Vincent said, and meant it. Felt his body try to tear itself apart again—he had forgotten how hard the first years were. But he had already slept too long. He took a deep breath, almost steady, and knew Veld heard the almost. “Veld. Would you want this for her? Would you allow her to be raised like this?”

                Veld sucked in a breath. “I… a Turk always—"

                “Did he offer any orders on how the child was to be raised?” Vincent pressed. “Did he care?”

                “I… he wanted reports. Medical information, mostly. Training reports as well. He ran experiments for a while, but seems to have lost interest. They want him trained as a fighter, though—his schooling is intensive.”

                “He can have reports. You don’t even have to lie, Veld—tell them that there was an intruder. That he was dealt with, the body disposed of, but you’re worried about compromised security. You turned the child over to a dark security asset to ensure his safety. Hojo doesn’t want pictures or birthday parties. So long as he gets his reports, he’ll be satisfied. He’ll have them. I can still write a report.” One of his hands, at least, could still write. “And I can certainly train him in combat.” Better than any teacher they had for him now, at least. Chaos could keep up with Sephiroth.

                “And will the reports be accurate?”

                Vincent looked at him. He forgot that his eyes had been a different color until Veld flinched, meeting them—looked away. “I will tell Hojo what he needs to know.” Hojo needed nothing but a bullet to the brain—but there were more important things than vengeance now. There was Lucretia’s son. He could file almost accurate reports.

                Veld hesitated for a long moment. The man had a loyalty to the company that Vincent had once matched—he watched the war in his eyes between differing factions of loyalty, then felt his shoulders relax when he saw the war won. Once a Turk, always a Turk—but that had little to do with Shinra, and everything to do with the other Turks. “Vincent, what did they do to you?”

                “What year is it?”

                “What?”

                “I was out a long time. What year is it?” He knew, of course—but asking was probably the best way to get Veld to understand how confusing it had been for him.

                Veld blinked. “You were reported dead eight years ago.”

                “Too soon, and yet, maybe too late.” Vincent said, feeling his body still shifting and settling. Felt the other voices in his head try to take control—reined them in. He had much more experience now, even if his body didn’t, at handling the monsters. “Will you do it Veld? In a few more minutes SOLDIERS will pour through that door, noticing me when they check in on rotation—and I will kill them. Any chance we have of eliminating casualties or settling this peacefully will be lost. We can still stop this.”

                Veld opened his mouth. Shut it. “I trust you,” he said. “Or I would never do this. This is for the good of the child?”

                “And everyone else. Except Hojo. I make no promises about him.”

                Hojo was not the head of Shinra, so evidently Veld found that acceptable. He nodded, slowly. “I want your location. I need to know how to find you.”

                “For the reports. Of course.”

                “No, not just for the damn reports. I thought you were dead. Our commander wrote you off. There was a funeral for fuck’s sake.”

                Vincent hesitated. “Veld. I’m not… I’m different. I was dead. Hojo killed me. Then… I don’t think I’m human anymore. I’m lucky I’m myself. I’m not… even in my own head…”

                Veld sucked in a breath. Then his eyes hardened. “You were dead doesn’t mean you are dead, apparently. You were my partner. You were my partner. That's like being a Turk-- it doesn't just go away. The rest… Hojo did this, you say?”

                “There’s no time for the details. But I know enough about that man and what he already did to his son to know that I can’t leave the boy at his mercy. Help me.”

                “Give me a location. I’ll call in that I fought off the intruder and introduce you to the boy, tell him to pack his things. Can you raise a child?”

                “Someone needs to, and Hojo won’t step up to the plate. Nor would I trust him with something as precious as Lucretia’s son. Lucretia is… she can’t. So that leaves me.”

                Veld met his eyes and nodded, slowly. “Spoken like a father. I’ll wait a month or two for this to die down, then meet you in the location of your choice. You are not vanishing on me again.” The last was a growl that would have intimidated Vincent…once upon a time.

                Vincent looked at him for a long moment. Took a deep breath. “I plan to wander around a lot. But if you leave a message at the Neibleheim general store, it will get to me. Give me a few weeks to reply.”

                “Good enough for me.” Veld told him, then stepped forward. Slowly. His hands were shaking. “I thought you were dead. Don’t ever do that again, partner.”

                Vincent hesitated a moment longer, then stepped forward and pulled the man toward him in a one armed hug. The human arm, because Veld would be able to feel the difference even through the gauntlet. Then, because he wasn’t much good at the social thing, and never had been, and didn’t like watching friends cry, he asked “is this because you lost the bet and had to wear the dress to my funeral?”

                “Yes,” Veld said, slightly muffled, to his torso. He was taller now. He hadn’t been before. Veld sounded like he was on the verge of tears, so Vincent pushed him back up on the edge. An old habit from when they were partners.

                “I want pictures.”

                Veld punched him, once, in the stomach—Vincent doubled over, as much due to laughter as pain. “You’ll have them. Asshole.”

Chapter Text

                A part of him had worried that he would hate the child on sight. That he would look at him and see Hojo, or the man who had jumped from above and killed Aerith. If he had… he wasn’t sure what he would have done.

                But he didn’t.

                Veld slipped into the room, and frowned—Vincent didn’t feel the need to tell him he could see it in the dark. “Hang back a moment. He knows me in passing at least.”

                Which said something about how transitory the whole life the boy had was. Vincent frowned, but nodded. And then, remembering that his former partner probably couldn’t see it in the dark, said “yes” and pushed himself to the far corner of the room.

                It was all cold opulence here. Nothing was lacking—not space, not toys, not books. But the books had no wear in their bindings, untouched, and the carpet still smelled new. This wasn’t a room little boys played in. This was a room they were put in, until someone wanted them to pull them back out—he was as much in storage as the toys or the books. And there were no windows.

                At least they hadn’t put him in Deepground. The notion coaxed a shudder from him. Deepground… an issue for another day.

                The little silver head popped up before Veld actually touched him—good hearing, that. And the silver of the hair was exactly as he had remembered it. But that was it. The child blinked up sleepily, head cocked in a way that reminded him painfully of Lucretia—in an unguarded moment, after sleep, this was how she looked at the world. No calculation, no anger or contempt, only sleepy curiosity. Nothing like Hojo at all. Nothing like the Sephiroth he knew. Nothing, even, like the woman Lucrecia became.

                He was just a little boy.

                “Sephiroth. There was a break in—I’m changing your caretaker and moving you to ensure your safety, okay?” Veld spoke for a moment before flicking a light on—presumably the boy’s eyes were sensitive to light. They certainly were later. Mako did things like that.

                The little boy’s face fell, but he murmured “Yes, sir.”

                “Had something you were looking forward to?” Veld’s voice was awkward, but compassionate, in a rough way. Natural enough. The boy’s reaction was not. His shoulders went stiff and he looked down.

                “N-not that I’m ungrateful sir. I was just looking forward to—Miss Even said I could go camping when I passed my self-defense class. And I haven’t read all of the books here. I’m sure you know best sir. I’m sorry I objected to—”

                “That’s not an objection.” Vincent said, from the far corner of the room, leaning against the wall, misliking the cowed obedience. The boy whipped around to look at him—eyes turning catlike to see into his dark corner, but squinting against the light of the corner he was in. “That’s a legitimate complaint. The good news is, we will be going camping immediately instead. As to the books… we can’t take them all with us. Take three, and I will buy you more later.”

                “Sir?!”

                Veld cleared his throat. “This is Vincent Valentine, Sephiroth. He was my partner a long time ago, and I trust him with my life. He will be in charge of both your education and your care from now on.”

                The boy hesitated, biting his lip, then asked, “until the next rotation, sir?”

                “No. From now on.” Veld said, gently. Vincent had to shut his eyes and remind Chaos who was in charge for a brief moment—they had kept the boy as isolated as humanely possible without actually raising him like a feral dog. Rotations. Like a child was a… duty to be relived of!

                He remembered his father, as vibrantly as if he hadn’t died a lifetime ago. Grimoire Valentine had always been a busy man, a brilliant man… but he had never acted as if his son was less than a privilege to raise. Even when his wife died. Even when he had been punished for childhood infractions, Vincent had known he was loved. Vincent did not know a lot about children, but he did know they shouldn’t act like mini SOLDIERS.  

                Sephiroth looked at him, a trifle nervously, and it was all Vincent could do not to shrug on Chaos like a suit, and find Hojo at speed to make him pay for this. But that wouldn’t undo the damage. So, instead, Vincent knelt so that he was… closer… to eye height for the boy. “What is your favorite book?” Clumsy, clumsy—he hated how hard he made it to talk to him.

But the boy looked at him, then looked at the ground and whispered, “The Maintenance of Swords, sir.”

Vincent cocked his head, opened his mouth. Shut it. Opened it again. “Are you sure?”

“I… I know I’m not supposed to be frivolous sir.”

Vincent managed to curtail his growl. Clearly he had been raised with far too much in the way of discipline, and it would not be undone easily. He hadn’t expected any part of this to be easy, though. For now… for now, stick to the language the boy understood. “New rule.”

The boy’s shoulder’s stiffened. He had clambered out of bed and was standing in what looked suspiciously like a military parade rest. But he nodded obediently.

“Books that I ask you to choose for yourself are for free time, and during free time you are allowed… encouraged, to be frivolous. Without properly taking time off you won’t rest properly, and without resting properly, you won’t be at your best. Understood? That means picking books you enjoy, regardless of how frivolous it is.”

“I… think so sir.” Vincent rather doubted it, from the look on his face… but he would keep making the point until the boy got the idea. No need to press for it now.

“Alright. What is your favorite book?”

Sephiroth—and that was a ridiculously long name for such a small boy, with his hair cut just below his ears, but Vincent rather doubted he’d been introduced to the notion of nicknames—hesitated, then looking…. Ashamed, pulled a worn, thin volume out from under his mattress. Veld’s eyes went wide with surprise, but Vincent couldn’t help smiling. Maybe there was hope for him yet. But the boy probably couldn’t see it behind his collar. “I… know I’m not supposed to have it, sirs. But… the stories about dragons. I love them! They sound so big, and… these are old Centra legends about people who made friends with them, and rode on them. And… please don’t be mad?”

“They didn’t want him to have this book?” Vincent said, holding out his human hand for the slim volume, which Sephiroth handed over with only a slight tremble of the chin.

“His caretaker at the time said boys should concern themselves with real, practical things. She was… harsh.”

Vincent could see what Veld thought of that from the way the muscles in his jaw worked. Strangely, that made it easier to hold back his own anger. Sephiroth… and he really would have to give the boy a nickname, three syllables was too much for talking to someone casually… looked down, eyes starting to water, and he sighed again, stood, reached down—he saw the flinch, even if it was miniscule. But to leave off the gesture would only reinforce the idea that touch was for discipline, so he reached down, a little slower perhaps, and ruffled the kid’s hair.

The poor boy looked… baffled. Good. If he was baffled, then he wasn’t acting like any of his former caretakers. If he was baffled, then things could change.

“This is your first pick? I like it. I used to have one very like it.” He paused as the boy looked up at him, and smiled. Waited until he was sure the boy saw. “In fact, I like your taste in books so much that I think you should pick out an extra book. Go on now. Three more and then whatever else you are bringing. Go.”

The boy looked at him for a long moment before dashing into action, and Vincent held his smile until he was sure the boy was thoroughly engrossed. Then he looked back at Veld. “I assume there are detailed files on each of the previous caretakers and their methods of discipline?”

“I… yes.”

“I want those files. I want to know what I’m dealing with.”

 Veld nodded, also seeming subdued and upset by the little interaction. It helped Vincent stay calm. “That was back when Hojo was handpicking his nannies. I’m surprised he had the spunk to disobey.”

“Spunk is good.”

“Yes. I—Vincent. Your eyes are… yellow.”

Vincent brought up a hand to cover them, and took a few deep, slow breaths. Maybe he wasn’t so calm. “Right. Sorry.”

Veld looked at him for a long moment, uneasy, and murmured, “Vincent…”

“In a few months, we’ll meet up and I’ll answer any question you can think of. Not now.” Not under Shinra’s roof. Not here.

“Is it hurting you?”

Vincent opened his mouth. Shut it. Remembered, distantly, Aerith asking the same question, what felt like a lifetime ago, when he had fallen to his knees after shapeshifting in the first of many fights.

Cloud, Cid and Barret had made a point of lingering in catching distance after that. Just in case he needed it. They never said anything, but, they had never had to. Bahamut he missed them.

“It… does not feel good. But it isn’t causing me any damage.” He told his former partner, suddenly feeling very cold, and very alone. “If I overuse it, it can exhaust me, or cause me great pain, but it will not cause me irreparable harm of itself.” An oversimplification, to be sure.

“Irreparable.”

“Any idiot can hurt themselves, Veld. I just have access to a few more tools than most.” He felt the demons laughing and snapped his fingers—with his right hand, the human one. He had always made the gesture with his left before—he felt Veld’s eyes straying toward the gauntlet and felt incredibly weary. “Right. Back to the matter at hand. Every file you can give me on him. Please.”

“Down to the medical ones?”

“This may surprise you, but I can read a scientific paper,” he drawled, earning a snort. Of course he could. He had been able to since before he joined the Turks. His father had always been happy to explain his work to him as a child—some of it had to stick. “And yes. This kid deserves answers about why his life is the way it is—as soon as I figure out how to tell him, he’ll get them.”

“You… know?” At Vincent’s sharp look, Veld sighed. “Most of us don’t know how he is what he is. Or why. I’m… they made me the director, recently. I can read all the papers, and they don’t say.”

“Congratulations, I think.” Vincent said, gently. Then, quieter—he didn’t think the little one could hear him, but even so… “I was there. When they… when he was born. Some parts I was… immobilized, but most of the process I was there for. So yes. I know what he is. Why Hojo singled him out like this.”

“Then—”

“I am packed, sirs.” The little boy who would… maybe… be his enemy one day said, immaculately groomed, bag packed with crisp precision. Somehow Vincent knew that if he looked, there would be no toys inside.

He would have to get those for him.

Chapter Text

                “Five hours, maybe four if I push it. Getting some of the papers is… not difficult, but time consuming. I’ll have all the files you want and your IDs, as well as the start of your new stipend wages, Vincent,” Veld said as they walked. Head high, eyes ahead, and it was amazing what people wouldn’t question if you just walked with confidence. Even at stupid-late in the Shinra building.

                Vincent raised his eyebrows at stipend. Half opened his mouth—

                “Object and I won’t have the photos. You know the ones. You’ll have to wait for them.”

                Trust Veld to find a way to make him suppress a smile under these circumstances. “Why, then?”

                “You are a Turk, doing a Turk’s work. You will damn well get paid, as long as I have anything to say about it.” There was something under the words—a lot more fire than demanding a person accept a paycheck warranted.

                Vincent frowned—the idea of taking Shinra’s money again was… distasteful. Not dissimilar to the notion of reintroducing himself to Hojo without a gun. Though Chaos saw potential there… He wrenched his thoughts away. “I won’t be… what I was before.”

                “Don’t then. You’re acting as aide, teacher, tutor, live in guardian and bodyguard to one of our VIP orphans—you’re getting your damn wages. It’s the very least of what we owe you.” Vincent had been a Turk—and a very good one. Excellent in combat, but more than slightly skilled in reading people, most of all those who he knew well.  Slightly startled, Vincent looked to his old partner and saw… guilt. Shame.

                “Veld… look. When we meet up… I’ll explain. This wasn’t your fault.”

                Veld’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? I refuse to take that from Vincent ‘the apology’ Valentine. Just once, let someone else take responsibility for something.”

                Well. If he had done that, he wouldn’t be here, now would he? He’d be in his coffin, and sleeping through the pain of his shin splintering and rebuilding itself, while a man who killed a friend of his grew up on his own. He shuffled his weight to the other leg and stood, not wanting to check to see if it was what it felt like. It would heal before he walked, regardless. Chaos didn’t take care of everything, but it took care of the messes it made.

                His ‘enemy’ was just a kid, eyes following them as they spoke, as if he was afraid to show them he was listening by turning his head. And his one… his one ally wasn’t going to take no for an answer. He knew that tone. Vincent snorted. “Fine. But bring the photos. I need a laugh.”

                Veld was making a rude gesture in his mind. Vincent could see it in his eyes. “Five hours. The train station. Can you avoid notice that long?”

                “As you keep reminding me, I was a Turk.”

                “You are wearing the biggest red cape I have ever seen, Vincent.” Veld frowned. “Actually, is it a cape or a duster? How did you find a red duster?”

                Vincent rolled his eyes. “It will be fine. Shoo. I need to buy materia anyway.” He waved him off with his gauntleted hand—he wasn’t looking forward to that discussion—and turned his attention to the boy. Veld had led them out a back door, some of which did not obviously attach to the main building. “We’re going to the outskirts for a bit. Follow me.” The boy nodded and moved alongside him without question or complaint, although he could feel him looking at him curiously from time to time. He was almost SOLDIER like already—he had the march they tried to instill for parades. He knew a little about Shinra’s child rearing program—they raised kids more as prospective workers than people. This was a new level of it, to be sure. “You may ask questions.”

                The boy blinked, opened his mouth and shut it several times. “If you’re a Turk, sir, then why don’t you wear a suit?”

                A legitimate question. “I’m not a Turk.”

                “But you said…” The boy straightened, abruptly, and looked down. “I’m sorry. I know I’m not supposed to listen in. But… If you aren’t a Turk, how come you were a Turk?”

                So they hadn’t managed to stamp out all inquisitiveness in him after all. Good.

                “I took the Turk Retirement Package.” It was a euphemism. The Turk Retirement Package was when someone put two bullets to your heart, or the back of the head. The first to kill, the second to make sure. The other common euphemism was the “Early Retirement Package” which was the dispersed load of whatever handgun you could fit into your mouth. An important distinction.

                He didn’t expect the boy to know what it meant.

                The boy gasped, and Vincent resisted the urge to slap himself. Right. Bright kid, good ears. Euphemisms were a bad idea. No jokes that he wasn’t meant to get. If there was something to discuss and the boy shouldn’t hear it, he would have to get him out of the room. Maybe the building. “You did not!”

                “I have the scars. Not the point though. Technically I am working deep cover right now, so wearing the suit would be a bad idea. It might make people think I might be a Turk.” And because suits were uncomfortable, and the clean lines had an unfortunate tendency to reveal the moment when his bones broke themselves and reformed. Or the places that he wasn’t human anymore.

                The boy frowned, then flushed. “I’m sorry. I know I’m not supposed to question you sir—”

                “But you are. I told you to.”

                The boy looked at him from the corner of his eyes, uneasily. Vincent looked back at him and then forward again, letting the silence lie between them as they walked because he didn’t know what, if anything, to say.

                The boy squirmed again. He sighed. “Ask.”

                “Sir. You said we were going camping?”

                Vincent smiled. “Yes. We’ll take the train out of Midgar, but it will take us a few days after the last stop to get to the area I’m staying in. We’ll take it slow—”

                “I can march!”

                Useless, to allow the child to know how disturbing that was. “Maybe. Perhaps I don’t want to march, though. So we’ll take it slow. Besides, it would be a shame to rush your first camping trip. Some things should be savored.” The boy cocked his head like a puppy at an unfamiliar sound, and Vincent looked back at him. Felt an odd expression crawl across his lips. A very small smile. “Ask.”

                Tiny voice. “I don’t want to bother you, sir.”

                Vincent stopped and turned to look at the kid. “Why would it be bothering me to ask me questions?” He knew he gave adults the impression he hated talking, and talking to many adults was a chore, but kids had never been afraid of him. They were nuts like that. Yuffie and Marlene had even particularly sought him out—Marlene, he strongly suspected, because she simply liked the cape.

                The little boy opened his mouth and shut it. Looked away. “I know I’m punishment detail. It’s okay. I’ll try not to be a pain.”

                That… that blow landed. Vincent sucked in a hard breath and managed to keep his growl in his throat. Inevitable, that some people on child duty thought of it as punishment detail. Unforgivable, that they had told him so.

                Had that been how Sephiroth was raised? Always afraid to disobey, always unwanted? A little soldier robot meant to be wound up and sent out and put back in a dark room when it was done? Most people broke a lot easier than that. Turk standards were… odd, he knew, and even they would raise their eyebrows at this. And they offered nothing to say to a boy who was barely keeping himself together, cold and alone.

                AVALANCHE standards though. Those had already saved the world dozens of times. What would they have said?

                Barret flashed before his eyes, holding Marlene. He took a deep breath, hooked a few fingers under the boy’s chin, and turned his head to look him in his eyes. “You are not a punishment. I asked for you.” A bald-faced lie—charging in with a loaded weapon wasn’t asking by anyone’s standards. Except maybe Cloud’s. Or Cid’s. Maybe Barret’s. The boy didn’t need to know about that. The boy’s eyes narrowed with disbelief, and he shook his head firmly. The truth, then. If only in part. “I knew your mother, and she was… a dear friend. And I am sorry, that it took me this long to get to you. I would not see my friend’s child raised alone, like a stranger. You deserve more than that.”

                Shock had entered the boy’s eyes, and Vincent became aware that at some point he must have crouched to get closer to the boy’s level. “You… knew my mother?”

                “Yes. And before you ask, because this question I can anticipate, I will tell you all about her. Not now—we need to get some things from the stores around the outskirts, or we’ll be camping on wet ground in the cold. But soon.” He reached out and ruffled the boy’s hair again. “She would have loved to see how you’ve grown.”

                He was certain of that much, at least. Lucrecia may have experimented on her child, called it science when it was closer to child-sacrifice, and generally treated her unborn as if he was not going to have to live with what she did to him… but the boy certainly didn’t need to know that, at least not yet. She had also begged to hold her son when he was born. He had heard that much when he was only barely alive, if at all. Not all truth was useful. And eight was a very young age to explain complexity to, he felt sure.

                The little face had frozen in place, the mouth opening and closing. “Promise?”

                Which part? That his mother would have loved to see him, or that he wasn’t a punishment? Or that he had indeed known his mother? “I promise,” he said, and if it felt reckless, maybe it was. But it was at least mostly true—and it was what the boy needed. If he was going to be damned, it might as well be for trying to do the right thing. He ruffled the kid’s hair again—because it confused him, and because confusion was better than the tears he could see lurking in the corners of his eyes, or far worse, his quiet, cowed obedience. “Let’s get to the stores before they shut down—and when we get to the train, you can tell me more about the books you chose.”

                “Okay sir,” the boy said, and Vincent half-smiled. That was a habit he would have to break the kid of very quickly.

                “Let’s go,” he said instead, because you could only fight one war at a time.

***

                The shopkeeper glared at them when they came in, then noted Vincent’s eyes and got noticeably more polite. There were natural shades of red—red brown, the wine color of Tifa’s eyes… but there was nothing natural about Vincent’s.

                He had used that before. The store was… a bit seedy, cheap goods and used camping gear, but that made it exactly the kind of store that wouldn’t bother telling anyone about the red caped man and small child at stupid-thirty in the morning.

                The man brightened considerably when asked to show his materia—materia didn’t change hands too often, and when it did, it was highly priced. Part of Shinra’s high demand for it. He found the supplies sparse, and knew he had been rather spoiled, with his previous equipment. Cloud took care of his people.

                “Restore” then. And “Fire”. The man behind the counter smiled brilliantly. Vincent hadn’t made a lot as a monster hunter… but it was very easy to save up cash when you slept outside, didn’t pay rent, and ate mostly what you killed. And what kindhearted townsfolk forced into your hands. He supposed that would have to change soon, but for now he had gil left over in some abundance for sleeping rolls and a halfway decent tent. The weather this time of year was cold mostly because it was wet—if they could keep dry, the boy would have no problems. With that in mind, he bought a raincoat. A small one. He would do fine without.

                Sephiroth wasn’t breaking trends—he was looking around, as much as he could without straying six inches from Vincent’s side, or turning his head more than a few degrees to one side or another. Vincent gave him a nudge and nodded. “Go look around. Just don’t leave the store and come when I call.” The shopkeeper opened his mouth, outrage flickering in his eyes, and he laughed in his face. “If he so much as scuffs something, I will buy six of it. But don’t get your hopes up.”

                Safe bet to take.

                The man blinked, and looked to the child uneasily. Sephiroth, for his part, walked at something disturbingly like a parade march—his hands folded behind his back, shoulders straight, and eyes grave. Vincent sighed and turned his eyes back to their items, to dicker over the price with the shopkeeper. He had gotten the price down to a satisfying level, and was about to hand over the gil when something, a stray breeze, made him look up and back to the child. He had hesitated in front of a stuffed toy—a little dragon, green. After a long moment, the little hands unclasped and one hand reached out one finger to stroke it’s muzzle as gently as if it were made of glass instead of tough, rough fabric.

                Vincent had no doubt at all that the boy would not have reached out if he had realized he was being watched. That he would not ask for the toy. That he would not object to leaving it behind.

                He looked back to the shopkeeper, shut his eyes, and accepted the fact that he was about to lose all the gil he had saved by bargaining. The shopkeeper had seen it too.

***

                It seemed vaguely unfair that a cloth dragon would cost as much as he made from taking down two of the living bombs. The suckers were not difficult, that was true, but they were dangerous, and annoying. But the look the child gave him when he picked the toy up and pushed it into his arms nearly broke his heart. It was more confusion than anything else.

                “I bought it. It’s yours now, so hang onto it.” Vincent told him, shouldering his new goods in a new backpack. The child stared at him, wide eyed and uncomprehending for a long moment, and Vincent started walking, only glancing from the corner of his eye. He had a feeling he would be doing this a lot from now on, if only because the boy seemed to try to guard himself, and he wanted to see what he really thought.

                The boy’s face didn’t change, all the way back to the train station. But his hands gripped the dragon so tightly that the knuckles turned white. That… that was something worth killing a few bombs for.

Chapter Text

                The station was almost barren, with only a sleeping beggar in the corner and dim lights to see by. Vincent didn’t like it… but the last train out was in half an hour, and he much preferred the dead of night train to the crowded day train with civilians on it. They felt too much like threats when there wasn’t an active fight, and hazards when there was.

                Bottom line, if he had to shoot his way off the train, he wanted to avoid unnecessary death.

                He didn’t feel overly appreciative of the ‘beggar’, so he bent, picked up a rock, and tossed it—gently—at his head. To his total lack of surprise, the man leaned to one side to avoid it and cursed.

                “Veld. Your disguises never fooled me before. They won’t now.” Which wasn’t to say they were bad. They weren’t. But Vincent had seen him in disguises that he had a lot longer to put together than a few hours.

                “You’re eight years rusty.”

                Vincent raised an eyebrow. If anything it would be harder to pass off a disguise now—he could smell Veld. But saying that seemed to concern people, so he didn’t. Veld-as-a-beggar stood and sighed, pulling out a leather file wrap from under his rags. “Everything you wanted, fake IDs for riding the train when you need to, and your wages. You better damn well answer when I write to you, Valentine. I mean it.”

                Vincent raised his eyebrows. “So clingy. Not like you.”

                Veld glared, then looked away. “The photos are also in there.”

                Vincent blinked, then, half expected pictures of dicks but feeling compelled to check—and it certainly wasn’t like the boy could see over his shoulder yet, so why shouldn’t he—Vincent unwrapped the file bundle, found a few photos, and rewrapped the rest.

                Veld did not have the arms for that dress.

                “Strapless doesn’t suit you.” Vincent said, looking over it in more detail. “Neither does the color.” Yellow. On Veld. No. Green or blue…but not a sleeveless, strapless yellow sundress.

                “Some would say that was the point.” Veld said, dry but no longer angry.  

                Vincent looked up again, folding the photos back away—he had only gotten to the top two, but the train was pulling into the station.  “Veld.”

                “We have a lot to discuss. I look forward to our next meeting,” Veld said, and his face was smiling, but his eyes were cold and hard. Vincent knew that look. Could remember smirking as it was directed at recruits, too fresh to know what they had done wrong.

                “Sure,” he said, because he was tired and because… he could deal with it later. Or not. There was no reason to be there when Veld came looking if he didn’t want to.

                He knew Veld saw it, understood it, because his eyes went from cold to something that would melt steel. That fury… how many times had he seen it turned against a target? But Veld didn’t stop them from boarding the train. Veld watched as Vincent picked their spots, and settled himself and the boy in them, the boy by the window and himself by the aisle, because trains were a tactical nightmare, but somebody was more likely to try something from within the train than from outside, and then he would be between the boy and danger. Veld watched as Vincent picked up the file wrap, and took another look.

                There were a lot of photos, actually. It was something of a hazing tradition, the dress—people below you in rank were encouraged to take photos, and people above you in rank criticized your dress choice and makeup. Veld had chosen badly in the sleeveless, strapless, yellow sundress—deliberately, if he was to be believed. Hairy arms, legs and chest did not work with that little bit of fabric, and the first two photos were outright comical—he made a very amusing pallbearer for the empty, ceremonial casket, and he was at best hysterical as the man reading the eulogy.

                Vincent wondered how it had gone.

                The third picture made him growl—startling even little Sephiroth, who jerked in his seat, looking up from his dragon for what might well be the first time since he got it, and Vincent managed, with some small struggle, to rein in the Beast, who firmly wanted to howl and fight Veld for dominance. “Sorry. Don’t worry about it.” He looked up out the window to find Veld’s eyes still trained on him, his eyes flickering to yellow for a moment. ‘Son of a bitch’ he mouthed at him, and watched warm satisfaction fill Veld’s eyes.

                The third photo, clearly taken without Veld’s knowledge at the time, was after the funeral itself, on the fresh and empty grave. The man was on his knees, a hand over his face. Sobbing. Lost to the world.

                Valentine had never seen the man sob. Cry, yes, but not sob—the man had always stayed in control, even after bad calls caused civilian casualties, bombs had gone off, people had been kidnapped. Vincent had started gauging his level of disturbance at previous events by how much he was unwilling to drink—Veld, like Vincent, was a wallower. If he had felt he had done something wrong, he wouldn’t have a drop. If he was merely disturbed, he would drink, albeit with reluctance.

                Veld’s eyes narrowed as the train started moving. “Check the back.” The man didn’t know Vincent could hear him now, of course—but he had been trained to read lips. “Answer when I write to you. I’ll find you. You will not vanish on me again.”

                Vincent’s eyes narrowed. “Nibelheim general store,” he mouthed back.  And then, he checked to see if the boy was paying attention—he wasn’t, still engrossed in the dragon—and raised one finger to his partner, in as much salute as insult. “You fight dirty.”

                Veld’s eyes finally relaxed-- he knew he had won. So he didn’t watch, as the train pulled out of the station. He turned on his heel and walked away. There was much to do.

                Vincent sat down again, reluctantly, and checked the back of the photo. It had a single line of script on it, in Veld’s blocky, painful handwriting.

                “I’m glad you’re alive.”

                Vincent resisted the urge to crumple the note in his hands, tucked it away gently instead with the others he didn’t have the heart to look at just then. Trust Veld to turn a moment of weakness into a weapon. But… it wasn’t something he could really blame him for. It would seem he committed more than one sin, the first time around.

                Gaia, what a mess.

***

                Vincent cleared his throat when he saw the boy’s head jerk upward suddenly for the third time. “You can sleep, you know. It’ll be a long ride. Then we’ll need to take a boat. You want to be well rested for that, right?” He hadn’t really considered the boat on the way over—Chaos got a bit tired, but it was quite possible to fly over if you plotted your course carefully and stopped at small islands.

                The boy looked up at him, rubbing his eyes. “’M not sleepy.”

                “Sure. But if you sleep now, you’ll be more awake when we stop.”

                “Mister Garth said I wasn’t supposed to sleep outside of barracks. He said that it was at best frivolous and at worst stupid.”

                Vincent just knew he was going to have an allergic reaction to the word ‘frivolous’ before this was over. “Mister Garth doesn’t know much about SOLDIERs then. You may sleep anywhere. Safe zones if you aren’t doing work, and danger zones if you aren’t doing work and one of your squadmates is keeping watch.”

                The boy opened his mouth—to argue, he was sure—then shut it again, frowning. Blinking a lot. Probably too tired to argue. “Is this a safe zone?”

                Vincent frowned. Considered. “Not exactly. But I’m keeping watch.”

                “Oh.” The boy clutched the dragon a little tighter. “Can I keep the dragon?”

                Useless, to ask why he thought he couldn’t. And probably depressing. At any rate, he suspected he shouldn’t ask when he was trying to get the boy to sleep. “Of course.”

                “But… Mister Drake said—”

                He was going to have an allergic reaction to him starting sentences like that too. “Mister Drake was an idiot. It is your toy. You may do what you wish with it. Though it may be hard to get another, so be careful with it.”

                “But… what if it isn’t here when I wake up?”

                He didn’t even want to know where the child got the notion things just vanished from. “It will be.” Then, reconsidered. “Use it as a pillow. That way if it moves, you’ll wake up, right?”

                The boy brightened a little at that, then squirmed, trying to figure out a comfortable way to sleep while sitting up. Vincent left him to it while scanning the car for threats for the tenth time—still no one on this one but themselves. He looked back, startled, as weight fell on his arm—the boy had evidently decided to place the toy against his arm, and his head against the toy. He half opened his mouth, shut it, and went back to glancing out the window and across the train for threats. He could still see Veld in his mind’s eye.

                Since he had no intention of sleeping until they were either camping or in a room with a door that could shut, after a few hours and some careful effort he started paging through the other photos. It was harder with the left hand, because it wasn’t… right, anymore, but it could be done, as it turned out. Most of the photos were funny. Seventeen exactly were not. The first, of course, was the one in which Veld sobbed, lost to the world on his fresh, empty grave.

                The others were a set. Two each year, dated. Spring and late fall, sometimes with snow.

                His birthday and the anniversary of the funeral.

                Veld had visited an empty grave, twice a year, every year, and some rookie Turk had decided to photograph and follow it. Each year, Veld was kneeling or sitting, mouth open as he spoke, or in some cases read, to a man who wasn’t there. Twice a year, he had come to visit, leaving fresh flowers and a bottle of red wine on the grave. Twice a year, he had made time to be there, to talk to a man who couldn’t hear him.

                He started flipping the photos over. Not all of them had inscriptions—but some did.

                “I started reading Loveless to you. We agreed that it’s overly dramatic, but there’s talk of making it into a play, so I thought we should brush up.”

                “They never caught the visit I made the day before I proposed to Verris. Or the one before the wedding. Just as well—I really was a mess for those.”

                “Lucrecia went missing, and I stopped to talk to you about it. You didn’t have anything helpful to say. Sorry—I know you were soft on her.”

                “Vincent, you piece of shit, where were you?”

                “I’m sorry, Vincent. If I had known, I would never have stopped looking.”

                Vincent had to shut his eyes to ward off the burning sensation in them after that. “Veld… you fight dirty,” he whispered, but apart from the boy who might one day kill them all, who stirred slightly in his sleep and clutched at his arm, no one was there to hear.

Chapter Text

                 The next day, the boy jerked awake at first light, kicking Vincent’s leg as he did so. Vincent let out a little grunt of acknowledgement, but honestly barely felt it—his arm had just broken and mended rapidly, courtesy of Chaos. Honestly, sleeping longer had it’s appeal.

                “I’m sorry!” Sephiroth said, jumping backwards, horrified. Vincent blinked and looked at him for a long moment, then shook his head.

                “It’s fine.”

                The boy looked… horrified. Panicked even. “No it isn’t! That’s bad! I—”

                Vincent took a deep breath, and let it back out. “Why is it bad, Sephiroth?”

                The boy looked down at the ground. He looked… smelled, even, terrified. “SOLDIERs don’t attack superior officers. That’s bad. If you do that, they discipline or kill you, because you were bad. Or Hojo comes and…”

                Valentine double checked his control of Chaos, with his eyes shut. “Or?”

                “Or Hojo says you’re defec—defect—broken, and he takes you to his lab. To fix you.”

                Vincent exhaled. Slowly. Then opened his eyes. “Alright. First off, that wasn’t an attack. Did you know, many warriors, not just SOLDIERs, tend to jump when they wake up? It’s true. It’s because your body wants to protect itself from what it thinks is an attack while you’re asleep. In fact, that’s why smart people wake up SOLDIERs from a distance.”

                The boy shook his head, cautiously.

                “So, that’s not a problem. If I don’t want to get kicked, that’s my job to avoid.” And he hadn’t even noticed it, really, beyond cursory awareness.

                “But Hojo said—”

                “Hojo is a moron.” He snapped, perhaps a little harshly, because the boy flinched. “Sorry. I know that man personally, and I can almost guarantee, almost nothing he told you was true. I’d be surprised if he knew which way was up, let alone how a SOLDIER should act. That is not your fault. I can tell you are a good and smart student. So for now, let me assure you, you aren’t in trouble.”

                Confusion, but not good confusion. Confusion that walked the thin line between disbelief and anger. Probably too much, too fast. He didn’t know much about children, but he knew conditioning. Turks were trained in that. And in how to decondition someone. The boy’s whole world was coming unraveled. So… back onto safe territory for now. Venture back out later, when the boy was more confident of him. When he trusted him.

                “I was just about to wake you anyway.” A lie, yes. But a small one. They would stop in an hour or two. “Have you ever been outside Midgar?”

                Slow shake of the head.

                “Look out the window.” The boy did, and then went still, staring. This was grasslands, nothing too spectacular in Vincent’s opinion—he preferred more hills and cliffs. Trees were also nice. But he’d work with what he had. “Sometimes you can see chocobos running wild out here. People catch them and race them.”

                “They can catch them?”

                “Not easily.” Vincent said, and half smiled, remembering. “But yeah. Chocobos are prey animals, so mostly they don’t mind working for us if they get our protection. They like to feel safe.”

                “Is… is that what sunrise looks like?”

                Another deep breath. “Yeah kid. Yeah.”

                “Pretty…” the child cooed, his face up against the glass.

                Vincent smiled and let himself settle in his seat. Decided he wasn’t going to think about what they had just discussed until they were in the wild. Somewhere with dangerous things that should be killed. Somewhere he wouldn’t feel bad about indulging that instinct a little.

***

                They had climbed out of the train on the final stop in Junon and were stretching their legs and getting their bearings—amazing and horrifying how strange those few years made this place—when the kid stood straighter, somehow, and cast harried eyes back to the train, which chose that moment to start pulling into it’s trainyard. The boy’s shoulders slumped.

                Vincent sighed, understanding immediately, and dug in the bag. “Here.”

                The boy’s eyes went round as saucers as a light breeze—something must be blooming nearby, because it smelled sweet—fanned his hair out. Tiny hands came up to grasp the stuffed dragon tightly and pull it close. After a long moment with his face buried in the toy—it occurred to Vincent abruptly that the child was smelling it to make sure it was the same thing, though he was being subtle about it--  he looked back up to Vincent. His eyes were shiny.

                “Thank you sir.”

                “You’re welcome. Sorry—you knocked it off the bench when you woke up, and then you were so engrossed in seeing the grasslands and the sunrise that I didn’t want to disturb you. So I just packed it away. I should have told you I grabbed it.”

                “I was careless,” the boy said, muffled because his face was buried in the toy again.

                “You were enjoying yourself. Which is what I wanted. You’re allowed to slip up now and then—most of the time when mistakes are made, nothing bad happens. It’s just that we try to avoid mistakes so that nothing bad can happen. See?”

                A hard, confused look. But then… a tiny nod.

                He might not see it, but he wanted to. Vincent smiled and decided to take the win where it was presented. “Right. Stick close to me as we walk, alright? There’s going to be a lot of people here—and port cities are usually pretty busy. You can hold my hand if you want to, or not, but stay very close.”

                Nodding, mostly hidden by the toy.

                “Okay.” Vincent stood, shuffling the backpack on so his right hand would be free, but the boy simply walked around him and grabbed the left.

                Vincent went still for a moment, then managed “Careful. The fingertips are sharp.”

                “Okay.” The boy adjusted his grip, reaching upwards so his hand was marginally farther away from the pointy bits, but didn’t let go.

***

                “What’s that?!”

                Silly, Vincent thought, to remember that the boy hadn’t seen grassland before and forget that he had never seen the sea. “The ocean. We’re going to sail across it on a boat.” He paused, to let the boy stare—he remembered having a similar experience when he first saw it.

                “It’s so big!”

                “Yes.”

                “What if it turns into a really big wave and comes toward us?”

                Probably that was boyish thinking and not environmental paranoia. Probably. “Then I suppose we will get wet.”

                The boy giggled, and his grip tightened. Vincent could barely feel it through the gauntlet. Then, the moment of wonder passed, he frowned. “I can’t swim very well yet. Only a few miles at a time.”

                Vincent managed not to choke. He did not want to know how that had been established.

                It had better be in the files.

                “Fortunately, we won’t be swimming this time. But we can practice later when we get where we are going. Have you ever swum outside of a pool?” The little head shook. “Well. Something to look forward to.”

                “Is it different?”

                “I think so.” It had been a long time since he swum. He hadn’t even waded in water since… the funeral.

                “Is something wrong?” Aerith’s murderer asked, peering up over the top of his stuffed toy.

                Vincent took a breath, smiled, and shook his head. “Nothing is wrong.” He reached out, ruffled the kid’s hair, and noticed, to his surprise, that the boy had a very small, still confused smile on his face when he did. This child wasn’t anything but a child yet. Gaia, let it be enough.

Chapter Text

                Vincent made a rather surprising discovery shortly after booking passage on a boat and doing some light shopping for the journey. He had only just gotten them settled—it wasn’t a passenger boat proper, more a small cargo boat that had a few spare cabins that the captain wasn’t adverse to renting out for the voyage—and the cabins were small and cramped, but they were clean and didn’t smell like mildew or any particularly noxious cargo. There was barley being shipped to Costa Del Sol, and that had a earthy, pleasant odor. The vomit did not.

                Sephiroth, would-be conqueror of the cosmos, was prone to sea-sickness.

                Worse, he tried to hide it. Vincent had a unnaturally good sense of smell—thanks again Hojo—which made the whole incident rather obvious, but without it—how had the boy thrown up without making any noise? He spent a moment being glad he had the top bunk, then sighed. “Sephiroth. Did you throw up?”

                “…no?”

                That wasn’t the guiltiest sound he could imagine, but it was the guiltiest sound he could imagine Sephiroth making. “Are you lying?”

                No response. He took a deep breath, immediately regretted it, and vaulted over the side of the bunk onto his feet. Sephiroth looked… decidedly green, and he was crouched over—on the floor, thank Shiva, and not on the bed. “It’s alright to be seasick—it’s not really anything you can help, and a lot of people do. And it may go away when you’re a little more used to the motion of the boat. I just need to know so I can clean it up and get you a bucket.”

                “….okay…”

                Alright. He wasn’t experienced with kids, but he didn’t like the wariness in that tone. Still… it needed to be cleaned up and he needed a bucket. “Alright. I’m going to go ask for a bucket and cleaning stuff. Stay right there, okay?”

                Slow nod again. He noted with relief that the dragon had not been caught in the blast. Cleaning that with the resources on a boat would have been a neat trick. To his further relief the boy was still right where he had left him when he got back. “Okay, so, if you feel the urge to throw up again, do it into this bucket, okay? And that will make it easier for me to clean up.”

                “I feel better now.”

                Sure he did. He was as green as a plant. “Okay. Then in the future, try to throw up into a bucket, or a toilet, okay?”

                “…okay.”

                “I’ll put this here, just in case—I might get seasick too.” Vincent had never experienced motion sickness of any kind, and did not expect today to make an exception. But that did seem to make the boy’s shoulders relax, and he nodded a little. “Cool. I’ll clean this up—if I recall correctly, this will get worse if you try to read, so maybe avoid that.”

                Another reluctant nod. He was almost done cleaning the original mess up when he heard the bucket being field-tested for it’s purpose and suppressed a sigh. “You okay buddy?”

                “Yes! I’m fine, I’m not sick.”

                “Of course not. It’s just sea sickness. That’s not being really sick.”

                The boy scowled, and very, very briefly, his pupils changed shape. “Don’t make fun of me!”

                “I’m not. Being sea sick isn’t like having a bug—it’s just that your sense of balance is confused, because this isn’t how the world around you normally moves. It really might go away pretty soon.” He kept his tone even and went back to cleaning the mess. When he was done, the boy only looked green and ill again.

                Not a huge improvement, but something. To try a track that had been useful so far— “you know, lots of SOLDIERS get seasick.” Not that he really wanted this child, or any child, come to think of it, in SOLDIER at all, but… use the tools that come to your hands.

                Little voice. “Really?”

                “Oh yeah. They have really good senses of balance, right? But for some of them, that just means their sense of balance gets really confused when they go on boats or even helicopters.” He shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. Their teammates may give them grief, but if they do, they’re allowed to prank them to get even.” Tiny giggle, which turned into using the bucket again. He pulled the boy’s hair back—somehow none of it had gotten caught in previous expenditures—and patted him on the back. “Sorry, buddy. I know it sucks. I think I have some medicine in the pack that might help—” he turned to the pack, rummaged, pulled it out and checked the instructions.

                “No—please? Please Sir?”

                Something was off. He paused, listened and breathed deeply. Under the smell of vomit—thanks again Hojo—he could smell terror. Could hear it in the frenetic heartbeat. He normally tried to tune out most of his new senses—but he was pretty sure the child was calm, earlier. At least before the vomiting started. “Okay. Why?”

                The boy looked up at him, his hair falling across his eyes again. “The medicine never does what they say it does Sir. It always makes it so I can’t stay awake, or can’t move, and when I’m sick or I take medicine I have really bad dreams.” The boy shivered a little, speaking, then flushed. “I… I’m sorry. I snapped at you, Sir, and I’m—”

                “No one is at their best when they feel bad. And you are allowed to question me.” Vincent said, crouching. With the boy sitting on the bed now, they were about eye height. Probably a late grower. And that probably pissed Hojo off. “What kind of dreams?”

                The boy’s eyes slid off to one side. “I’m on something cold and hard, and it smells bad, like the stuff they mop the hallways with, and something’s beeping. I can’t move and it hurts— Mr. Valentine, your eyes are glowing.”

                “They do that sometimes. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

                “They’re golden now.”

                “That sounds about right. Sephiroth, I’ve had dreams like that.”

                “Really?”

                “Oh yes. They are the worst. Which is why I am very careful about medicine. I only get the kinds that do what they are supposed to.” He shook the little bottle without shaking the ship— a task that required some small control. It wouldn’t help with the seasickness if he shook the boat. “I’m not going to make you take this. I understand—those dreams are horrible. But I think you’re feeling pretty bad right now, and I think this would help. They won’t make it so you need to sleep, but they may make you drowsy, because that helps the nausea go away. That’s all.”

                Suddenly suspicious, the boy’s eyes narrowed. “You aren’t taking them!”

                Vincent breathed deeply—through his slightly open mouth, because he could still smell it—shut his eyes, opened them. Looked at the boy, and thought a bit about how his body interacted with medicine now.

                Then he popped two pills, dry, which was unbelievably nasty but that provided a visceral distraction, so it was useful. He straightened, drank some water, and crouched back down. Sephiroth’s mouth hung open in a little O.

                “It’s okay to question me. Always. But I’m going to make you a promise, right now, and I want you to remember that I did. I will never ask you to take something if I think it will hurt you. Understand?”

                Slow nod, hesitant. Maybe a little ashamed. Not very useful, shame, to either of them… but it would go away on it’s own, in time. “I’ll take it, Sir.”

                “Are you sure?” Maybe it wasn’t the parental thing to do, not to insist the boy take it… but Vincent didn’t have insisting on this in him. He still got a tiny nod, and he got out one of the nausea pills for him. “Take it with water—trust me, it’s unpleasant otherwise.”

                Why wasn’t he surprised that the kid could swallow pills like a champ? He ruffled the kid’s hair again—that was starting to be a pleasant association for the kid, he could tell. “Wanna try to nap? It will help the nausea.”    

                Sephiroth—name still too long to not be ridiculous, no matter how long he used it—peeked at him without turning his head, through his hair. “Will you stay here?”

                “Of course. That way, if you did get nightmares, I could wake you up.”

                “… even though I might kick you?”

                “Even though you might kick me.”

                The boy’s face brightened considerably at that, and then he looked sheepish again. “Can you tell me a story Sir?”

                “Sure.” Why did the boy look so surprised at that? “Let’s see… Have you ever heard the story about the Boy who fell from the Stars?”

                Sephiroth’s eyes were already starting to droop, but they brightened briefly. “No!”

                “It’s a good one. One of my favorites.” It was. “Once upon a time there was a boy who lived with his parents among the stars, but there was—” the legend was never specific here— “an attack. So his parents sent him away to our world. They died—”

                “That’s sad. I don’t like this story.”

                “It gets better. See, he landed on a farm, and the man and woman there had always wanted a son, so they decided they would adopt him.”

                Sephiroth’s eyes brightened again. “Did they have chocobos?”

                The story was not specific pertaining to chocobos. “Of course. Lots and lots of chocobos. And the boy grew up happy and strong and healthy, and he had many chocobo rides. But as time went on, it became clear that the boy was special. He was stronger than everyone, and faster too. He could fly, and he didn’t need materia to cast spells.”

                “Wooooooooooah.”

                “Pretty cool, right? Sephiroth, you’re shivering. Do you want to get under the covers?”

                Adamant shake of the head. “Sometimes blankets eat parts of you while you’re asleep.”

                Cannibalistic blankets… oh. “All of them?”

                “Just the white ones and the blue ones, mostly—your eyes are glowing again.”

                “They probably are. Here—” the cape unhooked easily enough. “It’s not a blanket, and it’s red anyway, so it should be extra safe, right? Lay on top of the blanket, so it can’t pull it’s tricks. I’ll make sure you have a safe color blanket when we get home.” Right… he should probably rent a house. Or buy one. They could take over Shinra Manor… no. Shiva’s sharp tits no. They were not going to the manor.

                A problem for another time.

                “Okay!” The boy settled back into place.

                “Where was I—right. The boy was special. And because the attack had wiped out all the other star people, he was alone, and very different from the people around him. So you know what he did?”

                “What?” Sephiroth was almost asleep now, eyes half shut and voice hazy. Amazing how fast that could happen.

                “He decided that he loved his new home, and if he couldn’t bring back his old people, then he would help his new, adopted home be safe. And if they were safe, then they would grow and be special too, even if it was a different special from him.”

                “Did it work?” A long, sleepy pause. “Were they scared of him?”

                “Some of them were. But mostly, people loved him. And he was right—he soon had friends just as special as he was. A man who used no materia, but could blend into the night seamlessly, and who was quick and clever and never gave up. A woman who was almost as strong as the Boy who fell from the Stars, and who could compel people to tell her the truth. A man even faster than he was. And they had many adventures, and they looked out for each other. Because they made each other their family.”

                The boy was asleep. Vincent took a deep breath and straightened, feeling his back crack, and stretched. He tried to persuade himself that he was lucky. He was going to get to kill Hojo at least three times, counting the previous two.

                It didn’t help. Chaos and agony be damned, he should have clawed free of that coffin sooner.

***

                Vincent tried to read the files on the boat. It did not work.

                The environment was perfect for clandestine reading—they had a door of their own, shut against intruders, he was on the upper bunk so the boy would not see the files even if he left them open, and he actually very much liked the lighting and the gentle sway of the boat. He found it quite soothing, and the smell of vomit was gone now thanks to some incredibly powerful cleaning agents—finally, a real reason to like Shinra. But there were problems.

                For one, the motion of the boat, though gentle, kept unsettling the pages. For another, he kept getting sick. He did try to continue—he really did—but on his third sudden jump down to use the bucket, Sephiroth looked up at him. “The pills didn’t work for you?”

                That was not the issue. “That, or they are just taking longer to work. It’s okay though. Did you have a good nap?”

                A nod. The kid did look better—much better in fact. He frowned up at Vincent. “Did you try napping?”

                Vincent doubted he’d ever be able to sleep again. “Well—”

                “You should take a nap too.  Come here!”

                Bemused, Vincent allowed himself to be pulled into the lower bunk, next to the boy, who pulled his cape over both of them. “There! Now you’re safe from the blankets too.”

                “I don’t think—” the boy was bedding back down, pulling a pillow over Vincent’s arm to make it a suitable spot to rest. More objections would likely be useless.

                “You watched out to make sure I don’t have the nightmares. I’ll do that for you, so that way you can sleep.” Enthusiasm. It was good, actually to hear the boy get carried away with something, without all the sirs and the lack of frivolity, but—

                “That’s very kind—”

                The boy reached out and patted Vincent’s head. Vincent felt, abruptly, both an intense amusement and a deep understanding for Red XIII. Small wonder he did not allow them to touch his head. He felt like he was about three.

                Still, perhaps it was better to play along. He shut his eyes for a few minutes, and rather to his lack of surprise, the boy was quickly asleep again, though he had his arm pinned now.

                “I’m trapped,” he said, mildly, to the swaying ship and the sleeping boy. But… the boy was there—warm weight on his arm that he could feel even through the gauntlet, even, peaceful breathing, heartbeat in the slow, relaxed tempos of sleep. The ocean rocked them both, and the smell of raw barley—sweet and a little sour, and very earthy—crept back in to cover the smell of the cleaning agents he had used on the floor and the smell of ocean permeating all.

                And the boy was here. In spite of everything. In spite of the file. In spite of the fact that he should have been there sooner, the boy was here. Alive.

                Little by little, Vincent Valentine drifted off to sleep, and the weight on his arm kept away the nightmares all night long, just as the boy hoped it would.

Chapter Text

                When Vincent woke up, it was to pain. It was going to be a bad one—he jerked his arm out from under the sleeping boy and landed hard on the deck, hoping and praying he somehow hadn’t woken the boy.

                No luck there.

                The little silver head, popped over the edge of the bed, confused and alarmed. “Mr. Valentine?”

                Mr. Valentine would have answered, but he felt his jaw break in that moment—he managed to keep from crying out, but the way the boy’s body jolted left him with no doubt he had heard the crack. His breath came in hard, angry pants as a few of his lower ribs and his arms did the same, the ribs, thankfully, hidden by his shirt, his arms… not so much.

                “Mr. Valentine?” The kid got quieter when he got scared— he was barely whispering now. Vincent shuddered and managed to open his mouth, then shut it again, spasming. The fusing hurt more than the breaking—nerves renewed by the burst of healing.

                The breaking and healing shuddered, then slowed, then stopped, leaving him with tears streaked down his face but he must have managed not to make any noise—no one had come to ask what the hell he was doing. Everything hurt, but… that was to be expected. “Seph?”

                “Sir?”

                His head jerked—he had expected to need to fish the boy out from under the bed after that one, so hearing the boy barren inches behind him was a surprise. He made himself sit up, slowly—could have done with laying for another twenty minutes, but it wasn’t about him. “Sephiroth. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

                “Was that a seizure? Are you okay?”

                Vincent did not want to know how the boy knew about seizures. Given the context, the possible implications were disturbing. And he rather doubted the boy just had a friend prone to such things. He rather doubted the boy would recognize a human of the same age. “Not… exactly.”

                “Your arms broke.”

                “They’re better now.”

                “Spiral breaks do not just get better.”

                Vincent definitely didn’t want to know how he knew that. It was probably in the file. A problem for another time. “I’m a little different. Mostly they don’t, no, but if my body does that to itself, it will also fix it. See?” He offered the boy his arm—the human one. Suspicious, the child ran a hand over his arm.

                It was tender, but solid.

                “… maybe you should only have had one of the seasick pills?” Sephiroth said, sounding shaken.

                Vincent couldn’t help it. He started laughing, hard, flopping onto the floor again.

                “Mr. Valentine?!”

                “I’m fine.” He managed. “I’m fine. It wasn’t the pills, kiddo. It was just me.”

                “Are you sure? Sometimes they effect people differently—”

                Vincent was not an expert, but he thought that the child knowing that much about drugs was also bad.  

                “I’m quite sure. It happens a fair amount, but it’s not happening as often, so it will go away eventually.” He sat up again, slowly. “Want to see if we can take a walk?”

                Sephiroth wasn’t distracted—he gave him something that could only be called the stink eye—but he seemed reassured when Vincent stood and tugged his cloak back on. “Where?”

                “The deck. The sea seems calmer now, let’s ask the Captain if we may walk the span of her ship. We may not be able to if they are trying to get things done.”

                “Okay. Can I hold your hand?”

                Vincent strongly suspected that he had asked that to make sure his hand was the right shape, and indeed, when he nodded, the boy moved for his right this time.

                He felt the boy’s eyes on him all the way through the walk, checking to see if he moved right—checking to see if he bent only at the joints. But when he tried to catch the boy looking, he was staring out at the sea.

***

                The rest of the voyage was blessedly uneventful, though Sephiroth was quiet and watchful the whole time, and had a tendency to come awake and immediately jump up and look around if Vincent wasn’t in sight when he woke. Although there was no recurrence of seasickness, Vincent had to admit that he was relived to get off the ship.

                Sephiroth, clinging only marginally more gently to his toy, was wide eyed and watchful of the new environment—mako bright eyes sweeping about and seizing on things that Vincent had never seen as anything but commonplace, a bird circling overhead, a friendly dog, a pine tree.

                “I thought they had leaves?”

                “Some types of trees, the needles are the leaves.”

                That had gotten him a baffled look. The boy almost never commented on things as he saw them, merely staring, and Vincent, fearing that he might miss something, told him to speak up if he saw something interesting.

                The boy stared at him. Vincent consigned himself to watching from the corner of his eyes.  But when they went out of the city, into the wild, the boy came alive. His arms, which had been crossed holding the toy to his chest, relaxed, so it merely hung in one fist. His eyes grew wide, as if trying to take in the whole of the sky, and the first time they saw a meadow, he froze in place, mouth hanging open. Vincent froze when he saw wonder taking root, but feared he might be missing moments—commonplace bugs and birds, seen from the eyes of a boy he was increasingly sure had no memory of life outside the Shinra compound.

                “It’s not like the photos.”

                “Hmmm?”

                “The trees.” Sephiroth said, from about three inches away from a tree trunk. Staring. “They aren’t like in the photos.”

                “How so?” Vincent asked, trying to light a fire with flint and steel. It was getting dark—their first day camping, and he had a vague idea in his head about showing Sephiroth some easy constellations when he was done making them dinner. He could cast fire now, yes—but fires started with magic tended to taste a little more…. Off, than normal fire. It had been something of a revelation when he had joined AVALANCHE—he thought it had been his own senses, warped and twisted by the others within him, until Cloud one day had groaned when Cid went to light the fire. ‘Your taste buds may be dead from overheated tea and cigarettes, but mine aren’t. Use that on something we aren’t going to eat!’

                It had taken longer to realize that both he and Cloud had enhanced senses of taste—so it wasn’t a product of the monsters, but rather, Hojo’s other experiments. That had made it more palatable, somehow.

                “They’re all different. And they’re so much bigger.” Sephiroth said, tracing his fingers through the tears in the bark. “And they flow differently.”

                What.

                “Flow?”

                “Yeah. With people it’s all tight and strange but in trees, its long and curly and it’s….” Sephiroth trailed off seeing Vincent look at him. His eyes went wide. “I—”

                “Sephiroth—” It would seem none of these conversations would happen when he was ready for them.

                “I didn’t see it! I didn’t!” The boy yelled, eyes wide again, and when Vincent straightened, he went pale and dashed off into the woods.

                “Sephiroth!” he yelled after him, but the boy was gone.

Chapter Text

                 “Sephiroth! Seph!” Vincent called out into the growing shadows. It was getting colder—not cold proper yet, but it was early autumn and the nights could be brisk without gear… or a fire… or a tent. Of course, that wouldn’t be a problem if he had just stayed near the fire, but… he took a deep breath, and tried to hone in with his senses, but… so many animals. So much life. And… he just wasn’t experienced enough at tracking with his senses. And somehow the boy managed to stay out of sight.

                “Seph!”

                He was two minutes away from going back and using the Gailian Beast’s nose to track him from the stuffed dragon—an idea he was quite certain would be disastrous, because even if a giant monster tracking him down at night in a strange forest didn’t scare the living stream out of Sephiroth, then having said abomination warp into the man he was currently running from certainly would, and worse, if he felt trapped—Vincent took another breath, turning around him to survey the forest and calling out his charge’s name again into the night. He had to act soon though—the boy was still small. Young.

                Easy meat for monsters.

                As if to emphasize the thought, a low bark sounded to his left, and he whirled, pulling a pistol—only to find a lone Nibel Wolf staring down the barrel of his gun with apparent disregard and bright, bright eyes. But… No. Wolves were not that golden blonde color. Wolves did not have blue eyes. This wasn’t their territory yet, he was still a ways off. This had to be someone’s pet, but… not a purebred one. Out in the wild a long time, if the spikiness of it’s fur was any indicator, but it’s tail wagged cheerfully at him, and when it’s mouth opened it’s tongue lolled out in a canid grin.  

                Vincent hesitated for a long moment, then shook his head. “You’ll have to wait, boy. I’m looking for someone just now—if you want to join this party then follow me—I need to find him before something else does.” He sheathed the gun—still cautious, but not willing to waste time threatening a nonhostile force. The dog… wolf… thing barked and wagged it’s tail furiously, and trotted over, ears folding back in easy, friendly submission.

                It was… huge.

                “Not right now boy. Seph! Sephiroth? I’m not mad, I just need to be sure you’re safe. C’mon buddy, we need to get back to the—“ he cut himself off with an undignified yelp when the creature, who had been walking at his heels for the last while, suddenly lunged from the side, slamming it’s head into his hip and sending him down a steep ravine. He turned as he went and dug in with his gauntlet for purchase, but caught only flimsy vegetation that broke away as he went. Stupid, stupid to forget that Nibel wolves could be cunning, and a feral half-wolf more than most. He scrambled about to find his pistol—it had fallen free in the drop, and looked up with sick dread to find another Nibel wolf.

                This rapidly changed to confusion. The wolf was smaller than her counterpart, probably female, black furred, and… had eyes the color of red wine. Even more bafflingly, she had his gun in her mouth like a branch for fetching.

                Vincent only stared as she dropped to her belly and crawled, crawled forward, ears back and tail wagging, to drop the weapon almost directly into his hand. “What… what are you?”

                He received no reply of course—only a knowing look and gentle nudge with her nose, urging him upwards. A moment later he felt the same from the other side—the male, doing the same, close mouthed and tail wagging furiously. “You are not wolves.”

                A bark that sounded suspiciously like a laugh sounded from the female, and he slowly, slowly got to his feet. His legs hurt a bit—he had hit some nice rocks in the fall—but when didn’t he hurt? “I don’t understand.”

                The she-wolf, satisfied that he was on his feet, barked and dropped into a play bow, then darted off ahead of them, the male sticking closer to Vincent’s side again, and Vincent, too baffled to do anything else, followed. He should have been more surprised when they led him to a third packmate, this one a large grey male with blue eyes, but he was more stunned by what lay beside it. Curled up and shivering, Sephiroth was asleep, wrapped around by the grey wolf. Vincent froze, afraid to move too swiftly—afraid to startle or anger it, but the grey wolf perked it’s ears at him, nuzzled the boy, and stood, pushing it’s massive head into his hands for scratches just as a domestic dog would.

                It had a lily wound into it’s ruff.

                “I don’t understand…” Vincent said again, surrounded by the most docile wolf pack he had ever met. The only response came from the blonde wolf, who pushed him rather hard in the rump, toward Sephiroth. “I… thank you.”

                All three wagged their tails, then turned and ran into the woods. It seemed like they just vanished out of sight, but… wild animals were like that, right?

                No. Nothing that just happened was like interacting with a wild animal. He turned and knelt by the boy, checking for a pulse—got a sleepy protest in return and almost sobbed with relief, scooped Sephiroth up in his arms, and started making his way back to camp.

***

                He was so exhausted by the time that he came back to camp that he didn’t bother with trying to make food, lighting the fire with a wave of one hand and unrolling the sleeping bags, only to hesitate, frowning. They were dark blue. He had bought them in Midgar, before the topic came up.

                He suspected, strongly, that it was light blue and white that bothered the boy, and wasn’t sure how sleeping bags factored into the equation—but he didn’t want to take the chance of scaring the boy into submission. Little as he liked it, it occurred to him, blearily, that it might be a good sign the boy had dared to run off.

                He stacked the sleeping bags atop each other and lay down atop it, settling the boy against him, facing the fire because wild animals would approach him first that way. He hesitated, then tucked the stuffed dragon against the boy before he pulled his cloak over both of them and let sleep claim him.

***

                Valentine woke slowly, blearily, and then all at once, because there should have been warmth against his side and instead there was only more sleeping bag. He jerked upright, then let out a sigh of relief—Sephiroth was squatting on the other side of the fire, holding his dragon and watching him.

                “You’re awake. Good.” Vincent breathed, and started to stand up—decided to abandon the notion when the boy jerked in place, eyes going wide again. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

                The boy’s pupils were cat-slit, even though he was in fairly bright sunlight. “Everyone says that. But you’re still going to take me back to Hojo.”

                “No.” Vincent growled, his left hand clenching, digging thick grooves into the clay dirt. He shut his eyes when the boy flinched again—the noise had come out two-toned— and took several deep breaths, until the demons went mostly quiet again. “No, I will not.”

                “Yes you will! They all say that but if I do something weird, I… and you’re mad!”

                Interesting. “What makes you say that?”

                “Your eyes! That’s what it means when they turn all gold, isn’t it? You’re mad at me, because I was bad!”

                That… was a valid point, actually. “I’m… I’m angry. But mostly not at you.”

                “Mostly not at me is still mad at me!” the boy shrieked, and Vincent flinched—there were octaves he hadn’t been able to hear, all that long time ago, that he wished he still couldn’t.

                The truth then, and hope it was enough. “Yes, a little. Do you know why?”

                The boy blinked at him. Apparently it wasn’t a question he had been asked before. “Be—because I was bad, and I disobeyed, and I’m going to be SOLDIER, and SOLDIERS have to obey, or they’re wrong, and bad—”

                “No. That’s not why.” Actually, the constant obedience was disturbing. Deeply disturbing.

                “Then… because I see the swirls, and I didn’t say before, and now you have to take me back to Hojo so he can learn about them—”

                “Definitely not. You are not going back to Hojo. Ever.” He pulled himself into a cross-legged sit, then considered, letting the boy settle as he contemplated how to say this. No graceful ways existed. “I wanted to ease you into this, but I think you need to see something.”

                The boy’s brow furrowed.

                The gauntlet was, intentionally, quite difficult to take off. Each finger had to be unscrewed separately—the front and back were also separate, and the bracer needed a bit of dexterity and strength to pry free. The one time the arm had gotten hurt in AVALANCHE, it had been shortly after he had first joined. Tifa had given him a lecture that lasted almost twenty minutes about gear that might need to come off in an emergency, the importance of explaining said gear to teammates who might have to get it off you in a hurry, blood loss, self-preservation, the nature of trust, the fact that it was easier to heal a fresh wound then one a few minutes old, materia, and armor that made everything worse. He had been, was still, surprised that she only hesitated for a minute when they had managed to get the last piece off to display what lay beneath—an arm distinctly no longer human, too large, clawed, the flesh of it warped and painful, black and monstrous and desiccated like a corpse’s. Cloud had drawn in a sharp breath with understanding in his too-bright eyes—Aerith had said nothing, only reached for the injury that had caused the whole fiasco and started healing. She looked sad for a while though, and had simply patted his shoulder when he thanked her.

                Vincent was more practiced now at getting the armor off, and he had no injury to hamper him—he could do it in one minute, one handed, for obvious reasons. This time he took his time, which made it almost three—hesitating when he unscrewed the fingers to show the boy the lack of blood and pain, because he let out a little yelp that reminded him what he was doing looked odd. Laying the pieces out in the pattern they would go back in as he put it back on, a loose glove shape on the grass, and the arm underneath still too large and sharp to be human. When the bracer gave with a sharp cracking noise the boy jumped to his feet, alarmed, he shook his head. “I don’t take it off often enough to worry about the sound it makes. It’s fine. It wasn’t me. Come and look.”

                He didn’t like looking—didn’t like other people looking either, which had been the original reason for his outfit. He might look outlandish, but no one could see the parts of him that no longer bent in the right places, the parts where the joints were just a little too big or too small. Most of it could still pass for human, out of context. But the arm was plenty of context.

                The boy didn’t have horror or anger on his face though—the warped flesh made him wince, then, cautiously reach out a hand. No one just reached out and touched that arm—even Aerith only did it for healing, though there was a strong possibility that was because she feared it would hurt him, or that he wouldn’t feel it. She had been the most free with contact of the group, and Valentine had been uncomfortable with that—hugs were all well and good, if you couldn’t accidentally break someone’s ribs. He could.

                But Sephiroth ran a hand over the forearm and looked up with sad eyes. “Did Hojo have you in the labs too?”

                “Yes. I was his bodyguard at the time. It came as something of a shock. This is… part of the result. The rest… it can wait. But Sephiroth, I will never take anyone back there. Least of all a kid. Hojo is an evil man, and I will never serve him. You don’t need to worry about that.”

                “Even… even if I’m not normal, or not working right?”

                “Even then. Especially then.”

                Too much, too fast. He could see the boy starting to slow down, confusion clouding his eyes. “Why were you mad, then?”

                “Because it is dangerous out here, and I didn’t know if you were safe. You scared me. I thought a monster might find you before I did, and that would have been very bad.”

                The boy considered that, looking down. “You… probably still want me to tell you about the trees though.”

                He did, actually. Very badly. But he made a snap decision, and decided to stick with it. “Not now.”

                “No?”

                “We skipped dinner last night. I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry, and I want to have tea. I bet you’re hungry too. Once we eat, if you want, we can talk about what you saw.”

                Sephiroth looked down, but didn’t shrink back when he moved to stand this time. “Does your arm hurt?”

                “Sometimes. C’mon, lets get more firewood.”

Chapter Text

                They made good progress that day, partly because they weren’t talking. Vincent was usually very comfortable with silence. This one he didn’t like, but his few attempts to break it—to point out a cloud or a tree, got only cursory acknowledgement.

                Eventually he gave up. They walked in silence for a while, until Vincent spotted a good spot. “Alright. Let’s stop for the night.”

                “I can keep going!”

                “I believe you.” Vincent said. “But I don’t want to go farther. This is a good spot to make camp, can’t expect a better one, and I’d like to actually make a regular fire this time. Do you like noodles?”

                “Noodles?”

                “Noodles.” Vincent said. At Sephiroth’s continued incomprehension, he sighed. “Well. New experience, then.”

                Sephiroth gave him a suspicious look, and Vincent withheld his frown—remarkable, really, how little time it took to return him to the suspicious boy he started out as a few days ago. But… what was built could be rebuilt. Hopefully.

                He still clutched the dragon tight. Well. Work with what you have.

                “Sephiroth, I’ve been meaning to ask you a question.”

                A tiny silver head cocked to one side.

                “I think you need a nickname.”

                A baffled look. “Why?”

                “If you have three or more syllables in your name, it’s hard to yell out in an emergency. I’ve called you Seph once or twice, do you mind that?”

                Another baffled look. “Your name is longer.”

                “Mine is only two syllables. Vin-cent. But if you want to call me Vin, that’s fine.”

                The boy shifted uncomfortably. Somehow… that was what Vincent thought. “It’s okay. If you don’t like it, we can come up with something else. We aren’t exactly in a rush.”

                “But… you are Mr. Valentine, sir—”

                “I don’t care about the Mr. Or the Sir. In fact I think I would prefer Vincent.”

                The boy gave him a wary look.

                “Mr. Valentine.”

                “Vincent.”

                “Mr. Valentine.”

                “I would accept Mr. Vincent.”

                “Mr…. Vincent.” The boy tested the word as if it might bite him, eyes shifting to Vincent and back again.

                “I will accept Mr. Vincent.”

                He cooked the food, served it, watched in amusement as the boy attempted to eat the noodles. “They are messy. You may as well accept that.” The boy tried, doggedly, to eat them neatly. He did not succeed, and he glared when Vincent hid his smile in his collar. “No shame in eating messy food messily, Sephiroth. It’s not like we have to clean up. We’re outdoors.”

                The boy frowned and applied himself to the rest of his noodles, carefully and studiously. Vincent tried not to laugh.

                With limited success.

                “You want to hear about the swirls.”

                “If you are ready.”

                “I don’t wanna.”

                “Okay.”

                Vincent had a harder time not laughing at the expression that called up, but then, he also wanted to cry. He did neither. He would wait. As long as it took.

                He had bought the time dearly. He may as well use it wisely.

***

                Later that night, in the process of bedding down—Vincent’s suspicions proved correct, dark blue was not a problem, nor were sleeping bags—Vincent stopped midway through and walked out, away from the fire to point out the stars, and the boy followed, not by command, but by curiosity.

                “See those stars? The six, lined up? That is Leviathan, the monstrous, worshipped for his strength . And that one is Shiva—she points north, so you can use her to find your way at night. I’ll teach you how to navigate by them later.”

                Little Sephiroth was quiet, but not, Vincent thought, the same quiet as earlier—a wondering and brilliant quiet, filled with brilliant points of light. “But… there are so many.”

                “They all have stories, if you want to hear them. And most are useful, to navigate, or tell time. The universe stretches beyond us.”

                The boy made no reply to that, only huddling tight against his side, staring upwards. His eyes were lost in distant glory. “I want to know them all.”

                “Difficult. But I will do my best to teach you. Everything I know. And everything I can learn, to teach you. I imagine you did not see them often, in Midgar.”

                “Never.” The boy breathed, his breath making a light fog in the air—not cold enough to harm, not yet, but cold enough to be seen and felt, so late at night. At least for one whose vision was enhanced by Chaos. “They’re… pretty.”

                “Yes.”

                “They said that looking at the stars was frivolous, before.”

                Frivolous. Every day marked a day closer to inevitable allergic reaction. Vincent wondered, blandly, if Cura would be enough. Perhaps he should put effort into mastering his new materia.  “Looking at them is mostly done for pleasure now, but the skill of navigating by them will not serve you badly.  Equipment loses power—materia can only function if you feed them energy. But the stars remain."

                Sephiroth stared upwards, eyes wide, in wonder of the stars, as a thousand generations of children had done before him. “Mr. Vincent?”

                “Yes?”

                “I wanna tell you about the swirls.”

                “Okay. But not now. In the morning.” When he had the capacity to think about it. Hopefully.

                “O—okay. Mr. Vincent?”

                “Yes?”

                “You can call me Seph.”

                Vincent smiled. Tousled the boy’s hair. “Thank you Seph.”

                The boy didn’t say anything, only pressed his face against Vincent’s leg, as if to hide it. They bedded down eventually, in separate sleeping bags, but Vincent wasn’t overly surprised when he found the boy using him as a pillow the next morning. He didn’t move. He could wait.

Chapter Text

                “So. Swirls?”

                Seph nodded, watching Vincent’s hands—he was getting better at striking fire with flint and stone, holding the flint in the gauntlet and dragging the metal across with the right. The lack of flexibility in the left hand was still a problem—hard to truly appreciate the delicacy of hand movements until that delicacy was destroyed. But most things could be compensated for.

                “What has the swirls?”

                “I thought just people. I never saw anything but people before. But the trees kinda have it, but it’s all drawn out and swirly, and it’s pretty but it seems like it would be hard to get at. And dogs and cats have it, but it’s still not as dense as people. It’s close to the surface on people. Easy to grab, but easier on some people than others.” His face brightened. “Do you know what it is?”

                Easy to grab… Something about that made Vincent’s stomach clench a little. “No. Not yet at least. I don’t see them.”

                “You don’t?” The boy sounded baffled. At least that explained why he didn’t know it was strange until Vincent had looked at him—it was mundane, to the boy at least.

                “No. I don’t think I have heard of anyone seeing the swirls.” Chaos did have an awareness of the lifestream, but except in extreme concentrations, it was more smell and sound than anything else… and sometimes it was an aggressive awareness. Vincent mostly did not allow himself to get that drawn into Chaos’ senses—it was too close to surrendering to instinct. “What about fire? Does that have it?”

                A tiny head shake… then a hesitation. “Yesterday’s morning fire did, but only a little. And they weren’t… they didn’t look as good. Spoiled.”

                Yesterday’s morning’s fire. In hindsight, Vincent believed that the Turks should hire parents—getting straight answers out of a child was thus far proving to be far more difficult than getting them out of terrorists. At least terrorists generally knew what the hell they were talking about. He almost missed the connection. “Do I have them?”

                “Yours are weird, and tight, but they’re different colors.” The boy hesitated. “I’m sorry. I know I’m not supposed to stare.”

                “It’s fine. I asked.” And honestly, any sort of extra sense was likely to see something… off there. “Seph, have you ever watched materia being used? Up close?”

                The boy shook his head.

                “Here, watch.” Vincent called up fire. Not in the fire pit—he wanted tea that tasted right, darn it, without that metallic undertone—but over on a broad, large boulder off to one side of the camp. Seph’s eyes went wide, and then the pupils changed shape. There was a focus there—a focus Vincent had seen before, but usually only on the face of men who had been stranded without food for a while. A calm and watchful hunger. But when he stopped casting, the boy blinked and his eyes went back to normal.

                “You put swirls in the fire!”

                “Seph, when you see the swirls-- You don’t hear anything, do you? Like voices?”

                Vehement shake of head. “Hojo wanted me to hear voices, but I don’t, I really don’t! Is that bad?”

                It might have been better if he did. But then… this explained some things. “No. I had a friend once who could, and that made her a very strong spellcaster,” among other things “but not everyone will have the same gifts. This I haven’t heard of before—I think you’re seeing the life energy that we can put into spells. Have you… ever tried to interact with it?” Please no.

                The boy shook his head again, then hesitated. His eyes shifted away.

                Alright, he was still new to this, but he had seen that look before. Usually on Yuffie, when she had taken something as a prank and only realized after that the person in question was genuinely upset. Once on Marlene, when she had broken a glass, then hid it under the table, where Barret had found it. With his foot. “Seph. I won’t be mad. But I’m supposed to teach you how to do things, right? That’s much easier if I know what you have done before. That way I know what I should teach, and your lessons are less boring.”

                The boy had what was either a very tight embrace or some kind of chokehold on the stuffed dragon now. If it was alive, it would be unable to breathe and have a broken neck besides, as well as an irreparable wing—as it was, he was could see that it was making the boy’s hands go white in their entirety. “You’ll be mad. They were mad, and they didn’t realize I did it—they yelled at the man.”

                “Oh? Who are they?” Vincent went back to trying to light the fire, deliberately—he thought it might be better to have his eyes looking away for this part.

                “Hojo and his assistants.”

                “Well, I don’t like Hojo. Maybe it will make me happy because it made Hojo mad.”

                “Maybe…” he sounded doubtful, but after a few long minutes of nothing but the scrape of steel on flint—the last sparks from before had gone out as they talked and now his hands weren’t steady—when Vincent had thought their conversation was over, he spoke again. “One day I was in the labs and one of the assistants was trying to make me sleep under the white blankets, and I was scared and I didn’t wanna. He—see, I knew you would be mad, your eyes are glowing!” The last came out as a frantic shout—some distant part of Vincent thought that it was very good that they were having this conversation out in the wild, and not in town.

                “Not at you, Seph. It was very mean of him to make you sleep under the blanket.” He made himself look up, slowly—his hands were clenched too tightly to get the right angle on the flint anyway, and the boy had already seen the glow.  His voice came out two-toned, but the boy only cocked his head at that, as if the strangeness of it was a distraction from the fear of his guardian’s wrath. “I don’t think I like this assistant. What happened next?”

                Probably a bad idea to try anything with fire while this was happening anyway—he made himself let go of flint and steel. One. Finger. At. A. Time. Was the steel bent? Surely not. Wrong place to focus anyway.

                Seph looked away. “You promise you aren’t mad at me?” Barely a whisper. Vincent heard it clearly—felt the air it moved like razors across his skin.

                “Promise.” Not mad would be a lie. But the assistant… the things that the human anatomy could withstand were numerous, but not quite endless unless you were very creative about it. Vincent wanted to be creative. Chaos approved—most of the monsters did.

                Hellmasker even had a few ideas. They had merit, but… too much blood loss. It would be too swift.

                Vincent shut his eyes and started walking through a breathing exercise. He had suspected this. He could hold it together. 

                The boy shifted. “Okay. Hojo told him not to waste time—that he should just make me swallow the pills or inject me to make me sleep, and the assistant went to pinch my nose but I saw him coming and I bit him.” He squirmed in place uncertainly—rather impressive, given that he was squatting near the nonexistent fire and did not stand up. “I know biting is bad. I shouldn’t have bit him. I’m sorry. So he slapped me, and I hit my head on the wall next to me, and my vision went blurry for a minute, but I could still see the swirls--”

                And bloody light washed the clearing. The boy yelped and backed away, eyes wide, and Vincent—was it a roar or a scream? Was it him or Chaos?

                The lines got blurry. He found himself next to the boulder—launched himself that way, away from the boy—and a glancing blow meant more to steady himself against the stone split it, and left deep groves for each of his fingers besides. No, not like this—he needed to breathe, needed to get a grip, needed to rein the monster in, because… there was a reason, wasn’t there? There was a reason he had been fighting back this power, a reason he hadn’t just burned Shinra to the ground and killed everyone inside—a reason he shouldn’t go back and do it right now, until he found Hojo and could rip him apart very slowly—

                “Mr. Vincent?”

                The boy. The boy shouldn’t have to see this—shouldn’t have to— he knew he had to explain the monsters to the boy, but not like this, not when the boy needed him to shut up and listen—

                “Mr. Vincent? Are you really mad, or does it hurt? Like with your arms?”

                He was closer than Vincent had expected—far closer than most people dared get to any of his forms. He jumped to the side when a tiny hand reached out and patted his leg—turned to look in a too-quick-predator-movement. The boy didn’t flinch. “Does it hurt?” Quite a bit, actually. Much more than it did when he first willingly took the form beside his friends. Maybe his body hadn’t fully adjusted yet—maybe he maybe he wasn’t eating quite enough to fuel it properly. He hadn’t noticed until now.

                “A bit. I’m fine though. That man should not have struck you.” Vincent wasn’t a man who felt physical punishment should never be condoned—he had been spanked himself—but slapping a child hard enough to make his vision swim because he was scared was beyond the pale. Not that anything else he had heard so far was much better. And they had been trying to make him take medicine to—another wave of light rippled out, and Sephiroth grunted, crossing his arms in front of his face. “Seph! I—are you alright?”

                The boy shook himself in a way that disturbed him—it reminded him of Cloud trying to loosen up after a fight—and rubbed his eyes. “Yeah. That didn’t hurt me. It was kinda weird, though—you can do that? You have wings—can you fly?”

                “I—” This was not the way Valentine expected this conversation to go, the first time the boy saw him using Chaos. The cracks in the hardened armor of his face that let his jaw move always stung--  “Yes. It can be… difficult though.”

                “And it hurts? Maybe you should sit or lie down on the grass for a bit—do you want a hug? Sometimes the nice nannies would give me a hug if I was scared. Not often though. They helped.”

                Vincent would have said no, though the boy had a point about the sitting down thing—he was sharp in places in this body, most notably the knees, which were about chest high on the boy. But the boy didn’t wait for an invitation, he only waited for an opening and charged. Vincent felt weight barrel into his chest—barely managed to move his arms so that the points of the elbows and fingertips didn’t jab him. “Seph!”

                The boy let go hurriedly, looking at him. “Did I hurt you?”

                What?

                “No, but— this doesn’t alarm you? I… wanted to explain to you about my shapeshifting, but.. I didn’t want to scare you.”

                “There are scarier things in the labs, and they were mostly just in pain.” Seeing an opening again, the boy burrowed against his side, under his arm. “We can stop—if it hurts and you want to take a nap, you can do that. And… if it makes you this mad… I don’t want you to be mad at me.” The weight of the little head rested against his chest—it didn’t make the rage go away, far from it, but it settled him, made it easier to get a grip on it. The rage would wait. For now. The boy was here, and fragile, and far more important.

                “I think I’d rather know the rest of the story. Can you finish it?”

                A nod—he didn’t see it, but he felt it against his chest. “Please don’t be mad?”

                “I think I can promise not to be mad at you. Can I be mad at Hojo or the assistant though?” He managed not to growl out Hojo, but his voice was still two-toned.

                “Why?”

                Oh, how one little question could make things so much worse. But the head resting on him settled him again. Not enough that he slipped back into his own form but… enough. For now. “Because they were cruel, and stupid, and because I don’t like them anyway.” And because they should not have touched you. Because you are a person. But explaining that—that the labs weren’t normal, and weren’t just unpleasant, but outright unnatural and that what was done there was—no. Not now. Not today. Not tomorrow either. He didn’t have it in him… and you couldn’t just tell a person up was down and expect them to understand all in a moment. Time was necessary. And… context. Normalcy to offer ballast when the truth reared it’s ugly head.

                “I—okay. So… I could still see the swirls, and I was scared, so I took them—not all of them, because his body didn’t want to give them to me, but a lot of them, and he collapsed. They said he probably didn’t take his pills, and they were angry, which confused me because he wasn’t supposed to sleep. But doing it made me feel really full and sleepy, so they got me with the needle and when I woke up my head felt fuzzy and it hurt for a few weeks. And they had cut my hair, I didn’t like that. And my chest felt wrong.”

                Focus on the corner of hell you could deal with. Vincent waited a few minutes—a lot of deep breaths, before asking “Did he ever wake up?”

                He couldn’t help the hand inching up to ruffle the boy’s hair though—he had to hold his hand carefully not to claw the boy or himself. But the boy seemed to relax when he did it—and Chaos’ hypersensitivity reported no scars under the hair, no places where the skull didn’t align right, clean, easy breathing. Whatever they had done to the boy, it had long since healed.

                “Yeah. But I didn’t see him again. The other lab assistants got pretty quiet when they talked about him after that, and they kept looking at one of the specimen tanks. I would have told them, but I was afraid I would get in trouble—and I was really confused for a while after too. And… I thought they could see I had more swirls, after, and I thought maybe it hadn’t been me, because I didn’t hide it and they still weren’t mad at me.”

                Twin emotions went to war—on the one hand, it made sense Hojo would have no tolerance for failure—and he certainly didn’t waste what he could… recycle. Vincent could pity that. But the bastard had struck Seph.

                Maybe even pieces of demon fodder like Hojo could do good, once in a while. By accident. Now if he could just do something even worse to himself… no, that was Vincent’s job. Delayed, but not denied.

                And… the swirls. The original part of the conversation. “That sounds like extreme mana depletion to me. So… probably what you are seeing is that. Most people don’t have a ton of it to start with.” An ugly thought. “Seph… does it make you hungry, when you look at it?”

                “Sorta.” The word was a whisper.

                “Okay.” They would deal with this. And maybe it even made sense—Sephiroth had been very powerful in magic, before. If he fed off of the deaths he caused—even if he didn’t, and only used his sight to cast spells, that would make sense. And it certainly explained why he thought killing everything would give him the power he wanted. The bodies wouldn’t hold the mana if they died. And while most vessels burned through themselves before holding onto enough power to attain anything 'godlike'... if Jenova cells were made to feed off energy... He shook his head. “That’s different, but I bet it will make you a great spellcaster.”

                Because hating himself, or his powers, wouldn’t work. Vincent had tried that with his—only sheer stubbornness had kept him on top. And a group of friends dragging him out of his own coffin. If you had a tool, it should be used. And the boy didn’t deserve to hate himself. He had done nothing wrong.

                “Really?”

                “Really. For now, just don’t take it from other people, okay? That can really hurt them—no, I’m not mad you did. In fact I’m glad. But we gotta be very careful, because most people aren’t as bad as the assistant or Hojo. And maybe don’t tell anyone, because it’s a little strange. Not bad, but strange. But I’ll try teaching you some stuff with materia sometime, and I bet you’ll be really good at it.”

                The boy went quiet against him, then nodded. “You really aren’t mad?”

                “Not at you. You did nothing wrong.” He must have changed back at some point—his hand was a hand again rather than a clawed horror. He ruffled the boy’s hair and hugged him, one armed.

                “Okay.” Quiet, but not afraid. Not now, anyway.

                They sat like that for a long time.

Chapter Text

                Most of the trip back to Nibelheim was without incident. Valentine showed Seph how to light a fire with flint and steel, and each night, he taught him one or two constellations. During the day, as they walked, Vincent stopped often to name trees and tracks for him. Vincent had to be mindful— the boy had been trained to keep marching, and Vincent was long accustomed to ignoring pain. To be safe, they stopped often.

                The boy was much stronger and faster than anyone his age should be. Strong enough that Vincent wondered how much of the discipline had been imposed to please Hojo, and how much had been imposed to satisfy the fear of his caretakers.

                A terrible fate, to be feared by those who were supposed to care for you. But they were making progress. More and more often, the boy asked for things. Little things, usually: “Can you tell me what type of bird that is?” “What made that track?” “Can we have something different for dinner?”

               Sometimes he asked for stories at night, when they stopped. These were easy—Vincent told him stories of the friends of The Boy who Fell from the Stars, and of the Boy’s adventures. Not all of them. Some of them he made a point of avoiding, because they were too dark, or because they were too special. The special ones he saved for later. He told him about the Man with the Ring of Will, and the Woman with Wings, and the Hunter of Men who they accepted, like the Boy, as the last of his kind.

               But when he asked for harder things, they were doozies. Namely, he asked about Lucrecia.

               “You knew my Mom, right? You said that?”

               “Yes. I did.”

               “Jenova?”

               “No. That wasn’t her name. Jenova was… I suspect they lied, to keep you in the dark about your mother.” Hard to look her up if you didn’t know her name. Maybe Hojo always wanted him to find out about the experiments in the worst possible way—always wanted him to snap. “Her name was Lucrecia. She was a scientist.”

               The boy’s face fell. “I don’t like scientists.”

               Vincent opened his mouth, and shut it. Then he made himself smile. Sephiroth could tell when he was smiling now, even if the collar was in the way. “You’ve never met any nice ones. There are lots of good scientists. Hojo and his people simply aren’t among them.” A certain pilot flashed before his eyes, foul mouthed and wreathed in smoke, but smiling, eyes alight with challenge. “I have had good friends who were scientists.”

               The boy gave him a skeptical look.

               “My father was a scientist.”

               Seph’s eyes went wide. “He was?”

               Somehow, Vincent wasn’t sure if the boy’s incredulity was that he had a father, or that the man had been a scientist. Children were like, that, he guessed. Probably. “Oh yes. His name was Grimoire. He used to look into old legends to find truth in them. Lucrecia worked with him, for a while.”

               “Were they nice to each other? Hojo’s assistants are all mean to each other.”

               Did accidentally getting him killed count as being mean? “I think they tried to be nice. My father was very happy around that time, so he couldn’t have been fighting too often.” It was true, he realized with surprise. Grimoire had been distant, those final few months… but it had been a happy distance, filled with what his mother had always called the ‘science haze’ when she was alive. He had been absorbed in his work, absorbed in discovering and in teaching—that had always made him happiest. It had given him life… and it had killed him in turn.

               Things were often like that, with great passions.

               “So… what was my mom like?”

                Vincent hesitated. How could he separate what he thought of the woman with… what she had become? From what a child should know about the mother who would never hold him?

‘If you have something to say, say it.’

                  ‘I’m so sorry.’

                               ‘We are scientists, we know what we are doing!’

                                                        ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

                                                                    ‘I’m so sorry.’

                                                                                  ‘It’s not enough, tissue decay is ongoing, unless I can—'

                 He took a deep breath. Steadied himself.

‘But I’m so happy. You survived.’

                 No. It was simpler than that.

                 “She had very long hair. Very thick too. And she kept it in a ponytail so it wouldn’t get into her work. She tried to keep it tied with a ribbon, but she could never tie it right and chose one that was far too wide besides, so it always came half unraveled sometime during the day.”

                 Seph giggled, eyes rapt.

                 “She always kept pens everywhere. They should have been pencils—she always needed an eraser halfway through things, and had to cross it out and rewrite it instead, but she bit the end of whatever writing utensil she had if she was deep in thought. Sometimes I would come into a room and find her staring into the far distance with a pen in her mouth. It was best not to interrupt her then—she either was really hard to get to focus or she’s snap because she was tying to work something out and you interrupted her. But she always apologized for that later.”

                 Except in the months she’d been trying to drive him away. Those had been particularly harsh. He suspected that he was interrupting reveries of his father’s death, then. He hadn’t deserved it, but he put up with it just the same.

                 Sephiroth didn’t need to know about that. Certainly not now.

                “She loved her work.” A little too much, all told. “And she rarely let anything get in the way of it. But one time I fell asleep on the job, and she decided to throw a picnic instead of getting mad.”

                “You fell asleep on the job?” Incredulous horror. No doubt he had been told, many times, about the horrors of failing his duty. Vincent smiled and ruffled his hair, and the boy squaked and started combing his hair back into place with his fingertips… but he was smiling.

                “Sometimes things happen. I had been up late the last week, observing some of their experiments—” Bahamut have mercy, please don’t ask about the their, “and I didn’t get to sleep when they went to bed because I had to write a report. She was… sympathetic.”

                She had been. Maybe from guilt. Or maybe… maybe that had just been what she was normally like. It didn’t matter—those memories were tainted, irreparable. Sometimes people were one way and then decided to change. Sometimes people were that cruel, to themselves and others. Sometimes you didn’t get good answers.

                “What did she study?”

                Chaos. And Jenova. “She wanted to learn about types of life that aren’t like us, old myths and the idea that life could come from other worlds.”

                “Like the Boy that Fell?”

                Vincent half smiled, and looked down at his foundling. “Just like. Go to sleep now.”

                “But I wanna hear more?” Still tentative, afraid of punishment. But Vincent had no more to give—

‘My fault, it was all my fault’

             ‘I wanted to disappear…’

                              ‘I’m so sorry!’

                                        ‘I wanted to die…’

                 Vincent shook his head. Smiled. “She wanted to hold you,” he said. “And she never stopped regretting that she didn’t get to. Go to sleep, Seph.”

It was true, but not the whole truth. Maybe it didn’t need to be. Seph settled into dreams with a smile on his face. Vincent dreamed of the tank, and of decay, but he managed not to cry out.

Chapter Text

Nibelheim.

Seph cocked his head when they arrived at the town—Vincent had avoided going through other towns as he went, better to not spread around the knowledge of him, or to put himself in this timeframe with a child—he trusted Veld, but they could go around him if they were desperate enough. Sephiroth didn’t seem to mind, too wrapped up in the delight of new sights and sounds to mind the absence of other people… or perhaps he simply wasn’t that social to begin with. Between nature and nurture… that seemed likely.

Nature and nurture. What was he then?

A third option, hopefully.

Still antisocial by most standards.

All told, it would have been much smarter not to come back to Nibelheim. To forward his mail… or not… and not look back. But… these people were worthy of protection, and they got precious little of it, with the SOLDIER program still in infancy and Shinra so far away. And… and it helped, somehow, to be near whatever would be Cloud and Tifa. He could guard the ghosts of the future that wouldn’t be. It was better than abandoning them again.

It was Tifa’s mother who spotted them first, predictably, as always the one to range farthest earliest in the morning. She stopped in place and stared, her eyes going wide, then darting back and forth  between the two, looking for similarities, for an explanation. Vincent sighed and drew the boy closer to himself with one arm, partially under the cloak—he could see him going tense—then smiled. “Sasha. I’m back.”

“You!” The woman came striding up, swatting at his head, playful and aggravated. Vincent blocked the ‘blow’ with two fingers, so Seph could see how seriously he took it—he could feel him go tense again, then cock his head to one side in confusion. But… perhaps it was good, that he see this. That adults could strike without connecting and without pain, grinning. “When were you going to tell us, you sly man?”

He let out a huff of amusement. “Sasha, this is Sephiroth, the son of… a dear friend of mine. Sephiroth, this is Sasha, a woman who helped me establish myself as a monster hunter around here. Don’t worry, she’s only aggravated because she wants to help.” Seph looked at him like he had starting howling to the nearby wolves for conversation. He let himself chuckle and messed up the boy’s hair to reassure him. “To answer your question, Sasha, I didn’t mention this because there was a lengthy legal dispute over who should raise him. A lot of things were still up in the air when I left—” like if I would have to remove him by force—“and I… found it difficult to discuss.” His father shot me in the chest, twice. “But, the other options for raising him were… unpalatable. I did not want to leave him there.”

“I’m sorry. I should have introduced myself a little more slowly,” she said, half smiling—watching the boy hide his face against Vincent’s leg. “You’re probably adjusting to a lot right now, aren’t you? I am, as introduced, Sasha.” She offered the boy her hand to shake—misinterpreted his mystified look. “That’s okay. I’m sorry if I alarmed you.” She turned her attention back to Vincent. “You know this will make you the talk of the town, right?”

“Regrettably, yes. Yet another reason to hunt. A lot.”

She snorted. “Ever the mystery man. Though we certainly cannot complain. Trade hasn’t been so good with nearby towns for years.”

“I do what I’m good at.”

She blinked, mouth and eyes going wide. “Did… did you just make a joke? Were you talking about being a mystery man or a hunter?”

He awarded her with an inscrutable look. She burst into laughter.

“Oh, well… I hope you realize there is no way that Claudia or I will let you not at least take a room until you have a place of your own now.”

That… he had not considered. “I rarely take defeat with grace, Sasha.”

“Then do it kicking and screaming. You have a room now. Somewhere. I’m going to go work out the details with her.”

“I—” He sighed, because it was what she expected, and snorted with amusement at her grin.. “I surrender.”

“Good. Know when you are beaten!” She cackled, prompting him to roll his eyes—got her true laugh, a light giggle, and scampered off. Vincent was glad for the momentary respite.

Sephiroth looked… confused. Maybe a little alarmed. Vincent smiled. “Are you alright?”

Tentative nod. “Why was she… was she mad? I don’t understand.”

“Ah. That is… play.” He thought for a long moment, decided on a cold, animalistic explanation. Old ways of thinking, Turk behavioral analysis, came to the fore. “She knows that I am stronger than her, and it amuses her to know that I am willing to let her pretend to strike at me, verbally and physically. It is a way of… reaffirming social bonds. And reminding herself that she can trust me, because I allow that.”

Seph’s eyes went wide with something that looked like comprehension, but Vincent felt rather reluctant to trust it. “So… people trust you because you can hurt them, and don’t?”

“Because they know that I choose not to, and I protect them instead.”

“Like the Boy that Fell? You’re different but they like you cause you’re nice?”

Then again, maybe they were on the right track after all. “Very similar. Not all play or friendship is like that, but I am an outsider here, and I hunt monsters to protect them—she also does that in front of others, to remind them that I do not intend to hurt them. You may well see more of it before the day is out.” He crouched next to the child. “We… are likely to meet quite a lot of people today. They will be curious, and probably ask a lot of questions. They don’t mean any harm. Okay?”

Slow nod. He decided he should add to that. “If they alarm you or you don’t think you should answer what they are asking, come to me. I will deal with it. Actually, you don’t need to leave my side if you don’t wish to—and if you see anything that alarms you or you want explained, remember it and ask me about it later, alright? I’ll explain everything as best I can. Just be polite, and leave the rest to me. You are safe, and I am not in danger either.”

“… You sure?”

“Quite.” The hair ruffling was becoming something of a tradition between them—Seph kept it almost militarily neat, though not in any hairstyle a military would favor – until he forced them to—but Vincent was starting to take quite a lot of pleasure in messing it up when the boy wasn’t expecting it. And sometimes when he was. The boy giggled and started putting his hair back in place, and Vincent stood.

“Can I hold your hand?”

“Of course.” Vincent had both hands free. But Sephiroth preferred to grab his left one, monster arm, gauntlet, and all.

***

There was a lot of people… for Nibelheim. Gawking stares—those he discouraged, with a raised eyebrow and a sharp look, or a glare, if they did not desist. No one persisted past the glare.

It had been an effective tool before he had unnatural red eyes.

Others, more honestly, approached him in person—to congratulate him, to ask questions, to introduce themselves. That was natural, and as much as the boy clearly did not like it, clinging tightly to his leg, slightly under the cloak, it was probably good for him to see. Most were pleased, happy that he had this boy—and that struck him as slightly strange too, until his Turk brain supplied two possible explanations—that this was, symbolically, a birth to them, and birth was automatically greeted with joy, and perhaps also that he was alien to them, and a child was a motivation that they understood.

Tell me what you treasure most. Give me the pleasure of taking it away.

He shook his head to dislodge the memory of Cloud’s recount. Well. They mostly understood.

Seph slipped tighter and tighter into his shadow as they went—soon he was pretty much hiding under his cape altogether. Which was fine—he had hid others there before, of course. Frightened children, in particular, liked the cape. If it served as a sanctuary, then that was good.

Seph seemed like he needed one of those.

Claudia and her husband, Var—the man looked nothing like Cloud, and privately Vincent had questions he was never going to ask—came out to meet them quickly, and all but dragged him into their home—he went happily, eager to get the boy away from the gawking and the restless gossip he—and doubtless the boy—could already hear.

Most of it was kind.

“What an adorable kid!”

“Did you see his eyes? Such a vibrant green!”

“He’s so shy!”

But some of it was speculation.

“Who’d leave a kid to him?”

“Is he his? Did he have one with a mistress? No wonder he keeps to himself.”

“Why is he so nervous?”

He could almost feel the boy relax, a little, when Var barked at the crowd and shut the door between them, and he messed the boy’s hair up again—kept his hand relaxed, so the boy could feel no tension in it.

“Thank you,” was what he said to their rescuers, unsurprised when he found himself shuffled into the main room and there were others there. “I suppose you have questions.”

“Shit yes.” Tifa’s father muttered, only to quell himself when every other pair of eyes glared at him. “Sorry. Yes.”

“Understandable.” Honestly, Seph had almost certainly heard worse. Bad words were the least of his problems anyway. He turned his attention back to him. “Do you want to come out?”

A head, pressed against his leg, shook. He looked back up. “It may be a while before I can sit.”

Var gave him an odd look, and Rells—the general store owner, who Vincent had come to like immensely, and who was the only person beyond the two families present—frowned. “Never took you for a softie, Vincent.”

“Don’t make assumptions, Rells. If I gave an order, I would be obeyed without question. And that is why I will not be making an order of this. I will stand until he feels comfortable moving.” He said the words softly, but punctuated them with a sharp look and folded arms.

They flinched, and shot speculating glances at the place where his cape did not hang right—except for Claudia. She looked at him with calm, grave eyes, then knelt on the floor, in arm’s reach. “Sorry to talk over you, little one. I heard your name is Sephiroth? I’m Claudia.”

The boy peeked out at her, which was rather more than Vincent was expecting.

“If we sat on the couches, would you be okay with sitting next to Vincent? I’m sure you’re tired, and so is Vincent—I’d like to be able to get you guys something to eat. Are you hungry?”

Seph’s eyes shot up to Vincent, who could only offer a half-smile. “You can answer her. Either way, nothing bad will happen.”

The boy’s eyes lingered on his for a moment, then he nodded, slowly.

“Let me get you something to eat.”

Chapter Text

               Sephiroth picked at his food, quietly, but there didn’t seem to be anything off with the taste or the color, so after a bit he started taking larger mouthfuls. Stew. It was good. It helped that Vincent did not seem worried by it—he dug in whenever there was a break between questions, without fear or hesitation—and they had been served from the same kettle. The adults were… odd. They all introduced themselves for one thing, and most adults didn’t do that. And… something about the two women was… familiar. He didn’t think he liked it, but they were nice.

             People were sometimes nice to trick you. Maybe that was why he didn’t like it. Maybe. He didn’t think so. Something about their eyes—blue and wine-red… but no. He didn’t usually look in the eyes of his caretakers, not until Vincent, so why would that be familiar?

              It didn’t matter. Vincent spoke to them, mostly telling the truth and sometimes lying—Seph made a note of the lies, so he could stick to them and so he could ask later. Mostly he evaded questions that he didn’t seem to want to tell them about, rather than outright lying. But Vincent did mostly tell the truth, and mostly did answer their questions. So… he liked them? Trusted them?

              It did not bother him that the man lied, because everyone lied. But he liked that he was trying to tell the truth.

              “So, when you left, you didn’t know if…?” one of the men, the one who sat a little ways away from the other people—they seemed to be arranged in sets—asked.

              “A lot of things were up in the air when I left.” Vincent replied, a spoon halfway to his mouth. “And I wasn’t sure how, or if, this would work. But the man in charge of the boy was… leaving him there was not an option.” Seph wondered how often they would make him repeat some semblance of the same answer, as the adults exchanged looks—why did they do that? Did they think something was wrong with their eyes?

              “Not planning to elaborate there, are you?” the solo man—he was broad shouldered and had a big beard—asked.

              “Not particularly, no. Some things are not helpful to revisit.”

              He didn’t like their looks. He looked at Vincent instead, who draped an arm about his shoulders. It was heavy, but felt good—safe. And… maybe this wasn’t a safe zone, but Vincent was keeping watch, right?

              He turned his back to them, curling up on the couch and resting his head against Vincent. He let himself drift off when he felt the low vibration of Vincent’s chuckle. It was okay.

              He had uneasy dreams at first, filled with voices that asked strange questions and too bright blue eyes—why were they angry? No… it wasn’t even anger. Just… focus. Determination. But then his dreams shifted to soup and the comfortable feeling of being watched over, and he sank deeper into rest. He didn’t even wake up when Vincent scooped him up and carried him to the spare bedroom they had been offered.

***

                Vincent woke the next morning and rose early. The boy was an early riser—likely that routine was something drilled into him from infancy—but he did manage to wake up first.

                He had overslept as it was.          

                He dressed and sat in the corner of the spare room—it really was rather nice, to not be at the mercy of the elements—and tried again to read the file, skipping the medical documents—too many—and going to read about the child’s schooling instead.

                He tied it up securely after a few minutes and went downstairs.

                “Early riser?” Var was not that. His hair was a tangled mess, and his eyes blinked unsteadily up at Vincent. “’s coffee if you want it. On the stove.”

                “Thanks.”

                Var’s eyes narrowed. “Something’s bothering you.”

                Vincent blinked and looked back at him. Still half-asleep, yes, still bleary. But not an idiot. “Yes.”

                Var grunted. “Not gonna elaborate?”

                “No. Where is Claudia?”

                “Someone started giving birth at o-dark-thirty. She’s off helping. Won’t be back for a few more hours, probably.”

                “Ahhh.”

                “Don’ worry. The ladies are still gonna be ready to help you house-hunt by noon. Boundless energy.”

                “Not you?”

                “No.” Var grinned at him.

                “You aren’t going to elaborate?” Vincent asked, because that was what Var wanted.

                “No.” Var grinned more, then rubbed at his eyes. “Leviathan take mornings.”

                Vincent let himself snort.

                “That said, in seriousness… you seem upset.”

                Vincent cocked his head.

                “’S your shoulders. Usually up and back but not stiff. Slouched when you are trying to blend in, cause you’re too tall. But you marched. Not a marcher. Shoulders too tight. Face doesn’t show shite.”

                “Ahhh.” Good to know. But… it was kind of him to notice. Maybe… maybe just the generalities. “I was reading the boy’s educational record. Do you know what “Self Defense level 7” is?”

                Var shook his head.

                “It’s not self-defense. Not at that point.”

                “Shite. Kid that old? Who the fuck had charge of him?”

                “An evil man.”

                That seemed to wake Var up a bit, blinking and frowning. “Look. I realize this is the most I’ve spoken to you personally, and that you used more words last night in not-explaining more than you explained than you have in the months since I met you. All well and good. I trust you. But… I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use the term ‘evil’ before. Didn’t know you believed in it.”

                “Doesn’t matter if you believe in evil. Evil believes in you. And it likes unwary prey.” Vincent sucked down some of the coffee. Not bad. “Evil isn’t a term that needs to be used a lot. Just when it’s the right word.”

                “Right. Well… you have the kid now. And I refuse to believe that you believe ‘evil’ of him. You wouldn’t have fought so hard for him if you did.”

                “The last thoughts of Geostigma’s dead…”

                                                “Tell me what you treasure most-“

                                                                           “Because you are… a puppet.”

                                                                                        “Give me the pleasure of taking it away.”

                                                                                                   “I see you finally understand”

                                                                                                           “On your knees. I want you to beg for forgiveness.”

                                                                                                                             “Shall I give you despair?”

                                                                                                                                         “I will… never be a memory.”

                                                                                                                                                         “We must stop that girl, soon.”

                Vincent caught himself before he shook his head.

                                                                                                            “There are scarier things in the labs, and they were mostly just in pain.”

                                                                                                     “Did I hurt you?”

                                                                              “You knew my Mom?”

                                                                         “I’m sorry!”

                                                            “Please don’t be mad”

                                            Tiny knuckles turning white gripping a stuffed dragon—

                              “Can you tell me a story?”

                “Can I hold your hand?”

                Vincent smiled. “No. I don’t believe anything evil of the child.” Not yet. Not ever. Not this time. If evil wanted the child, it would go through him. “But setting up normalcy may be… challenging. I am not… very normal myself.”

                Var blinked at him, slowly and took another long drink of coffee. “Kid doesn’t need normalcy. No one needs normalcy. Kid needs purpose, care and hope. You can give him that. You are giving him that, or he wouldn’t be hiding under your cape like a hatchling under the wing of it’s mother. So… good news, you are going to fuck up. But kids are resilient, and you’ll be fine. He thinks you’re doing fine.”

                Vincent raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth—thought better of it. “Thanks. I think.”

                “Don’t mention it. And Vincent? What you told me… it won’t get passed around.”

                “Thanks.”

                A high cry came from above. “Vincent?!?”

                “Down here Seph! It’s okay!”

                “And I… need more coffee.” Var said, standing to retrieve it. "Philosophy in the morning. You savage."

                Vincent smiled. 

Chapter Text

Seph ran down the stairs at speed and barreled into Vincent’s legs—Vincent managed not to drop his coffee. “Seph! What’s wrong?” The boy shook his head against his leg, and Vincent carefully set his coffee down and picked the kid up—Seph went stiff for a barren moment and it occurred to him that he hadn’t picked up the boy once when he was awake—but when he set the boy down next to him he only lunged forward to latch onto Vincent. “Hey. It’s okay. I’m right here.”

                “Adorable.” Var mouthed at him over the boy’s head. He genuinely made no noise. Remarkable. Vincent flipped him off behind the boy’s back, and after a moment, Seph looked up to focus on the man gasping over in the corner, hands over his mouth in an attempt to muffle the noise.

                “Is he okay?”

                “Fine. I think he just drank his coffee too fast.”

                “That’s hot. You shouldn’t drink it that fast.”

                Var’s mouth kept twitching. “I will attempt to remember that.” “You win” he mouthed as soon as the boy turned his back again. “This time.” His shoulders still shaking with laughter, he took his coffee out to the front door.

                “What’s wrong?” Vincent asked again, and got only another head-shake. “Okay. Okay. I’m here. Did you sleep okay?” What could it be…not the blankets, they were green. He had sniffed the food before eating it last night a little suspiciously, but he didn’t say anything about it… and he didn’t think anyone else had realized what he was doing.

                “Yeah. Mostly.”

                Okay. Mostly yes was slightly no. Maybe that was it. “Wanna go for a walk? The ladies from last night are going to help us find a place to live, but not until after lunch.”

                “Why can’t we camp?”

                “We can. But in winter it might be nice to have walls around us. It can get very cold. And that way we have a good place to keep books.”

                Seph considered this, then nodded. “Okay.”

                “Wanna walk for now? I can show you around some of the woods near here.” Eager nod. Probably he just wanted to get out of town. He didn’t blame him.

***

                It was beautiful, in the woods. Ribbons of light came down through the canopy, dappling the ground with light and shadow, the leaves overhead as bright and vibrant as stained glass. It felt like a place of worship.

                Seph jumped forward, eyes tracking as a particularly large flower was caught in the breeze—and that was odd, Vincent was certain those flowers bloomed in spring, not fall—but he pushed the boy ahead just the same. “Well, if you want to catch it, you’ll have to move a bit faster.”

                Seph darted forward, a river of silver, and came back with the flower in his clutches and a satisfied smile on his face. He reminded Vincent, a little, of a cat in that moment, staring down at what was caught in his paws. But no matter.

                “Seph, I was wondering…” Might be a few days before they were in an environment where he would feel comfortable asking this again. It would.. unsettle most of the townspeople. To know about this. And more, to see it in action. Var’s reaction had been… unexpectedly gracious. Most people who held normal lives had an inherent horror of those who dealt in death, even on their behalf. “I was reading about your self-defense class. Could you show me what you’ve learned?”

                Seph cringed. “I… they moved me to just practicing the class in the simulation room. I hurt Master Derrik—they won’t let me see him anymore. I liked him.”

                He had done rather more than ‘hurt’ Master Derrik. He didn’t need to know that.

                “You will not hurt me.” Vincent told him. “I’m very fast. And tough.”

                “Master Derrik said I wouldn’t hurt him either.”

                Alright. Sephiroth never needed to know what happened to Master Derrik.

                It wasn’t his fault.

                “True, but I don’t think Master Derrik could shapeshift like I can. That makes me extra tough. And fast. I could show you—that isn’t the only shape I can do. It will be okay.” Actually… Chaos was useful, yes, but it was the shape he liked least. It was so… aggressive. It fought for control.

                He could feel it now, in the back of his mind, regarding the boy with… interest. Not exactly good.

                The Beast though… that one was closer to a complete animal. It had come to regard the boy with a kind of benign interest over the past weeks—much, Vincent thought, as a leopard might regard it’s cub. It still regarded most humans as lesser predators, rather as a feral dog might, but… it didn’t seem to extend it’s hunter’s mentality to the boy.

                Possibly useful.

                “Are… are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you.” Sephiroth’s voice was… small.

                “I’m sure. Come on—show me what you can do.”

                The boy charged. He was fast—not fast enough, but only because of the power of Chaos. A red nimbus engulfed him as he moved to one side. Sephiroth was fast--   a human instructor would have stood no chance.

                Vincent had never been glad of his inhumanity before.

                Stab, thrust, parry. Vincent leaned back, out of range—barren inches between him and what could have been death. The boy’s cat-slit eyes lighting as he went—he was enjoying this. Vincent didn’t blame him. It was fast enough to be fun.

                Was that what this world was like for him? Too slow, too afraid—always holding back, a world of cardboard and plywood—no. Not now, at least. He moved with each strike, flowing around it—each strike he moved a half-inch ahead of, each thrust he moved to one side. But the boy’s form was good.

                Very good. No child should be this good. And few adults.

                They were making him their weapon.

                He caught his wrist, at last—closing his fingers and pulling the arm forward, to show his supremacy. Because—if the boy could not trust him to be stronger, how would he strive? How would he teach himself when no one could best him? “Very good.” He told Sephiroth, who stared, eyes wide, at him, glowing yellow and inhuman. Very, very good. “Very Good. But before you are done, we will do better. I am proud to have you. I am proud to teach you.”

                “You are fast.” Sephiroth whispered, a hint of fear, but also of pleasure—a hunter having found a way to improve.

                “I am. A side benefit of what I am. One day, you will be fast enough to counter it,” he told the boy, because it was true—and because it was good, to have someone who could challenge you. Reassuring, to know someone could take you down.

                “Really?”

                “I believe in you.” He told the child who had been his enemy, and they both cocked their heads as a breeze flew between them, out of season, rampant with the scent of lilies. “I believe in you.”

                He did. It was true. Oh Gaia, what had he done, taking this little one in—

                Oh Gaia, what had he done, failing to do so before?

                “Hello?” a strange voice called out, feminine, lilting, and Vincent noted to his surprise that Chaos cocked it’s head, listened to her. “Who’s there?”

                “Sorry Miss.” He called back. “My name is Vincent.” And turned to meet the stranger, wondering.

                “My name is Ifalna,” she said.

Chapter Text

Ifalna.

                He whirled, eyes seeking—caught in green—

                He had never met Ifalna before. But he had heard every scrap of information they had dug up about her. Every recorded conversation—every lab note. Somehow… this was exactly what he expected.  The river of brown hair, that hung to her knees, the bright dress, the green eyes. And he had met Gast before, there over her shoulder, watchful—a strange thought, for the man’s stare was blank.

                He pulled down his collar so the man could see his full face, and watched his eyes go wide. But with his other arm, he pulled Sephiroth closer to him. Just in case.

                And Ifalna watched. Why did it feel like she could see everything?

                “Vincent Valentine? Hojo said you were dead—”

                Gast was a kind man, if he remembered rightly. Too curious for his own good, but one who cared about his people’s welfare. And… that memory had to be true, or why would Ifalna still be near him? But Vincent felt fury just looking at him, and he felt Seph look up, a flicker in the corner of his vision.

                “Vincent? Your eyes are yellow again. Are they bad?”

                “No,” he managed, shutting his eyes and looking away. “Gast. And… Miss Ifalna.”

                Aerith would have giggled. Ifalna didn’t. He felt her approach—Chaos yearned to her, wordless and longing. Vincent tried not to jump when she reached forward, fingertips brushing over his face. “Behold mighty Chaos. Omega’s esquire to the lofty heavens. Oh… you poor man.”

                “Ifalna? I—Vincent? That… is you, right?”

                “And company.” He growled, eyes still shut, then realized with a start that his anger was entirely his own. Chaos quieted at the touch of Ifalna, like some monstrous hound who felt a familiar hand at his collar.

                Monstrous though it was, Chaos was the planet’s servant. And Cetra were beloved of the planet.

                But Vincent was not a dog. He opened his eyes, reaching up with his human hand—the other, the stronger, wrapped around Sephiroth’s shoulders to keep him safe. Just touched the back of her hand with his fingertips. She let go, eyes grave and looked back over her shoulder to her companion. “Your coworker, Hojo. He is an evil man.”

                “Let’s not discuss it in any detail.” Vincent said, glancing down at Seph. “Yes, Gast. It’s me. No, not dead—not currently anyway—and I owe Hojo thanks for that. With interest.”

                Gast flinched at his tone eyes following the rest of his face into a frown, worried. Then he ran forward— Vincent felt his mind slow to a crawl. The man was hugging him.

                Gast Faremis and Grimoire Valentine had been coworkers, once upon a time. Friends. How had he forgotten that? Forgotten the way Gast had lit up, seeing him assigned to the project—the way his shoulders had relaxed knowing that he would look after his prize scientists? Forgotten, when he was younger and the world was simpler, the disheveled junior scientist who came and crashed on the couch after late night conversations with his father left him excited and too focused on the topic to be trusted to know the path home.

                He was a hypocrite. For all his words to Seph—that there were good scientists, scientists who were his friends…the anger, the human experimentation, had erased who the man really was from his mind.

                “I thought I would have to face your father in the lifestream and tell him that I’d gotten you killed.” Gast said, very quietly. Vincent didn’t have the heart to tell him that was exactly the case.

                “Blame what Hojo did on Hojo,” he said instead, gentling his tone, and slowly managing to return the embrace.

                “But what—Hojo certainly isn’t capable of—”

                Funny, how an innocent sentence could make all that anger come back. “I have bullet scars on my chest from point blank range, and four other personalities in my head, some of them with more destructive potential than others. I can change shape, and I don’t need to eat. The only reason I’m still mostly in control is materia implanted in my chest. Don’t tell me what Hojo is capable of.” The last was a growl, not at all human.

                Gast jerked in place, and Hellmasker rumbled it’s sadistic approval—prey should flinch. Prey should jump away from him—No. No, this wasn’t right.

                Sephiroth was looking up at him, and back to their uninvited guests with confusion, and Vincent wanted to hide him, to keep him away from the man—Gast had still been willing to sign off on that, after all—but the look in Gast’s face wasn’t fear or revulsion or disgust. Only naked concern.

                “I’m sorry.” He said, looking away—Gast reached out and turned his head back, to stare at his eyes—he flinched and shut them, to escape the scrutiny.

                “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Vincent. If I had been less reckless… if I had hired people more carefully…”

                Then…. Maybe things would have been different. But then again, maybe not. Maybe Hojo would have found another way, a worse way, a person who wouldn’t have survived what he did to them. Someone who would have been ruled by the monsters instead of the other way around. Vincent sighed. “I thought I was over this. Not right to dump it on you. I—”

                Sephiroth was clinging to his leg, shaking, and he looked down to him abrupt, cutting himself off. The boy was staring at Ifalna, his eyes wide with confusion… and fear.

                Ifalna was staring at the boy, her face wrapped up in much the same emotions.

                Gast missed it, of course. Brilliant, yes, kind, yes, good at reading people? Never.  “Oh! How rude of me. Who is the little one? Is he yours?”

                “He is now. Gast, this is Sephiroth.”

                He remembered the name, at least—his eyes went wide with comprehension and horror.

                Sephiroth looked into his face, then buried his own in Vincent’s leg. “She’s mad at me!”

                Ifalna… was. He could see the coldness in her eyes—the echo of loss. And that—how could anything be less like Aerith?

                “Well, that’s unfortunate.” Vincent said, and tightened his arm around the boy. “Because you’ve done nothing wrong. Which is rather more than I can say for the rest of us. Don’t be afraid.”

                Ifalna cocked her head to one side, and a breeze, sudden, violent, shook the trees. Her eyes went wide with comprehension, and… pity? He narrowed his eyes at her, then sighed. Shut his eyes.

                Gast looked between them, finally noticing that something else was happening, and Sephiroth shuffled at his side, confused and frightened. Honestly, there probably wasn’t a worse time for one of his fits, so of course that was the moment in which it struck.

***

                His first warning of what was happening was his ribcage collapsing like an empty drink can, his vision turning colors from the pain and the lack of air. He managed, in a moment of clarity and fear, to push Sephiroth away from him—out of range of flailing, twisting limbs. Even getting struck was the least of potential harms—he could simply draw his arms tight against himself and then… and then… no. Seph was safe. Away from him.

                “Vincent!” He heard him calling out from somewhere distant—two different voices, old and young. Such fear. This hadn’t killed him the first time—hadn’t taken him in the first few hours, in the tank, when he had barely mustered up enough interest to notice the one experimenting on him had changed—hadn’t taken him when he could feel his skull bubbling like some foreign liquid and heard Lucrecia sobbing in horror and fear somewhere far away. It would not take him now. His body burned, and cracked, and folded in ways it was not meant to—but it would stop. He believed it, even as he coughed something thick and hot onto the grass—even as he heard Seph whimper and felt the horrified stutter of Gast’s muffled shout. The movement of air felt like razors—he shuddered in his throes and that made it all worse. But he would survive. It would end.

                His eyes opened in time to see Seph dart between him and the more distant, larger shapes—holding nothing but the sharpened branch they had used as a stand in for a dagger in their mock-combat. It could kill, if he meant it to. But the boy was shaking. “Keep back!”

                Trying to protect him in his moment of vulnerability—and what had he done to earn such loyalty? What little had the boy seized on to throw himself between him and this—entirely unthreatening set of strangers. The boy didn’t know—with how he had reacted he could expect him to have the wrong idea. And they couldn’t be expected to understand that the boy was a threat they should take seriously. He opened his mouth to speak, to offer calm—he had no air to speak with.

                Ifalna shook her head and held Gast back when he would have walked around the boy, or tried to, and very, very slowly, knelt. “You care about him. Very much.”

                “He’s the only one who—the only one—I won’t let you hurt him. I won’t!”

                “I’m not going to hurt him. I can help. Let me do that for him.” Ifalna’s voice was grave, and calm. Finally—a tone Aerith used, something he recognized.

                “No you can’t!”

                “I can. Let me help him.”

                Vincent tried to speak again, still couldn’t. It was okay. It was okay.

                It’s okay, Seph. It’s going to be okay.

                Sephiroth wavered, glancing back at him, then his shoulders squared. “I’m watching you.”

                “I know.” Ifalna murmured, standing and walking over—Seph, true to his word, backing up with her to watch, stepping over Vincent so he could keep them all in his range of vision.

                Ifalna knelt down again, reaching out a hand and laying it against Vincent’s forehead. It was cool. It felt better than anything else did, at the moment. “Chaos. Let him rest. You’ve done enough.”

                Vincent’s eyelids felt heavy. He let them close as he felt his writhing body go still.

Chapter Text

                Sephiroth watched the two strangers. He liked the man more than the woman—but he didn’t particularly like either of them. Vincent wasn’t… hurting anymore, though. Somehow the lady had made it stop.

                He still didn’t like her. Why was she mad at him?

                Vincent hadn’t woken up yet, but… that was okay, right? Because Sephiroth could watch for him. If he needed to sleep… that was okay. It was better than what had happened before. Better than the way—he had coughed red onto the grass, a lot of it. It scared the man, and it made the woman frown—but his ribs had gone back to the right shape, and Seph had checked for obvious breaks as soon as he stopped writhing. There had been breaks, obviously—but they went away.

                People didn’t just do that, even in the labs, but Vincent did a lot of things that people didn’t do. Seph shut his eyes to listen again—Vincent’s breathing was clear and even again, in calm painless tempos—he reached over him to grab his hand, and went back to watching the strangers.

                “Explain it again, Ilfana?” the man said, tone worried. He kept stealing glances back at Vincent—it made Seph tense up, but… maybe it made sense.

                “I thought I would have to face your Father in the lifestream and tell him I’d gotten you killed.”

                Sephiroth didn’t know a lot about families. Even when he wondered about his family, he had wondered about his mother, not his father. But… if this man was a friend of Vincent’s father… maybe that made him family of a kind? Maybe he really didn’t mean any harm. Sephiroth watched him, just the same. Vincent was asleep—unconscious, and he couldn’t watch over himself. But… ‘I’d gotten you killed?’ He was going to watch them. Until Vincent could tell him if he should be angry at them.

                The woman seemed to understand that, at least.

                “Chaos is… not a force that is meant to be contained in a human vessel. Whatever your… colleague… did to him, it must have made his body much stronger, or he would have been killed by this a long time ago. Really, he should be sleeping as much as possible—it’s past the point where it’s trying to kill him, and now it’s… remaking him into something that can contain it more comfortably. But that… what just happened, will still happen, for a while at least. Another ten years, maybe. I don’t know. I can tell it’s Chaos, but to my knowledge, Chaos has never been put in a human vessel before. Not one that survived.”

                Seph did not make a noise. If he did, the adults might stop talking. He needed to know.

                The man looked horrified. “Is there any way to… extract it?”

                “Not within your means. Or mine,” she added quickly. “I can quiet it, for a little while. It’s like… your friend has a big attack dog, and it’s used to you because you visit a lot. After a while it won’t bark at you—if it’s master is okay with it, it may accept touch and some basic commands from you. But it’s still not your dog, and it knows that—and if the master wants it to attack you, it will. Before this is done, Vincent will have more power over it than I ever could, but right now… he’s adjusting. At this stage, it won’t kill him, but the pain… that’s not avoidable. I would not have expected the vessel of Chaos to be so calm.”

                “He was always calm, and thoughtful, even as a boy. You’d think he was just withdrawn, but… that wasn’t it. He was watching, and thinking. And he was always willing to act.”

                “Good.” The woman said, and when the man looked at her sharply, she sighed. “Then maybe he has the strength to rule it. You cannot contain fire by joining the raging flames. He will have to overcome with patience, and stubbornness.”

                “He has that.” The man said, and stood, turning back to Sephiroth and Vincent. He probably thought he was out of earshot, over there. No need to tell him otherwise. Sephiroth watched him approach, ready to move—but the man’s movements were slow and calm. How did he pass his self defense classes if he always moved like this? “Sephiroth, right?”

                He nodded, still frowning.

                “Sephiroth, I’m Gast.”

                “Mr. Vincent called you that.”

                The man half laughed. “Yes. So he did. My full name is Gast Faremis.”

                Seph tried to stop the gesture, but he felt his eyes go wide. “Dr. Faremis.”

                “W-well, yes.”

                “Hojo doesn’t like you.”

                Gast looked back at Vincent. His face was not suited to hardness—from the glasses to the mustache he was too… soft. Sephiroth didn’t trust that. How did softness like that survive unless it was a trick? Vincent was gentle, but it was a choice—he was as strong as any of his combat teachers had been. Stronger. And better. He wasn’t soft. But for a moment something flickered in the back of Gast’s eyes, and Sephiroth decided maybe he wasn’t all soft. “At the moment I don’t exactly like Hojo either. Did you run into him often?”

                Seph gripped the hand he had snatched from Vincent harder. “Vincent said I’m not going back. I won’t let you take him there either.”

                The man blinked. Then he shook his head, frowning. “I don’t like Hojo, but I do like Vincent. I won’t try to do something that would make him angry or hurt him.”

                “Good.” Seph told him. Shifted his glance to the woman—she had not moved, watching him with those eyes—why did he feel bad when he looked at her? He hadn’t done anything! He looked back. Gast had his hand pressed against Vincent’s neck—he almost reacted, but he recognized the motion. He was checking his pulse. He still didn’t like it—they shouldn’t touch him— but this didn’t hurt, they did it to him all the time, so maybe it was okay. He didn’t know why they didn’t just listen though.

                Well. It was easy for heartbeats to be drowned out by the world around them. Outside was noisy—he liked it, but it was true. Heartbeats were… subtle. Breathing was easier. Vincent was breathing. Painlessly.

                That had to be worth something. He watched Gast, watched him pull back his hand, and huddled down over his side of Vincent. He seemed… a little calmer now? He looked up. “Does he do this often?”

                “I saw him do it once.” He did not call him sir. Vincent hadn’t said to listen to the man. Vincent was his caretaker. Vincent. No one else. But… he was a scientist, right? Maybe he should answer his questions. Dealing with scientists was easier when they weren’t mad. “On the ship. He wasn’t surprised by it though. He understood what was happening enough that he pulled himself clear—that was mostly just his arms and his jaw though. Not his ribs. When I asked him about it after, he said it… just happened sometimes.”

                Gast flinched. “Can you tell me how long it lasted? Was it as long as this one? And… how long ago was that?”

                “Longer. I don’t know what your friend did, but she made it shorter. He didn’t sleep after, though. He just got up. A couple weeks ago? A month?”

                “Alright. So it happens every few weeks, or at most a month apart. He’s… not alarmed by it. Or… did he ever do it before then?”

                “He only came to get me a few days before that.”

                “So you don’t know. Not a lot of data to go on.” The man’s voice was quiet, musing. Then he blinked and looked up. “You’ve only been with him for about a month?”

                “Veld said he was my caretaker from now on. And Veld would know, so he is.”

                “I… see. His arm—would he be more comfortable if we took the gauntlet off—”

                “Don’t touch him.” Seph growled, feeling his eyes change—he wasn’t sure what it meant, but if he held his eyes just… so, they were more sensitive to light, and the swirls, and didn’t see quite so much color. Gast blinked and leaned back, so something had to be visible when he did that, but he didn’t care. It was enough that he didn’t touch Vincent. Especially not that arm.

                He wasn’t very swirl-bright. The lady behind him glowed like a star.

                “Okay. Okay. Can I ask you questions?”

                The boy narrowed his eyes. “You already are.”

                Gast looked at him for a long moment and he felt a spurt of fear—this man had been Hojo’s supervisor for a long time. If… if he was that, then he couldn’t be as soft as he looked, right? He couldn’t be a weakling… so if he was mad…

                But Gast laughed. “So I am. So I am.”

***

                Vincent came awake slowly and without pain. That was miraculous enough—pain always lingered, after these moments—but he felt… rested. How long had it been since he felt that? Other sensations filtered in one at a time, without urgency or fear. First, the weight against his side—the hand gripping his. Sephiroth, huddled against him, watchful. Sunlight and a warm breeze—scented strongly of lilies.

                That didn’t seem right. Too late in the year. But he liked it.

                Soft chatter, after that—the softer voice of a woman, only occasionally. And the deeper voice of a man—he knew that voice. Gast.

                That did bring out a little alarm, immediately extinguished. He was talking with Seph. Gently. “Oh? What stories did he tell you?”

                “I liked the Boy that Fell from the Stars best. Hunter of Men was good, too. He said he’d tell me about the Man who Walks in Shadow soon.”

                “Those are very good stories.” Gast agreed. It occurred to Vincent that they were talking, quite literally, over him—Seph on one side, hunched down and over like a cat over it’s kit, Gast, a foot off on the other. Calm and… sad. He had never been very good at hiding emotion. He made an admirable scientist… and he would never have made it as a Turk.

                Probably less awkward if he let them know he was awake now. He shifted his weight—and nothing hurt, nothing hurt—and went still for a moment as Seph clutched at him and Gast rocked forward, stopping in place as the boy growled at him. Blinking until his eyes focused, Vincent could see that his eyes had gone cat slit and very, very narrow.

                “Seph. It’s okay. Easy buddy.” Seph cut off the growl—they should probably discuss noises that would really freak out normal humans and when they were appropriate sometime—but stayed clutching the arm. Vincent eased the other out to tussle his hair then sat up, slowly.

                “Vincent—” Gast murmured, eyes flicking over him—looking for places where the ribs didn’t bend right, for a tint of blue in his face.

                “It’s alright Gast.” He couldn’t help letting his free hand trail down over his ribs, though. Everything back where it should be. “I’m fine. Ifalna. Thank you.”

                “It was no great difficulty,” she said, gently, from a few yards away. Keeping distance between her and Seph. Probably preferable for both of them.

                “How can that be fine? Vincent—”

                Vincent shook his head to cut Gast off. “It happens. Then it stops. It happens less and less often, now.” And in a decade, or two, it would stop. At any rate, it hadn’t happened since the time Cloud pried his coffin open and convinced him to climb out. But explaining that… he suspected the headache would rival the pain of the first time he had Chaos… do this. “Though that was a bad one. Usually it leaves my head and ribs alone, mostly.”

                “Mostly.” Gast managed, horrified.

                “I wonder. Were you using Chaos, or it’s powers, before we came?” Ifalna was making a point of approaching slowly—looking down, Vincent could see Seph’s eyes fixed on her. Catlike.

                “A bit. I can… use it’s power, a bit, without assuming it’s form.”

                Seph blinked, eyes going back to normal, briefly, looked up at him. “The red glow?”

                “Yes.” He tugged the boy into a hug, gently—the boy seemed a little baffled, but… willing to go along with it. “Are you alright? I’m sorry I pushed you—I was afraid I would hit you.”

                “I’m fine. I thought that was it.” Seph told him—but his hands came up and he clutched at Vincent, voice shaking a little.

                “It’s okay buddy. It’s okay.”

                Gast was still horrified, Vincent noted as he pulled Seph’s head under his chin. And Ifalna looked… her eyes were wide and she wasn’t blinking enough. He laughed. Because… after everything he had been through…

                Lucrecia sobbing as his lifeblood pooled around him—

                --the first shift, uncontrolled and unwanted, blackened hands like a long dead corpse, unable even to scream right—

                -- the tank—

                -- awaking to the understanding that Lucrecia’s son was the world’s enemy—

                -- learning to truly hate him as he fell from above in slow motion, a simple motion of Masamune snuffing a girl who had only ever eased pain—easing her off the blade with a foot, as if she was a bit of wood that had gotten in his way—

                -- Cloud gone in a blast of color and light—

                --Rosso’s hand in his chest, twisting and pulling—

                -- the file Reeve had found after Omega, the the memo, too short and yet, the growing understanding-- 

                This didn’t even get a spot on his list of concerns. That it did for others was… well. He laughed harder. He almost couldn’t help it.

                “I fail to see how this is funny.” Gast managed, looking near tears. Vincent felt bad for him, and yet… sure enough, when he looked up at the sky…

                “It’s past noon. I’m going to catch it.”

                “What?”

                “I had plans.”

                They didn’t see why that was funny either.

Chapter Text

                Veld muttered to himself and ran a hand through his hair. Of all the stupid, stupid things to do—the Branch Leaders would be the death of him, they really would. Scarlet was… herself… and fortunately, mostly confined it to the testing grounds, but recently tried to expand her power. As such, half the other Branch Leaders had requested surveillance of her. Corporate policy stated such could only be approved for board members if the company president approved—a fact that none of them seemed to understand. Rules that applied to them weren’t things they were familiar with anymore.

                Not… that Veld was adverse to breaking some rules, now and then. Who got what information was… a power that should be used very carefully. He would pass… some of the requests along to the President. Others would be lost.

                Hojo was unperturbed by the situation, but like all children who forget about toys they have until they vanish, was quite perturbed about the sudden physical absence of his star project. The man was somehow even more singleminded than Scarlet.

                And… far more paranoid…. He could use that.

                Dr. Hojo,

                I’m aware of your concerns regarding your project. Rest assured that the security of our SOLDIER program and thus, your research, is of paramount importance to the company and thereby to me, however, concerns were raised to my attention recently that someone was trying to sabotage it. Unfortunately, due to the nature of the sabotage, almost anyone of high enough rank is a possible suspect, which as one who is answerable to most branch heads, makes things quite difficult to secure. I thus implemented a covert security team in deep cover to hide your specimen—the channels of communication are lengthy and I am, for security reasons, not aware of your projects current location. However, as recalling it could take months only to be wasted if whoever sent that saboteur to terminate that specimen makes another attempt, I recommend rooting out whoever attempted to sabotage it. Perhaps another scientist desires your position? Or a different board member would prefer to have the prestige and power that comes with securing Shinra’s Military future. I advise that you be cautious, and keep a very close eye on your “Promised Land” project as well as the dosing for SOLDIERs—those seem to be the best opportunities to embarrass you in front of the President. If you discover any leads, I can investigate, but for the love of Mako be discreet—if we tip off whoever did this before we can deal with them ferreting them out could take years.  

                However, for obvious reasons, we should avoid leaving a trail. Destroy this after you have read it, for your security and mine.

                                                                                                                                                                                                          V

                There. Knowing Hojo’s paranoia and his unwillingness to trust the Turks, that should buy them… months, maybe years. If he was lucky—he wasn’t, but it was worth hoping for—then he would maybe even annoy the other Branch heads enough to actually get sabotaged or removed. He owed Hojo a little something, after all. And if that didn’t work out… they would come up with something. They were Turks, after all.

                He summoned Tseng—that should give Hojo’s bloated ego something to feel good about, the idea that the second-in-command of the Turks was sent to him as a messenger boy—and handed him the letter in a sealed envelope. “I want you to take this on the most circuitous journey to Hojo that you can think of—if he traces your steps I want you to look more paranoid than him. Of course, to everyone else, I want it to look normal. Can you do that?”

                “Of… course. May I ask why?”

                “I can’t make the branch leaders act like grownups, so I am limited to merely directing their paranoia in directions that won’t hurt the company. Hojo is a loose cannon, and I don’t like him, but he’s easy to manipulate in ways that may yet make him useful.” Tseng blinked, then frowned. Veld snorted. “His paranoid little mind is going to come up with something. I’m just making it a useful something.”

                “Noted. Remind me not to piss you off sir.”

                “Never piss me off, Tseng.” Veld smiled. Tseng frowned and bowed his head.

                “You’re in an uncommonly good mood today, sir. Given…” His eyes slid toward the calendar.

                It actually took Veld a moment. Right. It was Vincent’s birthday. It was the first time… the first time he’d forgotten. Since…

                In hindsight… they did give his office a wide berth on certain days. Apparently even the interns had been warned.  Too late to act bearish about it now. He stood—Tseng hid his flinch, but Veld had  been the one to teach him to do it, he could see it fine. He didn’t explain himself. He didn’t have to. “Which reminds me—”

                “Taking off early tonight, sir?”

                “Of course. Will you be there at the customary place with a camera again?” He raised an eyebrow.

                Tseng didn’t manage to hide that flinch. Veld let the silence hang between them for a bit. “I… sir. I will not apologize for… Yes sir. I will.”

                Another Turk might have meant it as a taunt. Tseng cared about other Turks. The camera was an excuse. A relatively gentle way to tell him someone had seen, and was paying attention. It reminded him of Vincent. “You’ve been worried.”

               “Sir. That is not a question, sir.”

               “No it is not.”

               Tseng wanted his… not approval, but understanding—if that hadn’t been the case, Veld’s simple silence would not have induced him to speak. “Sir. Not everyone mourns their partner this… long. You were legendary back in the day for your teamwork, but…”

               “He was my brother.” Is. In spite of everything. “Do whatever reassures you, Tseng. I’ve managed for eight years—” and seven months, three weeks, two days—“it’s not going to crack me now. Just get the letter to Hojo.”

               “Sir.” Tseng said, then hesitated. “Do… you dislike Hojo because…”

               Because he had been the last mission Vincent went on? Bold. Too bold. But… boldness born of concern. Part of the truth, then, to reward him… and to make the lies blurry. “If he paid half as much attention to his people as he does to his equipment, I might have an actual body instead of some torn cloth and bloody equipment. Always take care of your people. But no, that’s not why I use him. That just makes it enjoyable.”

               “Sir.” Tseng fled. Almost made it out the door.

               "Wait. Report back when you have done this. I'll go after that." Veld walked back to his desk, looked out his window. Remarkably reflective, these windows. And somehow no one ever realized that they gave you a perfect view of behind as well as in front.

               The man looked like a confused puppy. That reminded him of Vincent too. "I- sir." Apparently he was out of courageous questions for one day. Just as well- he would not be told about that one. 

               He would have to buy a bottle of wine to keep up appearances. A good red. Something Vincent would have liked. He’d be disgusted at the waste—maybe he should bring him some when he finally got away long enough to track him down and demand answers. But that was a ways off. Too much going on… too great a chance that Hojo might tail him the first few times. Suspicious… but not suspicious enough. He’d have to throw in some dummy trips. And… he had research to do. He wanted to know as much as possible before he asked a syllable of a question to Vincent.

               Tonight, he would put flowers and wine on an empty grave. In fact, he would get extra—a gift to his wife as well. Something Felicia would like too. They’d wonder what inspired this—he’d tell them life should be celebrated. And if, while he sat on the grave and talked to a man who wasn’t there, his shoulders shook, Tseng would form his own opinions.

               And tomorrow, he would write to Vincent. Through complicated, back alley channels of course. In code.

               Tseng didn’t own all his secrets yet.

Chapter Text

               Vincent told them, all of them, that he was fine. Multiple times.

               He had a feeling that none of them believed him, but… well. What could he do? Explaining how he knew this would be fine was… not really an option. And not explaining just made him look flippant. Better flippant than mad, but… no sense courting either label. If it quieted their nerves, fine. He wanted to talk to them anyway.

               “Vincent!” Claudia called out, relived. “Where were you? I was worried! I—Vincent, you look terrible.”

               Oh, he could just feel Gast getting the wrong idea. “Sorry—ran into some old friends in the woods, and—”

               “I managed to get myself caught up a tree and break my arm at the same time.” Ifalna chipped in with a sheepish smile. “The gentleman helped me out and we managed to heal it in a tag team effort—we both have “restore” Materia—but it was time consuming. And he insisted on doing more than his fair share.”

               “That’s why you look drained.” She said to Vincent. He could tell she wasn’t entirely convinced, but, she let it slide and turned her attention to Ifalna. “Can I see it? I’m the town healer—I just want to be sure it’s set right. And why were you up a tree?”

               Ifalna was a surprisingly good actress. She cast her eyes to the ground sheepishly. “Well… you see, there was a wolf—”

               “Alone, they’re more afraid of you than you are of them.” Vincent managed, bringing up his gauntleted hand to cover his face. His lips were twitching. Sephiroth cocked his head to one side and huddled closer. Not that he had been more than six inches away for a moment since Vincent woke up—

               “If you say so.” Ifalna said, looking sheepish but also alarmed. “Anyway, I climbed too quickly and I slipped—” She offered the arm in question, which of course had nothing wrong with it.

               “Say no more. I think I get the idea.” Claudia was smiling gently as she examined the arm. “Well done. Can’t even tell it was broken. Usually tag team healing is… more haphazard.”

               Ifalna shrugged. “I just tried to reinforce what he did. Seemed to work.”

               “Most people kinda end up working separately.” Cloudia released the arm, as gentle as she started. She turned her attention back to Vincent. “I suppose I must forgive you for your tardiness, sir. But if you set yourself up as the competing healer in this town…”

He raised his hands in mock-surrender. “Madame, I am wiser than that.”

                “See that you are!” she was playful, his shortcoming forgiven in totality in her eyes. She reached forward, tapping a single finger against his forehead—he blinked but managed not to react. “So, these are friends of yours? Who are you two?”

               “The lady is Ifalna, the man, Gast. A friend of my father’s.”

               “Ahh, so you know embarrassing childhood stories then?” Claudia roped her arm through Gast’s, then laughed and reached out for Ifalna. “Sorry dear. I’m not trying to step on toes—I just want those sweet tales of embarrassment and horror.”

               Gast looked like he was still trying to understand what was happening—a common expression on his face in social occasions, but it had been his primary facial expression since he had realized Vincent was there in front of him. Concerning. But Vincent didn’t like the new expression that was starting to lurk in the back of his eyes. “I’m sure I can recall something…”

                “I am surrounded by the heartless and the merciless.” Vincent murmured skyward, in unnecessarily dramatic tones.  

                A tiny giggle sounded to one side, and he jerked in place, looked down to see the tiny silver head shivering with suppressed noise, bent down so no one could see his face.

                He messed up his hair, deliberately, messily, and when the boy looked up to see what was happening, he winked. Too quiet for unenhanced ears to hear, he murmured, “you’re allowed to laugh. It’s funny.”

                Gast, Ifalna and Claudia jumped in place as a peal of laughter rang out, swiftly muffled against Vincent’s leg but still unmistakable. Vincent grinned, but hid it in his collar.

                It was the first time he heard the boy really laugh.

***

                They insisted on feeding all of them, because of course they did. They were like that.

                “You’ve made some good friends here.” Gast told him, later, outside when he stepped out to stare at the stars.

                “They’ve known me for all of four months now, give or take.” He wanted to show Sephiroth a particular constellation, but couldn’t think of when it was usually in the sky. He just needed to spot it once to know--

                Gast was hesitant. Feeling his way around the topic. He’d definitely been interrogated by worse. “Then… they didn’t know you… before?”

                “No. I’ve been… out, for most of these eight years. Well. Most of the first one I wasn’t, unfortunately. But I was… not out and about. And if anyone recognizes the name Vincent Valentine, they’ve kept it to themselves. Stupid really, I should have given a fake name, but… Well. It’s not like  much of my time was in town, before, or that I was the focus when I was.”

                “You should have people who call you by your name. I… can you talk about it?”

                Vincent looked over at him. Gast stared off into the middle distance of the night, eyes unfocused. “How would that help, Gast?”

                “Define help? I… want to know how I could have missed that you were alive. And.. you had friends—”

                “Veld.” There had been drinking buddies, people to place bets with. But… in the end, Veld was who mattered.

                “Veld. He was… I have never seen that man in a rage, before or since, but he was that day.”

                “He asked that I be assigned here. They thought Lucrecia would be more willing to give me the information we wanted—he said because I was young and single and had eyes that would melt a statue. Now I know that it was also because she blamed herself for my father’s death.” Vincent passed a hand over his face. “He likely blames himself.”

                “They didn’t just… tell you?”

                “Turk thing. Sometimes not giving someone information so they react genuinely in a moment is as important as passing along the information they do need. Veld… knows that I tend to forgive easily. I think they wanted to cultivate her as an informant inside the branch. And…  I think he wanted me to be able to see that the woman genuinely hadn’t meant harm to him. He’d recently gotten quite attached to the woman who is now his wife—it’s possible he was even trying to play matchmaker. Under other circumstances, we might have been well suited to each other.” He paused. “Additionally, Veld may have been trying to protect me from our other assignment. He did that sometimes. It was likely to get messy, and… he was less bothered by that, at the time.” Deepground still haunted him, sometimes. But mostly… mostly these days he didn’t take a bit of blood or a few innocent casualties into his dreams. Other things lived there. Older things.

                “I remember that Lucrecia was angry until you… vanished. And then she was despondent.”

                “She knew where I was. But revealing it would have ruined any chance I had of surviving. And… she was vulnerable, and frightened, then.”

                “She knew? But—”

                Vincent sighed, crossed the ground to the door, stuck his head in. “Do you mind if we go for a short walk? Gast and I need to discuss something… and I’d rather it be private.”

                Claudia looked at him oddly, but nodded. “I’ll look after Seph till you get back?”

                Seph frowned, and looked at Vincent.

                “It will only be for a little bit.” Vincent said, crossing the floor to kneel in front of him. He leaned forward, speaking too quietly for anyone else to hear. “And I won’t be able to hear talk, but if you shout, I will come as fast as I can. Is that okay?”

                Seph’s eyes widened at the implication, and he nodded, though he clutched the dragon—in his lap again now that they were in for the night—tighter. “Promise?”

                “Promise. Be good for Claudia, and I will be back soon.”

                “Will he hurt you?” Too quiet for the others to hear.

                “Gast? No.” Not on purpose anyway. His eyes—and they were startingly bright already—had Hojo already dosed the child with Mako? Probably—searched Vincent’s and he nodded, slowly. “Thank you for trusting me.”

                The eyes went round with surprise, but Vincent smiled and ruffled his hair before he could say anything, and left.

                “Walk with me, Gast.” He waited until they were out of easy earshot. His earshot. “He could probably have heard you. I don’t want to tell the boy the uglier facts about his mother just yet. Still can if you raise your voice, so don’t.”

                “Vincent, we’re half the town away in the treeline—”

                “Gast, I can hear your heartbeat. If I focus, I can feel how your pulse changes your temperature. And the boy’s senses are meant to be better than mine. They’re still improving, but I’m not taking chances.” Gast gaped at him. Vincent sighed. “We were discussing Lucrecia.”

                “Then you… know what happened to her?”

                “Consider her dead, Gast. Let her rest in peace. She’s… suspended animation would be more accurate, but only because the leftover Jenova cells would not let her die. She tried to kill herself. It didn’t work. She found the next best option.”

                “Why?” Gast was… horrified. And now… after a lifetime, and a team, and several attempts to save the world and just as many successes—now, after having his vengeance twofold on Hojo, he could remember the team a little more clearly. Hojo was always secretive and condescending, but Gast had tried his best to make his team a team. A family. He had doted on his younger researchers like his own children.

                “The Jenova cells—she saw things. Future things. Things she couldn’t bear. Add that to her guilt complex, the fact that she now blamed herself for both my father’s death and… well. What happened. And then… she never even got to hold her son, Gast. I know you weren’t there that day.” There were other moments. Moments that Lucrecia could have stopped things. But by that point, it was too late—she had no strength left, and less leverage.

                “Hojo said… I should never have taken him at his word.”

                “No. But I did the same. He could not have shot me had I not left my service pistol lying around. Ironic.” Vincent waved the look on Gast’s face off. “Don’t. The past is already dead, Gast. One guilt complex brought us here and another…” kept me in a coffin for far too long, last time.

                “Vincent, where were you? How do you know she never got to even hold him?” There was no doubt in his words, only the growing horror of a truth being revealed and a fear of what it implied.

                “I was in the basement. The one they hid from you. And… like I said. My hearing is very good, now. I listened to her beg. For hours. Until she gave up.”

                Gast flinched.

                “It wasn’t you. Even in my worst moments, I knew you would not have stood for that.”

                “It happened to someone under my…” Gast hesitated. He probably wasn’t used to thinking of people as under his protection. Most civilians flinched from that. “Someone who worked for me. Someone who looked to me for instruction.”

                “You trusted your subordinates.” Vincent sighed, and rubbed at his eyes. “Gast. I know what you’re trying to do because I have done it. You’re thinking that this could have been avoided. If you had just been there that day. If you had just been there more often. If you had paid more attention.”

                “But… it could have been.”

                Vincent wondered what age he really was. If an immortal body contained a mind that had lived two lifetimes, did only the body’s age count? Or was it the memories? “Mmm. And perhaps I could have avoided being shot and dragged to Hojo’s little dungeon of horrors. If I had just avoided questioning him. If I had shrugged and agreed they had the right to do what they wanted to their son. If I had cared less for her, and hadn’t been upset when she started experiencing those fits of pain and foresight. If I didn’t set down my gun that day. If I had not gotten complacent and underestimated the man. If I hadn’t questioned her about my father’s death, then she might have gone on acting as if she felt no guilt. If I had blamed her, and demanded to be reassigned.”

                “You cannot blame yourself for—”

                “Mmmm. There were other people involved, weren’t there? If Lucrecia had denied Hojo—as a spouse, as a sexual partner, as a scientist, none of this would have happened. If she could have accepted my forgiveness, then perhaps this could have been avoided. If she had protected her son, then this could have been avoided.” He let himself laugh, then. “And if she had avoided experimenting on me, I would have died when Hojo grew bored, and you could have lived out your days in blissful ignorance of this whole affair.”

                “She experimented on you?”

                “In the end… she regretted it. Most of it. Things were… hazy, for a bit—I clearly remember being on a rubbish heap and her pulling me, hugely pregnant, into a tank, unassisted because Hojo thought the whole thing was funny. But she spoke to me, when I couldn’t move and couldn’t speak. She had no reason to believe I could hear her. She was trying to fix… something. And I was the one thing that she could exert control over. Ironic—her last ditch, desperate effort gave me my most powerful and dangerous form. Did the impossible—Hojo could not return me to life. But she did.” He looked back at the man who had been his father’s friend. His face was wet. “Gast. I am done dancing around who could have stopped this. I have blamed myself, I have blamed you, I have, occasionally, blamed her.” He shrugged. “The faults we overlook for love. She wasn’t innocent. I wasn’t smart. You didn’t pay attention. But in the end, it doesn’t matter. We could all have maybe, stopped it. And then… what? Hojo would not have been denied forever. Perhaps he would have taken his urges out on Ifalna instead.”

                A flinch, but also… anger. Good. Anger was better than guilt. Anger could be used. Guilt… guilt was a chain around the neck of a drowning man.

                “I survived.” Vincent reminded him, gently. “And… Sephiroth is still alive. I will not leave him to his father’s mercy.”

                “I should have gotten him out myself. But—I thought that… surely his father wouldn’t… I was a fool.”

                “Perhaps a bit.” Vincent said, because now was not a time for lies, even gentle ones. “But he is out now. And Hojo will not find me as easy to hunt as he once did. I can do that much. I can let the boy be a child instead of a project.”

                “Vincent. Can you show me, what he did?”

                Vincent sighed, and looked up. In the treeline, the townspeople wouldn’t see—he took a deep breath and let the bones of his body warp and twist. This wasn’t what Gast meant. Gast had meant the scars. But Gast was a gentle man—and Vincent found there were nightmares he didn’t need to share.

                He didn’t show him Hellmasker—the monster that looked out through his eyes then was too close to human, too sadistic, to show for display. He did not show him the Gigas—it was a scarred monster unto itself, and there was no need to torment the man. He did not show him Chaos. There was no need to show him the violent delight in his yellow eyes.

                But the Beast. The Beast he could show him.

                Fur sprouted over his body, and he grew inches, claws, fangs. Looked up over his muzzle to find Gast shaking, watching him. But the Beast understood family—and Gast did not flinch back. He reached forward to catch his head in his hands, staring in his eyes until he saw Vincent there. That much courage, Vincent expected of Gast. He didn’t expect the hug. He didn’t expect the warm wet pouring down his fur where Gast pressed his face against him.

                “I’m so sorry. When I step into the Lifestream, your father will surely hate me for this. And he is right to.”

                Vincent let his muzzle warp back into his face, pulled the man in tighter when he would have flinched back for fear of hurting him. “When you step into the Lifestream, you will carry with you my total and complete forgiveness. And my father will have the good sense not to dispute it.” Funny. When he was a child Gast seemed so big. He was taller than the man now-- by about his full head. Valentines always did tend towards height.

                He let the man cry. There were other discussions they had to have, of course… but not now. Not yet. Redemption was not always possible—there was no way the man could pay him back for what he had suffered. But forgiveness was his choice. For what was done to him, at least.

                “I… what have I inflicted on the boy? What… was all my time at Shinra just… feeding monsters?”

                Vincent remembered Aerith, and looked at her father. “No. You also met Ifalna.”

Chapter Text

                Vincent woke late that night. It wasn’t a thing of comfort—he awoke heart racing, certain something needed to be fought, but nothing presented itself. He rolled onto all fours, and found the boy whimpering—rocked to his feet, and woke him.

                His nose didn’t break, precisely, but it might have well. The boy had been trained, and trained well—the child aimed for his eyes, and it was only his own training that reduced his injuries to a bloodied nose. “Seph. Easy, buddy. Easy. Nothing to be afraid of.”

                “I—Mr. Vincent. I’m sorry! I—”

                “No, don’t worry, I was careless. My own fault. You were having a nightmare?” He stared at him for a long moment, and Vincent sighed, cast cure on himself. It seemed ridiculous to do that for something that small, but a little of the tension left the boy’s shoulders. “See? Nothing to worry about.”

                The boy looked at him, then away. “Sorry, sir. I was. Thank you for waking me up.”

                Oh good. He was back to being sir. “Seph. Do you want to talk about it?” Shaken head, then hesitation. The boy guarded his expression less in the dark—habit, maybe. Standard humans wouldn’t have seen the gesture. Vincent frowned and sat down on the edge of the bed. “Okay. Well, I’m here. It’s been a long day for everyone, I think.”

                “It was worse for you.”

                Oh. “That? It happens. It’s… unpleasant, but I’m fine.”

                The kid was refusing to look at him. “Ifalna… she said Chaos hasn’t ever been inside a human host who survived.”

                Ohh. Ohhhhh. “She said that?”

                Tiny nod. “That’s… what your winged shape is, right? Chaos? And the red glow?”

                “Yeah.” He resisted the urge to rub at his eyes. Funny how the habit lingered even when one of his hands was now… unsuited to the task. “Seph, Ifalna is smart, but she doesn’t know everything. I’m fine—”

                “That wasn’t fine!”

                … In honesty, the kid had a point. “Alright. That was shitty.” He paused to let the boy blink in surprise. “But I will be fine. I can’t really tell you how I know… but I do know. Chaos isn’t going to kill me. And it is going to stop doing that. It may take a few years, but it will stop.”

                “But—” Vincent looked at him again. The kid was looking at his hands, knotted into the blanket (dark green) knuckles pale and shining in the dark. “Are you sure? It looked bad… you couldn’t… breathe.”

                This wasn’t really something Vincent was trained for, in either of his lifetimes. In the before Hojo or the after. Mostly people he interacted with either accepted his say-so or were big enough that he didn’t feel too bad for worrying them. So he sighed. “I’m sure. I’m very, very sure.” I’ve already tested the hypothesis. I lived longer than you did, and I never aged a day. “Chaos was… put in me… eight years ago. If it was going to kill me, it would have already. The first few times were… worse.”

                “Worse?!?”

                “Much worse. Some of them took a very long time. But they got better. At this point… it’s hard to take what it does now seriously, actually. It’s already improved so much.” It occurred to him, belatedly, that this might not precisely be reassuring—he looked over to the boy and found the green cat eyes staring into his soul. “Nothing I can’t endure. Obviously.”

                Sephiroth’s voice was very small. “I don’t want it to hurt you.”

                “Seph, buddy…” The boy’s eyes were starting to glimmer. Even in the low light, Vincent didn’t like it. “Seph. It’s okay. I’m okay. And my life is only improving. Come here.”

                The child was careful, cautious, and that worried him because that wasn’t how eight year olds were supposed to act, he was sure. But he came and burrowed against his side, and when Vincent laid his arm over him, he sighed and settled against him. “Maybe Ifalna knows a way to make it happen.. less?”

                Vincent doubted it. “I’ll ask. Either way, you’re stuck with me—I am far more stubborn than Chaos.” That got him a light giggle, at least. “But it’s late… or maybe early. We should try to go back to sleep. Do you want a story?”

                After a hesitation, a slow nod. Vincent supposed he could have read to the boy out of the Dragon book he was so fond of—but he seemed to like the tales of Heroes so much. “Well. I haven’t told you about the man who was The Boy who Fell’s best friend, have I?”

                The boy’s eyes lightened instantly. “No!”

                “The Man who Walks in Night. He’s one of my very favorites. You see, for all that he was a very strong warrior and he was known and feared by all of those who dared attack him, or The Boy, he never used materia.”

                “Never?”

                “Never. He had no talent with materia. But then, I’m getting ahead of myself. You see, he was once a completely ordinary little boy, and he had two very loving parents, who were capable businesspeople and rather wealthy.”

                “Like Rufus Shinra?”

                Of course the boy knew about Rufus already. Bonding the hound to the master young. “Maybe a little, but the man was rather different. You see, they went out to a play, and when they left the theatre, a man came and held them at gunpoint to rob them.”

                Seph frowned. “Something bad is gonna happen to the parents, isn’t it?”

                “Unfortunately. See, the man panicked, and shot both of them, but the boy survived. And he was tormented by that fact.”

                “Why? It wasn’t his fault.”

                “No, it wasn’t. But he was very, very smart, and he thought, maybe, if he was smarter or stronger, he could have changed it.” Vincent paused. “He couldn’t have, of course. But he took that anger and frustration, and as he grew up, he trained.”

                “For what?”

                “To make sure no one else had to cry because of something that wasn’t their fault. He lifted weights, and he trained as a ninja, to walk in shadows—”

                “Like the soldiers in Wutai?”

                Add that to the growing list of things the boy definitely shouldn’t be worrying about at his age. “Well, not the footsoldiers. Ninjas are special. And he was very, very good. He learned to control his breathing, and to sneak up on anyone, even The Boy. And he made himself very, very fit, so that he could fight off anyone, though he only had human strength. And he learned how to make people afraid, as afraid as he was when he got cornered in the back alley. And so, he learned to use just human strength, just human wit, just human skill—but he was strong of will, more stubborn than anyone, and he faced off against the children of Gods and the Stars and they knew he was their equal. He was only ever a man, and yet, he would not be looked down on by anyone either, be they God or Starchild.”

                “Wow.” Seph was sleepy again. “He must have been very skilled.”

                “Very, very skilled.”

                “So… maybe he’s like you?”

                Vincent blinked. “Maybe?”
                “Yeah! You could be like the Man who walks in Night, and I could be like the Boy who Fell… and we could… save people…” He was nodding off as he spoke. Vincent chuckled, but kept it deep in his throat.

                “Maybe we could at that. Maybe we could. Sleep well, Seph.” He rewrapped the boy under his covers, tucked his dragon under one arm so he would be right there when the boy woke.

                Vincent had nightmares. Many of them. But that night he had a new one—a madman killing people in his name, an act of vengeance for a dead man who wanted anything but that, silver hair a war banner lit by flames as Nibelheim burned. He woke, soundless by long experience, and listened to the sound of the child breathing—he had curled around the little plush dragon in his sleep, the poor thing once again being crushed into unnatural positions by the intensity of his grip.

                He went back to sleep, and this time he dreamed very differently—Sephiroth, grown and still as deadly, still as dangerous, but with warmth in the back of his eyes, letting Marlene grip his right hand as they walked through Midgar to the Church, and no monster that lurked in the slums dared raise their eyes to them, the place made safer by his presence.

Chapter Text

                The morning came rough.

                Whatever sleep he had was evidently not enough, and he woke from another nightmare at the last, horrified moment as Cloud exploded—he was quite certain he didn’t say anything, he never did, but waking to find yet another silver haired child staring at him was more than enough to get his adrenaline flowing and made the monsters in his head roar and rumble with the need to fight fight fight—he curtailed his reaction to jerking in place and sliding backward as he sat up.

                “Seph.” It may have been a gasp.

                “Sorry—I didn’t mean to startle you.” He was choking out the dragon again. The poor thing’s head was at that unfortunate angle again—just how far could it go before it tore?

                “More the dream than you, Seph. Sorry. Morning.” He tried to smile, didn’t quite manage,

                “Morning. You have bad dreams too, sir?”

                Did he use sir when he was unnerved? Or uncertain?

                “Everyone has bad dreams, Seph. I was a Turk—I have more than my fair share. Nature of the job.” His face ached—healing was all well and good, but the body remembered things, for a little bit at least. Unless the healer was very good. He managed acceptable.

                “Why do people ask to be Turks if it gives them nightmares?”

                Another good question, really. “Sometimes things are worth having a few nightmares over.” Masamune pointed down, sharp and swift, pulls the blade out after a sharp twist so she bleeds to death fast—he took a deep breath. “I joined the Turks because people I cared about needed protecting, and Shinra seemed like a good cause.” It hadn’t always been… what it became. Once it was about innovation, and the power to change lives for the better—Reeve would have been proud to be in the company thirty years before he was. When his innovation would have been welcomed—he would have been treasured. But that wasn’t when Reeve joined the company. “And… it seemed like a worthy use of my skills. My father was a scientist. I was smart, but the study of science never called to me. But I also wasn’t called to fighting, like to SOLDIERS are—the Turks seemed like a wise compromise. I wanted to protect people, but also investigate things. What about you? It seems like you like the option of SOLDIER—why?”

                “I get to choose?”

                Vincent shut his eyes. “Yes. You get to choose.”

                “Then… I don’t know. SOLDIERs help people, right? They save people from monsters and protect the flow of Mako, which powers modern life?”

                That tone—he was quoting someone. Not someone he had heard—someone he had read. “They do. Mostly.”

                “Mostly?”

                Perhaps first thing in the morning wasn’t the time for this discussion. He tried anyway. “What if people in an area don’t want Mako power?”

                “But…” Seph paused, frowning. “Why wouldn’t they?”

                Too big of a can of worms for before coffee. “Dunno. But what if they didn’t?”

                Seph was looking at him like he had two heads. “Then… I don’t know.”

                “That’s okay. Just think about it.” He resisted the urge to flop backwards onto the bed and go back to sleep. After a moment though, the boy clambered up onto the bed next to him and curled up, catlike, resting his head on his side. A more subtle way of checking that everything is in the right place than most would have chosen.

                People mostly do not develop subtlety without outside influence. Or fear of discovery. He sighed heavily and let the rise and fall of his breath ease the tension from the boy’s frame. “I’ll think about it. You’ll ask Ifalna?” Sephiroth, prospective destroyer of worlds, snuggled against him to make sure he was alright, spoke at a whisper.

                “I’ll ask,” he promised his enemy, now his ward, and let himself relax. Five more minutes wasn’t the end of the world.

                It turned into fifteen, but it wasn’t like Veld was here to get upset about that. And the boy needed to relax anyway.

***

                He knew they would leave today, even before they said so. Gast’s eyes kept darting back to him with concern, almost fear—Ifalna kept looking back and forth between him and Seph. Something about the way her eyes lingered there…

                Cetra powers weren’t very well understood, or… they hadn’t been. Not by Aerith and certainly not by anyone else. He wouldn’t be surprised if… well. They clearly sensed something about each other. They were eyeing each other like two strange dogs whenever they got too close.

                “You’re going back to the Icicle Inn, I assume?” Ifalna wasn’t showing, so… so they had time. Hopefully. He wouldn’t be surprised if she was pregnant though.

                In fact, he would be surprised if she wasn’t. The timeline made vague sense… and the two were clearly in a relationship. They lingered when they bumped into each other—little things, the way she sat so her hip or knee touched Gast—they probably thought they were hiding it well. They had relaxed, in the walk out of town—just far enough to visit without prying eyes and ears. Eventually they had found a nice little field, a meadow really, surrounded by woodland and with light filtering through grass and leaves. It was a beautiful day, and the breeze was warm.

                The two looked at him oddly, and he cursed inwardly as Gast managed “How did you—”

                If you cannot be explicable, be inscrutable. “Turk.” He reminded them, then decided to distract them with something more personal. “So when did you two get together, while we are at it? Are you planning on having kids?”

                Oh, his father would have been so ashamed of his manners—but the look on Gast’s face was priceless, and Ifalna was only a little harder to read. She, at least, hadn’t dropped her jaw like an anvil. Sephiroth was off in the far corner of the field—not playing, doing what looked suspiciously, even at this distance, like sword exercise warm-ups. He had substituted a long branch for the sword. A very long stick.  

                He was just out of talking earshot though. Vincent kept his voice low. “By the way, the boy’s ears? Excellent. In the future if you could avoid letting him hear I’m likely to keel over from Chaos, that would be appreciated. He had nightmares.”

                Gast flinched. Ifalna looked taken aback.

                “I’m sorry—I didn’t realize he could—”

                “He cared?”

                “Ifalna!”

                Vincent sighed. “You think so little of him? He’s a child.”

                She switched to wutian, abruptly, which made Vincent blink. He spoke it, yes, but he was quite sure Gast didn’t… and he was surprised that she did—“You know what that child is?”

                He replied in kind though. “Keep your voice down. And yes. I do. Better than you do.” Poor Gast—looking back and forth between them in growing exasperation and frustration. He gave him an apologetic smile.

                Her eyes narrowed. “I have seen him in my nightmares since I was his age.”

                Oh. Had she now? “I was not aware that foresight was a Cetra gift.”

                Oh Ifrit. Did that mean—had Aerith— He took a deep breath and suppressed the bile in his throat.

                “It is not a damn gift. It’s a curse. And a rare one.” She leaned forward, eyes intent, and… haunted. “I have spent my life knowing how I would die. Knowing I would be the last of my kind. Knowing how my daughter would die. And yet, four months ago, the visions… grew uncertain. Most of the time they are the same. I see just enough to know that it comes without being able to avoid it. But sometimes, now, sometimes, the end is different. And you already know more than you should.”

                “Turk.” He said again, in common, because the names for the job in wutain that he knew were slurs. Gast opened his mouth and Vincent shook his head at him.

                “You lie like one. But I can hear the Lifestream whisper, Vincent Valentine. It calls you an ally, and a conspirator. It says things that cannot possibly be true, because not enough time has passed. But it has never lied to me.” Her eyes unfocused. “It says you knew my daughter, who is not yet born. And yet, I see you here with her killer.”

                Funny. He could say it to himself without rancor. Why did it make his vision flicker with anger when she said it? “Who is not yet a murderer. And if I can help him, he never will be.”

                “This is proving to be a terribly interesting conversation to not take part in.” Gast interjected, frowning. “But you’re getting heated with my dear, Vincent—and Ifalna, you said he should avoid getting upset.” He frowned and looked to Vincent again. “I… I am worried about you.”

                “Chaos will not hurt me. I imagine I know more than most about it now.” Vincent said, dryly.

                “It just did.”

                “It caused me pain. Hurting means damage.”

                “It destroyed your ability to breathe!”

                “Quieter, please.” Vincent said, sensing a flicker in the corner of his eye—a misstep in the sword exercises. “And that did not kill me, Gast. It did not even knock me unconscious until Ifalna managed to calm Chaos. I remember it all quite clearly.” Including how blurry his vision was—no need to mention that. “Chaos provides certain healing strengths—I have taken serious injury that I only survived due to Chaos.” A hand inside his chest, gripping and twisting--

                “Then… it has accepted you?” Ifalna looked shocked.

                “I don’t rightly know if it’s acceptance or resignation. But it will do what I need it to. I don’t even need to take it’s form to use it.” He took a deep breath. “Which reminds me—the boy made me promise to ask you if you knew any ways to make it do that less. I don’t imagine you do, but—”

                Ifalna hesitated. “Using it less might help. If you are truly asking. It has existed as long as the planet, and it has been in you eight years—it is still adjusting. Though that is rampant speculation.”

                Interesting notion. Though not necessarily helpful. “I don’t usually call on the powers of Chaos for fun.”

                “What then? What requires the force of the ultimate planetary WEAPON?” Ifalna barked back.

                Gast looked shocked and a little queasy, like he was just letting that sink in now.

                Vincent smiled at her. “Ask the Lifestream what I have done with it. If it deigns to tell you, Cetra, then the secrets are yours.”

                Apparently it did, because she went pale.

                “Ifalna?” Gast looked between the two of them, and abruptly his face hardened. “Look. I don’t know what you two said to each other. You’re adults, and if you want to bicker like children, that’s your business. But if my pregnant wife and my honorary nephew decide to be enemies, I won’t deny that it will upset me.”

                Vincent hesitated, then bowed his head. “Point. My apologies.” He grimaced, recalculating—this wasn’t a complication he had foreseen. “Ifalna. I don’t know that I can explain why I know this—why… the situation you observed to me is the case. But that boy is just a child.”

                “You believe that?”

                Aerith didn’t utter so much as a whisper as she died, looking up to Cloud—shaken but triumphant in the simple act of lowering his blade—how could the jump from above be so slow when it was so impossible to react to in time—

                One black wing flung wide, feathers scattered and eyes cold, unblinking—“I will never be a memory—”

                He grimaced. “Ifalna. When the boy was given into my care, his first question was if it was just until the next rotation—when I would be replaced by the next caretaker. The first assertion I got out of him was that he knew he was punishment detail. It took days of work to get him to ask questions spontaneously. He tried to hide it when he got seasick because he was afraid of how I might react to a display of that weakness—afraid of being sent to the labs for ‘care’. He still doesn’t play—that is a sword kata he’s going through over there. And one of the more lengthy ones.”

                Her mouth opened in an O.

                “He had an old book of Cetra legends, hidden, because his nannies didn’t want him to waste time on fanciful stories. He likes the ones with the dragons, particularly—about how some of them can be befriended. You are angry… and you have every right to be. And I will never stop having nightmares. But I can’t offer guarantees. I can only tell you what I have seen. The boy is a boy. As much human as… anything else.”

                Gast still wasn’t quite tracking the conversation—thank Shiva—but the description of the child had him shivering with… anger, Vincent thought. A strange look on the man. “Then they—”

                “Shinra is a company. Given raw material, they will make a product that makes them money. This has saved lives—do not ever deny that, the economic advantages and the medical technology made possible are substantial. But it is also why we never used to give companies charge of children.” He shrugged. “His hand-eye coordination is excellent. And he’s smart, strong, tough, ridiculously fast—has,” already killed an instructor by accident, “the right instincts. They want a SOLDIER.” They wanted a terror weapon. Something that smiled and made small talk and could kill armies. They got it last time. “What he becomes is up to him. I just want him to know he has that choice.”

                Ifalna was still processing… chewing on a thought and not finding it to her taste. “Vincent… when did you decide to raise this boy?”

                When Reeve showed him the files he had found. Years from now. “That’s… complicated.”

                “Four months ago?”

                Oh. He saw where she was going with this. Well. If his one conspirator was going to tell her whatever she asked, whenever she asked, what was the point of holding it back? Thanks Lifestream. “No. That is when I acted on the decision.”

                Her eyes… she looked awed. It was uncomfortable. “What did it cost you?”

                “That’s for me to know.” He told her, firmly. The family I made along the way is gone. I am haunted by ghosts of the future. “But not important now. To return to an earlier topic, you are going to the Icicle Inn, yes?”

                “Can I assume the bits that didn’t make sense from the prior conversation have to do with—”

                “The Lifestream and Chaos, mostly.” Ifalna lied, but she lied with a gentle look on her face. She hadn’t told him about the boy and Jenova yet, then. Maybe never would. Maybe she had told him about Jenova and expected him to work the rest out. Or maybe… maybe she just couldn’t see a way out of the trap she was in, and that was why she was angry at Vincent, and at the child.

                Gast lit up immediately. “You said you would explain those, yes? I still have so much to learn!”

                A revelation, then, looking at the two of them—seeing how the last full Cetra softened before the glow of Gast’s enthusiasm. He had assumed, when it was explained, that Aerith’s warmth and care for her world was simply part and parcel of being a Cetra, full blooded or otherwise. And it wasn’t. That part hadn’t come from her mother at all.

                It had been from her father.

                This Cetra was defeated. Broken, maybe. He understood-- it was hard to climb out of a coffin when you had resigned yourself to your fate. He remembered that very clearly—the flare of pain in his eyes at the feeble light and the exhaustion—too much sleep maintaining itself. Eyes mako-bright peering at him from under spiky blonde hair, with other strangers arrayed behind him. He didn’t even bother to ask what they wanted. He just told them to leave.

                They had, but not quickly. Not until after their conversation, where he watched as the boy—he had been about Vincent’s age… before… this, but he seemed so young then, and younger now—had quietly fed him the information he demanded of them, not getting angry at his refusal to return the favor, trying to coax him out with curiosity. It had been such an amateur technique, applied without skill or guile, that he had, distantly, been amused. But he only managed to tell himself he was staying in the box almost until they left. Even the brief visit with Veld hadn’t done that—and he was ashamed, now, that was the case.

                He could give them the tools. But if she was determined to die horribly, she would kill him and Gast both. And he needed to live, to protect the boy and… well. His other friends, such as they might be. Sephiroth was hardly the only danger to them. Aerith in particular was in… everyone’s crosshairs. Gast wasn’t jumping clear of this wreak, he could see that much in his lovestruck eyes. So… like rescuing a drowning person then. Hold them at arms length, and if they thrash too much, let go. Because you can save no one if you let them kill you.

                As he should perhaps have done with Lucrecia. But then… no. Hard though it was, this might be for the best. Chaos could keep up with Sephiroth. And Chaos could stop Omega, if the time came again. If this was the price he paid… maybe that was a fair exchange. Maybe.  

                “Sorry to interrupt. It’s just—the Icicle Inn. It’s… Shinra will find you, you know. Eventually.”

                “At the Icicle Inn?”

                “Yes. We should work out a different alternative—write me, send it to the general store—I can help you establish a safehouse. I don’t want to lose anyone else to this mess.” Sephiroth had finished his katas and evidently decided he was bored—he was running back, his hair flagging out behind him— did you see, Mr. Vincent? He wouldn’t say the words, but he wanted to know—“You did great! Do you know a lot of those?”

                Rapid nodding.

                “Well done!” Vincent praised, and his face lit up. From the corner of his eye, he could see Ifalna, considering.

                “We’ll write you.” Ifalna whispered, and Vincent blinked—but he smiled.

                If the drowning person didn’t thrash, it was easy to pull them to shore.

***

                They left before nightfall, and Vincent rescheduled house shopping—as always, Sasha and Claudia were more than helpful, willing, happy. They were glad he had friends. Possibly relived.

                Rells had a letter for him. A thin envelope he managed to keep from opening until he was settling in for the night in the guest bedroom again. In code, and wutain—good old Veld, paranoid as always—but the photo that fluttered out was impossible to miss. Sephiroth scooped it up the photo to hand it to him—glimpsed the front and his eyes went wide. “Why is Mr. Veld crying? Does… does that tombstone have your name on it?”

                “Let me see—heh. No, Veld is laughing, and making it look like sobbing. And… yes. It does. I told you I took the Turk Retirement Package—someone faked my death. So I have a nice little gravesite in Midgar somewhere.” No sense hiding it—he’d already told the boy. “Veld visits it—he thought I was dead until… recently. This is theater. He’s keeping us secure by continuing to act like I am dead. And apparently he found the whole thing funny, and couldn’t hide the laugh, but laughing looks a lot like sobbing. So he played it up for whoever had the camera—let them see what they were expecting.”

                Seph frowned. “Why are people watching him if they think he’s sad?”

                Possibly because they thought he was sad. Definitely not the right age to explain that. “Maybe they were worried. Or maybe they were being mean. If that’s the case, then Veld probably enjoyed this.”

                He flipped the photo over. On the front—Veld, bent double, distinguishable only from sobbing because he knew him. Something about the angle of the spine and the shoulders. But the back— “My trainee was worried about me. I was happy today. It was the first anniversary since the funeral.”

                Dirty fighting on an already conqured front. But... Vincent remembered the first time-- remembered assisting Veld and immediately crawling back into his tomb and slamming the lid. What had happened after that? He didn't know. He had been too ashamed to look.  

                “Sometimes being someone’s friend means protecting them. And sometimes it means not telling them things about yourself, so they can’t get in trouble for them. It would seem Veld’s photographer is his trainee.”

                “Why?”

                “Sometimes bad people will try to get you to say things about people you care about. But if you don’t know those things, you can’t reveal it, even by accident.” Belatedly, it occurred to him that he maybe shouldn’t plant the idea of lying into the child… but lying was something he was already familiar with, he was sure. Maybe he should only try to control why the child lied. Leviathan knew he lied, and in front of the boy, if not to him directly.

                They were in the Strife’s spare room, again, and Seph was combing his hair—straight and clear, military-precise strokes. He was frowning as he did so. “But… then how do people know if they can trust you?”

                “Usually, they only trust you after a while, by what you do.  Your actions matter.”

                “Ohhhh. Is that why Veld is so mad all the time?”

                Heh. “Veld only seems mad all the time. Trust me, his actual rage is less… identifiable. And far more frightening.” Veld’s rage was all soft smiles and cocked guns, polite words and sharp knives. It was not an easily survivable environment. Vincent had thrived in it once. Maybe… maybe he would again. There could be worse things, than to thrive in the shadow of Veld’s wrath.

                “But he is mad. He’s not out of control, like when the SOLDIERS get the wrong Mako dose, but he’s angry. Because he’s got no one he trusts?”

                Vincent paused, guilt gnawing at his stomach.  “Maybe. I don’t know. I… need to ask.”

                “He cares about his people. But… caring and trust are… different?”

                Probably also something eight year old should not know. “Yeah. Trusting someone and caring about someone aren’t necessarily the same thing.”

                “This is confusing. You’re his partner, right?”

                “I was. But… I was away a long time. He thought I was dead.”

                “Because you were in the lab?”

                “Yes.”

                “Oh…” The boy paused, then his head cocked to one side. “Mr. Vincent, do you comb your hair?”

                At least he wasn’t ‘sir’. “Sometimes?”

                “I have a comb! Can I help you?”

                Out of the coffin for the first time, thirty years of hair growth catching up to him, the girls had tried to help with the tangles. Eventually, Barret had shooed them away, grumpy, and picked out every knot and tangle one at a time.

                “I do this for Marlene, sometimes.” He had said, quiet, when asked. Focused on the hair. “So I know how. I imagine it hurts—hair is sensitive.”

                Needless care. But never unappreciated. He had known what he was doing, one handed and careful. “If you want.”

                Sephiroth was less gentle. But Vincent didn’t object once.

Chapter Text

                It took him almost forty minutes to decipher Veld’s letter, because he was rusty and because Veld was a paranoid fucker. An admirable trait, in their line of work, and a mark of his care—Vincent sincerely doubted anyone was looking for the trail of a man eight years dead, but Veld made a point of hiding it anyway.

                It wasn’t the five-letter code, at least. That shit was a mess, but a damn secure mess.

                When arranged correctly, of course, the lines were sparse. Nature of the game—a letter that looked like gibberish was obviously code, and thereby worth spending time on. All codes could be broken. But letters that looked like letters might actually be letters. So there had to be tossaway lines, things that had no bearing on the real information. Even a fairly long letter would contain a certain amount of fluff just to keep a codebreaker off the scent.

                When deciphered, it read mechanically enough.

                Valentine,

                Hojo is aggravated but I am on top of it. Suggested interdepartmental sabotage—that should keep him busy for a while. Question: will you be heartbroken if I kill him myself? Will hold off for now. Trainee is the photographer and has been for years—worried about me, not being an ass. Actually reminded me it was your birthday—may have confused him, was cheerful in the office and then ‘sobbed’ on grave.

                Best birthday of yours I have had in years. Will bring wine when I come. May take a few months. Next letter will contain next paycheck, which you will accept and use.

                Hope for your sake you are not stirring up too much trouble. Am developing a list of questions I need answered. Do not disappoint. How is the boy? Am sure you are parenting fine—that is how all first time parents feel.

                                                                Your partner, lest you forget,

                                                                                                                                Verdot

                “Remarkable.” Vincent murmured at the paper, feeling a slight grin on his face.

                “Sir?” It was late at night—Vincent had lost track of the time, and Seph’s silver head popped up slowly from the pillow, blinking as it rose.

                “Nothing’s wrong, Seph. Just took me a while to decode the letter. Go back to sleep—I’ll turn the light off shortly.”

                “What’s remarkable, though?”

                The Seph he had met in Shinra would not have dared to ask that question. Vincent smiled. “Veld. It’s been eight years and… well. A lot of experiences, and I still feel like I lose an argument with him every time I get a letter. It’s a strange talent.”

                “You argue a lot?”

                “Actually, no.” Not for Turk partners anyway. Maybe for normal people. Or maybe everyone talked like that when lives were on the line. He’d known more than one set of partners that hated each other’s guts and argued constantly—his arguments with Veld, when they occurred, were more often than not impossible for most people to recognize as such. A flat refusal delivered in a raised eyebrow, the flash of Veld’s temper in the back of his eyes, a simple answer half a tone deeper than it would have otherwise been. If they fought, verbally or physically—and everyone did, at some point, in the Turks—it was to vent frustration and emotion with the one person they could trust to handle it. Fights were things every idiot could see—arguments were in the angle of the shoulders, slipped between words in tones and the angle of writing, and now, in carefully labeled photographs. Even this was unusually verbose for their actual communication—a side effect of not being there to do it in person. They’d always been considered a gold standard in partners… Gaia, he hadn’t even really explained last time. “When someone you trusted to be there is suddenly gone, it can make you feel… helpless and angry. Veld is afraid I’ll vanish on him again—so he reminds me to stay put. Which makes me feel like a rookie, but… he’ll understand after we talk.” And they would. In spite of his reservations. He owed the man that.

                Hesitant. “He’s mad at you?”

                “Maybe a little. Concerned, mostly. But some people act like they are mad when they are concerned. And he might feel anger, but he feels it because he wants to know what happened—he likely blames himself for not realizing I was alive. Not his fault—I was confused on the matter too, for a bit.” And science. Several major religions. Everyone was confused as to where on the spectrum he had sat for a while, he felt confident.

                He meant the words as a joke, but as he flipped off the light, he found cat-eyes seeking his in the dark. He smiled but the boy didn’t smile back. “You didn’t know if you were alive?”

                Well… for parts of it he had known that he was not. Did that count? Probably time to change the subject. “It was a confusing time. But…here I am! Good day, Seph?”

                “Yeah… Miss Ifalna didn’t seem so mad at me when she left. Still mad, but… less mad. And… do I know Gast from somewhere?”

                Oh. This conversation. “Probably. He used to be the head of the Science Department at Shinra. He left, though. Like me.”

                “Oh. I didn’t like him at first. But… he said next time we meet, he’ll tell me stories about dragons, every one that he can think of. And I thought maybe it was bad, that I didn’t like him before?”

                Vincent found his eyelids to be incredibly heavy. “That’s okay. You don’t have to like everyone, even if I like them. Just be nice, and maybe some of them will be worth liking later, after you get to know them more.”

                “Like Gast?”

                “Like Gast.”

                “Vincent?”

                “Mmm?”

                That tone of voice. Plaintive. Not pleading or fearful, because he did not allow himself to use those tones, not normally. But plaintive. “Please don’t get confused again?”

                Vincent sat back up on his bed, looking over—twin cat eyes gleamed unblinking in the dark. “I promise I have never been so certain and not-confused in my life as I am right now. And I mean to keep it that way.”

                “Thank you.” The boy curled about his toy and blinked his eyes shut slowly, until his shoulders relaxed and his breathing deepened in sleep.

                Vincent settled back against the bed, mind whirling, his lips twisting into a frown.

                Am sure you are parenting fine—that is how all first time parents feel.

                Remarkable. He stifled his laugh against his arm, and let his eyes blink shut again. He dreamed of a mission with Veld, one of his first—a bloody, violent encounter that had ended with reprimands for both of them, a ridiculous amount of property damage, and more than one dropped body. What he remembered, mostly, were bursts of fire, the occasional heat of an explosion, and Veld’s tilted, angry grin, the one he made when he was suppressing laughter, blood trickling down his right cheek.

                He had never felt a moment of worry though that whole clusterfuck. His brother had his back.

                It was a good dream.

Chapter Text

                Verdot,

                Would prefer to kill H myself. But no—won’t be heartbroken. That said, treat with extreme caution—the candyman may have sampled his own merchandise. You might not have the firepower to kill him. Better to keep him chasing his tail for now. Smart move.

                Boy is doing well. Asks questions spontaneously now. Took a while. Were you aware he killed an instructor by accident? Not worried—faster than him—but concerned about other extremes he may have been forced to. Child is becoming protective of me. Help.

                Look forward to the wine if your taste has improved. Shiva preserve us both, do not bring that cheap shit here. Bring your list of questions. I will answer them.  Also, please define ‘too much trouble’ for me? I seem to recall a certain incident in Costa Del Sol…

                                                                                                                Your darling Valentine.

                The envelope, sassy bastard, was marked only with a heart, and ‘to Veld’ on the front. Veld wasn’t entirely sure how it got there as quickly as it did, but reading it made him smile, frown, cock his head to one side, and cuss in rapid succession. It wasn’t the delivery—it had been bounced off half a dozen different addresses to one of his many information drops, one he hadn’t even given to Vincent. How he had known about it he wasn’t sure, actually. But it was secure, at least. And asking would give away the game.

                The interns stayed clear of his office after that. Tseng poked his head in occasionally, cautiously—the first after he had read “please define ‘too much trouble’”, and let loose with his first atmosphere rending profanity for the day. It would seem being his second in command made him the sacrifice of choice of the office workers to soothe their angry god. “Sir. The black ops agents giving you trouble?”

                “No more than usual. I’m just impressed—they are clearly feeling their oats. The sass is extensive.” Proof enough, had he doubted, that it was Valentine they were dealing with. No one else would dare.  Not quite like this, at least.

                “I… thought the heart was unusual. Sir.”

                “That one will be the death of me. Count on it.”

                “Sir, I thought that role was reserved for Shinra Executives?” Was that amusement in the back of Tseng’s eyes?

                “It’s a race. Only one can have the prize, but they are all running just the same.”

                “The prize being you getting an aneurysm, sir?” Definitely amusement. The child had balls. Invaluable, really. But still less valuable than his decorum.

                “Damn straight.” He bent his head over his letter again, then sighed when Tseng stayed in his doorframe. “You have a question?”

                “Sir. A few days ago… when I delivered the letter to Hojo.”

                “Shut the door if we’re discussing this, you aren’t a damn rookie.”

                Tseng did, rapidly. “Sir. Why wait until I had returned from Hojo to leave? If you wanted… time away.”

                Remarkable, even almost a decade after the event, no one referred to it by name. “Vincent’s birthday, you mean?”

                “I… right. You were…. Upset. But you waited for me to return from a simple delivery errand. Why?”

                In case someone else somehow vanished in Hojo’s proximity. Veld felt his hands itching for pistols. “Because I wanted to know it was done. And besides, how would you stalk me if you were busy completing your own errand?”

                “Sir…” Tseng looked uncomfortable. Probably no one but a Turk would notice. Veld took pity on him.

                “I know that’s not what you mean, Tseng. You wouldn’t push the photos under my door the next day so brazenly if you did.” He waved a hand. “Go—I have this. Reassure the secretaries that they aren’t about to be eaten.”

                That had always been Vincent’s job, before. The carrot to his stick. A strong part of him had to admit that he resented that he wasn’t there to do it now.

                But he was alive. Mostly intact at least. A little shit.

                Minerva, it was more than he could have dreamed. Even with the worryingly vague question of how much trouble was too much.

***

                None of the houses would work.

                The first was a nice place, small but then there were only two of them, but it was on main street.

                No.

                Even if he wanted everyone who cared to pay attention to know his comings and goings, and he did not, it was a bad idea to be that close to the center of things. Firstly, if anyone caught up to them—if Veld’s protection slipped or was circumvented—he would shoot his way out. Too many people, even in a small town—too many casualties.

                Nibelheim had seen enough death, even if it did not remember.

                Worse—there was the small matter of having the possibility of two fugitives from Shinra (and it floored him, now that he thought about it, that they hadn’t even tried to fake their deaths) being seen. Any idiot could argue off one sighting—they were passing through, he met them while they worked at Shinra, they said they were on a research outing—but multiple might be harder.

                Ahhh, the nightmares of teaching civilians about Op Sec. Seph got it, at least.

                “Every time you violate Op Sec, the gods kill a puppy.” He solemnly intoned when Vincent went over the topic with him. Which—alright, it made sense that they would teach their prospective SOLDIER about Operations Security—who to talk to about what, and when to clam the hell up, and what to hide—but it was still disconcerting hearing the old saw from an eight year old. Still. Work with what you got.

                “That’s right.” He had told him, equally solemn, one hand in his hair. “And we like puppies.”

                “Puppies are good.”

                “So we won’t violate Op Sec.” Which led, in turn, to the third problem with the house. Seph didn’t know it, not really, but his combat skills were… abnormal. Vincent didn’t know what exactly he could expect from a maturing engine of destruction—let alone a teenage one. So help him, if the boy sprouted a wing in practice or grew eight inches or changed his fucking shape they needed to at least be able to get to the first aid kit without wondering eyes taking in the details. So again, no.

                And… perhaps it would be wise to start accumulating weapons and materia. Just in case. Sephiroth was hardly the only threat—and between AVALANCHE’s more dangerous branches, Deepground, Shinra itself, the half dozen other terrorist groups it had inspired, and whatever else Hojo had managed to cook up on his free time that had either gone off harmlessly or hadn’t gone off yet the first time—well. It was always wise to be prepared.

                Neither Claudia nor Sasha seemed at all distressed by this—amused perhaps. Not that he told them his full reasoning—he simply looked up and down the street, looked at them and whispered, “I’m surrounded!”

                They laughed, but it seemed like they had expected that reaction.

                The second house was better, but only a little—a few streets off main, a little overly loved by cats, perhaps, but still too close to the heart of the small town—and it needed too many repairs.

                Vincent knew how to “fix” things, but fixing tangible items (that were not weapons or people) was a skill he would have to pick up. Or let strangers inside his home.

                Every time we violate Op Sec, the gods kill a puppy.

                So again, no.

                He realized he might be asking far too much of this town—it was very small, after all, until Sasha’s mouth quirked in a grin. “Told you he’d want the last house.”

                “I don’t recall arguing.”

                “Ladies….?”

                They turned to him in unison.

                “Well, you see—”

                “—there’s this house—”

                “Not even really in town, just nearby—”

                “It’s been open for ages. Doesn’t even have a price anymore, just a condition for claiming ownership.”

                He felt his eyebrows lift at that. “What condition, exactly?”

                Claudia smiled, and Sasha stifled a giggle. “I believe you have to clear it of monsters. It’s a town hazard at present.”

                Oh, was that all? “Lets… look at those exact terms.”

***

                Those were the exact terms. Kill the monsters, get the house.

                Other than the current inhabitants, the house was perfect. Larger than they needed, probably—old, old enough that they didn’t have blueprints on file, which meant Shinra didn’t either—electrical hookup minimal. The only way he could have made it better for his purposes was to hide it in a cave, and… well. That really would be asking too much. And probably be setting the wrong example besides.

                And they weren’t even bombs or something that exploded. Just Kyuvilduns. Granted, he was not at all sure how those things had gotten there—they usually liked higher altitudes, but… then, there were some up on the mountain. If an egg was laid a few years ago and winter had failed to kill them off…

                Well. Then again, maybe it didn’t matter how they had gotten there. What mattered was getting them back out.

                “Should we… watch Seph while you do this?” Var asked, low in his throat , on the morning Vincent planned to set out to do the deed. Vincent hesitated. “I’m not… judging, if you want to teach the boy your trade, that’s one thing. But these are Kyuviduns.”

                Right. Those were scary to normal people.

                “That depends, I think. Watching may be good—he’s been exposed to worse…” Normally, he wouldn’t… but the boy was asleap, he could hear it in the tone of his breathing upstairs, the women were out, and… Var hard heard what he had said. About self-defense.

                Var winced.

                “I think he needs to know it can serve a constructive purpose. If that makes sense.”

                Var nodded, slowly. “Alright. I can see that. But… how would you keep him safe while he watches?”

                “I think… Seph! Good morning!” The inevitable wake up scramble could be avoided if he spoke to the boy first thing when he seemed to be waking. Calmer for everyone.

                “Is he up?” Var muttered, cocking his head and trying to hear.

                “You didn’t hear the thump?” Vincent murmured, against his tea. Most people wrote off slip ups if you acted nonchalant enough. The boy was prompt enough to provide the distraction—and how did he appear at the top of the stairs that quickly when he his hair was always perfectly groomed?

                “Vincent!”

                “Hey Seph! You sleep well?”

                Hasty nod. “Are you going to clear out the house today?”

                “Yeah. Do you want to come?” Adamant nod, eyes wide. Right. The boy already worried about him—leaving him behind might be a cruel punishment for no particular reason. “Alright. Sit down, have some breakfast. And while we’re at it—are you good at climbing trees?”

Chapter Text

                He was very careful. But the first casualty of war is always the plan.

                Vincent watched as the kid climbed a few trees, experimentally at first, and then with increasing confidence. He was small, and slight—he could go very high without difficulty, and he had the balance of a bird. Which… made sense.

                Wing.  

                “Alright. So here’s the plan—I’m going to go into the house and lure all of the monsters that I can out onto the yard. You can watch, but I want you to stay in the tree.”

                “But—”

                “Stay in the tree. This is important.” The boy’s body jerked in place when he used that tone, like he was having to fight to simply stand and argue. Vincent managed to suppress his frown. “These things are tough, if you don’t know how to deal with them, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

                “But—I can fight!”

                He smiled, even though that statement settled down in his guts like a bucket of ice water. “I know, buddy. But we aren’t used to fighting side by side yet, and you got to take time to get used to how other people fight to fight alongside them effectively. This isn’t the fight for that—we could end up in each other’s way, and if we do that, they really could be dangerous. I’ve fought these things before—it’s not so bad on my own. But I want you to stay up in that tree and watch—learn what you can, and I’ll talk to you about the tactics after. But I don’t want to hurt you by accident when I’m striking out at these things, so stay in the tree. Please?”

                Slow, hesitant nod, biting his lip. “You’ll be okay?”

                “I’ll be okay. I’ll be good, even.” He brushed some hair out of the boy’s face and immediately ruined the effect by ruffling his hair. “Thank you, Sephiroth.”

                Sephiroth looked baffled, momentarily—perhaps at the thanks—and then smiled—small, but real.

                He had been careful, scouting about, for the best spot and the best tree, and finally settled on a sturdy oak overlooking the back of the house—the boy needed a boost to get into the lowest branches, but that wasn’t exactly an issue—Vincent was tall, and like most monster dens, it didn’t exactly explode when you came within sight of it. Honestly, the real trouble would be making sure the thing was empty for the first few days after he cleared it. But, for once, he had been willing to turn to Shinra for his needs.

                He had a smoke grenade.

                He fondled the device in his one human hand as he crept to the back door, opened it, and crept back to the front. Textured plastic and nylon grip, designed not to be let go of by accident. It had set him back a pretty penny—but what Veld called a stipend would legitimately have bought a whole house here. A guilt payment, of sorts—he would deal with that later. He pulled the pin, opened the front door, and tossed the device inside, shutting the door for maximum effect.

                Kyuviduns hated fire. And so they also hated smoke.

                He ran to the front of the house—only under his own power, nothing more—and made it in time to start picking off the first few. A Cerberus pistol was not what he would have recommended to the unwary beginner—but he was neither of those things, and Death Penalty would have taken the back end of the house in the blast.

                And he was an excellent shot.

                The first two went down easy, a few shots (to be safe) to the head and most things died. The others started to come faster on each other’s heels and then he had to react faster. Fire and Fire2 built into the shot—one after another. Quick hard blasts, one at a time. Vincent readied himself and felt no particular shock when they reached him physically—monster arm and gauntlet would do fine. He took the thorax of one in one sweep, the head in another.

                Joints, that was key in large insects. The exoskeleton was hard, but attack anything that bent and things came right off. Cleaning the gauntlet would be a bastard though—he flung his left arm out to get the remaining stuck pieces to go flying, then managed to shoot two more as they came after him, still pouring out of the back door with the smoke.

                One managed to knock him down—he rolled with it, then kicked it off, though he could feel the bruises already purpling across his stomach. “It’s fine!” Not that he normally called out in battle, but—the boy. He could almost hear his grip starting to fracture the tree branch.

                Then, disaster. He raised his hand to shoot again, and felt, as in slow motion, his hip start to fracture. No, no no—not here! Not now! Another shot—a tossed grenade to try and light some ablaze, and--- not enough. He felt himself collapsing, legs lost and then arms too, in the fit, horribly able to breathe if not to fight, torso and head left alone, able to see long insect legs as they came on, and he thought, this will hurt.

                And then—a silver streak, a tug at his belt—where he kept his hunting knife—and a bug lost it’s head. A foreleg. A thorax. Green-clear blood flew through the air at the end of his knife—already, the boy’s motions in battle were art, gruesome art.

                And then… a motion, mantislike from one of the bugs—a choked grunt, a smear of blood—Vincent felt his arms returning to their proper shape in time to shoot the monster off the child, and cry out, choked “Seph!?”

                Seph growled, and rolled his shoulders—starting a fresh flow of blood, and stood up, wordless, cat eyed, fury on his small face. “Seph!”His eyes flickered. He turned to face off with the last one—the knife took it’s left eye while the bullet took it’s right—it toppled and fell, and then in the smoke, the boy turned back to Vincent, and after a long, while moment, in which he recognized the look on the boy’s face, but not from this lifetime, the eyes flickered back to normal. The shoulders shook and curved inward. The hands started shaking. “Seph. It’s okay. It’s okay, come here. You’re hurt—”

                “It’s okay.”

                It was not okay. But his legs were still out, so running over there wasn’t really an option. ”Seph, please, just come here and let me see it.” That look again—the cornered rat look. Seph’s was still changing—still backing away from the combat revelry, which… hell, Vincent wouldn’t mind. He’d known a lot of people who had to choke down laughter while fighting—who cared if that was what the boy liked? So long as he still only fought when it was needful—people had to fight, someone might as well enjoy it. Veld did. Sometimes even he did. But that lost, confused look—trauma or blood loss? He couldn’t tell from this angle, couldn’t stand up to catch the boy and check. “I’m not mad.”

                “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

                “Seph, it’s okay.”

                “I was bad, and I disobeyed orders, and—”

                “Seph. Come here. Just come here.” The boy froze in place. “Please, Seph.”

                The eyes tried to focus. “You… you… are you hurt?”

                “No.” Bruises didn’t count. Not when they were on Valentine, at least. No matter how big they were.

                “You… promise you aren’t mad?”

                “Not even a little. I’m worried. You have me worried.”

                The boy came over, one step at a time, and dropped the knife before he reached him, stepped over it and dropped into kneeling by Vincent, dropping his head against Vincent’s chest. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry! I saw you fall, and I was scared—”

                “I know. I know. It’s okay Seph.” He wrapped his arms around him, and then jerked them away again—wet warm pressed against his shoulder, and frightened him. “You scared me too.”

                He had been so careful.

Chapter Text

                The cut Seph had was short, and though deeper than he would have liked, probably not dangerous. Certainly not dangerous, actually—it was still bleeding because it was deep, not because it had hit anything of importance. Still. It could have, very easily—it was tucked the meat of his shoulder, where arm met chest. A few inches to the other side and… no. No use thinking about that. It would only make his hands unsteady. He cleaned it carefully—as gently as he could, before healing it.

                Seph’s only reaction to that was to stare off to the middle distance over his left shoulder, unflinching in a way that made him frown. “Am I hurting you?”

                Shaken head.

                Right. Phrasing might be important when dealing with Seph. “Am I causing you pain?” Hesitation. That meant yes. “I’m sorry. I’ll be done soon.”

                The little silver head cocked to one side, eyes narrowing in confusion. “Why are you sorry?” Vincent hesitated and shut his eyes, grateful for a moment that the boy was looking over his shoulder and not at his face.

                “I need to clean this so that it doesn’t get infected. But I don’t like causing you pain.”

                Another confused silence. Vincent sighed, concluded his task, and then used his restore materia. There. Only a slight tear in the tunic to show it had ever been there. He could wash the blood out. It wasn’t nearly as hard as people made it out to be. And it wasn’t that much. He’d have the kid wear the coat going back into town.

                “Why heal it?”

                Vincent paused, midway through standing up, gingerly, testing his hip as he went. “Sorry. What was that?”

                “Why heal it? It wasn’t dangerous, and it was going to heal fine—why waste magic on it?”

                Vincent shut his mouth on the first reply that came to his mind, and arced his back, cracking it loudly, while looking upward. He knew Seph startled because he felt the way the air moved to compensate for it. He knew the boy stared because he had only stopped eying his arms and legs gingerly when he had started cleaning the cut. He looked up at the sky, shut his eyes, opened them again. “I didn’t waste it. That was magic well spent.” He opened his mouth again, found the words unreachable, and shook his head. “C’mon. Let’s get the doors and windows open—let it air out a little. Then… we can see what we claimed.”

***

                It was a good house, apart from the bug damage. Large, which they didn’t need… but it was a resource, and perhaps it would be useful. A plan, nebulous at best, had started to form in the back of his mind—it would not be hard, with no one hunting him, to gather things. Weapons. Materia. Potions. Things… in case he needed them.

                Seph was more sensitive to the lingering smoke than he was—his eyes watered, but even as Vincent encouraged him to stay back, he pressed forward to stay at his side. Vincent decided to make his round through the house a fast one, opening windows as he went. And if it rained—well. If it rained, it would smell less like smoke grenade.

                Big parlor, big living room. Five bedrooms. One bath. Large kitchen, one study, one den. Basement, huge, damp, dark. He didn’t like it. More a cellar than anything. But then… he had a bad history with basements.

                It seemed stable, and it seemed like he could hide things there. That was enough.

                He liked the widow’s peak. A private watchtower all to himself.

                “You alright?” Seph nodded, pressed against his leg—Vincent strongly suspected that this was more about subtly making sure his legs were working correctly than fear or comfort. “Alright. Let’s go back outside for a bit then.”

                “I don’t need to—”

                “Probably not. But there’s no need to prolong discomfort for the fun of it. The smoke will clear, and we’ll come back in then.” It wasn’t even fun smoke. Woodfires smelled of their wood—smelled organic and warm. Smoke grenades, at least the ones made by Shinra, had an acrid, chemical tang that he liked not at all. Like melted steel.  Seph gave him another strange look, but allowed himself to be herded back outside.

***

                “So I don’t suppose you’ll let us throw you a party?”

                Vincent gave Sasha a pained look. She giggled.

                “Well, a party might be overstating it. But we’ll help you move in some furniture and get you guys a move-in meal.”

                “You just want to see inside. And feed us.”

                Claudia sighed dramatically. “You’ve discovered our evil plan. We were originally going to tie you both to chairs and cart you through the street on our shoulders to cheering fanfare before forcing you to gorge upon a feast. But we decided that was too much trouble.”

                Vincent snorted and the women grinned. Sephiroth cocked his head so far to one side Vincent feared he might hurt himself. “They’re joking, Seph. They know I don’t like fuss, so they’re giving me crap.”

                “It seemed like a weird threat.” Seph offered, then looked back down at his soup. Vincent smiled again.

                “It would be a weird threat at that.” Vincent agreed. He looked back to the ladies. “I don’t exactly have a lot to move, though…”

                “Var made you two beds.” Claudia chipped in, her voice soft and her eyes trained on her soup again.  “And he’s working on a table. After that you’re on your own.”

                That was still a lot. Particularly for a carpenter in a small town. “Claudia, I can’t accept—”

                The lightest, gentlest cuff possible from Sasha. He felt the echo of Tifa’s power in it, and turned his attention to her, accordingly. “Look at it as advertising. He wants you to be impressed with his work and commission the rest of your stuff from him, right? So accept with grace.”

                He had always been rather bad at that. “I… this doesn’t… set you back in any way?”

                Probably there was no good way to ask that question.

                But Claudia quirked a smile. “To be honest, Vincent, I’m the breadwinner here. Town healer. Most people pay more for that then they do a bed.”

                Well. Fair enough.  “Then…”

                “Accept with grace.” Sasha intoned, swatting the back of his head with the force of a butterfly.

                When she put it that way… “Very well.”

                Later that night, their final night at the Strife’s, Vincent noted an odd look on Seph’s face as he got ready for bed. “What?”

                “You’re really different from them.”

                “The Strifes?”

                “And the Lockhearts. And everyone else in town.”

                Vincent… wasn’t sure how to take that. “I suppose. Risk one runs, when one…” survives.

                “But… they like you. They want to help you.”

                Ahhh. Vincent smiled and ruffled his hair, midway through Seph’s nightly haircare routine. “Yeah. They do.”

***

                On Veld’s desk, there was a list.

                Oh, it didn’t stay on his desk. One didn’t become leader of the Turks without a healthy dose of paranoia, the total loyalty of his underlings, or both—and you didn’t outlive your peers without paranoia either. Very, very few Turks had been there long enough to be anything like peers, now. Now.. they were his trainees. His students. His, though he loathed admitting it, kids.

                He couldn’t afford to think of them like that. Not when he would likely send most of them to their deaths. But he thought of them that way just the same, in unguarded moments, arresting the thought before it became words and sending it away without acknowledgement.

                But the list. The list he could control. He only kept questions on it, and only the ones he felt it would be unwise to mention in the letters. Or that would go unanswered if he left them there. It stayed in his shirt pocket, when he left the room and when other people came in, and he never put names on it, or even most vaguely specific nouns.

• What the fuck happened?
  1. Was Shinra involved? How exactly?
     1. If it was H directly, how the hell did he overpower you?
  2. Did it have to do with the boy, somehow?
  3. Did you have any warning?
     1. If you did, why didn’t you say anything in your reports?
     2. If you didn’t, how did they manage to surprise you?

• Why did your eyes turn gold?
  1. If it does that for irritation, does something worse happen when you get really pissed?
  2. What about other emotions?
• EIGHT FUCKING YEARS?
  1. If yes, how?
  2. If no, why didn’t you contact me earlier?
     1. Were you unable?
        1. Were you hurt?
     2. Did you not trust me?
        1. Fuck you, asshole. Of course you could trust me.

               That wasn't a question. Veld left it in anyway.

• Are you okay?

                He hesitated on that one, because Turk okay was not civilian okay and he wanted Vincent to be civilian okay but wasn’t sure which answer he dreaded more—the obvious no, because how could he be, or the duplicitous yes,  either from reassurance or… or a lack of trust. And… none of those were... that wasn't what he wanted.

                He put the paper in his breast pocket as Tseng entered the room. “Sir. Three Shinra employees have gone missing in the past week.”

                “So?” It was a big company. Three employees would go missing from binge drinking alone in the next week. Nature of the animal.  

                “They work at vaguely the same level, so there is concern they may be being targeted for security reasons.”

                “Same area?”

                “All on this continent sir.”

                Alright. Maybe that did merit investigation. “Review their files and present any similar living circumstances to me. I want to know more about them than their mothers do.”

                “Within the hour, sir.” Tseng said, with a small bow of his head before leaving.

                Veld frowned for a moment. Took the list out of his pocket.

• Can I tell my wife you are alive?
  1. Would you be a godfather to Felicia?

                He crossed those out, frowning. Then wrote them down again.

Chapter Text

                Moving in simplified things.

                They were able to fall into a kind of routine—Vincent would wake up early, and so did Seph, and get up, drink tea, and go out into the yard. Sephiroth started with katas. Vincent would meditate, or if he’d had particularly bad nightmares the night before, target practice helped dispel them. Then, sparring, unarmed, because Vincent was not confident enough in the boy’s abilities or his to go weapon on weapon—yet—and hopefully not for some years yet.

                Sephiroth loved the combat, but he froze in the rare moment he landed a hit, eyes going wide as they had not for the real thing. Probably… probably he was worried. After all, the first and last time he had struck a trainer in combat… no. Not worth thinking about. Not that way, anyway.

                The hits bruised, as little else did. Vincent never let him see it.

                He needed to introduce the boy to his other shapes. But he put it off for now. Being willing to like Chaos was… a good sign, but hardly guaranteed his reaction to the other shapes.

                “Did you decide which bedroom you want to choose? I picked out mine—” the one closest to the stairs. Nothing would come to the boy save that he allowed it past—“but the other bedrooms are open.” He asked one morning after such a practice.

                Seph’s eyes were very wide. “I get to choose?”

                “Well, you did do part of the work. That seems fair to me.” Better to focus on the fact that he had helped than that surprise, Vincent thought. Sometimes figuring out how the boy thought was not dissimilar to disarming a bomb tucked into a rosebush.

                “I—”

                “I can move the bed without trouble, so it’s not an issue one way or another. Just let me know when you make up your mind.” And then… he had promised the boy books. Better by far to prove that he delivered on promises like that. To show the value of your word.

                What a stupid concept, from a Turk. But… they did keep their word, to each other at least. There was method and order to their lies—and so, you could tell which promises were meant to be kept.

                And… he seemed to recall a book the boy would like. Something Aerith had—

                Aerith had cured the poison, but the nausea remained for Yuffie, who huddled into her bedroll in a miserable ball, somehow making her seem even younger to everyone involved. She didn’t appreciate pity—had already chased off Barrett with harsh words she’d probably regret but perhaps not apologize for later—and had just as soundly ripped into Tifa when she expressed concern. Both of the group’s mothers rejected, the others out in a nearby town to trade and get information, the ones who remained nearby where Aerith, the healer, Vincent, who made no pretense of pity and even told her, again, that she had been an idiot to charge against the snakes like that, and Cid, who was still fairly new to their band. So far, Vincent felt rather irritated by the man. Irritated and amused. He did come up with the best insults…

                “Ah’m bored. Y’need something taken apart and put back together, I’m yer man, but—”

                “Maybe a story while we wait? I have a book, it’s an old favorite!”

                “I’m not a kid. I don’t need a bedtime story to sleep,” Yuffie hissed, sounding very much like a sick kid who needed a bedtime story to relax to before going back to sleep.

                “Who said I was reading it to you?” Aerith paused in rifling through her pack to arch an eyebrow at her patient. “I’m reading it to Vincent.”

                Bold. Very bold. Bold enough to deserve a reward for it. “I like stories.”

                “What? Man, you haven’t spoken six words since I got here that didn’t sound like someone was prying out of yer throat with a godsdamned crowbar and dynamite, and—”

                Cid was new. He did not yet have his defenses built up against Vincent’s bloody glare. “What did you have in mind?”

                The little Cetra had winked at him, her back to Yuffie so she wouldn’t see. “I have this old copy of the Passage of a Thousand Suns—” Vincent had perked up at that, actually, and she laughed. “I see you know it? It’s no Loveless, but—”

                “Loveless is… dramatic. The Passage of a Thousand Suns is… delightfully understated. That is the tale of the Queen of the Tales and how she broke the curse of the Mad King, yes?”

                “Well… yes and no. This is an older version. In this, there is no curse on the Mad King—it’s just madness, made of grief and rage and betrayal, and he took it out on everyone. She thought that if she showed him her faithfulness to him over time, she could prove to him that he was not betrayed by all, and that would ease his rage, so she told him stories to buy time. Funny—it’s not exactly what I would have advised her to do in that circumstance, but it worked out for her.” Her fingers trailed over the worn leather cover, catching in the indents of the words on the spine and the cover. “I guess love works miracles, but… it seems grittier and more raw then cliché when they do it in this version.”

                It could, but only if both parties were willing to sacrifice and act on it. Most were not so fortunate. “A happy ending with a lot of pain and blood in between? I would have thought you’d opt for the more standard version.”

                She winked, smiled, broken from her reverie. “What can I say? I guess… I just want to believe that just because things went wrong, very wrong, that doesn’t mean they have to stay that way. That sometimes things can be fixed, or healed.”

                He could understand that.

                “This… doesn’t sound so bad.”

                “I thought you didn’t want to listen to the story. Hush.” Aerith had more than a twinkle of humor in her eyes and voice, and that might have gotten Yuffie’s hackles back up, but Vincent cleared his throat. “Right, the story. You want to start at the beginning, or do you have a favorite’s Queen’s Tale you’d prefer, Vincent?”

                Cid was still blinking from the force of his glare, but he cleared his throat. “If Ah may make a suggestion? Ah quite like the one about the young street theif who makes friends with the lantern spirit?”

                “You hush too, you were rude to Vincent. Vincent?”

                He coughed into one hand, and then, smiling, put a kettle over the fire for tea, which relaxed something in the back of Cid’s eyes. No need to make an enemy of the man. He seemed wretchedly short tempered already. “I quite like the one about the sailor.”

                “Then we’ll start there!”

                By the time Cloud and the others came back to camp, Yuffie was asleep and looking better than she had since the incident, and Vincent, Aerith, and Cid were having a discussion over if it was really possible to sail a ship past mesmeric monsters just by plugging one’s ears to their song.

                Vincent sighed. Maybe the story was a bit bloody for Seph, but… then again, maybe it was just right. He already knew things went wrong. He needed to know they could be better.

                “Are you going into town after lunch today?” Seph asked.

                “I think I will. I need to see if any nearby towns have put out a monster hunt notice, and I want to see if Rells can order something.”

                “Can I come?”

                “Only if you want to.” Vincent strongly suspected it was more a case of being afraid to leave him with others alone. But Seph nodded vigorously just the same.

***

                There were things to get used to, of course. There was a raven in the rafters, just outside the windows of the widow’s peak. It had made a nest.

                Initially, Vincent assumed it would leave. It didn’t. It was young, probably a female from the knocking noises it made sometimes, and quite full of itself. Worse, it seemed not to have any fear at all of humans.

                Or whatever he was now.

                It didn’t seem to have any young, but it delighted in ridiculous maneuvers just outside the window, preferably while he was looking out it to startle him. Daring dives came within inches of the glass, wings flaring open so close he would have felt the wind of them had the windows been open, and sometimes it would land suddenly, just outside, and make a few shrill noises that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

                Vincent decided, after the first few incidents of this, that he rather liked the damned bird. It had a self-assurance that reminded him of someone, and it’s antics were amusing, in an annoying way. It had a tendency to croak at him in greeting when he came home after a long hunt, and it liked to make a different noise—shrill and sharp, when people who weren’t him or Seph came to visit. An extra pair of friendly eyes in a hostile world.

                He missed that. He missed the team. How stupid was that—he rarely even took calls, let alone spoke with them in person… but he did miss them. Even if it was simply knowing they were there.

                How many of them weren’t born yet? He didn’t have the heart to do the math.

                But the raven was here and now, and very, very determined to not be ignored. It seemed taken with him, though not so much with Seph at first, and like all members of it’s species, a thief. It liked shiny things—metal, bits of glass, old jewlrey, anything colorful—and although Vincent knew where it’s nest was, and thus, had no great difficulty reacquiring whatever it took, it was surprisingly persistant in in it’s method of acquiring those items.

                “Why does it like you so much?” Seph asked one day when the bird landed squarely on Vincent’s left shoulder and started tugging at his hair.

                “I wish I knew. I suspect this is more like a two year old insisting that it must have the shiny thing that it was denied, though, rather than a demonstration of affection.” In this case, the item was materia. No. He had enough problems relating to time, magic, Shinra, his own body and the small-possible-future-murderer without also offering a bird the ability to create fire. That might have been a bit much even for Hojo.

                Then again… probably not. Hopefully he never got that particular idea. Many birds liked shiny things, and whatever else materia was, it was extremely eye catching. It might not be that difficult.

                “Stop that.” He muttered at the bird after a particularly hard tug to his hair, tapping it on it’s forehead with a lone finger. It hissed and leaned backward with an affronted ruffle of feathers. “You are not getting it, and you are not helping. Seph, next time we’re in town, remind me to get something cheap and shiny to distract this monster with, yes?”

                “Okay. Do you think it would like me if I gave it shiny things?”

                Probably. “Usually just a matter of time after an animal loses it’s fear before it either starts to really like humans, or really hate them. So, on the whole, seems likely. You can give it some food now and then too. Not regularly or it might get needy and dependent.”

                “Is that bad?”

                “If it were living as a pet, no. Since it seems to want to be an overly friendly wild thing, yes. It needs to remember to hunt, and to seek out it’s normal sources of food too. It is not kind, to cripple a thing and make it dependent on you if you don’t know if you’ll always be there to help it. Even dogs have some autonomy.” He poked the bird again and it hissed back and pecked at his finger. “Mind yourself, bird.”

                Seph looked vaguely puzzled, which was unsurprising. Most of his tutors probably hadn’t exactly bothered working morality into their lessons. Then his face lit up. “Like with swords?”

                That… seemed an odd comparison. “I don’t follow.”

                “Master Derrik… I wish they had let me see him, he was nice… he said that when you have power, it’s like having a sword, right? You can have it and be good, but you have to be really careful, because it’s a force multi—mult—”

                “Multiplier.” Of course it was a combat metaphor. Still. He understood that. The kid understood that. Work with what you have.

                “Mult-i-ply-er. Right. So it makes everything you do bigger, good or bad. So you have to be really careful, and pay attention to where your blade is, and make sure you don’t slip or are careless or react too quickly, but you also have to be able to commit to the right actions when the time comes too. Or you just stand there and don’t help anyone.” Seph frowned. “They didn’t like that lesson. They were mad at him about it, but he said that if they wanted him to teach me swords, then he would damn well teach me when not to use swords too.”

                “Which reminds me, curses are force multipliers too. They give your words more emphasis, so you have to be careful not to overuse them, or people don’t really pay attention after a while.” No sense telling him not to swear, and Vincent knew damn well he might not swear much, but he would inevitably indulge at some point. You learned some really good ones, working with Veld.

                And… Master Derrik might be someone to request information on. Possibly that accident wasn’t an accident. Certainly Sephiroth hadn’t meant to… but it was easy to engineer conditions so that someone got hurt. And if you were a skilled swordsman, and you could see the mistake happening, sometimes you could make sure that someone was you, and not the kid you were working with. Turk thoughts, for another time.

                “I fail to see what that has to do with the bird though.”

                Sephiroth squirmed, uncertain, and he ruffled the kid’s hair—the gesture reassured him enough that he tried again. “Well, birds and animals, the ones that aren’t monsters, anyway, we’re stronger than them, right?”

                Exponentially, in our case, Sephiroth. “Yes.”

                “So we have to be careful with what we do to them, because we have power. Like with swords. You cannot unstab someone. So you hunt the ones that have enough to be hunted, sure, and you’re nice to the ones that are nice to you, but you don’t overhunt, and you don’t make them depend on you, because you can’t undo it.”

                Truer words. “I see now. It’s a good point. Very well thought out, Seph.” The boy… well. Anyone else he would call that a grin. It looked like beaming to Vincent. He smiled and ruffled his hair again. “So, I believe that I promised you a lesson with materia?” The bird squawked again, and he poked it, this time with a pointy finger, bent just enough that he wouldn’t hurt it by accident. “Hush, you. Seph, you should take this materia directly from my hand, because if I throw it, I’ll have to retrieve it from it’s nest, I think.” They tossed things to each other, as often as not—tools, sheathed weapons, food that could be trusted to stay together in transit—the habits of a Turk with no time in the field and a boy with excellent hand-eye coordination.

                “That’s not very nice.” Seph said, possibly to the bird, as he came up and grabbed the orb from him. The bird certainly seemed to think it was to it, because it hissed back at him. He held the orb, stared into it for a moment, then looked up. “I dunno what to do.”

                He still sounded apologetic and wary, admitting things like that. Vincent forced out a chuckle. “Of course you don’t. That’s why I’m teaching you. First you—bird, stop it!” The bird let go of his ear—thank goodness—and squawked with offense one last time before taking off into the air. “That one is really very determined,” he sighed, then looked back to the kid, who was trying not to giggle. He elected to smile and then ignore it. “Right. So you need to equip it in your bracer. Most people have a hard time casting while holding them directly, so we’ll start with the indirect method. You want to… hold it near the bracer, see those three holes in it? The round ones? Those are for materia. So you want to picture it slowly sliding into place…” The materia clinked against the bracer. Rookie mistake, but one that everyone made. “No—don’t actually move it. Just picture it sliding into place—”

                He had assumed Sephiroth would take to casting like a fish to water. It was reassuring, somehow, to see him struggle to equip it. He probably still would be a natural at casting, after all, but this was… it reminded Vincent of his first few weeks in training. But Vincent made a point of not laughing. Seph looked increasingly frustrated, and maybe a little upset.

                “Hey. Everyone struggles with this at first. You’re allowed to.”

                Seph nodded, slowly, but looked more confused than understanding. That was okay. Midgar wasn’t built in a day.

                Overhead, the raven cawed at them.

Chapter Text

                Vin,

                I thought we agreed that the incident in Costa Del Sol never happened and would never be spoken of.

                What do you mean you are faster than the boy? His medical records clock him in at—the point is, even the master swordsman (who was mako enhanced) we had training him couldn’t keep up with him, had to make him deliberately slow down and… you heard how that went. Be extremely cautious, idiot. Though I’m glad to hear that the child is getting protective of you—given your question about “too much trouble”, someone should be.

                Glad to hear he asks questions. Presume he was marked as a SOLDIER candidate by the behavior they instilled into him. Too quiet. Not that I expect you to help him on that front, unless he starts talking to make up for your quiet.

                If H can make himself immune to being double-tapped, we need to discuss what you have seen him do at length. Things are settling here. Or rather, going back to being focused on other trouble. H is chasing his tail like a good dog. Some noise about a disappearance that took place a while ago—Gast and a research subject. Currently blaming it on Heidegger, as his security robots are SOLDIER’s only real competition. I fail to see the connection, and so does the rest of the board, which only makes him more paranoid. Good times. If this keeps up, expect to see me in about a month. Use the enclosed money or I will kick your ass.

                                                                                                                                Be there when I come looking.

                                                                                                                                                                Verdot

 PS. Thanks to the hearts doodled on the last letter, the rumor in the office is that I’m having an affair. You’d think this would make the secretaries see me more as a human but quite the opposite. One hid under a desk when she saw me coming. Told the wife one of my dark agents was having a chuckle. She found the whole thing hilarious. You asshole.

PPS. It occurs to me that you might not have known about Gast. If so, I’m sorry I broke it to you this way. Gast went missing several years ago now. I did not disappear him and neither did any of the Turks, but we get credit for it anyway.

                Vincent snorted and folded the letter, and Sephiroth looked up at him curiously. Getting him to focus on schoolwork was a little too easy—Vincent suspected heavy conditioning to make the boy focus like that. He was several grade levels above his age—unsurprising, no one had ever accused Sephiroth of being stupid, and… well. Satisfying Hojo would have demanded nothing less than highly exceptional performance. Most people tutored their children at home this far out from the cities—he had simply bought the courses and presented the boy with the textbooks.

                Sometimes Vincent wondered if he had tried his methods on other children and discarded them when they had failed to be exceptional in all possible ways. He put the thought aside roughly.

                “Another letter from Mr. Veld?

                “Yes.” It had been easier to decode this time, old habits returning, though it was no less encrypted. “He says he might be able to come visit in the next month.” He didn’t expect to see Seph’s shoulders tense at that, so he cocked his head to one side, then said more than he otherwise would’ve. “I’m looking forward to it. We’re… old friends, he and I. Partners. It’s been far too long since I’ve been able to talk to him in person.”

                Seph cocked his head. Lost… some of the tension. “You are friends? I thought you just worked together.”

                “We did, but we always got along very well too. Which was good—if we had gotten on each other’s nerves we’d have gotten each other killed, in some of our jobs. But… we didn’t. Veld and I… he was a brother to me. Is.”

                “Then… why has it been so long?”

                None of these conversations were going to happen when he was ready for them. None. Vincent sighed. “Remember I told you that I knew Hojo?”

                Slow nod.

                “My last assignment from the Turks was to work as a bodyguard and an informant on him and your mother. We… got in a fight. I didn’t expect him to bring a weapon.” Mine. I left it at the desk—I knew I was too angry to carry it. He didn’t return the courtesy. “Anyway, I ended up in his lab. You knew Veld thought I was dead—what I didn’t tell you is that he found out I was still alive on the night I met you. We didn’t have time to catch up.”

                Seph frowned, looking at him. “You threw a rock at his head the same day he found out you were alive.”

                Vincent couldn’t help it. He grinned. He could have avoided letting the boy see it. He didn’t. “Would have hit him too, if he hadn’t moved.”

                “But… if you’re friends…”

                Oh. Yes. Right. That was weird. “Turks… armed forces in general, tend to play a little rougher than most people do with their friends. It’s a… cultural thing. A way of reassuring each other that we’re still strong enough to look after each other, can still aim, are aware of the world around us. When he dressed up like that… he was having a little fun, because it was a game we used to play, making ourselves look like other people, but it was also a kind of test. He wanted us out of Midgar so no one else would learn I was alive, because that might have gotten back to Hojo. But he also wanted to be sure I was aware of my surroundings. That—” if he let me out of his sight I wouldn’t be dead by morning, “I was still the person who had watched his back a thousand times, still thinking like myself, still able to act on unusual situations.” Still Vincent Valentine, in spite of red eyes and gold ones.

                “So… throwing a rock at his head was… your way of reassuring him?”

                Sort of. “In part. That was also a game. Turks tend to throw a lot of things at each other.”

                “Oh.” Seph hesitated, then looked back up. “He won’t try to take me back?”

                “No.” Seph blinked at his vehemence, but his shoulders relaxed. “First, I wouldn’t let him. Second, he trusts me—I’m afraid he’s quite likely to ask more questions about me than you, this time at least. He still doesn’t know what happened.” And that… was an uncomfortable thought. Explaining to Veld… or, almost as bad, looking Veld in the face and refusing to explain. Veld would be irate either way, but the fury… Vincent could deal with the fury. Displays of temper were almost a game between them, because Vincent had never gone running when he was confronted with them.

                 The look that would enter Veld’s eyes when he understood what had happened to his partner, though… the look on his face when he came to his own conclusions…

                Shit.

                “Was it bad?”

                Vincent opened his mouth to say “no” and stopped. Looked at those eyes, focused intently on him now—catlike again, but just as vibrant a green as ever.

                “Sometimes the blankets eat parts of you when you’re asleap.”

                “It was bad enough that he’ll feel bad for not preventing it, even though he had no way to do so.” Vincent finally managed. “I don’t like making him feel bad.” Because he didn’t want to tell the boy—tell him—Your father broke open my ribcage and – No. Stop.

                But he didn’t want to deny it either. Because it was possible, probable, that the things the boy had been through were just as bad, though at least they had sedated him for most of it. Hopefully all of the worst he had slept through, didn’t know about. Vincent really needed to make another go at the medical section of the files.

                But thankfully, for now something else had caught Seph’s eye. “Veld will feel bad? He was always nice to me, but… people are scared of him.”

                “Part of the job. And… Sometimes if you scare people, you don’t have to hurt them to make them do things. A lot of the things Turks do…” He trailed off. How to explain.

                “The lab assistants talked about them, sometimes. They called them bad names and said they did bad stuff, but they did it for Shinra. Master Derrik said they do bad stuff so that other people get to feel safe.”

                “That’s the idea, at least.”

                “The Turks were always really nice to me though. Veld scared my nannies, but he was never mean to me.”

                “He had no reason to be. Your nannies, on the other hand, could probably have done with a bit more fear in their lives. A lot of people make the mistake of thinking that because someone is scary they are bad. That’s not… necessarily the case. Sometimes being scary is the best way to keep more people safe.” That had been the rule, at least. The Turks became… something else, easily enough. But… the boy was already drowning in shades of murky grey. He needed to know that there was good and bad to the world too. One to strive for, the other to avoid.

                “What was wrong with the nannies?”

                Yes, let’s just open all the cans of worms. “For starters, they didn’t like you asking questions, did they?”

                “That’s bad?”

                Vincent bit back the obvious reply. “You learn more when you ask questions. Part of their job was to teach you. And…” Where to even begin? He shook his head. “But… yes. Veld is… intense, but that’s his job.” And his personality, actually.

                “So… him coming to check on things is… good?”

                “Yes.” Vincent said, as much to himself as to Seph. “But remind me to get some pink envelopes next time we visit Rells. Something with glitter.”

                “Mr. Vincent?”

                “I am nothing if not thorough.” The boy cocked his head to one side, and Vincent smiled. He’d… been doing a lot of that, lately.  “We have a big day tomorrow. That job Val told me about—think I’ll take it. So we’ll need to get some shopping done, make sure our weapons are cleaned and sharpened—should be routine, but you never know.”

                “Always be prepared,” Seph echoed. “Or a monster will eat your face.”

                “And that would just be unfortunate, running around without a face.” Vincent agreed, deadpan. Seph giggled—a rare sound, but one he quite liked. “So go rest up. We can talk more walking into town or out of it. Tomorrow’s a new day.”

                “Okay.” Seph tucked away his books—meticulously neat, more so than Vincent, or Veld, who had previously been his high standard of order. Then he paused. “Mr. Vincent?”

                “Yes?”
                “It was… bad, wasn’t it?” When Vincent didn’t immediately answer, Seph took two careful steps toward him. “The lab, I mean. They… a lot of the things in there never stopped screaming until they made them stop.”

                Vincent took two deep breaths. Looked up at the ceiling. “Some of it was very bad, yes.” He looked back down. “But you don’t need to worry about that. Whatever it was, however it went, I’m here now. That has to be worth something.” He took another deep breath. “Good night, Seph.”

                “Good night, Mr. Vincent.”

***

                Sometimes Vincent cried out at night.

                Not often—three times now. Seph didn’t count the times Vincent woke himself up with the nightmare—that was different, somehow. The first one the night after Seph had run off into the trees—He had woken Seph up, back at camp, making a frightened noise in the back of his throat. Maybe a normal person wouldn’t have heard it—Vincent didn’t open his mouth to yell, even in his sleep, but then, some things at the labs had gotten like that after long enough. No matter what was done to them, they didn’t try to yell or fight anymore, held the noise in as their eyes watered, staring straight ahead. Those things… they were never quite right again, after all that.

                He didn’t want Vincent to be like that, but in a way, it was reassuring too, because if Vincent had been in the labs like that, maybe he wouldn’t tell them the boy was weird and they needed to figure out how the weird worked. The notion made him feel guilty—because it was for knowledge, and he was supposed to help them learn things, and it was bad, bad, bad not to want the scientists to learn, but it also filled him with enough hope that he hadn’t run from Vincent again, until morning came and Vincent assured him he wasn’t going back, and he had felt almost sick with relief.

                The second time was when he started feeling guilty for not waking him—Vincent did that when he had nightmares, still, came and ripped him out of the dreams and into his bed, which had a thick red blanket and smelled like fresh pine and was safe, safe and warm. Seph knew he should wake Vincent when he had the bad dreams where he couldn’t wake himself up—but the adults he had known had always gotten really mad at him if he caught them sleeping and woke them. So he didn’t. It was the night after they moved into the house, and he sat up and listened to a noise he could barely hear through the walls, almost drowned out by his own breathing.

                The third time, tonight, he struck a compromise. He tried to go and wake Vincent, but when he reached for the doorknob to go into his room and wake him, he couldn’t make himself touch it. It felt like he was choking. So he stopped, and put his back against the door, and watched the empty darkness as the shadows on the floor changed with the angle of the moon, until the noises stopped and then he went back to bed. Because… the house was a safe zone, but wherever Vincent was when he made those noises wasn’t. And squadmates stood on lookout when they slept in bad places, right? That seemed right, at least. Not as good as taking him out of that place, like he did for Seph, but better than just leaving him there. And when the noises stopped and Vincent breathed evenly again, he went back to bed and slept soundly.

Chapter Text

                Something particularly juicy must have turned up, because the new recruits and the secretaries didn’t notice his approach. They were huddled around a desk, looking down—he walked up behind them, hoping that no one had been stupid enough to attempt an office pet again—it was worse.

                “Party’s over. Shoo.” Veld growled, and they scattered—the secretaries, Linda and Todd, looked about ready to cry, or crap themselves, though they had been giggling a moment prior. Most of the recruits simply ran, scattering like cockroaches when you flicked on a light—the red haired one, newly recruited and almost too young even for the training, laughed and walked away.

                “Glad you’re happy, chief!” the kid called out, as he went, only to get dragged away at speed by his partner— too young to be so bold and too young to be so cautious, respectively. Certainly they weren’t older then Seph. But by the time they were grown, they would be consummate professionals, perfectly trained. If he didn’t kill them first. That was Shinra’s way, with it’s orphans.

                At least those two laughed.

                He couldn’t blame the secretaries though. “Linda!” He ignored the way she flinched. “Tell Tseng I’ll be in my office when he comes in.” He snatched up the mail as he went, including the overlarge, heart shaped, bright pink, foil embossed and glitter encrusted envelope.

                “Y-yes s-sir.”

                He nodded, and shut the door behind him, not bothering to lock it—no one but Tseng would dare, and he had the good sense to avoid him for the next hour unless there was an emergency. He went for the heart shaped letter first, of course, but as he pulled the card—the cheeky bastard had sent it as a card—glitter spilled out onto the carpet.

                He was going to kill Vincent.

                My dearest Verdot,

                Did you really think commenting on the letter would make me do anything but double down? You know better. If it causes you actual trouble, I’ll stop, until then stop being a crybaby. It’s traditional to see just how batty you can make the chief. You signed on for this.

                And of course Verris found it funny. It IS funny. Verris has never lacked for a sense of humor. And thank goodness for that, or you would never have had a second date.  

                As to what I meant when I said I was faster than the boy—just that. I told you I was… different, now.  That was not mere words. I can do… things. Mako is the least of what flows through my system now. We can discuss it later, if you insist. You had to suspect this, so don’t act surprised. Please.

                If possible though, I would like the file of that instructor. I… think that conditions may have been arranged to make a dangerous incident inevitable. You know the methods. I’d like to learn what I can.

                Do not underestimate H. DO NOT UNDERESTIMATE H. I cannot stress this enough. I did, once. It cost me years of my life and more. We can discuss what I know he can do when you get here. You may want to look into Deepground and the Synaptic Net Dive. Discreetly, even for you. The man is a weed, as soon as you think the problem is dealt with six more will pop up behind you. Barring that, I will tell you what I know of both projects, however, you should be aware that my knowledge of both is more practical than technical. Treat the whole of the Science Department with deep suspicion. As much as you’ll scoff reading this, you have a family to consider—and I do not want you hurt. Do not allow Turks to go unarmed. And if you decide you need to assist H’s retirement, do not rest until he is destroyed down to the cells. Just in case.

                I knew about Gast. No harm done. I know it wasn’t you.

                The enclosed money was used, so far, on a card and glitter. I hope you liked them. Future uses pending.

                As to being here when you come looking, I will. But I do have a job that will take one to two weeks coming up—don’t get all pissy if you show up in the next three weeks and I am not present for that reason. You are herby warned. Escorting a merchant—hardly dangerous but time consuming. Wooden goods, nothing like jewelry—primary concern is monsters, and that is something I am fairly familiar with in the area. I’ll send a letter when I get back.

                                                                                                Your Partner, Connoisseur of Cards,

                                                                                                                                                Valentine

PS. If the Incident in Costa Del Sol is off-limits, what about the Incident in Junon? The one with the firecracker, specifically, though the one with the gas grenade also seems applicable.

                Veld glanced over the letter three times, frowning harder each time. Trust Valentine to frame this many concerning questions in a damn card. He allowed himself to growl a few, now halfhearted, obscenities at the letter, then sighed and tucked it into his briefcase.

                Then he went and vacuumed up the glitter. Or all of it that he could find. Prior experience stated that he would miss some of it.

                He’d used glitter on the chief when he was a recruit for that exact reason. Valentine had helped.

                The knock at his door came about a half hour after he had turned the cleaner off—Tseng was trying to give him extra time to cool off today. “Enter!”

                Sure enough. Tseng. “Director Dragoon—”

                “People only call me that at funerals and board meetings, Tseng. And I hate both of those things. Don’t try to butter me up.”

                “Right sir. May I ask why both secretaries look ready to cry?”

                “I got another card and they got caught snickering at it. They’re not on my hit list, though, they’re just jumpy.”

                “I see sir. Most of your agents are not this… bold.”

                Veld sighed. “He’s under a lot of stress, and he was a trainee at the same time I was. Which is why I haven’t killed him yet. You know how we get.”

                Tseng nodded. It was a tacit but implicit truth in their world—everyone developed… outlets for their stress. Glittery romance cards were among the gentlest possible ways they could blow off steam, and if this was one of the few men who had survived from Veld’s set, then he was both incredibly experienced and incredibly valuable. “Then, my reports sir. Nothing to report on the matter with the missing science files, but given how Hojo is—”

                “High odds he misplaced them and refuses to admit it. Keep investigating but don’t let the agents get the idea that they’re failing—explain the situation. Scarlet’s… property damage incident? In Sector Three?”

                “Investigation is underway, counterinformation campaign started, and witnesses in custody, sir. They are eager to cooperate.”

                “Good. The possible terror cell in Junon?”

                “Three agents tracing possible leads and infiltrating. Their partners are waiting in the wings in case extract is needed.”

                “Very good. Anything else to report?”

                “Not at present sir. Do you have other tasks for me to take on?”

                Veld opened his mouth to say no, then paused. “Sweep for bugs.”

                Tseng blinked, then nodded. It was an old training exercise in this room, a routine task in all others. “Sir. None present.”

                “Lock the door.”

                Tseng blinked again, but did as ordered.

                “Tseng, I need two matters investigated, but I need it done with utmost care and delicacy. I don’t want anyone, Shinra or otherwise, to know a whisper of this. No electronics. No getting seen. No other agents. No paper trail. It may turn up to being nothing. Can you do this for me?”

                “Sir. I trust your judgement, and if you thought me incapable you would not have asked. What am I investigating?”

                Good boy. “I have two names. That is all. The first is Deepground, all one word. The second is the Synaptic Net Dive. I need to know what they are, who is running them, and how far along they are. Do not get caught.”

                “Sir,” Tseng said, the lightest smile gracing his features. “Will that be all?”

                Because, although it was not something one noticed within the first week, or month, or year of working with him, Tseng delighted in challenges. His composure and professionalism rarely allowed him to show the pleasure he took in the difficult and the complex, but the pleasure was present, just the same. Pleasure and skill. This one would be a worthy director after him. In a few decades at the least.

                “I want it quietly known that previous laxness on our policy of weapons within the Shinra building is no longer acceptable. Everyone is armed. Always. Sleep with your damn weapons. Shit with them.”

                “I already do sir, but I will make it known.” Tseng let himself smile at the look on the Director’s face—amused but satisfied, and rightly taking the words for dismissal, he turned to leave, then hesitated, seeing something pink in the carpet. A bug? They weren’t that small, were they?

                No. Not at all. “Is this glitter, sir? Shaped… like a dick?”

                He looked back at his Director, who looked like he was trying to figure out of he meant to laugh or scream. “Probably.”

***

                He wondered, later that night, if he should be angrier. If he should resent the sheer temerity of the glitter and the cards. But he couldn’t. Without them, he would have already begun doubting the evidence of his eyes, wondering if the man he had seen was Valentine or some heartless impersonator. Now… now he could not doubt.

                 Valentine was alive.

                And, somehow, in spite of the problems it caused… it was good. It was good to see that the one person he had always trusted to be loyal was loyal still, not from fear (because those who feared him would not have dared) but from amused friendship.

                His brother was alive, and did not fear him, and trusted him anyways. He would have accepted a mountain of glitter-dicks for that.

                Not that he would say as much. Valentine had earned at least one very solid punch with this. And he would take it. Laughing.

                That had always been Vincent’s way.

Chapter Text

                Vincent didn’t have much to do to prepare for the trip. He was used to travelling light—Turks did, frequently and without assistance. He wasn’t overly surprised to find the boy did the same—in fact, he would be surprised if he hadn’t. But he hesitated over the toy.

                “If you leave it here, it will be safe. We’ll be back in a week or two—no one will take it.” He told Seph, as he hesitated over packing the dragon. “I’ll lock the doors—it will be safe.”

                Seph nodded, slowly, frowning, but his eyes never strayed from the toy.

                The habits and fears of a lifetime, even a lifetime of eight years, would not be forgotten in two months. Vincent made a point of looking out the window. Nevermind that he could see the boy’s reflection in it. “You could take it along too. We’ll travel with a wagon, and it wont take up much room in your pack—so it won’t make any difference for the speed we travel at. You’d have to be careful, though.”

                Seph looked at him—he could see it in the ghostly reflection in the glass. “I… could?”

                “Of course.”

                “It’s not… frivolous?”

                Two deep breaths. “Frivolous or not, I think you should have the choice.”

                Another glance, furtive and tucked behind the little plush dragon itself. “Is this a test?”

                Vincent shut his eyes so the light wouldn’t reflect off the glass. “No. If you take the dragon with you, it will be with you and you’ll have to look after it. If you don’t, it will be here when you get back. That’s all. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

                A long quiet. “I don’t want to leave it behind.” Seph said, very, very quietly. Unenhanced ears would not have heard it.

                “Then bring it with. Do you want to hear a story tonight? We should sleep early—we need to be up early tomorrow. Are you excited about seeing another town?”

                The boy shrugged, and in the back of his mind, Vincent felt proud—the boy he met two months ago would never have dared to shrug. “I don’t really know. What’s it like?”

                “It’s a small town, very small. Isn’t even on most maps. But it has a used bookstore and a materia shop. I believe I promised you more books, yes?”

                The boy perked up like a puppy with a treat held before it’s nose. “I… would like more books, sir.”

                Finally feeling the beast inside himself settle, Vincent turned back to his charge, smiling, and opened his eyes. “Well, now we can make a start on getting you more.”

                “A… start sir?”

                “Well, I don’t think just a dozen books are fitting, do you? We’ll have to build up a library, slowly, I think. Perhaps you can help me in choosing the books?”

                Seph’s eyes were round as saucers now. He nodded, slowly. “I can help.”

                “Good. I’m counting on it.” He ruffled the silver hair—he didn’t think even the boy noticed that he leaned into the contact like a cat. “It will take a while. But we’ll get there. Do you want a story now, though?”

                “….please?”

                “Of course. About what?”

                “Dragons, sir?”

                He decided to let that one slide. “From the book?”

                A nod, silver hair swaying. He’d suggest cutting it soon. “Well, which one. You already know them all.”

                “I… I want the one about the black dragon sir. The one whose name is Black-with-Black.”

                “Really? But that’s such a dark story.”

                “But… it isn’t. He was lonely, and listening to music because he didn’t know people. And then he met people, and they didn’t hate him, even though he was really, really mean. So he gave up a lot of his power to be like them, and learn about them.”

                “Alright.” He sat on the edge of the bed and thumbed open the book, though he was quite certain he knew this tale by heart too, by now. “Once upon a time there was a dragon, whose name was Black-with-Black. That was not his real name of course, it was what the humans who lived near him called him, for he was black-scaled and had no pattern in his scales.”

                “And that was important.”

                Vincent smiled. “That was important, for a dragon’s scale changes as they age, and as they grow old and powerful, their patterns and colors become simpler and more sober. This dragon was Black, and those who knew what that meant feared him, for he was very, very old, even for a dragon, and very, very powerful. And no one knew his true name, for a dragon’s true name gives you power over the dragon, and he had not become old and wily and powerful without a fair sense of caution.”

                Seph listened, rapt, to the tale, until he fell asleep, and Vincent noticed, slowly, as the tale went on. He went on for an extra page, then stopped. “I’ll tell you the rest later, then.” He murmured to the sleeping boy, reaching out to ruffle his hair and checking himself, and turned out the light behind him.

                He sat down, wrote a letter, sealed it in an envelope, and tucked it away into the bottom of his bedframe. Just in case.

***

                As promised, they started bright and early, Sephiroth efficient in the pre-dawn glow and Vincent managing. The raven let out a questioning cluck at them as Vincent locked the door.

                “We’ll be back in a few days, watch the place.” He told the bird, who watched them from one bright eye, head cocked to the side.

                “Mr. Vincent, are you talking to the raven?”

                Vincent coughed. “Maybe. Lots of people do, you know.”

                “Why?”

                There was probably an interesting discussion to be had here about assigning value to things that you spoke to, and how people fit into the natural order. Vincent was not a morning person. “Why not?” Sephiroth stared at him for a long moment. "Let's go-- ideally, early is best." Turk habits made him want to get there two hours early and case the street to check for snipers. Logically, he thought that was unnecessary. The Strifes were not going to shoot him. 

                They still made it to town before their compatriots—stepped into Rells store for a bit, waiting for them, because even if winter hadn't hit properly yet, it was brisk in the morning. Vincent had packed their winter coats-- over the mountain was the fastest way to take the cart to the next town, and there would likely be snow up there. With or without snow, it would be cold-- he'd be fine but if he didn't wear a coat Seph likely wouldn't. 

                “I hope you don’t want more glitter—” Rells started before he saw that Seph was with him. “I—”

                “Don’t worry. That will more than satisfy my needs for the time being.”

                “Why did you even want that?”

                “Because an old friend of mine and I needed to reconnect.” Vincent felt his lips twitch, behind the high collar. “And we were… pranksters, when we were younger.”

                “Well, thank goodness for bachelorette party leftovers, I guess?” Rells said, still looking baffled.

                “Mr. Vincent, what’s a Bachelorette party?”

                “I’ll explain when you’re a bit older, Seph.” Vincent promised, while Rells turned pale. He was reasonably certain Seph had a vague understanding of the idea that it was ‘naughty’ if nothing else—he thought he saw amusement at Rells’ reaction, and his tone was just a little too innocent. It didn’t stop him from shooting Rells a look. He decided to change the subject. “Any luck on getting stronger potions in?’

                Rells latched onto the subject with obvious relief. “Some are on order—why do you want them? You never seem to need them even after the toughest hunts.”

                “Sense of healthy caution. Better to have and not need than need and not have. What about that book?”

                “Should be here in a few days. So by the time you get back…”

                Vincent laughed. “Something to look forward to when we get back, then. Seph! I see one of our friends has made it outside. Let’s head out.”

                Rells cleared his throat. “Vincent… keep everyone safe, alright?”

                Vincent smiled. “Of course, Rells.”

                Var was talking to Seph, who was admittedly cautious and quiet, but not silent—but he smiled to see Vincent. “Thanks for agreeing to join us in this. Probably being overcautious, but…”

                “Overcautious never hurt anyone.” Vincent agreed softly. The deathclaws in the area were a good deal quieter but there were always other monsters. One man could not bring down an ecosystem of terror alone. He could only be one place at a time after all, but for the rest of this journey, that place would be right beside the wagon. “Over the mountain would be impassible in a month. You’re cutting it close.” That reminded him. Midwinter was coming. Seph had probably never celebrated it…

                “I know. We’ll sell the wagon in the town with the rest of it—should make the trip back easier.”

                Vincent nodded, and leaned against the wagon to wait, patient.

                Work like this wasn’t hard. But it was good. Necessary. With luck, they’d be back shortly.

Chapter Text

                The first leg of the journey passed smoothly. During the day, they traveled, talking quietly, Vincent keeping a vigilant eye on their surroundings and teaching Seph what to watch for. He showed him the different tracks of monsters on the path—an unusual amount headed up the mountain, but then, that might just be the time of year. A lot of the monsters around here did fly… it made him uneasy, without knowing why, but straining for whatever was tickling at his brain would only make it harder to remember. And in honesty, their chocobo—rented from the town they were going to and to be returned when they sold the cart it pulled—showed no unease. That was usually a good indicator of nearby danger.

                Sephiroth was fascinated by the creature, which seemed to amuse all of them—Var took pleasure in showing him how to harness it and ride it, and Claudia showed the boy how to scratch it and feed it treats. Vincent contented himself with the occasional comment on how chocobo flocks worked—how chocobos established dominance and how they established social bonds. Seph’s memory wasn’t perfect… but it was close enough to be mistaken as such by the casual observer. He would forget nothing of this, he was fascinated. Delighted.

                “How are you sure?” Var asked when he said as much, taking a moment when Var and he switched watching shifts for the night, everyone else asleep. He had managed to find the Shiva constellation for Seph earlier—only visible at this time of year, and perhaps that was part of why it was Shiva’s constellation—it came with the cold. “He’s attentive, but… very quiet. I was going to ask if we had upset him, actually.”

                Vincent laughed, a bare huff, the fog of it visible in the moonlight, and looked to the tent that held the sleeping boy. “He asked questions. You’re still people he doesn’t know well yet—it took me almost the entire trip back to Nibelheim before he even began to ask me questions spontaneously. And he holds his eyes a certain way when he’s interested—you wouldn’t have seen it, he was looking at the chocobo as he listened, but he was absorbed.”

                “Quiet lil’ guy.”

                “He’ll get there, I think.”

                Var frowned, his eyes turning to look at Vincent without the rest of his face following the gesture. “Leftover behavior from his… previous caretaker? You meantioned that he would obey orders, that first night.”

                Vincent hesitated, then offered a shallow nod, half hidden behind his collar. “Yes.”

                “Then… shit, glad you got him out of there.”

                “Mmm.” The sound was more rumble than words. Var actually quirked a grin at it.

                “And Vincent—thanks for coming along. It helps a lot.”

                “Thanks for hiring me.” He snapped his fingers, remembering—“actually, I was wondering if I could requisition your services in making something, or if you had a full set of orders after this.”

                Var blinked, then smiled again. The expression came to him easily—often. Very different from Cloud in that way. “None, after this. Winter is the slow season for… everything. What do you have in mind?”

                “A bookshelf. One for the boy—I promised him books and he’s… unnaturally neat. He should have something of his own, I think.”

                “None for you?”

                “For now, nothing I need exceeds the space available on the windowsill.”

                “Really? That much light is terrible for books.”

                Vincent felt a corner of his mouth quirk upwards. “Impress me with the boy’s bookshelf, we’ll see about getting me one after.” In reality—he was already impressed with the man’s work. His table set and the bedframes were very sturdy, enough so that he felt they were sturdy—most of the world seemed fairly easy to destroy, these days. Not that he couldn’t trash them if he felt the need, but…

                The mockingly hurt look Var gave him told him that he was well aware that Vincent was already impressed. “Such a taskmaster. Very well, sir… I shall construct a worthy bookshelf for the young master, in the hopes of impressing his lordship.”

                Vincent allowed himself to laugh at that, and smiled at the pleased surprise that flashed across Var’s face. Maybe he should hide a little less in his collar.

                “Now… about the price…”

***

                A week of traveling with minimal fuss—Vincent did have to shoot one Valron, and it struck him as strange that they ran into nothing else, and that there had only been one-- and they reached Stoorheim, which was, as promised, small, and unremarkable except for the used book shop and the materia store. Vincent loved it. It was tiny enough that Shinra probably barely knew it existed, and Seph seemed similarly contented—though that may have simply been that there were far fewer people out and about, and he got to look at books. He liked books quite a lot. They split off to shop while the Strifes conducted their business.

                Vincent reminded him, and himself, that there was not going to be a wagon on the way back, so they had to limit their purchases… but it was harder than he anticipated. The little bookshop was maintained carefully, and the books were far more varied than he had expected. Apparently this was something of a destination among other small, local towns—he decided immediately that he would have to come back at some point, and with a bigger backpack. For now, he limited his purchases to three each. Seph was rather overwhelmed with the notion of picking three whole new books for himself, and took about an hour selecting each with equal care.

                Which was fine. Vincent took about that long selecting his. First—a book of constellations with a blue cloth binding. Not just when and where to find them, but their stories—both human and Cetra. He wondered if Nanaki’s people had stars and constellations that they told stories about. He had seen him stargazing often enough—

                --the night after he had decided to join them, still wary and having difficulty falling asleep around the people who were still strangers to him, he had sat up and given up on sleep four hours into the exercise. He made small noises as he walked, on purpose—the SOLDIER’s reflexes were incredible, and Vincent knew better than to try to sneak around combatants—there were better ways to get stabbed than waking warriors while trying to be sneaky, but not many. Better to avoid concealing his presence altogether.

                Red XIII had been on lookout that night—and Vincent had padded over to join him, staring upwards at the clear sky—crystal black and glittering with too many stars to comprehend. It was a breathtaking sight—they were far from any town, and the stars… he had never seen so many, not in his human life, and certainly not now, with his enhanced vision. He could see the bands and clusters the scientists had told him about—not well enough to measure for science, but enough to clearly see the groupings. He didn’t say anything—he often didn’t—but he still almost didn’t hear the singing.

                He didn’t know the language—had never heard it before, or since, rough and low in the beast’s throat, but language it clearly was—he could make out a refrain of some kind, playful and almost teasing, that repeated every few lines. Red XIII changed where the emphasis lay each time he sang it—sometimes the middle, sometimes the end, and sometimes the beginning, somehow coming across as more amused with each line. When he stopped, it was with a few low chuckles, and then he had looked back over his shoulder to Vincent, and beckoned him closer with his tail.  Vincent had taken his place beside him and the creature had given him what he later knew to be a smile before looking back up at the stars. No questions. No demands. They spent the night that way, quiet, staring upwards and around, and let themselves be soothed by their wordless company and the calm noises of a camp asleep.

                Vincent had meant to ask, eventually, what the words were—a forgotten language, or the language of Nanaki’s people, to ask what the song was and why he had seemed so amused, singing it too quietly to wake the camp.

                And now he couldn’t.

                If Nanaki’s people had stories about the stars, they wouldn’t have ever written them down. They would not be in a book. He swallowed and placed the book beside him for purchase, feeling it as a victory… but a hollow one.

                A tug at his sleeve that he should have been expecting—he jumped in place, but managed a smile. “Seph. Is something wrong?”

                “I was going to ask you?” The words were cautious, book held in crossed arms like a shield which worried green eyes peered over.

                He hesitated. “Just… something I should have done, and didn’t. That’s all. You found a book?”

                Seph nodded, slowly. “It sounds interesting—I wanted to know if you have read it?”

                Vincent held his hand out for it—he felt the tiny flare of pride, when the boy didn’t hesitate to hand it over. A book bound so that it’s cover looked like stars. “Oh, I know it. This is a very, very good story. You haven’t read it?” Silver hair fanned out as he shook his head. “It’s a story about a civilization that spread across the stars, and war. But really, it’s about family.”

                “Family?”

                “Family. I can’t tell you much more unless you want me to give away the twist—” He started to slow his sentence at the end, teasing, eyes trained on the bookshelf in front of him, just waiting for--

                “No, no! I wanna read it! Or… would you read it with me?”

                He let himself smile, and let Seph see it. “I would be delighted, Seph.”

                One book each and four to go. On the whole, it was an excellent afternoon. Seph eventually made two other selections—a book on how chocobos were raised and cared for, with some legends about them thrown in, and a recommendation from Vincent—a book about a man who wanted to be a hero, but accidentally got too strong. He seemed baffled but interested by the premise.

                Vincent found one book strictly for himself, at least until Seph was much older—a story about a gifted young boy and a haunted hotel that drove his father mad. Nightmares that had no bearing on his life seemed oddly soothing. And… a book for himself that he wanted to share, about true love and piracy and giants and swordsmen. He wasn’t sure he really believed in true love anymore—Cloud and Tifa had been in obvious love, but it hadn’t been instant—Cloud had dated Aerith for a bit and clearly cared for her on some level, but how much of that was simply a the sort of kinship evoked by sharing a goal and danger and how much was romantic affection and how much was Cloud’s memories from Zack, he didn’t care to speculate. His own romance was a nigh-unmitigated disaster, though he privately still held some feelings he no longer cared to put words to, they were tangled inextricably with memories of pain and confusion and horror. And Shera and Cid… well, they were clearly in love, but not in a way he understood at all. They made interesting peoplewatching, he gave them that.

                But… the idea of it, that caring for someone enough might mean enough to bend the laws of the world—that pirates and jealous princes and overlarge rats and death itself might be mere obstacles to be overcome to rescue someone you cared about… that was a worthy idea, surely. Something worth passing on to a boy who had never known trust or affection. The hope that all of the pain and suffering in the world might be worth it seemed a worthy lesson to teach.

                And besides, he loved the book. His father had read it to him when he was that age. Surely that was reason enough.

***

                They left town before it really got dark out—making only a short stop at the materia shop, which Vincent was considerably less impressed with than the bookshop. It did hold what he needed, but the shopkeeper knew a lot less about materia than he thought he did if he didn’t notice the air materia was nearly mastered.

                Vincent got it for a steal. He also bought a virgin fire materia, brand new and uncast if he knew anything about materia at all, and to his shock, there was also sense and enemy skill. The fire materia was for Seph—he had his own, after all, and it was better to give new casters the weaker materia play with to avoid… accidents. That, and he would need to get the boy a proper weapon soon, something that made him feel vaguely uneasy. The rest, for now at least, were for him—he fitted them into his weapon and bracer with no small amount of glee.

                His wallet should have been a lot lighter than it was when he left that store. But the shopkeeper was happy, so he must still be turning a profit. Good for both of them, then.

                Back at camp that night, everyone was happy. Var and Claudia had turned a nice profit on their goods and the wagon, and Seph had his new books, and Vincent read to him for a bit before it was too dark. The weather held at nominally pleasant for this time of year—no snow yet, and just a touch too warm for it to stick if it did. Normally Vincent quite liked snow, but with two civilians and Seph, on foot, over the mountain? He was grateful that they found none until they were well up the slope.

                That was when their luck changed. First, a change in the air—he felt it in his bones, which ached when storms were coming now—thanks Hojo—a fact that he brought up quietly over breakfast.

                “You’re awfully young to have aching joints in response to atmosphere changes…” Claudia said quietly, watching him rub one wrist—the human one—with the opposite hand, still in it’s gauntlet. It was a tricky proposition to be sure, but he managed. He had experience.

                “Missing the point,” he said before Seph managed to do more than look at him worriedly. “We’re going to get a storm, and fast. We’re up on the mountain—that’s going to hit like an anvil. I suggest we head for the path through the old mines—it may involve a few more monsters, if I recall rightly, but it’s better than being caught in the open in a blizzard.”

                “Agreed.” Var said quietly, and no more debate was had. They had started making for the passage immediately—and therin, made their way to problem two.

                Monster tracks increased exponentially, and that was bad enough, but an odd set of tracks made Vincent hesitate most of the way to the cave. “Wait here. I’m scouting ahead.” He came back ten minutes later, and apparently even with his head bowed into his collar, they knew him well enough to see the grim set to it.

                “What happened?”

                 He leaned backwards against a boulder, arms crossed. “You know how sometimes, monsters travel in groups that don’t make much sense? Some of them, it’s because they are intelligent, can make alliances… but a lot of them, it’s hormonal. Under the right conditions, they attract each other into sort of a pack bond.”

                “Alright. That sounds bad,” Claudia murmured.

                Vincent found he couldn’t help the sarcasm. “Oh, that’s not the fun part. You see, under extremely rare conditions, groups will start attacting other whole groups. It’s called a breeding nest, hasn’t been observed often because when you get that many monsters in a group, they quickly become both hungry and extremely hostile, seeking to impress mates and hunt in an area oversaturated with predators. Good news, we no longer have the chocobo. Bad news, if they catch wind of us, we’ll get a lot of company very quickly unless we kill our visitors very quickly. Good news, once we reach the mines, we should be in the clear. They’re all attracted to the same area—get far enough away and they won’t be there to cause a problem. Bad news, we’re close enough now that if we make too much noise, the whole mob will come for us. Let’s not get into specifics but I can safely say it’s not odds I favor.”

                They took it better than he was expecting. Var, took in a deep breath, and Claudia looking to him, then both nodded. “Quick and quiet to the mines, then?”

                “Exactly.” Vincent said, relived that there would be no panic—but, he should have anticipated that. They were the parents of Cloud Strife after all. Usually that kind of grit had to come from somewhere, even if it had been refined by five years of torment.

                It had been a bare week after Aerith died. Choking when the dragon struck, just under the ribs—Vincent stumbled back, bleeding and it advanced—and there Cloud was, teeth bared, mako eyes blazing with fury. “I am not losing anyone else from this team today!” The words were a snarl as he imposed himself between the monster and it’s prey, tossing him a potion underhand—“if you don’t fucking drink that, I’ll drag your screaming soul from the lifestream just to kill you myself!”

                Vincent drank it, and the bleeding stopped almost instantly, but he was no longer needed in battle. The rage and the fear alone triggered one of Cloud’s Limit Breaks—the monster lay in twitching pieces by the time his vision cleared, the SOLDIER standing over it, chest heaving, buster sword not quite touching the ground, gripped in white knuckles. After a long, long moment, he asked quietly if Vincent was okay, and his shoulders jerked in what may have been a sob when Vincent said yes.

                Seph was frightened, but holding it together—it didn’t surprise him, but he made sure to murmur that he was doing great when they paused, and got a small, timid nod in return. He managed a smile. He was a Turk after all. He could smile under any circumstances.

                He thought they had made it out free and clear—the mine was right there. But they rounded a corner and there was a Valron and it was on top of Claudia—Cloud offered him a wry smile, a smile he thought he wouldn’t see again after the mako poisoning, explaining to the group in a low voice how things had really been in Nibelheim—he didn’t think. He just drew Cerberus and fired. And that… saved Claudia. Saved Cloud. Damned the group. They could hear the monsters in the distance—roaring and rustling, beating wings and hissing, and Vincent felt time slow as if in mockery of his old Limit Break, the one he had lost to Hojo, as he took in all the possible ways out of this mess. So few. Fewer were acceptable.

                “Bahamut’s Fiery Eyes!” he cursed, then ran forward, pulled Claudia to her feet. “You hurt?” She shook her head—streaked with Valron blood and shaking, but not more than scratched. “Good. Get into the tunnel, now.”

                “Won’t they just follow us in?” Var murmured, pulling abreast of him and speaking too quietly for Claudia to hear. Seph lingered in Vincent’s shadow, close enough to hear just fine, though Var wouldn’t know it.

                “Given the chance, yes. But that snowy overhang—if I use Aero on it, it’ll block it off.”

                “You’d have to be outside for that to work.”

                “Yes, I would.” Vincent agreed. “Get in the damn cave. Take Sephiroth with you.”

                Var froze in horror, then shook his head. “I didn’t hire you for stupid self-sacrifice. You have a kid—”

                “I’m the only one here with any chance of surviving what’s coming at us. Therefore, I’ll be the one outside. Get. In. The. Cave.”

                “You can’t—”

                “We don’t have time for this!” Vincent cocked Cerberus again. “Go or I will shoot you myself.”

                That look. He had seen it on Cloud’s face before. What a horrible time for that streak of fearlessness to rear it’s head. “You’d kill me attempting to save my life? I think not.”

                Vincent took a deep breath and spoke as coldly as he could. “I’d have to kneecap you so you don’t crawl back out, then toss you inside the cave. You’d hamper your wife’s progress down the mineshaft and you’d all be a bit thinner by the time you got out but you’d live. Don’t make me do it, Var.” He couldn’t let him see that it hurt to make the threat—he might have to carry it out if he did. He must have been convincing because Var crumbled.

                “Do… do you want me to contact anyone when I get to town?” Soft. Defeated. Vincent swallowed bile, then drew the knife at his belt, cut a lock of his hair and a shred of his cape and handed them over.

                “You give me two weeks from the day you get back to town, then you look under my bedframe. There’s an envelope there that you will not open, but you’ll send this to the address listed on the front. He’ll know what it means. An unbelievably pissy man will show up, and you will hand over the envelope and tell him everything, including, and this is important, that I threatened to shoot you. He’ll take care of Seph. That is, again, after the two weeks.”

                “Vincent—”

                “Go, Var.” He gave the man a push, and he stumbled forward. “Seph? You go with them. Obey them, help them, and be good, okay?”

                “But, Vincent—”

                Vincent almost threw up, but he managed the words. “That is an order.” Seph jerked in place, like his muscles were struggling not to simply obey in that second. His eyes were round. His eyes were threatening to overflow. “Listen to me. It’s going to be okay. I will come back to you.” Reckless promise. He dared a quick hug—resting his forehead against the child’s for a brief moment. “But you need to go. Now.”

                The habits of a lifetime were not easily broken. Sephiroth obeyed—running to the side of the Strifes, Claudia confused, Var looking like he was choking. The monsters were close now. The earth vibrated under his boots. “Var? You give me the whole two weeks, you hear? Not an hour less!”

                He released the spell—over the roar of the snow, coming down between them, he heard a boy cry out “Vincen—” before the fallen snow cut him off. Then he was alone on the mountain, with the monsters and the brewing storm.

                “Fuck,” he breathed.

Chapter Text

                “He… he just…” Claudia started, staring at the white wall where the outside world, where Vincent had been a moment prior.

                Var took a deep breath and nodded, then looked to the boy, and felt a chill that had nothing to do with the snow or the cold. The child’s face was expressionless, all but his eyes. And those… glowed, lightly, in the dark. They weren’t human, now. They had a vertical pupil. But he took a deep breath. Whatever else he was, he was Vincent’s kid. “Hey—”

                “We need to go.” Seph said, and his voice was colder than the threatened blizzard. The adults looked at him. Blinked. He blinked—too slowly and too rarely, but he blinked. “Can you see in here?”

                “I… barely.” Mrs. Strife managed, softly.

                Seph stared for a moment longer, his eyes brighter than everything but the odd glowing mushroom, then he nodded. Started digging through his bag.

                Vincent’s smile was warm, even if he could only see it in the way the corners of his eyes creased. He hadn’t minded the question, even though it was technically questioning his instructions. “Right. But if you just burn the stick, it’ll burn too fast and not give enough light. And burn your hands. Not good enough. So if you take the cloth, soak it in the cooking oil—”

                He pulled out an old tunic, one of the ones they hadn’t replaced yet, and shredded it, with sharp ripping noises that made the two adults flinch. He had a metal telescoping stick, for cooking things over the fire—he looked up. “Mrs. Strife, do you have cooking oil? Sunflower oil? Animal fat? Any kind of oil?”

                “I… yes. Bacon grease in a tin. Why?”

                “I need to see it, please.”

                “Oh… that’s very smart.” Mr. Strife said. Seph shivered but ignored him. He wasn’t who he wanted to hear praise from.

                She handed the tin over, and he took a handful of it—messy, but the fastest option—and started working it into the strips of cloth before wrapping them around the stick, until he had a good sized knot at the end of it, smelling of bacon.

                “If you hold the flint and the steel like this, and scrape it just so—”

                He scraped, just so. Sparks flew, and caught—

                “Good boy. That’s how you make a torch”

                His hands convulsed. The steel from the lighting kit bent in his hands, just a little. He may have shuddered.

                “Are you okay? Did you cut yourself? Get burned?”

                “You go with them. Obey them, help them, and be good, okay?”

                “I’m fine,” he said, and it was robotic, even to his own ears. Both adults flinched. “You should carry the torch. Then you can see.”

                “I… guess so. Thank you. Seph—” She flinched when he looked at her, eyes wary, then managed “Seph, can you see?”

                “I can see fine.” He insisted, voice soft, and turned his back—the man came up behind him and at first he thought he’d done something wrong when he scooped up the toy—he hadn’t damaged it, he had been careful—but then he pressed it into his arms. “I bought it. It’s yours now, so hang onto it.”—he turned his back on Vincent. Vincent had ordered him to. “We should go.”

                Behind him, unseen, Var watched the boy—he saw that his fists hand folded tightly, knuckles gleaming white in the dark. They were shaking. Claudia saw it too, when he pointed it out, wordless, and her eyes watered. But they didn’t know what to say. So they just followed.

***

                Vincent took a deep breath and slid off the backpack, rolled his shoulders. The Valrons were the first to arrive—winged and impatient. He watched them come—with his back to the cliff face, he was in the best position he could hope for to take them—there was at least one direction they couldn’t come from.

                He drew Cerberus and lined up his first shot—the alpha male, to sow chaos and confusion in the Valrons, at least. It wouldn’t hold when the other bits of the breeding nest showed up—but these wouldn’t be alive by then. One set of monsters at a time. One shot, one kill. From the looks of things, he couldn’t afford to waste bullets.

***

                Veld frowned, mid board meeting, eyeing Reeve, the new assistant to the Director of Urban Development. Normally he didn’t come to these things, apart from budget days—and today, alas, was one such day. The kid had promise, and… alright, so he wasn’t any older then Tseng, but he certainly had drive. Unusual, for a kid not raised in Shinra to rise so high, so fast. From his research, he knew that he had a healthy family, a robust intellect, and a clean bill of health.

                So why had he suddenly gone pale, rocking back on his feet like a man dizzy from blood loss?

                Hojo, ever ‘helpful’ looked up and saw it too. “If your assistant is feeling unwell, he could—”

                Veld managed not to reach for his pistols. Now that he was paying attention… the man dove through a lot of assistants. But being a Turk was a long exercise in self-denial. He hadn’t killed the guy. Yet.

                “I apologize, but I’m hardly worth your concern, Director,” the boy managed—pale, but his eyes were focused, if strained. Whatever had happened—a sudden migraine, perhaps—he kept his poise under fire like a field agent. He looked to his Director. “Perhaps I could fetch everyone drinks?”

                “No need.” The boy’s boss waved him off. “You have done all that I needed you to for this meeting. Go about your ordinary business.”

                “Sir.” The boy sketched out a light bow and left, adjusting his tie as he went. And hour and a half later, when the meeting was concluded, Veld caught a glimpse of him tucked into a booth in the recreational floor, still pale, eyes… confused. A bad sign, and depending on what it was… not something that should be put off. Veld approached.

                “Are you alright? You… do not look well.” He said, baldly, because when a Turk department head tried to be circumspect about concern with someone who knew what he was, it was usually misinterpreted. Though… the boy showed no fear of him, unlike many, meeting his eyes and offering a thin smile.

                “Fine, I think. Not really sure what’s happened, but it seems to be passing. Just… feel like someone’s standing on my grave, I guess.”

                Veld nodded, slowly—he did look slightly better, he supposed. Slightly. He didn’t wobble when he stood up, at least. “Well, if it gets worse again, get it checked out. You looked like you were about to fall.”

                “Of course, sir. Though I suspect it’s simply that I didn’t sleep enough last night—up late with documents for the meeting, you know.”

                Veld did know. If the boy kept this up, he’d be running the department he worked in soon enough. He gentled his tone, a little. “Get some rest, then. Your department got the budget extensions it needed.”

                A small smile, hard and fierce. If the kid grew a beard or a goatee he might not look so baby-faced. Maybe he couldn't yet. “Good to know sir. I will.”

                Veld empathized, both with the sense of unease and the ferocity. He felt like something was off himself, but then, he often did. Occupational hazard.

***

                First wave of Valrons down—Vincent did not deceive himself that there would be no more. He breathed and started reloading, the whispersoft clicks of the bullets sliding into place, then he was done. Next, a zuu. He flummoxed it with an aero spell and as it struggled, shot it in the head. He didn’t watch it drop—turned his attention to the screamers trying to come at him from both sides. One let out a war cry and… how could he have let this happen? The thought crashed through him—Seph’s face just before he fired off the Aero spell—how—

                He barely felt it when the iron ball it swung clipped his shoulder, that wasn’t a good sign. But he retained enough awareness to dodge the next blow and dart sideways—make them both come from the same direction.

                There were kyuviduns, behind them, the image breaching the fog in his thoughts, and his lips twisted into a grim smile. He put as much power into his fire materia as he could— not quite mastered, but soon—and let the spell fly. They scattered, screaming, like the overgrown bugs they were. Most dead. The rest too injured to bother with for now. Hopefully some of the monsters would decide they were better, easier prey than him, with the smoke disrupting the pheromones that made them pack bond en mass.

                The other inhabitants of his head were getting feisty now—but he just… couldn’t reach them.

                That was going to be a problem, if those things got any closer. He wasn’t really meant for hand-to-hand against monsters. Not like this, anyway.

                Maybe with half of this.

***

                Ifalna froze in place, a hand on her stomach—now visible no matter what she wore. Her daughter, within, was distressed—upset. Talking to infants was harder than talking to the dead—talking to the unborn, harder still. They had little context with what adults paid attention to, and adults had few memories of what they paid attention to. But her daughter was surprisingly lucid. She whispered of red—red eyes, red blood, white snow all around.

                “What do you mean?” She asked, aloud, because it was easier, after so long living among people, among the living, to do that.

                “Ifalna?” Gast asked.

                “Hush dear. Give us a moment.”

                Sad can’t break, needs to break, he can’t—

                If the little one would just stop kicking for emphasis—she rubbed her stomach. “Who?”

                “Dear?”

                She smiled. “Nothing to worry about.”

                Her unborn daughter disagreed.

***

                Screamers down, Vincent checked his store of bullets. Not enough for comfort. He was bleeding from a few near misses, and he could feel his shoulder now—it was throbbing painfully. He ignored it, swiping his vision clear with a thumb when blood started to trickle into it. There had been a few deathclaws in that last batch. They had been frisky.

                He managed to drop a Nibel Wolf just as it raised it’s head to howl—if there was one thing he did not need, it was any of that son-of-a-bitch’s pack getting back up. He sent mana through the fire materia—the bust of fire gave him a few precious seconds breathing room, to take stock.

                This was why he needed those high-powered potions, he thought bitterly but without any real energy at Rells. Bullshit like this. But it wasn’t his fault. He should have requested those ages ago instead of when he got back. Would have, had he been sure he was staying.

                Useless thoughts. Was that a fucking dragon on the horizon? Was that one of those stupid sentient scales from the Manor? Just how far out had this pheromone ridden-clusterfuck drawn its monsters from anyway?

                A snap from the last wolf made his knee give out—flesh wound, under other circumstances, not serious. Under these, very serious.

                And then… the smell of warm, wet earth, encircling him in a breeze—he blinked, and felt the fog in his mind clear, injuries seal, energy return. Not all of it… but he didn’t need all of it. He blinked, because—impossible… but when had that ever stopped… no time to think about it now. “Thank you,” he breathed, standing—a bit tenderly, but it would work-- and reached—the beast within growled. He made sure it was the one he wanted, then showed it the battlefield.

                “They would keep us from the cub” he told it, wordless, remembering the slow turn of it’s interest to the boy—benign and simple, it was a beast. It understood protecting the young. “Alone, this is madness. Work with me, for glory and survival.” None of it in words, not with this one—it might understand, but it would not understand enough. He showed it images, sensation—pain, exhaustion, separation, distance.

                “For the cub.” The beast replied, not in words but pure instinct—the sensation of something smaller cowering under your belly, the well of protective rage. It was not wholly sentient, but neither was it wholly Vincent—it’s cooperation would matter.

                “Kill the thin thing first—then—”

                With an urge for violence like hunger. “Then the dragon.”

                “We will need to take it’s wings, so it cannot attack from above.”

                Bones cracked and reshaped—fur sprouted in an itching wave. Satisfaction—the sense of claws inching in and out of their sheathes, like a cat. “Then we will take it’s wings.”

***

                Sephiroth saw the motion in the shadows before the others did, of course—he had picked up a rock, as large as his fist, and darted forward—a lone kyuvidun, probably too weak or too slow to join the others.

                Taking a rock to something with a carapace was not the ideal method of dispatch. But superfluous force would do it. He struck again, and again, the armor crackling, yellow bug blood flowing out of the thin cracks. Then it bent it’s head the wrong way and Seph dropped the rock—it had cracked at some point anyway—grabbed and twisted—it came off with a wet pop.

                He didn’t look back to see the expressions on the adult’s faces. They weren’t Vincent. They wouldn’t smile at his efficiency or tell him he’d done well. Maybe they’d flinch.  He didn’t want to want that. But… he wanted to break something. And the kyuvidun wasn’t enough. The rock wasn’t enough. Maybe people flinching, being afraid would be enough… but he doubted it. That wasn’t what he really wanted either.

                “You’re shaking.”

                He frowned and looked away, outside of the house, smoke still streaming from the now-open windows. “Sorry sir. I’ll—”

                “First time you were in an actual fight?” Vincent asked, looking at the windows as he did. That he wasn’t looking at him made it… easier, somehow.

                “I… yes sir.” The rest was training. The one time an animal had gotten loose in the labs and ran toward him, one of the infantrymen had shot it—and then, by Hojo’s orders, the technician who had failed to contain it. She had been scared.

                Slight smile, eyes softening over the collar. “It’s Vincent.”

                “I… Mr. Vincent. Sorry Mr. Vincent.” Smiles with correction were weird. Some of the trainers and the scientists had done that, and when they did it was bad. But Vincent’s smiles were smaller than theirs, and warm.

                “No need to apologize. Sometimes battle hits you like that, especially the first few times. It’s okay. Let’s sit for a bit.”

                “I don’t need to—” it was important, that he know he didn’t need to sit. If he was weak, it was because they hadn’t perfected him yet. He needed to be strong. For Shinra and for Science.

                “We don’t need to rush back to town either.” Vincent sat, and then slumped backwards onto the grass.

                “Mr Vincent?!”

                “I’m fine. Just wanted to look up at the clouds. You should try it. That one looks like a Bomb.”

                “…what?” Had the bugs hit his head before he got them? He tried to think back—no, he didn’t think so. He thought he got them all before they could hurt Vincent.

                “It’s a lovely day, reasonably warm—it’s late autumn, we won’t have many more days like this this year. The sky is blue, the clouds are white, and the trees are all bright colors. Come watch the clouds.” He sounded like he was quoting someone, kinda awkward, and Seph felt a burst of suspicion… but the scientists and teachers who tried to trick him never did so by example.

                And…. Vincent had never done that yet.

                So, after a moment of indecision, he went and lay on the grass next to Vincent, and his shoulder didn’t hurt because Vincent had healed it, and stared up at the clouds. They… did make funny shapes.

                “That one looks like one of those bugs we just killed.” Vincent said, pointing, and sounding rather more like himself.

                “I don’t like it.”

                “Me either. But it will change. Oh, that one looks like a dragon.”

                Seph liked that one.

                He was breathing hard, because crying would be bad—crying increased chances of dehydration during stress and it obscured one’s vision. Vincent had said to help. He couldn’t help if he cried. And adults didn’t like it when he cried. Crying was a loud interruption to the acquisition of knowledge.

                “Hey.” Var—Mr. Strife, you called adults Mr. or Mrs. or Ms. or they were mad at you—Mr. Strife didn’t look angry. Maybe a little… he didn’t know what that look was. “Hey. Good eye. I didn’t see him.”

                Seph shuddered. He couldn’t help it.

                “Seph—”

                “It’s Sephiroth.” That wasn’t Vincent. He didn’t want to hear… and then he swallowed, because just because Vincent was weird and let him snap sometimes didn’t mean the other adults would.

                “Okay. Okay. That’s Vincent’s name for you, and just his? That’s okay. I can understand that.” Mr. Strife had eased down onto his knees next to him. “I’m sorry.”

                Seph jerked in place, looking at him. “Why?” People didn’t apologize. Not to people lower in rank or seniority than them. Maybe Vincent would… but Vincent wasn’t here.

                “You aren’t a punishment. I asked for you.”

                The man was awkward. Fumbling. “I didn’t want to leave Vincent there either. I’m sorry.”

                He stared, and the man’s expression changed to… something else he wasn’t sure how to read. What was he supposed to say? Why was the man apologizing? Vincent had insisted he stay behind. Vincent had gone so far as to threaten to shoot Mr. Strife if he tried to take his place. He didn’t understand—Vincent wasn’t here to explain—

                Master Derrik showed him how to clean off his sword with care and respect—“You don’t leave your blade uncleaned for longer than you have to after a fight, and you never sheathe it bloody, okay?” His voice was deep and he had scared Seph at first—he was muscular and had eyes like he could see your soul, if there was such a thing, but he smiled now and then, and he laughed a lot, and it wasn’t at him, and it was a good, warm sound.

                He was patient, guiding Seph’s hands through the right movements to clean a sword without cutting himself, and Seph noticed—“Master Derrik, why are you missing two fingers?”

                Then he flushed and looked away, and hoped he wouldn’t be too mad. Sometimes people who were in the labs got really mad if you pointed out scars or missing things.

                Master Derrik laughed. “Had to go save an accountant from a drunk once. The man pulled a knife. If you gotta lose fingers, there’s worse ways.”

                “Why?”

                “Why what?”

                “Why save the accountant?”

                Master Derrik looked at him for a long moment, and he worried he might have said something bad. Then he offered him a smile, small, not like his normal ones at all. “What’s the point of being strong if you can’t protect those weaker than you?”

                Was that why…. But… he didn’t want him to be like Master Derrik. He wanted him to come back. Master Derrik had left and not come back. He had said mistakes were okay, but he hadn’t come back once Seph had made a mistake.

                “I will come back to you.”

                He’d ask him. He’d ask. Because Vincent didn’t lie to him. Vincent kept his word. He had to.

                “It wasn’t your fault.” Sephiroth told Mr. Strife. “We should go.”

                He stood, and squared his shoulders, and made himself walk farther, away from Vincent. Vincent had ordered him to. If he noticed the looks the adults gave him, he didn’t know what the expression of their faces meant and did not care to ask.

***

                The Galian Beast opened it’s jaws and dropped the dragon’s throat. “Good hunt,” it thought—satisfaction, a sense of relaxing vigilance, the sense of a strong packmate at your shoulder, full belly and the smell of more meat nearby.

                “Good hunt.” Vincent thought back at it, too tired to really form the sensations it communicated with, but it seemed to get the gist anyway. It gave him his body back—he could have taken it, but he had needed the Beast’s energy, and his eagerness to hunt. Besides, the Beast, at least, valued cooperation among hunters. It made the pack stronger.

                It was very unlike it’s fellows in being so easy to appease.

                Vincent dropped to his knees, shaking, and spat blood, dragon blood, out of his mouth—brought a handful of snow to his mouth to rinse out the taste. It was snowing. That would be a problem, shortly—his coat was still warm, but it would never be a coat to wear in public again, and a coat was not sufficient protection from a blizzard. But for now… he cleared as much of the gore off his hands as he could with snow, though that much cold made him ache in a way he distantly remembered he hadn’t before the labs. He would need… shelter, and food. He had nutrient bars in his pack, though he could use something with more iron—he thought, briefly, of taking the meat from the monsters he knew were edible but he was too tired, and cleaning a carcass was work.

                And then… movement.

                Large, green. At first he thought “Another dragon?” and that would have been bad enough. But it wasn’t. It had six legs. And two tails.

                “You have got to be fucking kidding me.” He growled, and forced himself to his feet.

Chapter Text

                They had to camp twice in the caves. There was no light save Seph’s eyes and the odd, oversized, luminous mushrooms and the torches he remade as they went, though the old, rusted tracks of the mine carts kept them confident they weren’t lost. They managed to find an old mining station, probably meant for miners to take breaks and pee, before they took their first. Sephiroth liked that—it had a door they could shut, and it was solid enough that it would wake him if he fell asleep and a monster tried to break it down. But no one slept that night.

                He tried, when they bedded down, curled into the far corner so that he could see anything coming. Mr. and Mrs. Strife tried to get him to join them in the warmer but less tactically advantageous corner of the room, near the air vent. He shook his head, tensing to see how they might react—they looked sad but didn’t press. This was as close to safe as they would get—the room was secured, reasonably warm, and no one needed to keep a fire lit.

                He couldn’t sleep.

                “Um… you said to pick my room, right?”

                Vincent had paused, cleaning his gun on the table. It seemed a bit of a cumbersome process compared to sword maintenance, but Vincent seemed to find it soothing—at least, his shoulders relaxed and so did his eyes as he disassembled and reassembled his weapon. He did it fairly often, or at least, the lighter cleanings he did before and after major hunts. Heavier cleanings, like this, he did when he was thinking, or if he thought the weapons took damage. “Yeah, I did. Did you come to a decision?” It had been a few days since they moved in.

                Sephiroth nodded—sure Vincent’s back was toward him, but he had turned his head to look at him out of one red eye. “Can I have the bedroom that’s right by yours?”

                “That one does have a nice view, but it’s a bit on the small side, isn’t it? Are you sure that’s the one you want?”

                That wasn’t why he wanted it, but he nodded firmly just the same. “Yeah. Please?”

                “Of course. If you change your mind, just let me know? I’ll come move the bed into there when I’m done here.”

                Seph liked the new room. He could hear Vincent on the other side of the wall, and it was easy for him to tell if he was starting to have nightmares. And when he dreamed of the labs, he could listen to Vincent’s breathing when he woke, so he knew he was here.

                Vincent was… Vincent was…

                He reached for his pack, and pulled out the dragon, carefully, and curled up around it. It was soft, and warm, but it did not help him sleep.

***

                “You weren’t surprised.” Claudia finally murmured, soft, eyes shut. They lay together, near the air vent, voices low so not to wake the child who had gone still a while ago.

                “No. He told me what he would do,” Var said, because they had never kept secrets between them. In his pocket, Vincent’s hair and cape felt heavy and too warm, like it would brand him. He wouldn’t be surprised if when they got home, he took it off and found himself marked.

                Accusation might have been easier to manage than that gentle tone his wife used. “Then… there was no good way to stop him?”

                “I told him not to. He said if I didn’t get in here he was going to kneecap me and toss me in here. That it would be slower but we’d survive. He cocked the pistol. I gave in.” He didn’t say what he had seen in Vincent’s eyes in that moment. He wasn’t sure to say it.

                Claudia nodded, eyes still shut. She was a healer. She knew how to hold it together when she needed to. “Then… no good way at all.”

                “He’ll fight,” he said, uselessly.

                “The ground shook under our feet at their approach. Not even just one dragon will do that. He can’t win.” She took a deep breath, and added “And there is the blizzard.”

                “Damnit.” Var said, shutting his eyes to match hers. After a moment, she wiggled closer, pressing her face against his chest. “I told him he had a kid. I told him—”

                She shuddered, and he felt wet where her face pressed against him. “Seph.”

                “He said it’s Sephiroth. Maybe it’s just something he lets… let Vincent…”

                “Damnit,” she said, and one hand came up to grab his shoulder. Too hard. There would be bruises. He didn’t say anything, just pulled her closer, on top of him, careful of her. Careful of—

                “He barely told us a damn thing about himself,” she whispered, grip tightening. “And then he has to go and save all our lives? I don’t know what to say at a wake like that.”

                “Funerals are for speaking. Wakes are for drinking. I thought you weren’t doing that.”

                “Not for a while yet, no. Just to be safe.” She tilted her head, pressing lips to his chin. Not a kiss, not yet. Letting herself trace his stubble in the dark. “He gave you back to me.”

                Var felt the hair and the cape like a branding iron against his chest. “Yes.”

                “Shiva and Ifrit Entwined, but… but Seph!”

                They didn’t sleep. They cried, quietly, so the boy wouldn’t wake up.

***

                Out of bullets.

                Fighting monsters was one thing. Fighting monsters alone was another. Fighting monsters alone while night fell, a blizzard approached, and out of bullets, that was a third thing. A stupid thing. He would have waxed eloquent had he caught Cloud doing it. Charging off alone, dumb. Very dumb.

                He’d had a tongue lashing all set and ready to go for Aerith, but…

                He didn’t feel cold, but he wasn’t sure if that was due to hypothermia, excessive exercise, or lightheadedness from exercise and bloodloss. It could be a half dozen other things, he supposed—a distant part of his mind filed through them like a philosopher in his sitting room instead of a warrior on the field.

                One swipe across his chest, shallow and stinging, bruising that went deep, from where he had managed to change it’s attack with it’s horn from an impaling to a glancing blow. Still too much force involved. He had made it pay for that with a leg. It still had five, and now it was pissed.

                You didn’t need a team because you weren’t strong enough. You needed a team because your foes would always outnumber you, and you needed to at least have someone to watch your back and toss potions at you.

               Fighting the damned Keeper, he had at least seven enemies at any given time. Six now. The four legs it could spare, momentarily, to attack instead of balance. Three now. The tails. The head. Plus any magic it chose to toss his way. He had been doing okay—not great, but okay, until it started to heal itself.

              “That’s not fair! We spent all this time making it die and now it’s undoing that? Rude!” Yuffie exclaimed with the genuine irritation of any teen, on her ass in the dirt where she had landed when the monster flung her away. She smelled of pain—wavered a little in place in a way that struck him as troubling.

               He didn’t point out the obvious flaw in her logic, letting himself bark a laugh then offered her a hand up—pulled her up behind him while he kept firing. They were tag teaming it, drawing it’s attention just for someone else to dart in and deal a heavy blow—Yuffie was an able distraction, but that time she had gotten too close.

              It didn’t occur to him that she was far, far too young for this until later. He had been only a little older when he joined the Turks. Cloud, younger when he went off to SOLDIER. That was… probably part of the problem, in hindsight. Children who hadn’t even hit their full growth signing on for life. Of course they were easy to manipulate. Of course they were easy to destroy.

              It didn’t occur to him, but he had felt protective of their youngest. They all had. So the jolt he felt when she was gone from behind him was palpable. “Yuffie!” That last spell had hit her hard, he could tell even if she didn’t show it—the smell of burning flesh wasn’t unusual during fights but that didn’t mean he had to like it—

              “ I have her, lad. Just focus.” Cait said, cheery as ever. “She needed a potion.”

              Vincent had growled and funneled fire through the next shot from his gun—“we NEED to talk about your communication skills.”

              “Told ya what I was pullin’ her away thrice, laddie. Keep your eyes on the prize.”

              He wasn’t sure he believed the… cat… thing, but he had sighed in defeat when the cat… thing had pushed a potion into his hands. He had uncorked it with his teeth and drank as he fired. The cat was annoying, he was reasonably confident not alive—it had no heartbeat—and he was also fairly certain he was a snoop. But the damned thing was useful sometimes too. He’d be lying if he didn’t say he was relived that Yuffie had gotten pulled from the front lines of this fight, at least.

              No one to toss a potion this time, when Trine raged through him—made worse by his equipment. The gauntlet was extremely receptive. He went to one knee, panting.

              No one?

              It was a bad idea, this exhausted—a terrible, stupid, selfish idea. But— “I will come back to you.”

              If he wasn’t willing to try everything, he shouldn’t have uttered the words. And.. he was alone. The Strifes and Sephiroth should be well away by now. Even if he was exhausted… he had the protomateria again. It would be alright. Probably.

              He stretched out his will to the deepest part of himself as he took another swipe, this one deeper, and ignored the sting and the dizziness. “Come.”

              He felt it’s approach in the laughter he caught in his throat, in the golden light that lit his gaze. The Keeper felt it too, without knowing what it meant—he could see it hesitate, legs frozen midstride—the last mistake it ever made.

              Chaos came. A laughing demon, soundless and amused—it reached forward and tore another leg from the Keeper, discarded it over his… it’s shoulder. It was playful—rising into the air and holding it’s hands out as the monster shrieked, as if to offer comfort or in supplication. Then it took another leg. And another. Another. The last one it lifted high and speared into it’s adversary. It laughed the whole time, soundless and delighted.

              Vincent took control back, painful and hard, and wasn’t overly surprised when, by the cold light of the moon, he dropped into the snow, into the storm, into the ground, and started to thrash, ribs writing like snakes.

              All he could make himself feel was gratitude. If it had done this to him much sooner, he wouldn’t have had a chance of keeping his promise.

Chapter Text

                In another life, he had refused to tell the strangers his name, and so he had been Red XIII to them, until much later.

                This was not Red XIII—this was only Nanaki. He was thin with his latest growth spurt, angular and awkwardly large pawed yet—but his grandfather assured him that he would grow into his limbs. He awoke cold, and he nosed under more blankets—it was not unusual, even in Cosmo Canyon, to be cold at night. The sky was clear—the place was all extremes. So long as he kept his tail clear, blankets weren’t a problem.

                But he couldn’t get warm.

                Why couldn’t he get warm?

                Nanaki, young, tucked into his grandfather’s home, sat up until late into the night and shivered as he had not since he was a cub, and he did not know why.

***

                “Does that hurt?” Tifa asked him after the first fight that had made him Limit Break. It wasn’t the usual arrangement by any means—he could shift almost anytime he wanted, barring exhaustion… if he wanted to, which he rarely did. But when he was able to Limit Break, it became extremely hard not to shrug on his other shapes. Possible. But not easy. Yet another gift from Hojo.

                “The shapeshifting?” He called it that. He refused to call it anything else. Because if it was just changing his shape, then… then he could do it. If his body was the only thing that changed… then it was still hideous and unnatural, but it could be borne. But it wasn’t. Changing the shape didn’t change his mind so much as bring other things to the fore—things he refused, at the time, to try to understand. Aerith had also asked—dropping to her knees when he dropped to his as he fought his way back into his right shape, foreheads almost touching. He couldn’t bear to tell her about it. It would have been like pissing on a flower. So he gasped out, “I’m fine,” in tones that fooled no one, and though clearly unsatisfied, Aerith could eventually get the idea that she wouldn’t get anything from them. Everyone present reacted in their own way. He never hit his knees after a fight again—someone was always there to catch him.

                Tifa asked him later, by the fire while the others slept, checking her knuckles for damage. You couldn’t hit things as often as she did without causing yourself pain—she had told him once that her master had her punch trees to make her hands tough, and after seeing some of the things she struck, he believed her—but it was the blood oozing from the wrap around her knuckles that made her easier to talk to that night.

                “Yes. The pain is… it passes. I can deal with the pain.”

                She nodded without looking at him. “Loss of control?”

                “A reminder of what I no longer am.” Not a Turk. Not a man who served a cause or an organization. Not a man who other men knew and understood and trusted. Not a human. “And the loss of control, yes, but I seem to be able to… direct it, at least.” His control had improved, with time. But at first… at first it had been all he could do to make sure it didn’t attack allies. But that was enough, at least, that he didn’t storm off from the group and lock himself back in his coffin for their sakes.

                “Fuck.” She said, simply, and he had been surprised into laughter—she offered him half a grin, looking up without raising her face, then reached for her pack and pulled out a flask. “Here. Take a drink and pass it back.”

                He caught it unerringly, but his voice could have frozen lava. “Pity drinks? Really?”

                “No. I’m a bartender by trade—having hard discussions without lubricant is… unnatural.”

                He had to fight not to wake the party. Laughing.

                Vincent sucked in a long, pained breath. His ribs held.

                He sat up. His ribs still held. He stood. He had to cough—hacked red into the snow. It was not the only red where he had been laying. The cuts across his chest still stung—fire and blood, rude. Chaos had evidently decided, this time, that he could heal his previously acquired injuries on his own. That bruise would be a long time healing. He could have cured it—but he was bone weary and afraid of overestimating his own mana reserves. Sometimes if you bottomed out your reserves, you went insensible for a bit. He couldn’t afford to do that now. This wouldn’t kill him. Let that be enough.

                He needed shelter.

                He strode over and scooped up his pack—protein ration bars were better than nothing. He looked at the snow he had collapsed over the tunnel—apparently his egregious use of fire had actually melted the top layer, which had them melted into a hard, firm sheet. To Chaos it would have been nothing—he did not think he could have hauled up Chaos for love or money at the moment. His limbs felt like overcooked spaghetti.

                But the storm was still building. He needed shelter.  The tunnel wasn’t a possibility—then… he looked over to the corpse of the Materia Keeper, a blueish pile of limbs in this light. The creature absorbed fire. It was large enough that it would take days to cool completely. Testing a hypothesis, he walked over and held out a hand.

                Even through the glove he felt the warmth.

                One limb had pressed against the neck—as it snowed, it would become a neat little cave, big enough for one. Larger than that would have been a problem anyway. He pulled out his bedroll to insulate him from the ground and crawled inside, let the radiating heat from the corpse slowly tease him into unconsciousness.

                He was asleep almost before he was all the way into his makeshift shelter.

***

                Cid Highwind couldn’t fall asleep. He had checked the plans three times—the idea was sound. The plan was ideal. Why couldn’t he sleep?

                “Because Ah’m fucking excited,” he told himself, looking over his plans. He was going to fly. Soon!

                That wasn’t it. But it was the only explanation he had.  

***

Sephiroth managed to kill another two monsters before bedding down for sleep the next “night”. The Bomb was the most dangerous of the lot, and it clearly scared the Strifes—he killed it quickly, so it couldn’t blow up, with a knife he took from Mr. Strife, whirling past him as he went.

                “Sorry.” He said later, offering the man his weapon back. “I cleaned it. I would have asked, but…”

                “Sephiroth, are you hurt? Burned?”

                Sephiroth cocked his head to one side. “Not badly.”

                “Let me see it.” Claudia murmured, kneeling in front of him.

                Sephiroth froze in place, then shook his head. His right hand came up to cover his left forearm—she could see it now, in the moment before it was covered—bright red and angry, hardly serious but it had to hurt. “No.”

                “Seph, I can—”

                “No!” He jumped back from her reaching hand, shaking, eyes glowing with mako, remembering “—specimen’s healing abilities fall within expected parameters but further testing of skeletal and nerve reconstruction necessary to—”, “Don’t touch me!”

                “Wait,” Var murmured, taking the knife from the boy. “Seph. Thanks for cleaning it. Would you prefer to keep it on you for now? You seem to react faster than I do.”

                The boy nodded, slowly.

                “Okay. Let’s do that. Can my wife heal your arm? You’ll be more effective if your arm is back to normal.” Var seemed to be picking his words carefully, setting a hand on Claudia’s arm when she opened her mouth to object.

                Vincent apologizing as he cleaned his shoulder, then wasting magic to heal—

                “Please don’t touch me,” he whispered, backing up as he spoke.

                “Vincent wanted us to look out for you too. Will you let us do that, for him?”

                “He didn’t say that.”

                “It was implied. An adult thing, when you say to take a kid with you. It’s understood that you’re supposed to look out for them.” Var argued, voice soft. “Let us help you?”

                He stared at the man for a long, long time before giving in.

***

                Vincent woke with a weight on his chest.  The snowstorm had made his little overhang a cave, and the light that filtered down was blurry and dull. The wind still howled outside, so it wasn’t safe to venture forth— not when it was still relatively warm in here.

                He felt awful. His breath hitched when he went to take a deep breath—not the grinding sensation he associated with broken ribs, but a tenderness that he hoped was just deep bruising.

                The weight on his chest did not help.

                He looked down and managed to curtail his jump—the jerk was enough to rouse the Nibel wolf whose head rested on his chest, black furred and red eyed. It blinked at him sleepily, then whined and settled back in to rest.

                “Where is your pack?” He asked, aloud, too startled to keep it to himself—the creature opened one eye and wagged it’s tail before going back to sleep. He really hoped he didn't just slaughter them. It would be rather awkward if he had. And that was assuming it wouldn't hold a grudge. They usually did.

                It took him a while to get back to sleep after that, but… it was warm, even if it pressed down on the bruises and the itching cuts as they sealed. Vincent slept through the storm.

***

                Barret woke sore, but excited.

                He wasn’t sure what he had done to ache like this… but no matter what it was, it wouldn’t be enough to dampen his day. He had a date! The gentlest, sweetest girl in town had looked him in the eye and smiled when he had asked—and even if he ached like he’d been dropped out of a third story window, he was going to enjoy it, damn it!

                Maybe a hot shower would ease it…

***

                Vincent woke in the morning exhausted, the wolf already gone, pawprints and fur left behind it. He blinked at them suspiciously, but they remained, even when his vision cleared of morning grogginess.

                Then he made himself roll to his feet and punch through the snow blocking his way. A light crust of ice lay over everything, but it wasn’t a tremendous effort, now that sleep had offered him a second wind, to punch through it.

                He still felt like he had been trampled by a small herd of behemoths though. He didn’t bother to check his injuries—if they hadn’t killed him yet, they could be put off. Cold, now, was the killer—and checking the injuries would require a state of undress that would not be helpful in that regard.

                Normally the trek overland wasn’t an issue—that had been the original plan after all, but with more snow threatened on the horizon, and snow already knee high, staying any longer seemed deeply unwise. He’d have punched through the tunnel, but… no. The ice there was thicker, and he didn’t have the strength to punch through without using… assistance. And if he lost control, in his weakened state… Hellmasker was sadistic on a good day, and Death Gigas was always… hungry. Not to be trusted. Letting them out with the purpose of going closer to other people… it would have been kinder to shoot the Strifes and every other villager than to potentially leave them at Hellmasker’s mercy. Besides, Hellmasker and Gigas were both only a little less sensitive to the cold than he, and while they might move faster in short bursts, they hadn’t the power to just keep going for hours. Unless they punched through the ice very quickly… and neither was agile enough to be graceful on ice, they’d be worse off than he was now.

                The Galian Beast would have been a viable option, except that it was just as exhausted as he was—he tried to shift into that form and couldn’t, or at least, spent five minutes knee deep in snow trying. Pity. If he fell to instinct, that one could be trusted to be nothing more and nothing less than a large predator—it would have been no more dangerous to anyone than a wolf. Well. A wolf that could fling fire.

                So. That left the other path, as fast as he could, to get out of the way of the oncoming storm. As fast as he could was humiliatingly slow, but it was better than staying where he was.

Chapter Text

                The letter stuck under Vincent’s bedframe.

                Hello Veld,

                First things first, I want you to know this was supposed to be a precaution and nothing more. If you’re reading this, it turned out to be necessary, I guess… or you found it while visiting and you’ll kill me when you meet me next, rendering both letter and precaution moot. I’d be interested in learning how I died—frankly, I wasn’t sure it was possible anymore… but I digress.

                You’re probably pissed, and for once, I don’t find it funny. Sorry. Kick the corpse a couple times if it helps, I don’t mind. I meant to discuss this stuff with you when… when I met you next. Somehow. It’s… harder than it should be. You’ve seen some shit, so have I, but some of the things that have happened since I saw you last are… hard to explain. You’ve always hated things with no good explanation, where the facts don’t line up cleanly—it made you an excellent investigator. But some of this.. doesn’t work like that. You used to send me on the missions that got weird, and I usually found a way to explain off the weird shit for you… I got nothing.

                So… first things first. Partner, if you ever trusted me, if you ever thought I was worthy of trust, if you ever wanted to help me, do this last thing for me. Don’t take the boy back to Shinra. Put him in an orphanage, raise him as your own, sell him to a circus for Bahamut’s favor, but don’t take him back to Shinra. He’s a good boy. He doesn’t deserve what Hojo was making him into, and if Hojo succeeds then a lot of people, the boy among them, are going to suffer and die. Please. His medical records tell a tale that makes my stomach turn—and you know how hard that was, I assure you it’s harder now—but it’s not the whole story. Talk to him. He’ll reference things that aren’t listed in the papers. Hojo has always kept two sets of files, though Ifrit knows if either is actually wholly accurate.

                If… you’re willing and will let me press my luck… There are a few other things. I can’t tell you how I know about them—the timeline won’t line up, no matter how often you do the math. But… here’s what I got.

                If Hojo sends you to catch a firewolf, send your men out, meet them, say hi, then report back that firewolves seem to be extinct. Better for everyone.

                Gast has, or will have, a daughter. Aerith. If you meet her, don’t let her fall into Hojo’s hands. She doesn’t deserve that, and a lot more people will live if she does. If you can get her the hell out of Midgar and into protective custody, do it. Teach her self-defense. The kind where she knows how to eviscerate a man with a pencil. She’s most beneficial to the world when she’s firmly under her own control. And she doesn’t deserve what Hojo will do either.

                And… Kalm. Very soon, there will be a bombing mission near Kalm. Check the instructions you send to your agent three to five times before sending them. There will be an error. A small thing, that an experienced agent would notice and double check, but you won’t have an experienced agent on deck that day. It’ll be a rank newbie, and something very bad will happen. If you can prevent that… good. If you can’t… no one is dead unless you see the body and can easily identify it yourself without testing. NO ONE. Actually, that’s a good rule of thumb for most of these incidents. Consider moving your family out of Kalm. No, you didn’t tell me that they lived there. Just… trust me on this one. Please.

                I never told you goodbye before I headed off to Nibelheim. We sent letters and then… I stopped. I’m sorry. I wasn’t able to…. But I’m still sorry I didn’t reply. I’m sorry you had to wear the dress. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you married Verris. I’m sorry I didn’t get to shower your kid with sugar and caffeine an hour before bedtime while babysitting. If you need answers as to why I couldn’t… then take a look at the corpse when you pick it up, and go down into the Shinra Manor basement. Yes, it has one. Look for the hidden door by the staircase. Take a gun, a couple extra magazines and someone else, armed, that you trust and who has a strong stomach. Bring some high powered materia, you might want it. Between the scars on the corpse and what you find in the basement, you’ll get the gist of it, if not the details. But Veld… if you can content yourself with a lack of information just once… Let it be this time. You don’t need to torture yourself, and I would consider myself more than adequately avenged if the boy, the girl, and the firewolf escape Hojo’s clutches. There was no way you could have known, and nothing you could have done. Move forward.

                I’m sorry I can’t give you better answers, the ones you deserve. And I’m sorry that I didn’t contact you first thing when I crawled out of that hell. I’m sorry that our meeting was an accident—I should have come to you immediately. It wasn’t because I didn’t trust you. I… dislike explaining this thing that happened to me. And initially… I was ashamed.

                Gods above I hope you never read this. But… if you are, and if this stupid precaution is necessary… I’m proud that I was your partner, and that I had your back, even if it didn’t last as long as it should have. Tell the boy that I cared about him. And remind yourself that I’d prefer it if you were happy.

                                                                                                                                 Goodbye.

                                                                                                                                Vincent Valentine

P.S. If you found this because you were snooping in my house, you did this to yourself, fucker. I meant to frigging talk to you about it all, but noooo. Just couldn’t wait. I will tease you mercilessly when I find you crying. And no, I don’t regret loading this envelope with glitter. Not at all. Consider it a gift.

                The letter is read, eventually. Years from now it is something of a prized possession, a tattered thing that Veld pins up over his dartboard on bad days or for a quiet chuckle. He awards himself extra points when he hits “Hojo” or “Sorry” in the O. On good days, there are two other men he invites to throw darts at it with him.

                But that is years from now. For now, it is sealed shut in the underside of Vincent’s bedframe, and shut it stays.

***

                Once the Strifes made it out of the cave, it was easy going. It hadn’t snowed this far down the mountain—though new clouds loomed threateningly overhead—and nothing attacked as they came to Nibelheim. Sephiroth… was all but lifeless, his eyes going dull and unfocused as they needed less vigilance, as if he hadn’t slept at all the past two nights.

                “We should… let someone know, so on the off chance, if someone sees…” Claudia managed, sounding disbelieving as she spoke. Seph looked to her for a moment, then away, flipping Var’s knife in the air and catching it—an action that made both adults flinch—before offering Var the hilt. “Seph! Don’t do that—did you cut yourself? Are you hurt?”

                He offered her only a blank look and a slow shake of the head, then opened his palm so she could see it was unmarked.

                Var broke the silence. “I’ll talk to Rells. Thanks Seph—though… please don’t do that in the future. We don’t want you hurt.”

                Seph raised his eyes to him slowly. It occurred to him that this was the first time he had seen his hair anything but satin-smooth—it was not wild, per se, but it had hair in disarray, in his eyes and streaks where it was kinked with sweat or bug blood. If his vision being obstructed bothered him, he didn’t rectify it, only looking at him dully.

                “Right. Claudia… I’ll take care of… explaining. Go home, take Seph—get yourselves cleaned up and fed. I’ll be right along.

                “Yeah, of course. Come on Seph.” She started herding the child—more and more wooden and withdrawn by the moment, now—back to the house.

                Seph didn’t know why they bothered. He could hear the things they weren’t saying almost as well as he could hear the things they said when they thought he was asleep.

                Vincent.  

***

                 The first day wasn’t terrible. It was cold, too cold, yes—but he ate protein bars and everything else edible in his pack—it wasn’t the mess pack, but he wasn’t stupid— and he managed to find a rock large enough to shelter behind, that blocked the wind. Managed a fire for a short period of time, melted snow on a rock that was vaguely concave and lapped it up several times. But there was no fuel, so he had to maintain the spell, which he knew from experience would get costly. He heated the rock he crouched behind so it would give off heat for a long while, cut off the fire, cast cure2 on himself to handle the starts of frostbite he could feel, and slept.

                The second day was harder, because he ran out of the protein bars. It wasn’t the mess pack. But what he had would have lasted longer save for the cold. Humans ran through more food in the cold, and he had run through more energy than that.

                The cuts on his chest kept breaking back open in the cold and the movement. It itched and irritated more than anything—the bruising was a deep ache that he was quite certain was far more dangerous—but that was bad enough. If he wasn’t so worried about the cold, he would waste more energy on focusing the cures he occasionally cast, mostly to handle frostbite—but he didn’t dare waste much on it, and he focused on restoring feeling in his limbs when he did. It was still a steady drain on his energy—another drain on it, unneeded.

                If he could curl up somewhere and sleep for a few days, it would likely handle itself. He couldn’t afford that either. He didn’t sleep that night—no good place to do it, and he still had enough intelligence to know that the feeling of warmth and sleepiness shouldn’t be trusted. He cured himself again, just enough to bring back the cold and the pain, and found a small pile of rocks, cast the weakest fire spell on it that he could and after a moment, slipped them in his pockets. He’d have bruises from that too—he was stumbling increasingly often and often landed on some—but they radiated heat, and as long as he could feel the pain, it wasn’t so bad.

                On the third day after he had sent the others down the tunnel, things got bad. Another blizzard struck, and he had nothing to take shelter under this time when it did.

***

                 “Var! You’re back!” Rells’ greeting was warm, and Var felt… sick. “Get a good profit?” It was a strange sensation, hearing Rells and feeling sick. He hadn’t grown up in this town, but he had always felt that if he had, Rells would have been a childhood friend. Certainly he had never felt a moment of unease in his presence before.

                “Unfortunately,” he said, and opened his mouth to say the words, couldn’t manage. Rells, possibly one of the most socially astute men he had ever met, took a long look at him and crossed to the door, flipped the shop sign to closed.

                “Var. What happened?”

                “I think Vincent is dead,” Var whispered, and after a deep breath, let Rells draw the story, word by aching word, out of him. 

          ***

                The third day was when things started getting bad. A storm kicked up on the mountain and he had to keep moving or freeze to death. Between the cold and the hunger and the lack of sleep, he actually started hallucinating. Not visually—there was snow everywhere. Nothing to hallucinate, if he didn’t feel gravity, he would not have known which way was down. But he could hear things.

                “This way.” Cloud’s voice said, calmly, the third time the flying snow got to being too thick to see through. Somehow the roaring wind didn’t drown him out. More evidence that it was in his head, if any were needed. “You’ll manage better if you just put your head down and follow my voice.”

                Since he couldn’t see shit anyway, that seemed reasonable. Vincent followed his hallucination’s suggestion. He was well aware that he could be walking in circles, but given that his options were ‘maybe straight line’ and ‘death by cold’ he’d take his chances. Any kind of shelter would have been better, but he didn’t have that.

                “Fine mess you got yourself into, Vincent. But thanks for saving my folks.”

                “Wasn’t just for them…” Vincent managed, though talking opened his mouth, made him lose even more heat. Any human would be dead in this. He would probably be dead in this.

                How stupid, to die in a blizzard after surviving the end of the world three times.

                “The kid too. But I figured you wouldn’t need thanks for that.”

                Vincent moved his arms—he didn’t really feel them anymore, but he also didn’t not feel them—the motion was clumsy but he could move. He was trying to conserve heat. It didn’t feel like there was anything left to conserve. “You aren’t angry?”

                A long pause, there. “He’s a cute kid. Nibelheim is still standing, so that’s nice. Early stages there, though. I’m more angry that you didn’t talk to us before you did it.”

                Vincent shut his eyes. Thought of Veld in a dress. Felt guilt. “I’m sorry.”

                “Yeah, yeah. I know. Is it true that the Turks called you Vincent ‘the apology’ Valentine?”

                Trust Cloud to make him smile under these circumstances. “Only the ones who I liked. The others seemed to think I might kill them if annoyed. Something to do with a death glare. Or maybe being Veld’s partner. Hard to say.”

                “Heh. Suits you. Veld will be by soon. In town, I mean. Not here.”

                “Hopefully he can take care of—”

                The cuff to his head was gentle. He still fell to his knees-- he was wobbly, and his sense of balance was increasingly failing him. “None of that crap here, Vincent. Since when have you ever not finished what you started? C’mon, back up. Gotta keep moving.”

                Gloved hands pulled him up, lingered until they were sure he wouldn’t fall again. A slap on the back.

                “I’m not sorry that I saved the kid.” Vincent said. “Or… I’m trying. But I am sorry—in a sense, I took your memories. I destroyed the team.”

                A pause. “Real overdeveloped sense of importance you got there, Turk. Might wanna get that checked out. For now… I wouldn’t assume so much.”

                Comforting nonsense from a comforting nonentity. How pathetic. Vincent felt his eyes trying to water and willed it to stop—even if he didn’t need all the water he had, crying in a blizzard was inadvisable. “I miss you idiots.”

                Less of a pause, this time, and as he stumbled, a hand caught him and held him up. “We miss you too, jackass. So don’t run off on us again, alright? Part of team is handling this together. A point that you argued rather persuasively with a certain child and some well-placed arm pressure, if I recall.”

                “I’m not good at—”

                “Letting anyone else help with anything ever. The giving help bit you’re actually great at. My fault, really. I’m team leader, I should have beaten it through your thick skull the first time.” He paused, then added, “cave up ahead. Not great shelter but better than nothing.”

                “Cloud. I’m so sorry.” Because in the end, Sephiroth had been why the team formed. There was no part of him that would or could throw the boy back to the wolves, but… surely he could mourn the family he had destroyed to save him.

                How stupid. They were all still alive. That had been a good part of the point, if only part. They just weren’t… his.

                “You’re hypothermic and emotional is what you are. Be sorry in the cave, jackass.”

***

                “Does the sign not fucking read closed?” Rells snarled, sitting on the floor next to Var half an hour later when the bell jingled as someone opened it—Rells hadn’t locked it, after all, just flipped the sign. The incongruity of it made Var lift his face from his hands for a barren moment—he didn’t think he had ever heard Rells swear before. The man reminded most people of an occasionally amused teddy bear, fit and large in a harmless and inoffensive sort of way. The footsteps paused, then approached anyway—Brian Lockhart, called Brian by none save Sasha. Under any other circumstance the irritation on his face would have made Rells flinch—he tipped his head forward and glared, and Mr. Lockhart flinched and reassessed. He was a friend, of sorts, but there was nothing yielding or soft in the man—he was as flexible as steel and about as comforting.  But he hesitated, looking the two over, and then back to Rells, in what could have been compassion.

                “I’m sorry. I walked in on autopilot, didn’t even look at the sign. What happened?”

                Two impossible things in as many minutes. Var didn’t think Mr. Lockhart knew how to apologize.

                “Vincent… held back the—”

                “Buddy, you can barely talk right now. I’ll explain.” Rells looked back to the Lockhart. “They met with a breeding nest on the mountain, and Vincent stayed outside the tunnel he guided them to, closed off the tunnel with a spell to make sure the monsters couldn’t follow them in. Even if the man managed to sneak around the monsters, the blizzard that struck up there and the second one hitting now don’t… really give him good odds. At all.” Mr. Lockhart took in a deep breath. Rells looked back to Var. “I miss anything?”

                “The monsters had wind of us. We could hear them approaching—I could feel them in the ground under our feet.”

                Mr. Lockhart let out what sounded suspiciously like a wutain curse—then his flint-sharp eyes focused on Var. “His kid?”

                “With us. He… asked me to wait two weeks before sending off a letter to who I assume must be his next of kin—”

                “We’d have to wait before… declaring him… legally anyway.” The man flinched again under the force of a redoubled glare from Rells. Then he looked at the shopkeeper squarely. “Take him home. I’ll lock up the place and take care of the legal side of things. You still keep the key under that rock in the flowerpot, right? Sasha and I will be over with something hot later. Go.”

                Rells stared, and Var lifted his face from his hands again. “You know… some days you actually remind me why I put up with you.” Rells managed after a moment.

                A snort. “Go.”

                “Give me a moment.” Var managed, stumbling upright to the bathroom and pouring cold water into his hands, onto his face.

                “You don’t need to hold it together,” Rells told him quiet, from the doorway.

                “I kinda think I do,” he managed, looking up slowly. “Claudia… she’d probably find it a relief if I didn’t. But the kid—Rells, the more I talk to the kid…” he paused, bit his lip. He didn’t need to tell him anything specific, there was no need to break with the confidence of a friend, even if he was a dead man. “I think… I think his life before Vincent was… really, really rough. Whatever stability he put together, whatever sense of trust he built up—he just had the foundation ripped out of his world. And he’s shutting down, hard. Talking to him feels like disarming a bomb and I don’t know what, if anything, I can do to help. But if I don’t pay attention, I’m afraid I’ll make it worse. And it’s already bad enough. I can indulge my grief later.”

                Rells nodded, slowly. “Alright. If it gets to be too much… the back room is yours. I can shut up shop if you need to scream. You’re a good man, Var.”

                An uncharacteristic display of anger—one hand made a fist, the knuckles turning white before it relaxed again. “Not good enough.”

***

                Vincent woke the next morning in a cave with a fire burning at his side. He must have cast it, though he could have sworn he was already mana drained the night previous.  Utterly tapped now—or at least, as tapped as one could get without passing out.

                Still too cold outside. Snow above knee high in most places. But now he could see where he was going.

                He noticed the lily, bobbing in the breeze of the mouth of the cave, but disregarded it. He did not trust his senses. Not any of them. Not all of them, because he could see it, and hear it rustle in the wind, and smell it too.

                That didn’t make it real. In this cold... it wasn't possible. It wasn't real. 

                After the third day, Vincent lost track of time.

***

                Sephiroth waited for Vincent.

                He woke up when the sun first peeked through the window each day, dressed himself and combed his hair carefully, then walked downstairs. Mrs. Strife was inevitably awake before him—a fact that frustrated him, a little, but sometimes he thought she was not awake much longer—she had slightly untidy hair once, and her eyes were puffy and pink. Mr. Strife was not much better—his eyes were often remote, and frozen, like the look they had found on the face of a deer that had been mostly eaten by wolves. He disappeared into his workshop a lot, and there was the sound of sawing lumber and pounding nails for hours at a time. Then he’d be back, smelling of oak dust and looking tired as well as strained. He never spoke after being out there—he went to the kitchen table, and set his head down against the wood. Sephiroth could smell saltwater.

                He ate, because they fussed if he didn’t. He went outside because they asked him to. They thought he couldn’t hear what they said when he was outside. He didn’t tell them he could hear them fine. It wasn’t a big house.

                He liked the front porch—it faced east, the direction they had come from, and the road. So when they asked him to go outside and play, he would sit on the porch with his stuffed dragon and his previously-taboo book of stories, and wait. When people came over, to talk to them, he listened from there—just in case they had come to say… important things. Things that mattered. They mostly didn’t.

                “Hey. Can I do anything for you, buddy? Do you want a story?”

                Seph gave Mr. Strife a look, sideways from narrowed eyes. The man had been trying to spend time with him a fair amount in the past few days, though his attempts often terminated in the trips out to his woodwork shop. He wasn’t sure why. But… a story did sound good. He’d like a story. He nodded, slowly, and froze in place when he saw what was in the man’s hands, his grip on the dragon turning to a stranglehold.

                “You left it on the kitchen table.” Mr. Strife said, quietly, with his book of Cetra dragon stories in his hands. “Is it a favorite? I could read something out of—”

                Careless, careless! He’d never give it back—it was frivolous, useless, he’d been selfish and childish to hang onto it—your training is too important for you to waste time on— he wasn’t good enough, he didn’t deserve—

                His breath abruptly came in hard pants, and he started shaking, looking at the book—he should… he didn’t deserve—

                “Seph? Buddy? Okay, I can see that something is wrong, but I can’t tell what. Can you help me? I don’t want to make you upset, that’s not what I’m trying to do—”

                “I don’t like causing you pain.”

                Stupid, stupid risk. If he gave up and didn’t fuss, they might not be mad at him for having it. But he couldn’t help himself. “Please. Please give it back?” Vincent liked please, and requests. But Vincent wasn’t here.

                Mr. Strife did that go-more-still thing he sometimes did when talking to Seph. Then he smiled. It looked forced. “Okay. Okay, yeah. Here—” he slid the thin volume into Seph’s lap, under the stuffed dragon. “Okay, you hold that, and I’ll get a different book, okay? We can do that.” Seph, bent double to clutch at the book in disbelief, nodded, eyes shut and burning. “Alright. Sit tight little man, I’ll be back with something… new. You like chocobos, right? I’ll get a story about chocobos.” He reached down and ruffled Seph's hair as he went, and Seph choked, soundless, into the dragon's shoulder.

                It had been days since they got back. Rells ran his shop, but closed early most days and opened late. The Lockharts, Mrs. Lockhart in particular, stopped in often. There was no sign of Vincent.

***

                A week after the Strifes made it back to Nibelheim, Vincent arrived. His footsteps were unsteady, and as he walked into town people stopped what they were doing to stare at him, but he offered no indication he had seen. He walked, or rather, stumbled to the general store, found the owner staring back at him blankly.

                “Rells. I will take… the strongest healing potion you have right now.” His voice was low, and out of breath.

                The man stared at him for a long moment before nodding, slowly and fishing under the counter without looking away. Vincent wanted to bark at him to hurry, but that would have taken energy. He braced his gauntleted hand against the counter, to hold himself up, and startled when the man slid a rather large potion bottle across the table against it. He blinked, looked up slowly. His head was a heavy weight on his neck. “What… do I owe you?”

                “Nothing, Vincent. This one’s on the house.” Rells said, very softly. Vincent frowned, opened his mouth, then shut his eyes and shook his head.

                “I’ve no extra energy to argue with you today.”

                Rells might have said, “good,” but it was hard to tell—standing straight and taking the potion in hand made his head spin, and when he put the bottle to his lips, it was bitter and it burned all the way down, as they sometimes did when you really needed them. He bent double and pressed his lips together to make sure it stayed down for one long, fiery moment—it felt like he was ablaze from within—and found himself gripping the counter again, a noise clawing it’s way out between his teeth that could have been a groan of pain or a growl of defiance, and he couldn’t have told anyone which was which.

                He hoped he hadn’t damaged the man’s counter.

                He must have lost a moment there, because suddenly Rells was behind him, a hand pressed to his back to steady him, and he jerked in place in startlement, and then fear. If he lost control—

                Rells was talking. Quiet steadying nonsense that he had no patience for, so he cut him off. “Seph. The boy—”

                “He’s fine, Vincent. He’s been waiting for you since the Strifes got back. He’s at their place.” The man’s other hand came up and caught his elbow as he wavered—and he knew it for an attempt to help and an attempt to entrap in one breath. But they couldn’t both be the case. Right? “You should go there—Mrs. Strife—”

                He lost the next words in a wash of light, and blinked, shaking his head to try to adjust. He must have lost another moment, because Rells was in a different position—hands on his shoulders, holding him upright. “Vincent! Look at me—”

                Vincent looked past him—just outside the door, what looked to be half of Nibelheim stared at them, as if he were a ghost. “Oh for heaven’s sake!” he snapped, surprising both himself and Rells with how normal he sounded, taking half a step forward—Rells resisting, but not successfully. “This isn’t a parade! I’m—”

                And that was when his legs gave out on him, and his vision went to white. He felt the impact of his knees against the ground, though not his shoulders, and the urgent noises Rells made all blended together.

                He dreamed of a field of flowers, and a woman singing. Lillies or poppies? It… did it matter?

Chapter Text

                Sephiroth heard the people approaching, of course. Heard the babble—heard the name.

                Vincent.

                He wanted to run to the door, out onto the street, to find him. But.. they were worried. Scared. If Vincent was hurt… then they wouldn’t let him see him. And… hurt people vanished, sometimes.

                So he didn’t run to Vincent. He ran to the guest room, the spare room that the Strifes used for patients and guests, and almost shut himself into the wardrobe, leaving only a crack to see by. He would hear, that was what was important. If they hurt Vincent… if Vincent was in pain, he would hear it.

                When they poured into the room, they came all at once, a flood of cloth and pale faces and voices, some of them calling his name. He bit his forearm so he wouldn’t answer, even though—

                “Do I need to check if your ears are working, boy?”

                He bit down harder.

                “Rells, can you find Sephiroth? I need Var in here with me—he’s helped me before, and I need someone who can actually pick Vincent up. I can’t.”

                “Of course.”

                “Let him know Vincent’s here, but—”

                “Right. Be reassuring. Of course.” The shopkeeper’s voice faded, and Mrs. Strife shooed the rest out of the room. Vincent was pale and limp on the bed, not so much as groaning or shifting his weight. A bad sign. Sephiroth could smell blood, most of it dry, and… something burned. He trembled as Mrs. Strife started to peel away the cape, or tried to.

                “Can’t work the buckles?”

                “No. Crusted. Hot water and a cloth?”

                “You usually just cut them off.”

                “I usually just have a shirt to cut off, not a pile of straps and buckles to beggar the mind of a leather smith. Who the hell needs this many—anyway, point is, I think I might end up jostling him more that way. And I’m not sure my shears are up to… I thought it was just a leather shirt. This is closer to armor.”

                “Right. I’ll ease the shoulders up, you pull.”

                They did. Vincent didn’t so much as murmur. He was breathing steadily, if… wrongly. Too often and too shallow, as if he could pull in air to a certain point and then stopped for pain.

                “His shirt is caught on—it’s a gauntlet, right? Not a prosthetic? How the hell do we get it off?”

                Sephiroth hesitated.

                “I don’t know. Do we need to?”

                “Yes we fucking need to. He’s been out in the elements for days and metal is conductive, leaving something cold against his skin is—”

                “Right. Then…”

                They wouldn’t do it right. Maybe they would hurt him, getting the gauntlet off. Sephiroth took a deep breath and eased open the door—Var jumped sideways, but Claudia, examining the metallic limb, froze for a moment. “I can get it off. You don’t know how.”

                “How long have you—”

                He looked back at them, then stepped forward, trying to remember exactly how it was done—then started. Mr. Strife and Mrs. Stife went pale at the first of the loud cracks—“he doesn’t like taking it off, so he mostly doesn’t. So it makes noise when he does.” He laid the pieces out the way Vincent had, in the vague shape of a hand on the endtable. Then darted to the far corner. If they decided to catch him, he would see them coming. But he kept looking back to Vincent.

                “Alright.” Mr. Strife murmured, but then he looked at the man’s arm and his eyes went wide. “Oh Shiva, you Bitch.”

                Sephiroth and Mrs. Strife both gave him a look, though Mrs. Strife went a little pale, looking at the limb. It was black, as it had been the last time of course, and that… “it’s not frostbite!” he barked out.

                “Var… maybe get him out of here.”

                “Yeah…” Var reached forward to grab him—he stepped to one side.

                “No, look! The arm doesn’t have frostbite—it’s too large and the joint is a little wrong, but it’s not cold-wrong. His arm is messed up, but it’s not frostbite messing it up. It’s just it.”

                Mrs. Strife looked at him—too bright eyes in the darkness he had summoned, “you know I really pity you—”

                He shivered. She looked down again—“Okay. Yeah. I see what you mean. Frostbite doesn’t give a man claws.” She looked to him again. “What else can you tell me about Mr. Vincent?”

                “I… I don’t know.”

                She looked at him, slowly nodded. “Alright. You think on that while I get the rest of this shirt off—Shiva’s sharp tits!”

                “In front of the boy, honey?”

                She pulled loose hair out of her face. “Hush, Var. Seph… do you know anything about these scars?”

                Seph shook his head, slowly, looking them over. Apart from the big one, they weren’t too weird—he supposed there was a lot of them though. Two looked pink and new—maybe just closed. “The bruising looks really bad. And that’s an electrical burn.”

                “Yeah. I’m about to work on that."

                 "From the fight and closed with the Hi-potion?"

                 She shook her head, slowly. "Some of these weren't from combat. Var, honey? I need all the hot water bottles we have packed with warm—not hot—water, then packed around every bit of Vincent’s core that I’m not working on.”

                “Not your usual method for possible hypothermia.”

                “I don’t think any of us want to be in arms reach when he wakes up, honey,” she murmured, eyes on the scars, then fished her restore materia out of a pocket.

***

                Sephiroth watched, knees pulled to his chest and arms wrapped around, clutching his dragon. But they didn’t try to do anything bad to Vincent. They didn’t have scalpels or the beeping tube machines even. Mr. Strife tucked hot water bottles around Vincent, until he started shivering again, which seemed weird but he had seen it before, and Mrs. Strife only poured swirls into him, to ease the bruising—

                --massive contusion likely symptomatic of internal hemorrhage—

                -- and the burn and as he watched he could hear Vincent’s breathing come easier, slower and deeper. His swirl-patterns, multicolored and wild, started to slow down, less erratic and more sustainable. Her swirl pattern was growing dim, though—he could see her fingers start to shake with the effort.

                Taking swirls was bad, and hurt people. Could he… give them? Seph trained his eyes on one hand, looking—he was very swirl-bright, always had been—he didn’t want to pass out like the nasty tech, but if he took out… just a little, and reached—her hands, hovering over Vincent’s body, eased, their motions becoming smoother and more easy again as she went.

                He was… so tired. He rested his head on his knees, just for a moment, but then… he needed. To keep watching…

                His head slumped onto his knees as they worked.

***

                “I think that’s all we can do.” Claudia murmured, wishing, not for the first time, that she worked at a hospital as a doctor proper and not a mere healer. They’d be able to do much more for him there—heated IVs and imaging technology and thermal scans. But what she could do, she had done. “Seph—Seph?”

                Var vaulted over the foot of the bed and put out a hand cautiously—“Asleep. Between the fear and adrenaline…”

                She relaxed. “He’ll probably sleep like a rock. Okay, take him to… the couch, I guess. For now. We should tell Rells we found him—” She took a step and her knees wobbled, Var tensing in case he had to catch her. She caught herself, offered him a smile.

                “Okay. I’ll do both of those. Stay here and sit down for a bit, would you? We’ll need to keep an eye on that one anyway.”

                “From across the room. Just to be safe.” Claudia murmured, and relaxed only when Var nodded. Then when he had left, she tweaked the lights so that they were far more yellow than white. No sense taking chances.

***

                He woke up warm, which surprised him. He didn’t recognize the sensation at first. It hurt, a bit… but that wasn’t really surprising, and he had dealt with worse.

                It was dim, though not dark, and after a long, slow moment, he realized he was in a bed under a thick quilt, stripped down to his pants... no too loose and too warm. Someone else's pants, with a fire crackling a few feet away, and a lot of hot water bottles tucked around him. His mind drifted for a moment, and then he tried to sit up, feeling his left arm with his right.

                No gauntlet. Only warped flesh.

                He bit back a curse and looked around—the sudden movement made his head spin, and a gentle cough drew his attention to the far corner of the room. Claudia was crocheting, the movement practiced and easy, and her eyes were trained on the yarn. She couldn’t have looked less like a medic if she tried… which might have been what she was doing.

                She was a healer. She could probably tell what most of the scars on his body were from.

                “You had me worried for a bit.” She said, eyes still on the yarn—the least threatening picture possible. “You were mana exhausted, dehydrated, hypothermic and you’ve lost weight. Which you did not have to lose. Not to mention just regular exhausted. Plus the electrical burn, which is still causing me stress. Which was… a relief. I didn’t expect to see you again at all.”

                “I got that impression,” he managed, his throat feeling like sandpaper and his brain, like cotton candy. She finally looked up at him. He expected revulsion—his arm was… well. Impossible to mistake for human. She looked sad.

                “Water, Vincent? It’s been a day since they brought you in—you have to be thirsty.”

                “I… please.” His arms felt like rubber when he tried to raise them to take the cup from her, and she shook her head, gently.

                “You’re not steady. Let me help.”

                It took a long moment before he could make himself nod. She waited until he did to sit next to him and ease him into a sitting position to match, letting him lean against her and bringing the cup to his lips. He hadn’t realized just how thirsty he was until that moment—only experience stopped him from gulping. Sips. That was the only safe way to go.

                The cup was still empty too quick.

                “Let’s see if you can keep that down? You threw up… quite a lot as soon as you started to warm up. The hi-potion Rells gave you helped, but… you were in rough shape.”

                He nodded, slowly. Eyes shut. Then he took a deep breath and opened them again. He thought if he kept them shut too long he would probably pass out again before asking anything. “Seph?”

                That smile belonged on someone else’s face. “He’ll be furious he missed you waking up. He’s worried but putting on a brave face other than hovering. He fell asleep a few hours after we got you back—sitting up in the corner over there. Var tucked him into a bed. I’m not sure if he’s stubborn or just terrified for you. Maybe both.” 

                Eyes shut again, the dim light was still too bright. “Those aren’t our only options. I don’t think he knows how to… be less intense. I’m working on it.”

                That hard edge to her voice. He recognized it. “Who the hell was raising him? Before?”

                “Shinra. He doesn’t remember his mother. Took a while to get his custody transferred to me.” Technically… not a lie. Technically. He brought a hand over his eyes which helped with the light but not with the growing sense of paranoia—he should not be in a healers home, he shouldn’t be looking away--

                He heard her raised eyebrows in her voice—in his mind’s eye, she looked like Cloud. Vincent’s throat burned, and he leaned to the side, pressing his lips together so he wouldn’t vomit. “Easy. Don’t force it. You took on Shinra in a legal argument? You’re either braver or crazier than I thought—and I just saw you take on a breeding nest of monsters. Don’t worry about Seph. They’re pretty resilient at this age… and he’s taken to you. You two will figure it out.”

                “Why aren’t you alarmed?” he finally choked out, past the bile in his throat, making himself look, though it felt like pins in his eyes. Waved a hand at his arm when she gave him an odd look. “This is—”

                “Possibly the reason you were able to survive saving my life, my husband’s, and my unborn son’s. I won’t hate it.” When he looked at her sharply (reducing the world briefly to a wash of white again, though this time he kept his sense of hearing), she was still smiling when he could see again. “Early stages yet, with the pregnancy. Haven’t told anyone else in town. We… didn’t think we could get pregnant.”

                “I—congratulations.” He couldn’t think. Wouldn’t. It hurt.

                Cloud.

                “Thanks. My husband helped undress you—sorry. You’re a bit heavy for me. Apart from us, the only one who saw is your Seph, who I assume knew. He didn’t even blink. Not at the arm and not at the scars.  No one else in town heard about it. No one else will. Though keeping visitors away has been a neat trick.”

                His eyes were burning. He shut them against the sensation and shuddered. “Thank you.”

                “Don’t thank me. You’re the one who saved our asses. We’re just not being asses about it.” She hesitated. “Scared me on that front too, though. Good thing Seph was there—we didn’t know how to get the gauntlet off, and then… it bears more than a passing resemblance to extreme frostbite. Tried to get him to leave before that, but… he refused.”

                He felt… vague approval. “You gave him an order and he disobeyed? I’ll have to throw him a party.”

                She looked at him sharply. “You’re that casual about someone mistaking your condition?”

                He was too tired for this. “You’d have figured it out. It bleeds.”

                She shuddered, then took a breath. “Are those bullet scars?”

                More stable territory. “The round ones as wide as my thumb, puckered? Yes.”

                “Over your heart and a lung?”

                He raised his eyebrows to that. Let her draw her on conclusions.

                “And the big one?” He had a lot of ‘big’ scars… but he knew which one she was referring to. The one that came down diagonally from each shoulder, met in the middle, and went down the rest of his torso.

                He gritted his teeth—that one was impossible to explain. She misinterpreted and laid a hand—just the fingertips really, against the top of his right shoulder. The least damaged bit of skin available, the lightest and least threatening touch. “I guess I know why you never sought out my help before. I won’t ask about the others, just… if you need help, remember that I’m a friend, alright?”

                Easy enough to figure out that something fucked up had happened. Harder to realize the extent. He managed a nod.

                She paused. "Seph slept like a rock as soon as we had things vaugely in hand-- I guess he was sleeping less than we thought. But... Vincent? I'm going to ask one question and I need you to be completely honest with me. Are you... is it safe for him to to be around you when you're hurt? Or anyone else?"

                He took a deep breath. "They boy has been with me on camping trips when I was exhausted and worried-- he's probably safe. I'm used to him being around when I'm not completely aware. But... if I mistook someone for lab personnel, or they seemed to be trying to sneak around me..."

                "Understood. I'll be as country and obnoxious as possible." He offered her the best grin he could muster-- singularly unimpressive at the moment. “Tired?”

                Unimaginably. His head felt like a lead ball on a willow wand—the fingertips, still lingering on his shoulder, exerted gentle force—in no parallel universe could she have forced him to lie down in that way, but then, that was the point. She urged without even allowing the appearance of force. A smart woman. After a moment he gave in, letting her help ease him backward.

                He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

                A few hours later, while everyone else was asleep, Seph came in. He watched Vincent for a moment-- breathing easier than he had since they brought him in-- and then, carefully, curled up next to him, his eyes watering. It took him hours to fall asleep, only as the cold light of dawn started to spill over the frosted windowsill. 

***

                The second time he woke up, it was to a warm, shivering weight burrowed against his chest. His right arm had gone mostly numb from the weight of it. Outside, it was night. 

                Short, shoulder length hair on the head, reddish in the firelight. Vincent twitched his arm gently—trying to get an idea of if he could slide out from under the boy without waking him up—and cat eyes flew open.

                They stared at each other awkwardly for a long moment before Vincent managed a half-smile—unobscured by the collar because he wasn’t wearing it. “Seph. Sorry I kept you waiting for so long.”

                Little eyes began watering and his chin started to shake. “You… you said you would be back…and I waited and waited… and they said you wouldn’t and I was scared—”

                “Hey… easy there…”

                “And they only said it when they thought I couldn’t hear but I could and that’s the worst because then you know they believe it—” The boy’s voice was raising, interrupted only by hiccups and little tremors.

                “Seph, buddy, try to keep it down, shhh….” Vincent tried to sit up, managed, slowly, though the motion still made his vision lurch around. Pulled the child tighter against him with his tingling right arm and monstrous left.

                “-and they thought maybe someone would come get me and I don’t want to go back to Shinra, I want to stay with you, and then you were all hurt—"

                The boy’s volume had escalated to fully blown sobbing now, and Vincent registered, a few rooms over, the dull sounds of panic—sudden, intense sobbing from a sickroom was rarely a good thing. A few things slammed, a light crash—he hoped it wasn’t anything too valuable—and a thunder of footsteps announced his second guest—Cloud’s father.

                He had been wrong, when he thought the man looked nothing like Cloud. Certainly, Cloud had gotten his hair color from his mother—and his chin, his eyes, his smile, but the way the man held his shoulders, expecting bad news—that was all Cloud. The way his eyes swept over the room, taking in child, mostly upright patient attempting to hold and console said child, and a lack of sudden gore or obviously misplaced anatomy—Cloud. The way he rocked back onto his heels, the way the skin around his eyes relaxed, the slight cock of the head and the ‘ok?’ signal—Cloud. Cloud might not have gotten any features from his father, but that didn’t mean his father had no presence on him.

                Vincent managed, through his shock at the revelation, to offer up an apologetic smile and a slow nod, a glance down at the little one and a mouthed ‘sorry’, which the man waved off with a roll of the eyes, and a slight grin as he excused himself out the door again. He didn’t even glance at his arm, monstrous and on full display between them.

                He missed his team. Their absence felt like an arrow to his heart. But right now the boy was far more urgent. The boy, who hadn’t even realized that he had woke the other inhabitants of the house, lost in his terror and misery. He was loud. And probably not just to Vincent’s enhanced senses. But… let them bear with it for now, if they were willing. “It’s okay now, Seph.”

                “You could have—”

                “I’m fine. I’m fine. Shhhh,” he murmured, pulling the boy in closer and tucking his head under his chin. “I’m right here.”

                “But—”

                “I promised I would come back, didn’t I? I’m here. I’m right here. And I’m okay.” He hesitated, then, with his human arm, pulled the boy’s hand up and pressed it flat against his chest. It made him want to launch himself backward—there were scars there, and half memories that still came clear when he had nightmares. Touch, a hand there, felt like death. Like… worse. But the heartbeat seemed to reassure the child in a way that his mere presence hadn’t, so he held himself still and if he shook with the effort, the boy was crying too hard to notice. “See. I’m alright. I’ll be fine, Seph.”

                The scars probably worked against him there, too. Hard to convince someone you were fine when they could see the evidence of all the times you hadn’t been. The bullet scars were hardly the only ones. And the boy wasn’t old enough to start looking at scars as evidence of all the things that tried to kill you and couldn’t. Probably.

                The sobs didn’t stop, but they slowed. Became more exhausted than forceful, then frequently interrupted by hiccups. The boy cried himself out in Vincent’s arms, his hand over Vincent’s heart to reassure himself that the man was here and alive, Vincent murmuring reassurances as he fell asleep. He kept going for a bit, after he knew the little one was asleep--whispering into the silver hair, coppery in this light. Funny, it was easier to hold him when he was out.

                It was about ten minutes after that that there was a light tap at the door—Vincent tensed, wanting to put himself between the unknown and the little one, but… it was all he could do just then to stay upright. A moment later, thought returned, and he shut his eyes, stifling what could have been a laugh or a sigh in the boy’s hair. “Come in. Just be quiet.”

                Clouds father… no, better to think of him as Var, for now. It hurt less. Var poked his head in the room, sympathetic eyes and voice low. “He asleep?”

                “Yes. Sorry about that—”

                Var—no, it didn’t matter what he thought of him as. That was Cloud’s father, looking back at him—Cloud’s father only smiled. “Scared the living shit out of us, but honestly I’m surprised he didn’t break down sooner. Don’t pull that shit again, Vincent. Kid needs you, and we happen to like having a monster hunter around.”

                He coughed into his shoulder. “Sorry.”

                “Well, I suppose I can forgive you. Since you did save all our lives. And there was no way any of us would have survived without your quick thinking. You know. Small things.”

                Vincent felt his eyebrows lift. Thinking clearer now, he could recall… “Neither of you are pissed? I did pull a gun.”

                “Shiva’s sharp tits, Vincent. It was obvious that you were saving our lives even in the moment—no, I’m not pissed. That said, you manage to make my wife shed this many tears over another man ever again, you and me are gonna have words.” The words were flippant, dismissive.

                 Cloud wouldn’t have used so many words. But he would have said something similar. Vincent snorted and shook his head—the man cut him off.

                Cloud would have done that too.

                “Anything I can get you? Feeling alright?”

                “Fine.”

                “Thirsty?”

                Vincent sighed. “Not until you meantioned it.”

                A quiet laugh. “Yeah, it tends to work like that. Wait here—I’ll get water. Or… we have tea, if you like? Lavender tea, fixed the house way? Great for sleep.”

                “I’m afraid to ask what that means.”

                “Honey, butter, and cream.”

                He blinked. Stared. “That sounds—”

                “So bizarre you have to try it?”

                “I was going to say it sounded like an abomination before Leviathan, but…sure. I’ll try anything once.”

                The man nodded and came back a few minutes later with a mug of tea, pressing it into the one hand Vincent could work free cheerfully. “So, you know that the neighbors heard that, freaked out and jumped to conclusions, right?”

                “… sweet Shiva.” Vincent managed, setting the tea down on a nightstand. “I’m sorry.”

                “Don’t be. I sorted it out, after a bit. Kid needed to cry anyway. It was getting… unnatural. And by rights you really should be dead.”

                By whose rights? Nature? Magic? The strange rules monsters imposed upon themselves? “Yes. I really should.”

                “But, by rights or otherwise, you’re not. And that’s… very good.”

                They sat in silence for a while, sipping tea—which was good, even if his mother’s family would have been furious that he had such little regard as to put butter in it—and Vincent sighed. “So. How many of the neighbors…?”

                “More than you would be comfortable with. It’s a small town, he was loud, the lady next door is a snoop and noticed lights flipping on, and when people go outside at night other people notice.”

                “… I am not comfortable with any.”

                “I guessed as much, mystery man. Just roll with it—you were going to get odd looks when you stepped outside after this anyway. Now they’ll be a bit more confused, that’s all.” He smirked as Vincent scowled. “You survived in a blizzard up on a mountain, alone, with next to no gear. I’m afraid that means something more to them than the monsters does—they know the power of the blizzard.”

                “You speak like you aren’t one of them.”

                “Originally from a different town—moved because Claudia asked me to, said the town needed a healer here. Another carpenter is mostly moot, but never useless. Besides… I felt the approach of that monster nest. I’m still surprised any of us are alive, let alone the man who had to… how did you deal with that, anyway? You have a scary limit break you’re hiding from the rest of us?”

                Vincent managed not to react to that one. “That’s been said. Rather not talk about it. The nest shouldn’t be a problem.”

                The man leaned back in his seat and whistled, low and impressed. Vincent rolled his eyes. You should see what your son would have done to that nest, and without shifting shape.

                Maybe Cloud wouldn’t, now. He’d have no reason to become what he was. Hopefully.

                Seph shifted in his arms, suddenly, and Vincent barely managed to catch himself before he spilled tea on them both, setting it down briefly. “Hey. Go back to sleep.”

                “Wanna story,” the boy muttered, half awake and muffled by Vincent’s torso.

                “You’re too tired for a story now, and so am I. Later.”

                “Promise?”

                “Promise. I’ll be right here.”

                Var managed not to make any sound until the boy seemed fully asleep again. “That is the most childlike thing the kid has done this whole time. He should do it more often, he’s adorable.”

                “Oh please don’t let him hear you say that. He might stop.”

                Var snickered, quietly, and sipped at his tea again.

                “So. What was the crash?”

                Var smiled a smile. It was a very particular smile—a smile Vincent had seen on Cloud’s face, but only once. When a troop of Shinra soldiers had cornered him away from the group and said something to the effect of ‘there is no escape’.

                There had been an escape. For Cloud. He hadn’t even needed help.

                “A very ugly vase. From my mother-in law.”

                “Well. Now I feel less guilty.”

                Var laughed, and Vincent could see his son in the flash of his amusement. “Good. Now finish your tea—you should sleep, a lot, over the next few days yet. You’ve worn yourself a bit thin, Vincent.”

                Normally Vincent would have laughed. But… he could feel exhaustion that he knew would turn to shaking in his arm, and he still had Sephiroth’s tears drying on his chest. “Probably wise.”

Chapter Text

                Var woke tired the next morning, but smiling and restless. He looked at his wife—she was usually a morning person, but the stress of the last few days had taken it out of her, and she was sleeping like a brick, jaw open and drooling on the pillow, hair in disarray. He chuckled and kissed the top of her head, then eased out of their bed. He wasn’t terribly quiet on the stairs—only so much was possible, there, and he half expected to see little Sephiroth, perfectly groomed and awaiting him at the breakfast table, but not this morning. Probably last night had taken it out of him too.

                An unusual situation, being the first in the kitchen. He wanted to eat, but nothing looked good. They needed to go shopping, get some staples. This disinterest in what was there, though, was a condition that usually went away with a bit more awareness—he started to make coffee.

                Coffee, gift of Bahamut unto this mortal plane, proof that the gods valued productivity.

                He took the kettle off right before it started whistling—Claudia liked the noise, but he had noticed Seph flinching and hunkering down when he heard it, even from a room off—and so he rejoiced in the spoils alone—hot coffee, glorious hot coffee.

                No cream. They really fucking needed to go shopping. But he could do without. Blessed awareness filtered through with each sip.

                He could really go for donuts.

                No sense heading out when no one else was awake to tell him what they wanted, though. He went to his workshop and sanded his latest project. Almost done. His Lordship hadn’t asked for embellishments… but he wanted to put something on it anyway. But what? He stared at his creation, undone because he insisted he was not done, for half an hour, then growled at it—it ignored him, rude bastard—and went back inside. Someone was surely awake by now, and could direct him to what other donuts he should buy. No sense buying just for himself.

                Except no one was. He frowned at the empty common room, then leaned against the counter and had another cup of coffee. It was making him outright hungry, now. He liked the crème filled donuts. Claudia preferred the braided things that were sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. Vincent… did Vincent eat donuts, or merely raise an eyebrow at them while ingesting coffee? Though he seemed to like the tea more than the coffee—then again, that could have been the sheer attentiveness granted by someone truly in need of food and water.

                Important questions.

                Sephiroth would want some kind of donut, surely. It was weird that he wasn’t awake. Claudia was unusual, sure—boundless energy, that one, but she was newly pregnant, stressed to hell and back, and had just healed the biggest bruise known to mankind and an electrical burn, which he had heard usually looked a lot better than they were. And insisted on staying awake until the man’s condition had stabilized. After not sleeping for like a week from guilt and grief. But why was Sephiroth still asleep? He went and tapped on the door, and let himself in, not trying to be quiet just subdued. Vincent was going to need a lot of rest, yet.

                The man was alive. Still a strange and glorious thought. Alive and making rapid strides.

                Sephiroth peeked up at him from his position, huddled as close to Valentine as humanely possible without actually touching him, red eyed from last night and rubbing the grit free of them. He gave Var the same look he gave the monsters that had beset them in the mines, and Var raised his hands and smiled. “It’s okay. It’s just me. You okay?”

                Cautious nod.

                “Right. I was wondering what kind of donuts you and Vincent like. I was going to run down to the bakery and grab some, and I—what?” The boy looked baffled. “Bahamut, please tell me you know what a donut is?”

                “Of course!” the boy’s voice was trying to be scornful, but mostly managed unsure. “It’s a baked… confection that you eat.”

                Var felt appalled. “You’ve never had one, have you?” After a long moment the boy reluctantly shook his head. “okay… Seph, wanna come with me to the bakery? I could use the help.”

                The boy’s eyes flicked to Vincent. “I—”

                “You don’t have to, of course. But if you come, we could pick up a pie or cake for later, and donuts for now. Does Vincent like donuts? I’d like to get him something he’d like.” He dropped his voice to a faux whisper—he had not forgotten his wife’s warning. “Don’t startle him, don’t sneak up on him, be obvious in your movements and as unthreatening as possible. Something… happened, there, Var.”

                He wasn’t sure why it had surprised him.

                “I… don’t know.” Sephiroth admitted, sounding unsure and looking uneasy. And—okay, he didn’t want to push, and the kid had been through a lot too, but he also didn’t want to let the kid wallow. That wasn’t productive, wasn’t helpful.

                Thank goodness Vincent had been able to talk to him last night. There’d be no prying him from his side without at least that. Not that it was terribly likely he’d be pried from his side either way.

                “Okay. Well, you think of that, I’m gonna leave my wife a note—we can do the same for Vincent too, if you decide you want to come with. I hope you do—you know his tastes better than I do, and I’d really like to get something he’d like. And it’d be really hard to carry a pie and a bunch of donuts by myself. Vincent could probably use the food…” he let the sentence trail off and headed back to his wife’s side—not that he missed the intake of breath from the kid.

                Sometimes it was what you pretended not to see and did not do that sealed the deal. Manipulative? Yes. Unwarranted? Good question. Probably still wouldn’t work.

                He sketched out a note, put it under her glass of water—an old practice between them. He put notes under her water glass, she put them under his coffee mug, full or otherwise. Then he went back to the sickroom. Hie eyes fell on the spot where the vase used to be—he had swept it up before going to sleep—and he smiled and then frowned.

                Shiva Ablaze, if he never had another scare like that… the idea that something had happened, now, after everything…

                A lot of people had died in this house. Nature of his wife’s profession. Logging accidents, sickness, childbirth gone horribly wrong. Var’s illusions had long gone the way of…. Well. Of the first man he’d seen with his ribcage crushed by a falling tree.

                Vincent was fine. And he’d even gotten rid of that hideous vase. Today was a good day.

                Voices from the sickroom again—this time they were a comfort. Vincent’s low rumble, indistinct and almost inaudible—Seph’s higher and more distinct tones, almost clear through the door. They both got clearer as he got closer.

                “It’s fine. You should go, I can’t believe I forgot to introduce you to donuts.” Vincent’s tone wasn’t without humor, at least. All things considered, he was in miraculously good condition—and Var was still vaguely surprised that he was awake.

                “But you’re—”

                A pause. “It’s safe here, Seph. The Strifes are friends.” Another murmur, this too low to be made out. “-safe here. I wouldn’t have sent you with them if—” another indistinct murmur, “—trust them.”

                Probably too much listening in. He reached out and knocked on the door, announced himself. “Hey! Surprised you’re awake, Vincent. You need anything?”

                “No. I’m fine, Var.”

                “Nothing to drink?”

                The man’s eyes—they seemed more intense in a half-dark room, somehow, as if they gave off just a little light of their own… and honestly at this point he wouldn’t be surprised—shifted to him. “Seph got me water a few minutes ago. I’m fine.”

                “You could probably do with a whole pitcher.”

                “I can get it?” Seph said, brightening a little with a task to perform—he ran down the stairs and Vincent sighed, levering himself mostly upright. Which… he really shouldn’t.

                Var was smart enough not to pick that fight. “He explained, yes? You mind me borrowing the kid?”

                “No. Probably good for him to go out—He can be a little touchy out in public, though. Particularly if people fuss.”

                “Right.” He frowned, thinking of the rumor mill, then shrugged. “I shall beat off the gawkers with a stick, should I need to.”

                “I’d pay to see that.” Vincent murmured, then shut his eyes again, starting to wobble a little—Var took a few steps forward, just in case, and Vincent shook his head. He stopped.

                “You should probably sleep more,” he said instead, looking off to the side as Vincent braced himself up.

                “I don’t think I’ll have much say in the matter. Staying awake this long is a trial.”

                “Then go to sleep.”

                The man’s lips quirked in what might have been a smile. “In a moment. For the record though, I like raspberry filled donuts.”

                A worthy donut, not like those nut-covered things. “Why—” Var was interrupted by Seph’s reappearance, bearing a pitcher of water that he set carefully by the glass Vincent had emptied.

                “Thank you, Seph.”

                Incredible how little it took from Vincent to make the boy light up, much as he tried to hide it. “Sir!” and then… the boy hesitated. “Are you sure it would be alright if I went, sir?”

                “We’ve talked about this. First, at most formal, I will accept Mr. Vincent. Second, yes, by all means, go.”

                A flinch that was more not-motion than motion and had Var and Vincent both freeze. “Is… is that an order, si—Mr. Vincent?”

                Vincent stared at the boy for a moment, face like a statue, or like he was trying to recognize what was in front of him and failing. And then his eyes softened and he lowered his tone. “No, Seph. It’s not an order. Come here for a second?” The boy hesitated more, this time, Var thought, because he was afraid of hurting the man than because he didn’t want to, and he went stiff for a moment when Vincent pulled him into a hug. Var pretended to be interested in something outside of the shuttered window while the man murmured something into the kid’s hair—he suspected the kid was uncomfortable enough without an audience.

                After a moment the volume climbed to where he could hear them again. “So, no, it’s not an order. It’s a choice. Like with the dragon. You can choose to go, and try donuts and then come back, helping Var as you go. Or you can stay here, which will probably be very boring. I’m… still very tired, and I’m probably going back to sleep. It’s fine—to be anticipated. Just boring. And I think you would like donuts.”

                “You’ll be here when…”

                “I will be right here when you get back. I’ll be surprised if I’ve moved so much as an inch.” The man tousled Seph’s hair gently, then brushed it out of his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

                “Promise?”

                “Promise.”

                The boy bit his lip, then nodded, slowly. “Okay.”

                They bundled up and headed outside, then Seph turned to him. “Vincent is… okay, right?”

                “Yeah. He’s tired, but he should be— think of it like exercise. He got a really, really, really good workout in before getting back to us.”

                “… and I suppose blood loss and healing often make the subject more tired,” the boy murmured, and Var found himself looking to him sharply, though the boy didn’t see it, looking up at the sky. “Is it going to snow? I’ve never seen it snow…. Except… I don’t think I’ll like it.”

                His first encounter with snow was running for his life and watching his guardian stay behind to hold off a bunch of monsters, then nearly freeze to death. Var took a deep breath. “Snow’s pretty nice, normally. I like sitting inside and feeling smug by the fire because it can’t make me feel cold. And it’s a good excuse to stay inside and read.” A giggle. Wonder of wonders. He decided to press his luck. “And playing in it is nice even if it’s chilly. I like snowball fights.”

                “Snowball… fights…?”

                “Yeah, we usually have a big community one later in the year—we build fortresses and divide into teams and the winners get bragging rights for a year, but everyone gets hot drinks when we’re done. And for a few months after that you have to pay attention while you walk down the street or you could get a snowball to the face. It’s fun.”

                Seph was looking at him like some breed of alien. “What are snowball fights?”

                Sometimes Var wondered where Vincent had gotten this kid from. And if there were other kids there that needed rescuing. And if he had left the adults in charge alive. He wasn’t a violent man… but sometimes bullets existed for a reason. This boy acted like every normal, enjoyable facet of life was a bizarre primordial ritual, and every horrific aspect was a normal and anticipated part of his day.

                “Well, you need the right kind of snow—”

                “There are kinds?”

                He interrupted? He interrupted! “Yeah, see, usually the first snowfall is—”

***

                “—so it can’t happen when it’s too cold, or the snow won’t pack right. You need a heavy, wet snow or the balls won’t stick together. If the snow crunches when you walk on it that’s a bad sign—it’s too cold.”

                “It crunches?” Alright, so Var was beginning to enjoy the baffled, disbelieving look on this kid’s face—one silver eyebrow raised in a hook, the other diving for his eyes.

                “Only at the right temperatures and amounts of liquid.” He opened the door and waved the boy in. “I’ll show you when it snows how to check it, and then you, Vincent and I can beat the rest of the town senseless with snowballs. I still owe Mr. Lockhart one right between the eyes from last year, and I will have my revenge. Hi Margarite!”

                “Ah, Hi Var!” Margarite was a curvy young woman—only just an adult, and he still caught himself thinking of her as the helpful teen that sometimes came to Claudia for advice-- with hair like a bramble and a timid, if cheerful disposition. She usually got the news from those who came through her bakery—and from the shocked expression and the way her eyes flicked over Seph’s smile, the rumor mill was alive and thriving.

                Just for a moment, he considered dropping the fact that his wife was finally pregnant to give them something else to talk about. All things considered he was surprised the rumor mill didn’t already ‘know’. “Everyone at our house is tired as balls, Margarite. Tired, and yet they all want to eat.” He heard the muffled snort that he was pretty sure was naturally a giggle from Seph. “So, I have come, seeking donuts for now, bread for later, and desert for after that.” He decided to ham it up, imitating the voice of an announcer on the radio and leaning on the counter. “We have a hero under our roof, Marguerite, and once he gets over sleeping like a log, he will need nourishment! Are your donuts up to the task?”

                She blinked a few times, then burst into giggles when he winked. This was why he liked Marguerite. Did she get information from inadvisable sources? Absolutely. Was she so timid as to be almost useless under stress? You bet. But did she revise when given a chance to? Yes she did. “He’s doing alright then?”

                “Apart from dropping off to sleep a few minutes after waking up, he’s doing miraculously well. Man’s like a cat, either he has extra lives in reserves or he always lands on his feet but either way… no idea how he did what he did, but darned if it’s not good to see.” He cocked his head to one side. “Apparently the man likes raspberry filled donuts. Happen to have some?”

                Slow smile, in perfect tempo with her hands relaxing. “Yeah, I have some warm ones that will be ready in a moment. What do you all want?”

                “Better get extra. I think we could all use it. So… three of my favorite, three of my wife’s favorite, three of the raspberry filled, and…” He paused. Seph was standing straight-backed, hands folded behind him, considering the donut case with a solemn confusion. “I have other stuff, but first, I require your expertise. Which donuts should one use to introduce the worthy young gentleman to this worthy subset of pastry? They shall be his first.”

                Her eyes went wide, and she shot a look at Seph, who shifted in place and looked at him uncomfortably. Then a slow, wicked smile graced her features. “Well, I suppose one must try samples to find these things out…”

                Seph looked like a puppy with his head cocked to one side like that.

***

                Almost an hour later they left the bakery with an assortment of donuts, two loaves of bread (a rye sourdough and a cheese bread) and a pie (apple). Seph was still nibbling at his last sample with a perplexed air—one with nuts and crème. Most kids hated those. Var hated those. Seph nibbled his while shooting it confused glances.

                “You don’t have to finish it if you don’t like it.” He had been offered enough ‘samples’ that he probably wouldn’t need breakfast—Marguerite was a softie. Not that Var could talk. He got him three donuts anyway, a long john with sprinkles (sprinkles mattered) a maple sugar glazed and powdered cinnamon braided ring thing that he suspected was an experiment, and a raspberry filled one. Given that the boy was more conspicuously clean than a cat, he suspected that last was emulation more than anything else, but the boy had liked it even if it was just because Vincent said he did. Good enough.

                “But I do, it’s just… weird.”

                A child who liked walnuts. Unnatural. “Okay. Let’s stop at the general store and get some cheese and milk, then head home?”

                “Okay. Why was she excited when you said I hadn’t tried donuts before?”

                “Huh. Well, you know how everyone does certain things that they do really well?”

                “Yes?”

                “She makes donuts really well, and that was a chance to show off. So of course she was excited. She got to show you how good she is at donuts.  Hi Rells!”

                Rells looked like someone had used him to wipe off the floor and then failed to wring him out. His eyes sharpened a little when Var greeted him though. “Var.”

                “Don’t let the rumor mill get you down. You know better than that. Everything is fine, and I’ll fill you in on the details later.”

                “Thank Odin. I… actually, some mail arrived for him a few days ago, I didn’t say anything because…”

                Var shook his head. “No, I understand. I can hand it off to him.” A thick envelope, with the appropriate directives on the front… and a single line of script on the bottom, in a language he couldn’t read. “What—”

                “Wutain, I think. Never was much good at languages. Presumably Vincent will know what it is.”

                “It’s Wutain. Vincent speaks it.” Seph said quietly.

                “Right. I’ll drop it off.”

                “How is everyone?” Rells asked, his eyes still tight, sparing Seph a questioning glance.

                Var smiled. “Tired. But otherwise, in miraculously good shape. When he can stay awake for more than half an hour you should come over and see for yourself. Though that may be a few days off yet, the man is just shy of narcoleptic at the moment. Don’t blame him.”

                Rells shut his eyes and swayed, and Var leaned across the counter, offering him a quick, hard, hug. He could feel Sephiroth’s eyes on them, but then, the kid seemed perplexed by a lot of things.

                Then they went home.

***

                When they got home Sephiroth cocked his head to one side, eyes widening, before dashing up the stairs. At least, that’s what Var assumed happened—what he saw was more a streak of silver. “Seph?!”

                He followed, considerably more slowly—not because he wasn’t running, but that kid was fast—and found himself in Vincent’s room, finding the man laying curled up, his arm writhing. No, that wasn’t right. Vincent was bent double, breath coming in too-controlled huffs, and his left arm broke, and straightened, and broke again.

                Vincent barely made a sound, bent double, his eyes shut and his breath regulated.  “Vincent…”

                “It’s fine,” he murmured back as the arm destroyed itself, crunching and clicking away. “It does this.” He was trying to hold it vaguely in place—right hand on his upper arm drawing it tight to his side. It reduced the amount of writhing on that part of the arm, but didn’t stop it.

                “That is not fine, Valentine,” he whispered and set down his purchases.  Seph, nearby, looked at him—not surprised, a little horrified, mostly just concerned. And that… that was…

                Vincent half laughed. “Unfortunately it rather is. And routine at that.”

                “It… happens a lot.” Seph said quietly, edging closer to Vincent. Vincent managed, somehow, in the throes of… whatever the hell this was, to look up and smile at him.

                “It’s okay, Seph.”

                “It’s hurting you.”
                “It will stop. It’s better than last time.”

                “It’s better than—how often does this happen? What’s happening?” His voice had dropped to something at the volume of a whisper with the harshness of a hiss. The writhing arm slowed and ground to a halt.

                “Something… was done that made me stronger and tougher than I should be. Body is still adjusting. That’s all.” Vincent managed. His teeth weren’t gritted, though that seemed more a gesture of control than anything—but they were close. The arm’s… contortions, were slowing. “It hurts, it stops, it fixes itself. That’s all. Not usually more than once a month, but circumstances being what they are…”

                “That’s… that’s fucked, Vincent.” The arm stopped, and the way Vincent exhaled told him more about how he really felt than the entire conversation. “Can I see it?”

                Seph’s eyes felt like razors, trailing over him, and just for a moment, Vincent offered him an oddly similar look—uneasy and untrusting, like a fox brought to bay. Then the man took a deep breath and shut his eyes and offered him the arm. Creepy, yes, blackened and warped, yes. But the bone under the skin was solid.

                “Okay. So… so it fixes itself.”

                ‘Yes.”

                Var took a deep breath, and nodded. “Can anything be done to… help?” Because the monster arm and the bone breaking itself and then knitting back together was a bit much, he was sure. But also a good long way beyond anyone’s expertise, and… okay, this was weird, this was very weird.

                Var’s father had a saying he used to use. “Don’t demand bacon then scoff at the pig farmer.” Vincent provided a service he’d likely have been dead without—or worse, maybe Claudia, with their son… his stomach clenched at the thought. But beyond that, he was a good man.

                Vincent shook his head, then after a moment, pulled the limb back gently and started rubbing it. “no. It decreases in frequency, it will happen less often as I go. Until then, it’s endured.”

                “Okay.” Var managed, slowly, because what the hell was he supposed to say? This wasn’t fine, but if nothing could be done, it would have to be. “We got donuts. Want one?”

                Vincent’s eyes widened for a moment, and then he burst out laughing. Real honest-to-god laughter, not chuckling.  “You continue to surprise me, Var.”

                “Oh you should talk! Raspberry filled, right?”

He had to wait for Vincent to finish laughing.

***

                 He made grilled cheese sandwiches for them after Vincent dropped off—the man wasn’t going to be eating a lot just yet, as much as he just wanted to shove piles of food into the man’s face. He made sure to hand off the letter before the man fell asleep though, and he had been surprised to hear another chuckle from Vincent at the inscription.

                “I may have angered my friend. Or he’s getting back into the spirit of the prank war. It says not to open it in front of Seph.”

                “Uh oh.” Var felt himself smirk. “well..”

                “Another time.”

                Seph was mostly glued to the man’s side, after all, running back upstairs after he finished his sandwich—a lunch dessert of another donut in hand, with another for Vincent if he felt up to it. Claudia was up and about—making a quick run to another home to help someone with their fussy infant, and, he suspected, to see what she could tamp down from the rumor mill.

                If ever there was a dragon to be slain, it was that one.

                After a few hours—given the continued presence of the jelly donut, he had only gone up and sat next to Vincent the whole time-- the boy came back downstairs. Var found him poking with mild interest at their modest bookshelf.

                “I don’t like that story.” Seph said, when he saw him setting down one of the books—meant for children rather younger than him, but he suspected the boy read rather indiscriminately. “The bird only gets in trouble, and he doesn’t help and he’s kinda stupid.”

                Var looked at the cover. “He kinda is. I like that one better anyway.”

                “A Mother for Chocochick?”

                “Yeah. Try it out?”

                “Okay. Can I—”

                “You want to read it upstairs? Go ahead.”

                ‘Thank you Mr. Strife.”

                Var was starting to understand why Vincent demanded the boy at least address him by his first name, even if he used “Mr.” in it.

                He called the boy back down for dinner in a few more hours, which yielded a slightly rumpled looking boy. He must have taken a nap too. He was sleeping a lot for his age—probably just the fear. “Mind helping set the table?”

                “How?”

                How—no, you know this is weird. Roll with it. “I’ll talk you through it—Claudia has left me in charge of stirring this soup. Soup is her specialty, and if it burns I will never hear the end of it.”

                “Okay.”

                “So how was the book?”

                “Kinda weird. The chick at least found someone this time, but why did a dragon insist she was his mother now? The wolf and the bear and the fox all told the chick that he wasn’t like them, and that he couldn’t be family.”

                “Spoon on the other side, buddy. And, yeah, but that was the point. The dragon decided that he needed a mother, so she decided it may as well be her.”

                “Dragons eat chocobos.”

                “Careful with the—who am I kidding, you’re not gonna drop that. Yeah, dragons do. But she didn’t eat that one. And she could have eaten the sheep and the sparrow and the deer, but she didn’t. She was their mother. Even though she wasn’t like them.”

                “I don’t get it.”

                “It’ll come to you.

                The boy fell asleep at the table, which was… adorable. And as Claudia and Var finished their soups, a thump came from upstairs.

                “I’ll make sure everything is fine.” Var said after they both froze, and ran. “Vincent? I’m coming in.”

                Vincent sounded like… he was laughing. “I’ll start out by apologizing then.” Opening the door revealed the man, half on the floor—the front half on the floor, something glittering on his face and hair, cold and white.

                “You alright?”

                “Fine—was a little surprised when the card… well. Jumped and landed not where I started, it’s awkward, that’s all.” His eyes were shut tight, and watering.

                Var looked to the source of the problem. “Is that a… dick?”

                “It inflated when I opened the card. Then it launched the glitter. And I am sorry on both counts. It’s the extra fine shit, I can tell. Impossible to get rid of.” His shoulders were still shaking with suppressed laughter, but there were tears coming from his eyes now.

                Var would have laughed if he hadn’t been concerned. “Right, let me get you back into bed. You hurt? Can you open your eyes?”

                “I got glitter in them.”

                Alright. He started to laugh. “I’ll get a washcloth and some water once you’re back in bed.”

                “Thank you.”

Chapter Text

Vincent,

Write me back you fucker. You said your trip would take one to two weeks. Fine. You asked for three, I presume as buffer. Okay. But it’s been four weeks now, and you said you would send a letter when you got back.

I will physically haul your frozen corpse out of whatever mountainous hell you stuck it in, you understand? Don’t make me write again, send something.

I am digging into the subjects you meantioned, quietly. Although I still find your caution towards Hojo to be… extreme, I have taken steps. I have kept him amused with shadows (and as a pleasant side effect, half of the other departments heads are far too busy to bother me now). My Turks are armed, always, and I will not move (barring emergency) against him until I have a more complete picture what I’m dealing with. I hope you have more for me than that, though—this is a dangerous game. I’m up to it—the knowledge that he is responsible for your absence is more than enough for that, but I need to know more. Much more.

Vincent… how did you know about Gast?

Digging up that file you asked for is proving troublesome, which is a good indicator that something messy is afoot. I’ll being what I have when I come visit.

Answer me, damn you.

                                                                                Verdot

P.s. Top THAT asshole.

P.p.s. If you’re going to bring up the incidents in Junon, I want to remind you of the one in Shinra Central. With the bungee cord. While you had a fresh cast on. I have at least as many stories as you do.

Vincent chuckled, then sighed, draping his arm over his eyes.

Seph shifted—he could have sworn the kid was asleep. He was almost never out of the room when he slept—the behavior was vaguely reminiscent of a dedicated guard dog. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, Seph. I’m alright.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Veld is gonna be… really angry, that’s all.”

“Why?”

Too many reasons. “One, because… when he learns…” What was done to me, “what kept me from him all those years, that alone will put him in a towering rage. He’s not actually that easy to push to that point… but… he will be upset.”

“At you?”

“He might aim it at me just to have a target, but… not really. That’s just venting—if I couldn’t deal with that I would never have made it as his partner. At most he might punch me once or twice and shout some threats. I’ve had far worse.”  He found himself smirking a little at the thought—

The yelling had started when he woke up, and continued while being escorted to the hospital. Vincent had been sorted to a bed and the immediate bleeding stopped—his were hardly the most dangerous injuries of the incident, just broken ribs and a lodged bullet in an unimportant spot. The yelling continued, and alarmed hospital orderlies who had come to check had been sent away without ceremony or indeed, dignity. Veld was impressive in the yelling stage of his build up to true rage. Vincent was not impressed. The yelling stage was the harmless stage. If Veld was yelling, he was still willing to be reasoned with, or putting on a show. Or venting. This was mostly venting.

Shouting back would have been a viable strategy had he been in condition for a fistfight—he was not, as the burning sensation in his lower ribs should have reminded him, or the utter numbness in his left arm. Listening and questioning was the wise move—Vincent had a nickname he heavily discouraged among the younger agents as ‘the dragon tamer’ for having figured that one out. It was very simple—when encountered with a hostile individual, one could avoid the encounter (unwise) counter with force (helpful at times) or defuse the situation. The medication keeping his pain muted, however, was known to make young fools pick fights they couldn’t win, and today was not an exception.

“And what exactly should I have done, Veld? We had three minutes before the guards changed rotation, sending a fresh shift of our men into this mess, and our tactics would have taken at least five to eliminate the threat—”

Veld grabbed his shoulders and slammed him back against the bed—he had been starting to lean farther forward. The shock of pain made Vincent hiss, and Veld cuss before looking back at him, with the slightest smile starting to fight it’s way onto his lips and his voice dropping to a murmur. “Don’t you dare pick a fight with me now, Valentine. The fact that I won’t hurt you doesn’t mean I can’t make you pay for further endangering yourself. The guards can deal with their fair share of the danger—that is their job—”

“They would have gotten in the way, muddied the situation, and—"

“And you wouldn’t have gotten shot, then slammed through a wall—”

“It was just drywall.”

“You clearly hit something solid about midway through—”

“Sir—” a new doctor, more brave than the others, was frowning at them. Vincent hadn’t been alarmed before—but before, Veld hadn’t been fighting to keep that tiny grin off his face. “If you are quite done working up your partner and endangering his health—” he cut himself off, confused, at the suddenly gentle smile on Veld’s face.

Vincent sighed. At this point he was looking forward to the anesthesia when they dug out the bullet. Sleeping sounded great. But it seemed his day wasn’t over yet.

Seph frowned. “Then why are you worried?” He hesitated, then eased forward—pulling himself further onto the bed and curling against Vincent’s side—he draped an arm over his shoulders to let him know he was fine with that, and after a moment the boy’s shoulders relaxed and he burrowed closer.

“I suppose worried is the wrong term. Veld was… is, a dear friend. And… I don’t want him upset. People can get mad on principal, but mostly when they get mad, it’s because something matters to them—in the rare instance that Veld is actually mad and not just using it for effect, it’s usually because he’s worried.”

“You don’t like making other people worry?” Oh, was that sarcasm lighting Sephiroth’s tone? He looked to the boy and couldn’t tell—he could pull off deadpan like a true champion. He huffed a laugh and hugged the kid briefly—the kid went stiff and then shuddered and rested his head on his shoulder. Something felt wet. This time he elected not to notice it—if the boy was comfortable he wouldn’t be hiding his face like that.

“No. I don’t. Sometimes it can’t be helped, but I don’t like it,” he told him, keeping his tone gentle so he would at least know he wasn’t upset. Sephiroth frowned and fell quiet again for a long moment.

He reread the letter twice, holding it above his face laying flat on the bed. He had long ago removed the offending wang so he could actually read it around Sephiroth—if Sephiroth found the glue spot where it had been anchored suspicious, he said nothing.  

“That doesn’t make sense. The lab technicians and the teachers and the nannies got mad at me, but it wasn’t because they were worried—they were mad because I didn’t learn fast enough or… didn’t help them learn what they wanted to.”

Vincent frowned. Something about the way he phrased that disturbed him. “Well, not all anger is about worry. But, you can worry for selfish reasons too. What happened when a teacher failed to get you to learn something or a technician failed to learn what they were supposed to?”

“The teachers just got replaced. But…” Sephiroth went still and after a moment Vincent looked at him. His eyes were fixed at some point that probably wasn’t in this room.

“Hey. Hey. Look at me. Easy buddy. You’re here, not there. Easy. It’s okay, you don’t have to say it.”

Tiny, lethal fists clenched. “I don’t… I don’t feel bad for them. I don’t!”

Vincent took that as a good sign, actually. Anger was also a feeling of power—no one used it if they felt themselves helpless. “You don’t have to. But you should understand—if you don’t understand someone, they have an advantage over you—an advantage they’ve already proven they will misuse. It’s okay if you don’t get it all right away, but keep asking questions— I want to answer them. I want you to learn.”

“I don’t understand you either.” A sulky tone? Vincent managed not to show his elation, though he softened his expression with a half-smile when the boy flinched. He ruffled his hair.

 “Not yet. But you will. I want to teach you. And even if you never do, I won’t hurt you.”

“…okay. Si—Mr. Vincent?”

“Yes Seph?”

Seph’s face was pressed against his shoulder again. “I… if you’re not too tired, can you tell me a story?”

He was tired. Incredibly tired. “Yeah. I’ll tell you a story. Or—can you go through my pack? There’s a brown book there, bound in leather—no, definitely not that one. Lighter brown, sorry. Yes, that. My father used to read this story to me—I was wondering if you’d like it. It has swordfighting, and pirates, and a princess who doesn’t want to be a princess.” It had men saving good people from bad authorities, unlikely allies and implausible friendships.

Seph cocked his head to one side, looking at it. “It’s a pretty thick book.”

“Yes. We won’t get through it all tonight, or even this week. But I think that’s alright, yes? Something to look forward to when we get to it.” An ongoing story might help restore some sense of sanity or routine. More than that—it reminded Seph he would be here to read it.

“Please?”

                “Well, come here then! Let’s see…. The year that Buttercup was born, the most beautiful woman in the world was a scullery maid named Annette.”

***

                Var heard what sounded suspiciously like a gasp. Vaguely concerned and also mildly amused, he allowed himself to hesitate at the door of the guest room, just to make sure everything was alright.

                “The prince doesn’t seem nice.”

                “He isn’t.” Vincent’s deeper tones were amused.

                “Why is he prince?”

                A pause. “Sometimes just because people are in charge, doesn’t mean they are who should be in charge or that they are smarter or better. Sometimes people are in charge because they are really good at things, or really smart, or because people trust them because they are good people. And when that’s the case that’s good. But sometimes they aren’t.”

                “That doesn’t seem right.”

                “Good, it shouldn’t.”

                “That’s confusing.”

                Var managed to muffle his chuckle and stepped away from the door—so they were reading a story? Good. About time those two started rebuilding their own mildly insane normal. He was on his way to his woodshop, and paused, grabbing an envelope and slipped outside. This late in the year he kept a woodstove running to prevent things from freezing or to make sure extremes in temperature didn’t warp wood—not always, but during the day when he worked in there. It kept the temperature even enough, at least.

                The envelope had nothing inside except for a tattered bit of red cloth and a lock of black hair. He’d needed to put them in something. He opened it and looked for a moment, then smiled, opened the door to the woodstove and tossed it and a new log on the fire. Then he got another cup of coffee and watched as it burned, saluting the last embers with his cup.

***

                Veld frowned, giving the woman’s dead body a last, careful nudge, then stepping back and taking his gloves off. “Murder. Or if not murder, then a coverup for something.” They looked peaceable enough, from this angle. Not at all like they both died when a floor collapsed.

                “Sir? The injuries appear natural enough—”

                “The bruising indicates that the man died before the woman.”

                “Easily explained away by the medication he was taking—”

                “Except. The man died of slow suffocation by spinal injury paralysis.”

                “Yes…?”

                “Inflicted at the same time as the near instant death via head-wound that the woman sustained? This far after the fact, that should more than make up the difference.”

                Tseng went pale, either with realization or self-directed anger at not having seen that. “Sir. I apologize.”

                Veld considered him for a moment, then nodded. “Apology accepted. You will not make that mistake again, that is sufficient. For now—I will leave the rest of this in your hands—” a show of faith. Tseng would not accept casual reassurance, even if he was still a student, but the truth behind the action would stick with him. In actuality, he would have been surprised if Tseng had noticed that fact—he was better at covert information gathering and analysis of the living than the dead, and even if he was nigh unstoppable at those, he had to be weak at something yet—that would not last, he was a perfectionist, but it would not spring up overnight.

                Sometimes you had to speak the language the other person was willing to hear rather than the one with the words that said what you meant. Besides, he had a reputation as a heartless bastard to maintain. Tseng knew the appropriate tests to order and the structural analysis to conduct—it was safe enough leaving it in his hands, even if he would much rather have been doing something. He went back up to his office with his thoughts.

                “Letter for you, sir?”

                “Thank you Linda,” he murmured to the secretary in passing who bowed her head to avoid meeting his eyes. He honestly wasn’t even sure anymore when they had started cowering before him.  He had certainly not helped matters in the last week though. He managed not to continue the trend this time at least. He grabbed the plain envelope, and once the door was shut, opened it, expecting another field report. After all, it was in a plain envelope.

                Verdot,

                You worry like my mother. We ran into a bit of a delay on the mountain—things got hairy but everything is okay now, just delayed. Come in a week or so, if you’ve the ability—I’ll be waiting.

                No caution is too extreme for Hojo. And… thank you for indulging the worry, even if you aren’t yet convinced of that.

                Let’s not discuss Gast on paper—I will tell you about him when you arrive. And any other questions you care to ask.

                Come.

                                                                                                Vincent.

P.s. I am going to top that, asshole, but I thought you might appreciate promptness rather than further delay. Fear not, I already have an idea of what to do next.

                Veld reread the letter twice, lightheaded with relief and then frowning. Not like Valentine to write something so empty of detail. But… perhaps he simply rushed to get the letter out. “The fuck do you mean, ‘hairy’?” he asked aloud, but of course no one heard him.

                He asked to distract himself from the shaking in his hands and the way the paper blurred in his vision. Relief was a powerful drug.

Chapter Text

                Veld didn’t just turn up in Nibelheim. Oh no.

                He had research to do.

                Returning to the scene where the victim was last seen was important in any missing persons case, though he had men go investigate when Vincent was reported missing.

                That was no longer enough. He came, himself, to Shinra Manor, growling at those who dared ask where he was taking his time off. Even Tseng, who by now had his respect—the man would make an admirable lead after him—was sent cowering from his office. They assumed it was romantic trouble. He let them.

                His wife knew the truth—or, part of the truth. The parts that couldn’t hurt her. “My partner. The one who was declared dead eight years ago—I found a lead. I need—”

                She had stood up, expression softening, and kissed him. Hard. Her acceptance was a balm to him, though it angered him, to need to hide even that much. She had met Vincent—they had gotten along, even accepted each other as surrogate siblings-in-law to be—she would have felt joy to know that he was alive. She would have declared Vincent the godfather of their daughter, a role left unfulfilled in his absence. Neither of them had family, outside of what they made.

                Vincent had been family.

                Vincent, somehow, wasn’t dead. He was changed, yes—quieter even than before, with crimson eyes and… a prosthetic arm? Something else? Why wear a gauntlet on only one arm? But it was Vincent. His anger might have his eyes changing colors, but Veld still knew him well enough to know that it was anger. And his reaction to the photos—yes. Vincent had always been remarkably easy to guilt. One who took responsibility for everyone.  

                Even for that which was unquestionably Veld’s fault.

                He knew the man, even under his unfamiliar gear and eerie eyes—knew him like his own image in the mirror. Knew the angle of his head as he listened and the slow, dry sting of his wit.

                He had been alive, all this time. And Veld hadn’t found him.

                So perhaps it wasn’t surprising that he arrived at Shinra Manor ready to kill. He wanted answers—and if they were simple, Vincent would have given him a summary when they met. So. Not simple—not easy, not painless. The more he knew going in, the easier it would be. That’s what he told himself. Veld had never liked holes in his knowledge. He was a man of concrete facts and rules—crimes had perpetrators, missing people were always somewhere, and there was always evidence if you could just find it, damnit.

                The house had been shut for years—that was the way of the place. People would work in it, fill it, restore it to order, then abandon it again. He had sent his best men at the end of the last rush, afraid his terror would make him miss things. Stopped in himself, yes—made himself leave step by agonizing step when it was clear that between the rage and the fear he wasn’t thinking straight.

                Apparently they had also missed things. But… what?

                Had there been anything here to find, by that time? Nothing was out of order—dust lined the windowsills, and the floors and the furniture, giving everything a golden sheen in the early morning light streaming through the windows. He hated it. Hated this place. Hated the tranquility of it—the way these floors could be beautiful if they were dusted and polished, the old school elegance of the windows. He used to like this place. He used to think it was relatively safe.

                “You requested I get the bodyguard job,” Vincent accused, tone mild. Vincent’s tone was usually mild, that meant nothing. The slightly raised eyebrow and the half shut eyes on the other hand… no amount of leaning against the wall could make that expression casual.

                “Can you picture me bodyguarding a bunch of soft scientists? No. Of the two of us, you were better suited to the job, and I told Chief that.” Veld asserted, eyes on the monitor. “Why? Upset you’ll be away from the action? You know it’s just for a few months—till we get a few more recruits trained. We’re shorthanded.”

                “We are.” Vincent acknowledged. Fatalities on the job had gone through the roof as Shinra had started expanding rapidly. Agents covering ground that they didn’t know well enough—or stretched too thin, working too many hours. That was a distraction, not the issue, and he refused to do more than acknowledge it. “But that’s not why you requested I get the bodyguard gig.” His tone had gone flat—a bad sign. Veld made more noise, sure, but Vincent had never been less than his full partner—too many people mistook the quiet for soft. There was steel under all that velvet.

                It wasn’t why he had requested it, no. He didn’t think he had skipped the nightmares of the ways the last mission had gone wrong for a single night since—the panic, the blood. The kid that got winged in the crossfire. The sudden shove from Vincent to push him out of the building first—turning around to find the building falling and Vincent still inside. He was still favoring his left side.

                “You’re still recovering,” he said. He did not say ‘and I don’t want you facing actual danger without me.’ He did not mention the nightmares. There were other reasons that he could have mentioned—trust Vincent to know which one was bothering him.

                Vincent looked back at him flatly, then leaned forward. “You,” he murmured, and a man who didn’t know him would not have heard the anger in his voice, “do not need to protect me from my own job.” Then he stood and walked away.

                Veld would have preferred a fistfight. It was their first real argument in months, and not even the others who were in the office at the same time noticed it. They made up in letters, and over the phone.

                But it was the last time they spoke in person before Veld got a phone call telling him he was missing.

                Veld growled and shook his head. Not the time! But the thought lingered as he looked around him.

                Was that a safe? It was. He considered it for a moment, then smiled. It was not a nice smile, but no one was there to tell him that, or to flinch. It had been a while since he cracked a safe. And it wasn’t like he had other leads.

***

                Vincent had never been a good patient. He tried his best, this time—if he pulled some of the antics he had back in… back when he was a Turk, the Strifes’ would probably murder him, and poor Seph would probably have a stroke. Especially the thing with the bungee cord. Not that they were enough stories off the ground for that one. The exhaustion helped—the first few days he managed, mostly, to sleep.

                After that he got restless. Claudia bore it with something like amusement—and Var was a balm, if only because he did not have any noticeable change in attitude since he learned of the fits.

                Just the same, he felt relatively certain that they released him from their care a bit sooner than they really felt comfortable with. And he was grateful. Terribly grateful. He wasn’t surprised that Sephiroth hovered, the next week or so, though he tried to ease that as best he could. Less surprised and more exhausted when he heard whispered gossip when he walked down the street.

                “Isn’t that the hunter? The dead hunter?”

                “What? Impossible—”

                “Don’t be an idiot Marne, he’s clearly fine.”

                “I heard he survived by eating the heart of every monster he found up on that mountain.”

                “Marne. You ARE an idiot. Stop showing it.”

                Sephiroth shifted uncomfortably at his side at this point, gripping his hand—the left, pointy bits and all—and Vincent offered an almost subaudible laugh to let him know that it wasn’t bothering him. Which was a lie—he’d rather people not talk about him at all—but if they were going to it might as well be something patently ridiculous. It wasn’t the first such conversation he heard that week—he would glare at the more obvious offenders, the ones who just stopped and stared. Sephiroth tried to offer a smile back, but his shoulders were hunched and his eyes were wary.

                What possessed him Vincent wasn’t sure. But he winked at Seph, whose head cocked to one side slowly, and said, just barely loud enough that the group would hear him, “no, no, no. Not the hearts. They’re far too chewy for easy consumption. Without cooking, at least.”

                Conversation halted.

                Sephiroth’s eyes were wide.

                “Now, if we’re going to talk bits of monster that are soft enough to easily consume raw…” They had gone still and were staring at him. He snorted and shook his head. “Mountain Oysters, those are usually tender. Kinda salty though.”

                How did the boy know what THOSE were? He clearly did—he didn’t often laugh in front of strangers but he was struggling not to now.

                “Tongues are way too chewy. Eyes though—” that did it. They broke and ran. Vincent looked down to Seph, who was… turning colors trying not to laugh. “Buddy, you need to breathe. Besides, I didn’t even get to the brains—”

                That did it. Sephiroth laughed, and laughed hard.

                Later that night, it occurred to Vincent that it was probably a very good thing that the eight year old he was in charge of was probably the only one on the planet who could also tell when he was joking. Most of the adults certainly couldn’t. There was no way this wouldn’t start more gossip.

                But the look on their faces…

***

                How the hell had that thing fit inside the safe?

                Why, why was it’s face divided like that? Worse, the two halves of the faces worked independently—the eyes roved as if they weren’t on the same face, and the two sides of the mouth—disgusting. He fell back on reflex and pulled his gun without thought, fired a bullet into each side on instinct—it clearly had an impact on the red… tentacled… half, but it mostly seemed to amuse the purple half. So he fired bullet after bullet into the red half as he backed out of the room and down the stairs, away from it’s flailing fist.

                And tentacle.

                Veld had fought monsters before... but most marginally obeyed physics, at least-- this was all wrong. He took a moment to reload as it tore it’s way through the doorframe, taking a good sized chunk of wood and plaster and stone with it, and he managed to line up another shot just… so as it’s fist flailed again, shattering a window—he took it’s eye, two bullets going through the same hole. A direct shortcut to the brain, on most things, and from the way it thrashed, this was no exception.

                And that should have been enough—it screamed and it bled—only the red side, and then it fell away.

                And that was when he found out that it wasn’t going to do the decent thing and just die. Because the purple… half? Shook itself, and it’s face expanded, became symmetrical again, and as he stood, aghast—it should have been dead—one massive fist reached down and slapped him down the stairs—nothing broke, he thought, but his vision blurred with the force of impact, and his head rang like a bell.

                He could feel it approaching—it’s tread was heavy on the wooden floor, shuddered, tried to get up. Couldn’t. Momentary weakness about to become permanent—he flailed for a moment, trying to sit up, just sit up so you can see it coming—and from the angle he lay at, he could see a raven fly in through the broken window, into the room with the safe. Bizarre.

                He hadn’t told anyone where he was going. They’d find him eventually—or maybe Vincent would… no. No he’d be surprised if Vincent ever willingly stepped inside a Shinra building again, especially this one. He’d just wanted to know— he could have asked, but he had suspected… Vincent might never know about what happened to him. How could he do that—how could he make him… he tried to make it to a chair and couldn’t—sat on the floor to the shock and confusion of the other Turks. Voice too loud, phone cord stretched taunt. “What do you mean he’s missing?”

                Hojo’s voice, somehow oily, irritated and cold, “he’s been gone for three days, boy, and left us all quite without any explanation—"

                His wife. Felicia. The weight of his newborn daughter in his arms—his wife’s exhausted smile. One tiny fist coming up as if in defiance—his Varis’s laugh. “See? She has your temper!”  They’d never understand why he had… the Turks wouldn’t tell them he had been found dead by monster after breaking into a Shinra safe—if they were lucky they’d get his ashes, or something they were told were his ashes…

                And then the monster was  almost right on top of him—he could feel it’s breath, hot and foul—and there was a knocking noise to one side. He looked at it, in cowardice or curiosity he wasn’t sure—the raven was in arm’s reach, with a red materia ball in it’s beak. As he watched, it dropped it between it’s feet, pecked at it.

                It took so much effort. He raised a hand, reached out, took the ball—getting an irritated squawk in turn, but delighted it hadn’t taken the ball and flown off. He could feel the entity within, paying attention for once—sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes they spoke into your mind when you touched their materia. Told you what name to cry out.

                “If you want my help, call to me.” The voice was amused and deep and unafraid. “Call me—”

                “ODIN!” he screamed, and magic raced through him.

Chapter Text

                Vincent had heard that roar before. If he could just remember…

                It was faint. So faint he wasn’t sure of his ears, until he looked to Seph, who was sitting nearby with his head cocked like a dog that heard a whistle. Var, sitting across the table from him, frowned. “What?”

                “… maybe nothing. Do… strange noises often come from Shinra Manor?”

                “You serious?” Vincent’s even look assured Var that he was. “Well. Yes. The place has a reputation for being haunted, actually.”

                Appropriate.

                Claudia looked at them from the stove—she had been insisting on feeding them a lot lately. “It’s had that reputation for years. When I was a teen we used to dare each other to spend a night on the grounds. They said sometimes you could hear a man screaming. I never held much with it, but…” her head cocked slowly to one side. “You can hear things from there? From here?”

                Vincent frowned. Maybe it was nothing. He’d keep listening. “Let’s change the subject.” A gesture of respect to the two of them—not to deny it. But he didn’t need to confirm it either. Var shot him an odd look, and Claudia gave him a slow, considering one before nodding. But… they dropped it. A great kindness.

                And perhaps it was in his head anyway. He found himself fighting off a sense of exhaustion. Funny, he’d think he had slept enough in the past two weeks for six men. Why was he tired now?

***

                Reeve had such… strange dreams lately.  A sky ablaze, green rivers curling through the air. Cities in ruins. Sometimes he woke retching, sick with a guilt he had no reason for, panting. The worst one was the one of the plate dropping—the plates weren’t even finished yet, he had no idea where he had even got such a horrifying notion. He took extra care, looking over the developing blueprints just the same. Not that he had any power over what happened next—he wasn’t a Director, and even if he was, he worked in Urban Development—he had power, but not over the something of this scale.

                … What a strange thought. Of course the Director of Urban Development would be listened to… right..?

                The first time the nightmares stopped him from getting enough sleep it wasn’t a problem. He was a good at going without—desire and discipline made up what energy he lacked.

                After the first week, he knew he was slowing down.

                During the second week, he caught his director giving him the odd, puzzled look.

                During the third week, things went very wrong. They were on a tour of a mako reactor—the new design offered less noise, more energy output, decreased smell and greater efficiency—perfect for the reactors that would one day ring their city. The greater output meant hospitals that could hold more trauma tanks, respirators, imaging technology. The greater output could save lives. In spite of his exhaustion, he was buzzing with excitement.

                But he wasn’t aware enough. In one life, he had been fast enough to get off the catwalk when it started to give. In this one, he fell with it and his Director, hitting his head and falling towards the mako.

***

                Veld panted for a long moment, dizzy with the sudden rush and loss of magic—his hands were shaking and his vision was blurred. How did anyone summon this asshole? He felt nothing for a long moment but numb gratitude—and he rolled slowly to his hands and knees, watching the summon fight his battle for him. It definitely had the upper hand.

                After another long moment, he managed to pull his gun and shoot—if nothing else, it distracted the monster, to turned it’s head to him and roared—and then Odin finished it with a wave of… that didn’t look like any element he had ever heard of. Maybe he was just too tired. Free of the fight, Odin turned his… its… his head to him, massive, on his strange mount.

                “I think I like you, human. Keep my materia.”

                “You assume I like you back,” Veld snarled, eyes narrowing at it, too tired and dazed to be smart—but not stupid enough to feel anything but relief when it threw back it’s head and laughed.

                “Until you call again, hunter.” And mercifully, the summon faded. He debated throwing the materia under the piano—he had never heard of a summon taking an active interest in it’s summoner before, and he knew he didn’t like it— but when the raven reached out and tried to pluck it from his hand, he tightened it instinctively.

                “I think I have enough problems without letting a bird summon Odin,” he told it, then winced. He was talking to a bird. A damned bird. Worse, the way it looked at him made him feel like it was listening. Vincent was the one who believed in weird shit, damnit. The one who dealt with woo-woo shit so he didn’t have to.

                No, that wasn’t fair. Vincent had already dealt with the woo-woo shit. Or perhaps, more accurately, it had dealt with Vincent. Veld could hold it together. Act like it made sense. What he needed were answers, and if he had to step into some crazy shit to get them, well maybe he should have done that eight fucking years ago. And… maybe this place was just getting to him. He forced himself to his feet, and walked back upstairs, indignant raven trailing behind him—looked in a safe. Definitely not large enough… but it had air vents and what looked suspiciously like a chicaboo feeder. Something was supposed to live in this shit. It was there on purpose. A trap.

                There was also a slip of paper… no, parchment. Who used parchment these days? It was old… and it was a limit break learning instructions. For something with four legs, given the illustration.

                Limit Breaks were… odd. The instinctive motion of self-preservation that bypassed your usual limits. They could be trained, refined… but not easily. Even the most hardened combatants usually never learned more than one or two. And he had never heard of an animal having one. The very thought was horrifying.

                The raven snatched it from his fingers, cawing—to his tired mind, it sounded too much like laughter. “Hey!”

                It did not listen to him.

                He shook his head and took a last look inside the safe—he supposed it would be too much to hope for, to have a file in there—but something glinted in the back of it.

                A key.

***

                Vincent felt vaguely nauseous, like he had after the first few sessions in the tank when Hojo was just warming up. It had been a terrible thing, to feel nausea while dependent on a machine to breathe… but he had never had anything to throw up.

                Just as well. Hojo might have realized he was aware sooner if he had.

                He didn’t know why he felt it now. Lunch was delicious, and he had been ravenously hungry as soon as he had seen it. He had eaten, not too much, but enough, and felt satisfied.

                But he felt nauseous. And he didn’t know why.

***

                Reeve couldn’t move. Vomit burned at the back of his throat, and his head hurt and he couldn’t move. He lay half on the remnants of the catwalk, half in the mako—that was bad, he was sure, but he didn’t know why…

                The Director hadn’t been so lucky. He had drowned in the Mako. Reeve couldn’t help him. He couldn’t reach out his arm six inches to pull him up. The Director hadn’t flinched or thrashed—he just choked, even though mako was unholy buoyant without the pump running to make it move. Unable to so much as twitch to turn himself face side up. This wasn’t oxygenated mako, like they used medically—he couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move to save himself.

                Reeve wondered if he would starve to death in the same manner, unable to simply pull himself forward to safety. Worse—he was seeing things now.

                The blonde man lurching between him and something—he was so tall! Or… maybe he was just very short? His fur rustled in the breeze… but he didn’t have fur…

                The girl with the long braid down her back humming to herself, stroking the fur along his back—alright, it was strange, but after what they had found in the mansion, if she needed to go through the motions to ease her mind, then he was glad to let her—their new friend with his crimson eyes was unsettling enough for ten—

                Solemn quiet as the blonde lowered the girl into the water, anguish and guilt choking him—she had been so young! And she didn’t even know that their friendship had all been based on a lie—

                If he had known the exact moment he passed into unconsciousness, relief would have been his last thought. Even more so than he had felt when he saw the rescue workers trying to get to him.

                The plate falling, and knowing that he worked for… for…

                He was out cold by the time they reached him. Beyond sleep, beyond dreams, beyond hallucination. It was the most peace he had felt for weeks.

***

                Veld almost gave up and walked out of the mansion, before he saw the cat. It was orange, a tabby, with unholy bright orange eyes, and he saw it on what he promised to himself would be his last trip through the building, sniffing the remnants of the monster on the ground, then looked up at him and let out a “prrrrt?”

                He crouched and offered it the back of his fingers to sniff, and it rubbed against him. Finally. Something normal in this hellhole. Cats would be cats no matter where they lived.

                “Mrrrrrow,” the cat said, and waltzed up the stairs, turned right and looked back at him. Cats were like that, sometimes, and he followed, curious. It came to a rest right next to that rounded stone wall—he lurched forward as he bent to pet it again, and swore, almost overbalanced, when his hand brushed against stone and the wall slid back to reveal a rickety old wood stair.

                If he had been thinking clearly, he would have turned back. But he didn’t. He wasn’t. He was bleeding and tired and hurt and terrified. And he was angry. Not the parade anger he marched out to make examples and intimidate. The cold, quiet wrath that lasted, that under normal circumstances would have been calculating, canny. He didn’t feel surprise, save in an intellectual sense. He mostly felt numb, over the anger and the terror and the confusion, all kept muted and quiet. The cat, unlike most of it’s kind, did not try to kill him by running between his legs—it trailed after him, patient, until it could leap to the ground, and then it ran ahead again. He did not move to stop it.

                The thing was, you couldn’t be overly superstitious and be a Turk. You couldn’t. Everyone prayed to someone, fine, no atheists in foxholes and their lives were one big, convoluted foxhole. Very, very few of them could stay sane without the notion of some manner of divine backup. But to believe in ghosts was to believe in being haunted, and believing in that meant accepting that you would be haunted. No Turk had clean hands. Not for long, anyway. Valentine had managed to maintain a curious sort of innocence—a gentleness and a sensitivity to the way civilians flinched when they walked in bloodstained clothes, to the uneasiness of children and the fear in people’s eyes. It hadn’t made him an iota less effective, but it had been one of the reasons he had recommended him for the bodyguard job while he did the infiltration. But Veld was not Vincent. Veld’s world was cold and hard, and no ghosts lived in it.

                Except… ravens did not act like that. Summons did not act like that. Cats… okay, cats did whatever the hell they wanted. He had always liked that about them.

                There was a doorway that had been ripped out from the inside and cast to the ground. He looked at it for a long moment, uneasy, before stepping through. A mausoleum. Coffins on coffins… except the one in the middle. He pulled a small flashlight from his pocket, counted, opened lids. All occupied except the one in the center, the one that looked like it exploded outward—the coffin lid wrenched off with enough force to twist the hinges, long trail marks shredding the velvet lining. He almost turned away from it when he saw the lone black hair up where the head would go—picked it up and lifted it into the light. Then he gave the coffin another look.

                There was a few red threads caught on a chunk of coffin lid, the size of his pinky. He picked it up carefully, then tucked it all away in one pocket.

                On a whim, he walked over to the door, torn away and thrown to the ground. He pulled out the key.

                It fit.

                His hands were shaking now. The cat was still there, sitting and watching with solemn cat eyes, and then it turned and sauntered off further into hell. He followed. There was a whole lab down here. Mako tanks. A surgical suite. Research library. Vincent must have been… under his feet. Under his very feet as he paced and raged and looked for any trace of him.

                There were research tapes by a TV in a corner, the cat curled up and watching with solemn eyes. He selected the first. He watched. He turned off the TV and turned and fled, the cat, wisely, beating him to the stairs and running up before him. He made too much noise. He got attention. A… thing followed them up. It looked human, but it had two torsos grown together with one arm each, two heads.

                It looked human. Had it been… could Vincent have been… if things had gone differently, could that have been Vincent reaching out an arm, and him all unknowing?

                He lost it. He had been feared, even as a trainee, after he had first shown his limit break—there had been a reason Vincent had been known as the Dragon Tamer. A play on his last name and a limit break like his—Veld had been known as the Dragon.

                Fire exploded through the bedroom, caressing the stone wall, blowing out the windows, incinerating the monster where it stood. It didn’t have time to scream. Veld almost lost his eyebrows. That had happened a time or two.

                Veld wondered if that… thing, had names, before, and vomited onto the ground, sobbing. He could have tried to put the fire out. He could have raised the attention of the town. He didn’t. He walked to the bathroom, washed off his face, and walked out. He felt something akin to relief to see the cat waiting for him at the door, and opened it, stepped out into surreal sunlight and brisk autumn smells. He went to the hotel, where he had paid to stash his things, and very quietly paid for an hour in the bath. Running low on adrenaline now, he thought maybe some ribs were broken, and there was definitely a few gashes. He tended to them quietly, and sank into the water.

                No one saw him enter or leave the mansion. No one saw the fire either, until it was far too far gone. Shinra Manor crashed to the ground while he sat in the bathtub and tried not to think or remember. It mostly did not work.

***

                Vincent helped with the bucket brigade until the town gave up, but there was something… odd in his eyes. Sasha frowned at it, and he shook his head, and in the moment, she hadn’t cared to press the issue. Vincent was a good man. She trusted him.

                He had saved the life of her friends. He cleared the paths of monsters, and his care for his young ward was adorable. He took care of their lives, but also their property—mindful that a lost tool or a lost profit could be the line between life and death, especially so far from a major city.

                But that look in his eyes when he watched the manor fall…

                He made the rounds, after. Made sure that everyone was alright. Assured them that Shinra wouldn’t blame them for this. He made them believe it, even, and trailing in his wake was his silver haired shadow, watchful and concerned. She wondered if he had seen it too.

***

                Veld managed to make himself look normal, managing a rough bandage over the gash on his ribs, and put on brown dress pants, a button up shirt. It was about as informal as he ever got—Vincent used to tease him about it, that he was married to his suits and it made it too easy to spot when he was in disguise—that he looked so wrong in anything else that not wearing a suit made him more conspicuous.

                He managed to button the shirt, but only just. Paid the innkeeper, tipped, enough to be pleasantly irrelevant—went to the general store to ask for directions. Walked in on a most interesting conversation.

                “So I’ve heard no less than seven competing rumors in the last day, each more ridiculous than the last. I think maybe he had a little too much fun with the gossips,” A blonde woman confided in the shopkeeper.  

                The shopkeeper seemed amused, but wholly unsurprised in a tired way. Maybe he was trying to distract himself from the fire—maybe they both were. “Which did you hear?”

                “That he’s a vampire, that he’s a cannibal, that he’s a space alien, that he slept for thirty years in a coffin to help save the world—” Veld managed not to react-- they hadn't noticed him yet. This... alright, that was definitely the Vincent he knew. Good to see that he wore... everything lightly. 

                “Shiva’s sake, the man came close to biting it, he didn’t bench press a motorcycle. You’d think Vincent survived monster nests every day from how nonchalant he is about that—but I have to admit the man comes up with a lot of stories. I can admire that. Best way to deal with a gossip machine like ours.”

                Vincent. Close to biting it. The fog that had lain over his thoughts since he stepped foot into Shinra Manor lifted, and Veld found himself incandescent with simple, clean fury. “Excuse me. Are you two talking about Vincent Valentine? He’s an old friend of mine, stopped in for a visit as a matter of fact. What… exactly did he do lately?”

Chapter Text

                “Hunter!” One of the teenagers of the village ran up—Reska, he thought, brown hair awhirl about her face, pulled free of her braid. He just nodded—the title seemed a little odd, but whatever noise they wanted to use to get his attention. “Sorry, Mrs. Strife said that I should tell you there’s a strange man asking about you in the general store.”

                Vincent frowned. The town was still… well. Half of them treated him as one undead, and the other half was too reverent. But if it helped keep off hunters and possible agents of Shinra…“Describe him.”

                Sephiroth shuffled a little at his side. He considered it a victory that he wasn’t at a parade rest.

                “He’s got eyes like he can see your soul and it offends him, brown hair just long enough that he could maybe pull it back but it would look funny, and shoulders that are stiff as iron. He walks like he expects you to get out of the way, and has a scar right here-“ she traced the mark down her left forearm.

                “Right. Thank you for the warning, but I know this one. You can tell Veld where I am.”

                She hesitated, frowning. “… are you sure sir? He seems… very angry.”

                Seph and Vincent looked at each other. “Did he happen to hear about my little stint up on the mountain a few weeks ago?”

                She hesitated. “People are still talking about it, sir.”

                He sighed, started to look skyward and saw the smoke—smiled. “That would be why. You can tell him where I am, if nothing else, it will get him out of the general store. But please pass along my thanks for the warning. And my apologies for not letting it be known that I expected him.”

                “Sir!” she said and ran off.

                “Everyone keeps calling me that, lately. Seph, run home and start up the fire, would you? We’re going to have company.”

                The boy hesitated. “He’s mad at you.”

                Vincent hesitated, then knelt down next to him. “Well, he’s mad. But it’s like that time that you were in the forest and you thought I was mad at you—I was upset because I was worried, right? And even if he decides he wants to fight me, between me and him, it’s like a sparring match—he might leave bruises, but he won’t hurt me, won’t even really try to. He’s just mad because he’s worried and upset and he knows I’ll let him vent.”

                “Vent?”

                “Express his anger until he feels better.”

                “How long does that take?”

                “With him? Sometimes it’s pretty quick. But sometimes its not. Probably, since he’s actually kinda worried about my safety here, it will be quick. I only want you to go ahead because the house is cold right now, and I’d like it to be warm for company. Also, he might hold back in front of you and I’d rather he get his venting over with.”

                “Why?”

                “I think I need you to be more specific.”

                Seph hesitated. “Why would he hold back if I’m there?”

                How to explain? How to tell the boy… “Because he would not want to confuse you, or alarm you.”

                Scorn in Sephiroth’s voice then. Vincent managed not to smile. This day just kept getting better. “And he thinks I might be alarmed by a punch?”

                “And he thinks you might be alarmed if he is acting aggressive towards me. You understand?”

                Sephiroth nodded, slowly, and looked up with suspicious eyes. “You promise it’s okay?”

                “I swear it. And I’ll only be a little bit behind you. Just waiting so he knows the way to our house.”

                “Okay sir.” Seph said, unhappy but obedient, and dashed off.

                “Vincent!” he yelled after him.

                “Vincent!” came a roar from the general direction of the store. Veld’s intimidation voice was still on point—and it still made him chuckle.  “What the hell am I hearing about you almost dying?”

                “Good to see you too, Veld!” Vincent called back. Rather to his surprise, he found he was smiling. He wasn’t surprised when it got him punched.

***

                “So, there’s no one ya want ta track down, talk to?” Cid had asked, eventually. They were drinking together on the bridge of the ship—they were strange company, he supposed. One day Cid had just stuck his head in his quarters and asked if he wanted tea.

                Alright, so those hadn’t been Cid’s exact words. His exact words had been “Ya plannin’ ta join me for tea, or am Ah gonna have to drink this whole damn pot mahself?”

                Vincent had joined him for tea. Now it was a habit.

                “No,” Vincent replied, after pausing to pretend to consider.

                “Really? No old flings ta look up, no family—”

                “My father was my last living relative, and he died several years before I did.” He did not talk about flings. Cid wasn’t stupid, if he wanted to poke a sore spot to provoke a response he would have to try harder.

                “No friends? Turks are a tight bunch.”

                “You’ll also note that they aren’t particularly long lived. I think the one in charge was perhaps a toddler when I went to Nibelheim, if that.” Had Tseng been there when Veld woke him briefly? He didn’t know. He hadn’t paid attention. He was afraid to find out.

                He hadn’t seen hide or hair of Veld. Maybe he was deep cover now, and looking for him would have been bad. Or maybe… maybe he was—

                “Ah assumed that whoever was in charge before him stepped into an advisor role. Or retired.”

                “Turks do not retire,” Vincent informed him. In the old days an older operative would have been rotated into an office role, or as the preliminary instructor or assessor of possible initiates. Most of the Turks they had now had been raised to be Turks— rather labor intensive, but in the back of his mind, he could see the ugly logic to it. Someone raised in Shinra, trained by Shinra, whose friends were Shinra… they would make very good guard dogs for their secrets. Where would they go even if they wanted to leave? People needed connection.

                Cid played up the accent to see how people reacted to the discontinuity of it, he suspected—the accent so many would call uneducated vs the intellect that would most assuredly take him out into the stars. His eyes over the cup rim were piercing. “Ya ain’t saying everyone you knew died. You’re being general and hoping Ah drop it. Because you don’t know if there’s anyone left.”

                Vincent frowned, then looked away to his right. A moment later, he spilled tea on himself when Cid smacked him with the butt of his spear, letting out a small, undignified grunt of surprise.

                “And you Turk types are supposed to be smart.” Cid muttered by way of explanation, and if his eyes before were piercing, now they burned. “Because you’re ashamed?” Vincent considered him for a long moment before nodding—his consideration gave him the warning to duck this time.  “Dumbass. Ever occur to you they might be just as ashamed? Ya vanished—Ah can’t imagine the Turks took that well.”

***

                Sephiroth did not go directly to the house. He hid and watched. It wasn’t that he thought that Vincent was lying, exactly—but— “Seph? You go with them.”

                Not again.

                He managed to find halfway decent cover behind a flowerpot and under a shrub, wiggling to one side in the dirt on his stomach so that he could line his eyes up with the breaks in the vegetation. It wouldn’t have fooled Vincent if he was paying attention—but Vincent wasn’t. Vincent was smiling when Veld roared his name—Seph remembered hearing that once or twice, and he had smiled too but it had never been aimed at him, he wouldn’t have smiled then—Vincent didn’t move to react when Veld wound up with that smile-but-not on his face and Vincent didn’t try to dodge the punch, letting it land and falling backwards into the dirt. Sephiroth tensed, his vision draining of color for a moment—but Vincent was laughing.

“Still one hell of a right hook.” He told Veld, cheerfully. He had split skin on his cheek and a nicely forming bruise. Veld was rubbing his knuckles, then offered him a hand up, which he took.

                “Still one hell of a hard head.” Veld growled back, but his other hand came out to steady Vincent as he stood him up, looking him up and down.

“Has to be, to take what you dish out. It’s fine!” he said to Mr. Lockheart, who was looking at them, frowning. Holding a shovel with both hands, slightly spread, as if it were an axe. “He gets one free hit, after that I hit him back. He knows the rules.” Veld startled a little—Sephiroth frowned in the undergrowth, Veld was usually more attentive.

“Are you certain?” Mr. Lockhart asked, eyes locked on Veld—Sephiroth had never found him to be particularly threatening, but he liked that he was willing to try, even if he was a little surprised.

“Yes. The man put up with me long enough to earn a few basic privileges.” Vincent waved it off.

Mr. Lockhart’s eyes narrowed. “Fine. Stop punching our hunter.”

“If he stops being a moron!” Veld snarled back, but he wasn’t smiling anymore—something on his face had changed. Sephiroth was reminded vaguely of the time they had let a big cat eat a smaller specimen—the satisfaction in his eyes was not mistakable. He already had whatever it was he wanted—though he seemed a little shaky now, as if he had just been in a fight instead of throwing one punch. Just the same, Vincent rolled his eyes and pulled Veld slightly behind him, as if to shield him with his body. It made Sephiroth grit his teeth a little.

Mr. Lockhart… almost smiled. “Is this about that dumbass stunt you pulled a few weeks ago? The one with—”

Vincent sighed. “Yes. Yes it is.”

“Ah. Sorry to bother you gentlemen then. Have a good night.” Sephiroth blinked but the man made good on his words—he simply turned on a heel and walked off. He half expected Veld to resume his assault—but when they thought they were alone, the man only gripped Vincent’s shoulders and his forehead came to rest on Vincent’s chest.

“…. Veld…”

“I don’t want to fucking hear it. I don’t want to hear whatever overblown, do-gooder reason you had—” Veld sounded… choked. Which was strange—Vincent brought up one arm to pull him tighter but it was nowhere near his neck…

“I’m fine, Veld—”

“I am praying to every pantheon that I can think of that they were exaggerating. Was it a blizzard on the mountain, or a monster nest?”

Vincent hesitated, and Sephiroth could see Veld’s knuckles go white. “…Veld…”

“…you motherfucker. You stupid, selfish, motherfucker—“ Veld’s shoulders were definitely shaking now.

“Veld.”

“You are not going to die on me again, do you understand? I meant it—I meant—”

Vincent sighed—Seph couldn’t see his eyes from this angle and thank Gaia for that or there was no way Vincent wouldn’t have seen him. But he sounded sad. And maybe a little uncertain, which was frightening. He pulled the Turk closer, folded around him—Veld crumpled into the hug. “I know, Veld.”

Sephiroth hesitated. These two were confusing. But… Veld didn’t seem to want to hurt Vincent, at least not seriously. He wanted him to be okay.

Why did no one make sense!? The labs made sense—people wanted to learn things and they didn’t care what they had to do to learn them, and if you could help them sometimes it didn’t hurt as much. It was simple. It made sense.

It didn’t make sense, but he thought he wanted it just the same. Whatever it was. It looked… warm. He thought he understood why Vincent wasn’t mad he got punched though. Maybe.

He decided to head home. Veld wasn’t going to hurt Vincent now. And if he went now, Vincent wouldn’t know that he had stayed behind instead of lighting the fire like he was supposed to.

***

Vincent found hugging strange now.

Veld was shorter than he had been—no, Vincent was taller now, that was the difference—and they didn’t line up quite as they had before because of it. Veld’s face was mostly partially against his shoulder where it used to line up cleanly atop it. And his arms felt wrong, hugging someone—he was always afraid he’d apply just a little too much pressure and hurt normal people. It had been a problem around Aerith—she had a tendency to hug via ambush—until it wasn’t. The man felt broader too, until Vincent realized it was more that he himself was thinner—a point he understood registered with Veld a moment later, when the man made a low distressed noise in the back of his throat. Veld wasn’t hugging as tightly as he usually did—they weren’t touchy-feely, but after a few close calls, hugs happened—and it took him a moment to remember that he probably looked fragile to him. Pale and too thin. He tightened his grip a little and was rewarded by Veld doing the same after a surprised hesitation.

He had anticipated that it would feel off. He didn’t anticipate that it would still feel right too.

“He did something to your arm…”

Vincent tried to make his tone light—looking over his friend’s head to see the smoke helped. “He did something to all of me, but yes, the arm is the most obvious bit.”

Veld shuddered and bent his head—Vincent had seen him cry before, just not the lost to the world sobbing Veld had shown him in pictures. He didn’t quite lose himself now either—a shudder ran down the height of him and he lowered his head to Vincent’s shoulder entirely. “You’ll show me.”

“Yes.” Vincent agreed, because… what else could he do? If it would help at all, in any way, he would show him. It wouldn’t. But he would show him anyway.

“Damnit man…”

“I know. I’m sorry. I—Veld? Veld!”

Veld jerked in place—he knew that tone.

He was too worried in the moment to think about how it would sound. “I smell blood.”

Veld didn’t jerk away, but his head came up. “You fucking what?”

“I—let’s process that later. Veld, why are you bleeding?”

Veld’s eyes slid away.  Vincent tried to stare him down for a moment—ineffective when the other guy was long experienced at ignoring you—and finally looked up to the trailing smoke in the sky. And this time, it actually made him angry. “You hit your limit break recently, didn’t you?” A shudder. He took it for confirmation. “Damnit Veld! I told you he was--- fuck. We’re going to my place. Now.”

“Your voice is two-toned.”

“I’m not surprised, Veld!”

“Should I be concerned?”

Vincent managed not to growl. “With the absolute lack of self-preservation you’ve shown so far? Why start now?!”

Veld snorted and rolled his eyes, but he let Vincent lead him home.

***

Sephiroth had never seen Vincent so angry.  His eyes were bright gold, and they had been since he brought Veld back to their home. He didn’t like it. But… Vincent’s anger didn’t look like he thought it would.  

The nannies’ anger had been sharp and harsh. Things were taken, punishments given. The lab assistant’s anger had an undertone of panic to it—it was sharp and careless and fast and it hurt a lot. Hojo’s anger… Hojo’s anger was cold and quiet and sharp, and sometimes it slept for a very long time before it found you. You never knew when it would show up once it had been awakened. And it was really, really hard to do what he wanted right.

That wasn’t fair and he knew it wasn’t fair. It was for science. It was to learn. He was supposed to help and if he didn’t, of course Hojo was mad.

"Hojo is a moron."

He shivered, and Vincent paused—he had been telling Veld off with golden eyes, and a two-toned voice—his anger was controlled, like Hojo. But Hojo didn’t pause when you flinched—he dug in, even if it wasn’t you he was mad at. Vincent did. After a moment, Veld paused and followed his eyes, and then he went quiet too. Sephiroth wasn’t sure what he saw in his eyes but he didn’t like it.

“Sephiroth. You know I’m not mad at you?” Vincent finally asked, slowly crossing the room and crouching in front of him. He nodded. “Good. I know I’m… yelling a lot right now, and I’m sorry. No one is going to get hurt, not you and not Veld. Veld did something very stupid though, and I’m upset with him because he could have gotten hurt.”

“He is hurt.”

“He could have gotten hurt badly.”

Badly hurt meant someone had to put you back together. Vincent was cleaning the injury and threatening to stich it—had actually got a sewing needle and thread—but it would probably have healed on it’s own, even though Veld’s bandage, applied to himself, was really messy, and the cut was pretty long but not bad. Sephiroth frowned. “Why does that make you angry?”

Vincent shut his eyes for a moment—he usually did that right before they turned gold, and they were already gold, so Sephiroth wasn’t sure why he was doing that this time—then said, in the tone he usually used when he was tired and not sure Sephiroth would understand. “Because I want him to be safe. Like I want you to be safe. I would be very angry if someone hurt you—and I am very angry at Veld, because he was careless and he could have been very badly hurt.”

Why did he care about that? Who cared about getting hurt instead of the mission or the thing you wanted to learn? Sephiroth didn’t say that though, because Vincent’s eyes had flickered slowly back to red and he didn’t mind the gold eyes—the gold eyed creature he sometimes turned into wouldn’t hurt him even if it was a little eerie—but Vincent was happier when his eyes were red, unless they were sparring. He wanted Vincent to be happy.

The labs made sense, and he missed that sometimes. People were confusing and they cared about the wrong things and Vincent was the most confusing of all because he mostly made sense but not all the way. But… Vincent was not in the labs, and he wanted to be near Vincent. Vincent could teach him to fight, and Vincent read him stories, and when Vincent didn’t want him to do things he could usually explain why. He liked Vincent. He wanted Vincent to be safe.

Oh.

“Like on the mountain when you sent us ahead?”

Vincent paused, blinking, and behind him, Veld, shirtless and still bleeding a little, stifled a laugh in one hand—he didn’t like it because it wasn’t funny, but he felt like he would be losing something if he looked away to glare at him. Vincent sighed and looked down, took a deep breath. “You were mad at me?”

This was dangerous. Being mad at the adults wasn’t allowed. But this wasn’t the adults, this was Vincent. But Veld was there—but— “I wasn’t. But… I don’t know!” At least he had told the truth. Maybe that would make his punishment not as bad.

Vincent shook his head. Sephiroth didn’t recognize the look in his eyes now, and he lowered his, in case it was bad. But Vincent tilted his head up and made him look at him. “You’re allowed to be mad at me, Sephiroth. I… I’m sorry. I can’t claim it won’t happen again, because… sometimes things happen that no one expects. But I promise that I didn’t do it lightly, and I won’t do it if I can avoid it. And no matter what happens, I will fight to come back to you, with all of my power. Okay?”

All of Vincent’s power was considerable. It still wasn’t okay. But it was bad when you told adults no. Sephiroth’s eyes were burning like that time they wanted to test how he reacted to gases, and he blinked furiously. Vincent sighed and pulled him into his arms. He wasn’t sure what the gesture meant, but he liked it. It felt safe. He could feel Vincent’s heartbeat. That helped.

After a long moment—not long enough, but long, Vincent let him go. “I need to go patch this idiot up or he’s gonna start whining about putting his shirt back on. Okay?”

Seph nodded, only a little miserable.

“Alright. We’ll make sandwiches tonight. Tomorrow we’ll make something special. But after dinner, I’ll read the next chapter of that story we’re working on.”

“Are you sure? I know you… Veld is important.”

“Veld is important. But you are important too.”

***

“I like that kid. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so successfully told off.” Veld’s baiting lacked a certain amount of bite now. Sephiroth had retreated to another room—he could hear him in his bedroom.

Vincent was equally tired. “Shut up Veld.” Partners often had to clean each other up after a long mission—as strange as it would likely seem to civilians, this was familiar enough to be comforting.

As was Veld’s ribbing, actually. “No, I mean it. You make an adorable parent, Vincent.”

“I’m going to poke you with something sharp, Veld.”

“You’re already planning to do that. I—ow, fuck—”

“You were warned. And… a little quieter? If I catch him imitating your language I’m going to be very irritable.”

“He’s upstairs, Vincent.”

“He can probably still hear us. If he wants to. Probably he isn’t paying attention though. Still.” Vincent sighed. “You’re still a moron. The manor wasn’t safe—it was Hojo’s bloody wet dream. Probably still isn’t safe, if the basement isn’t intact I’d be surprised.”

“No access though.”

“Sewer access if you feel desperate enough. Not today's problem. Hold still and let me stitch that—”

“It would be easier if you used the other hand to steady yourself.” Veld said, quietly.

Vincent gritted his teeth. “That hand is sharp, Veld.”

“If you take the gauntlet off…”

Vincent leaned back. “Not much better.”

“Prove it.”

Vincent sighed, then started to disassemble the gauntlet—it was too complicated to be safe, if the arm got hurt he could bleed a lot before a medic unfamiliar with it could get it off. And beneath… “Damnit.” Vincent hesitated, and Veld shook his head, deliberately made himself look away because inspiring that look in Vincent’s eyes wasn’t something he wanted to do. “Mind your talons, I guess. Damnit. We’re a damn mess.”

“Yeah. We are.” But Vincent did steady his good hand with the… other one, and if the hand wasn’t right, well it was still Vincent’s care behind it. The hand was too cold and too large… but he would get used to it. Vincent wouldn’t see him flinch. It wasn’t him he was flinching at anyway.

“Did it… was it changed or… grafted?”

The stitchwork paused. “I don’t know Veld. I… I don’t know.” The slight poke and pull. “Lets… not discuss it further while the kid is awake, okay? I’ve given him enough nightmares.” The nightmares had picked up since the mountain.

Veld nodded, slowly. “Yeah. Alright. Did that to Felicia a time or two myself. It’ll be okay. You’re doing okay.” He took a deep breath—Vincent grumbled as the subject of his stitchwork moved—and let it out. “Vincent. I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

Chapter Text

He would have raised an eyebrow if he had been told that one day he would be reading stories to Sephiroth, the Nightmare, Spawn of Jenova, and the little kid would be deeply offended by the evil prince being evil. He would not have scoffed—that would have required too much effort for too stupid a notion.

“Humperfunk is not a hunter!” Seph insisted, scowling. He ruffled his hair and the kid hadn’t been expecting it—he squeaked and grabbed at his head like a cat, but he smiled as he did it.

“Oh? What makes you say that?”

Back to scowling. Much less impressive on an eight year old than an undead one-winged twenty-something. “He doesn’t kill things because they ae bad, or because they are hurting people, or because they’re dangerous. Or for food. He doesn’t kill them for any reason. You’re a hunter. He just… kills things.”

Vincent laughed and ruffled the boy’s hair again—again the indignant-but-not squawk, again the frantic flurry as he tried to comb his hair back into place. They were lying side by side on Seph’s bed, staring upward at the book, which Vincent held above them, Sephiroth slowly inching closer and closer to Vincent—by now nuzzled up against his side like a puppy that sensed a friendly hand.  Vincent didn’t mind.

“Yes—he does. It’s very good that you can see the difference—well done.” Vincent praised, and Seph pressed his face against his shoulder. “This book has an odd sense of humor. It will often say things that it knows are untrue in such a way that you’re meant to know is untrue too. Because it wants you to say that they are wrong, or right.”

“Why don’t it just say they are?” Sephiroth, the bane of Nibelheim, asked, looking somewhat petulant.

“Because when you decide a thing, it has a power that the book telling you the thing doesn’t.” Vincent paused. “And because it’s funny.”

“…Humperfunk being mean is a little obvious. Who kills hummingbirds?”

“Humperfunk, evidently.” It was a bit overblown.

“Enemies of speed my ass.”

Vincent choked a little in surprise. “Right. Remember what I said about swear words being force multipliers?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“I’m not mad. But trust me when I say that I agree with the spirit of the thing. Humperfunk is no hunter.” A few pages later, and Sephiroth’s eyes flicked to slits. If Vincent had ever been told he might one day find that funny, he’d have struck the speaker upside the head in the desperate hope of reconnecting the obviously blathering brain stem with the speaker’s clearly disconnected brain. Life was strange sometimes. As it was, he simply continued reading. “I am your Prince and I am not that bad, how could you rather be dead than married to me?”

Sephiroth’s hands knotted in the blankets (these were dark red) scowling fairly ferociously as he read on. He waited until Vincent finished to interrupt though.

“I’ll never love you.” He didn’t really do voices, but he did pitch his voice just a little deeper for Humperfunk, “I wouldn’t want it even if I had it.” Lighter again. “Then by all means, let us marry.”

“Why would she agree to that?”

He managed not to laugh, but he was quite sure Sephiroth saw the grin that he did not allow his mouth to indulge in. “Well, he did threaten her life…”

“Well, yes… but she didn’t seem to mind that.” And that made an uneasy expression cross the boy’s face, but he shook his head and looked up at Vincent. “But… she doesn’t even want to love? I thought she was happy.”

Vincent could see Lucrecia beside them, just for a moment. “She was. But loving someone isn’t like liking the color red or liking a motorcycle. People aren’t replaceable. And… sometimes when you lose someone, or you hurt them by accident, you feel guilty. You think to yourself ‘I don’t want to feel better’. You try to punish yourself.”

“That’s stupid.” The abruptness and fervor of the pronouncement made Vincent burst out laughing, unable to help himself—the boy looked at him baffled and he stopped, thinking only may you not understand. May you never understand. Because the guilt that had destroyed his mother… which could have destroyed Vincent… he wanted that far past this boy’s understanding.  Seph stared at him, confused for a long moment, but kept talking when he waved him on. “The Farm Boy loved her—wouldn’t he want her happy?”

“He would. But she might not be thinking of that right now.”

“This story is written funny, but it’s all sad.”

Vincent smiled. “It’s not all sad. Promise. Tell you a secret? I won’t tell you how the story ends, but I don’t like stories with sad endings.”

Sephiroth shifted, his shoulders and hands relaxing a little, as his eyes slowly eased back to their more human shape. “Promise?”

“Promise.” He hugged him, one armed, and then whispered “one more chapter?”

Sephiroth lit up, then looked sad again. “Veld is waiting for you?”

“He is. But Veld will understand.”

***

Veld did understand. He walked down the hallway a time or two as the man read to his fosterling—and sure, Vincent had always been good with kids, but this kid was his, that changed things— it was good to hear the boy getting so into the story. And to hear Vincent laugh again.

“You sure you don’t wanna come out?” Vincent coaxed, hair falling into his eyes, on all fours to peer under the largest desk Veld had ever seen, somewhat worse for wear than it had been half an hour ago. Bullets did that. He must have gotten a shake of the head—Veld didn’t hear anything, but he leaned away from the kid’s hiding place with a thoughtful expression. “O-kaaaaay. Well, I’m gonna get some hot chocolate, and I was wondering if you wanted some. I think I have sprinkles to put in it too—”

“Fucking adorable, you are.” Veld murmured, almost inaudible and in wutian. He kept a few paces back—he had cultivated a look of ‘don’t fucking waste my time’ that lingered on his face when he had no other particular expression on it—perfect for avoiding stupidity in the office. Not so good for easing scared children out of where they had crept when they needed to hide… but then, Vincent had a gentler expression.

“Fuck you to the moon and back, Veld.” Vincent said in the same language with a gentle smile and a laughing tone. It wasn’t their job to coax survivors out of the rubble in the aftermath of a fight—city police could have dealt with that, and would, for most of this fiasco—but Veld had spotted the child, and. Well.

They were Turks, not assholes… except in the professional sense.

“Don’t like sprinkles,” came… a boy’s voice? Vincent was surprised—he leaned half an inch backward for just a barren second, Veld wouldn’t have seen it except that he knew him—and he was surprised himself, he could have sworn he saw a ponytail, but maybe the boy’s parents let him grow his hair long.

“Well, that’s okay. We could get you whipped cream? What do you like on hot chocolate?”

“Whipped cream is okay. Carmel is better. Hazelnut crème flavor is best.” The voice was still reluctant—but the normalcy of hot chocolate and the debate over toppings seemed to be easing his mind a little.

“Right. Well, I could go and get you some, but it might have cooled off by the time it gets here… do you wanna come with me? My partner can do the standing in line, but if we’re nearby it’ll be easier to yell at him if he gets it wrong.”

“I’m putting sprinkles in yours. I don’t care if you only said that because you thought it was a girl and would like that.” Veld said—still in the other language, looking over the wreckage and making sure no one… surprised them. “Is he hurt?”

Vincent replied likewise. “No blood I can see, but as you can imagine, its hard to tell while he’s hunched up. Mostly people don’t take interest in food while they hurt though. And as long as they’re rainbow sprinkles—what is the point of chocolate sprinkles? I want color, damn it.”

Redoubled suspicion. “Who are you talking to?”

“My partner, I meantioned him, remember? He just can’t keep a civil tongue in his head just at the moment. His name is Veld. Say hi?”

“…. Hi Mr. Veld.”

Veld sighed. “Hi kid. Sorry, just grumpy.” His girlfriend would swat him if she caught him acting like this around kids… but he thought he had twisted his shoulder in the fight and while it didn’t seem too serious, it did twinge just enough to reduce the satisfaction of a job well done to something more along the lines of ‘I want a damn ice pack’.

“Who are you guys?”

“We’re Turks. Know what those are?” Evidently a shaken head, because Vincent smiled and shifted positions but kept explaining. “It means we work for Shinra and we investigate bad people.”

“Like Mr. Kens?”

They had given Mr. Kens acute lead poisoning about forty five minutes ago, actually. They shared a disturbed look, then Vincent looked back down. “Yeah. He’s gone now.”

“Promise?”

“I swear on the weapon that preserves my life.” Not… the oath Veld would have chosen to reassure a kid, but one Vincent only said with utter seriousness.

“Okay. Can we really have hot chocolate?”

“Of course.”

“I’m telling everyone you got sprinkles in yours. Fucking diva.” Veld murmured, back in wutain, as the shuffling noises of a boy scooting forward announced the child’s approach.

“Take a picture for all I care, you ass.”

“What’s fuck mean?” asked the boy, in wutain, and after a moment Vincent bent his head and laughed helplessly.

Vincent had always been good with kids. Veld still wasn’t sure how Vincent had managed to explain away their careless conversation… but he still had the picture of the boy, dirt streaked and too thin, drinking hot chocolate with an equally dirt streaked Vincent.

Tseng probably wouldn’t appreciate the other Turks finding out that he liked sprinkles in his hot chocolate fine. He had added them to his drink when he saw Vincent doing it.

***

Vincent found Veld out on the porch toying with an unlit cigarette. “You going to smoke that, or just torture it?”

“I can do both.”

“I never doubted your ability, but I seem to remember you saying something about shredded cigarettes being fit only for… how did you put it? Imbeciles and fish that no one wants to eat? You keep rolling it between your fingers and it’s going to disintegrate.”

“Point,” Veld sighed and lit one up, the same grip Vincent remembered—between thumb and index finger, mostly sheltered by palm. The cherry flared bright in the night—almost too bright, Vincent’s eyes were still accustomed to darkness, and everything else was dark around them. The contrast was painful. “Want one?”

“No. They all taste too strong now. Maybe after a really good fight.”

Veld took a long drag and shut his eyes. “That literal?”

Deliberate misunderstanding. Once of Vincent’s favorite things. “Fighting? Of course. Have I ever shirked a fight?”

“You know what I meant.”

Vincent sighed. “Yes. Not just that—all my senses. Hearing. Sight. Smell in particular. Touch. And under some circumstances… they get a lot sharper.”

Deep breath in. Out. Cloud of smoke released into the empty air, then dispersed. “Mixed blessing.”

“Yes. Trying to figure out if I can track someone by scent… might as well serve some purpose. But… so far its just… too much information that way.”

Veld took another deep breath and looked—that look on Vincent’s face again. Wary and… he didn’t like it. Not aimed at him. Not inspired by him. So. “Vincent, that is the longest winded damn way I ever heard to tell me not to smoke in your house.”

Vincent let out a bark of laughter, shoulders relaxing a little—and Veld felt his own relax, a little. “How’s the kid?”

“Sleeping, finally. I… knew I scared him. With the mountain. But…”

“As much as I want to hit you with the ‘I was right and you were a dumbass’ stick… You’re gonna scare the kid sometimes. Particularly in our line of work. The first time I came home with a bandage on my ribs Felicia screamed at night for weeks. Rebuilding their sense of safety after that… I dunno. One day at a time. Just… keep coming back after fights. Alright?”

Vincent winced. Veld felt it a privilege that he let him see it. “Monster hunting shouldn’t be this bad.”

“Vincent, have you seen the monsters around here? There’s a story that when Shinra started the original weapons company, the whole reason he started was to get rid of a pack of Nibel wolves.”

“They do have a certain… tenacity. They aren’t that bad though.”

“I repeat, have you met them?”

“Up close and personal, actually.”

Another calming drag. “I’m going to hit you.”

“You used up your free hit. I’ll hit back.”

“Might be worth it.”

“You’re free to find out.” Vincent clearly didn’t take the threat seriously though, because he leaned backward against the wall of the house.

“Nice place. Make a dent in your finances?” It was rather unlike Vincent to choose a large place. And a huge portion of it was still unfurnished. But perhaps it was simply the only thing he could find that was sufficiently far from the eyes of town.

“No, actually. I cleared it of those overgrown wingless mosquitoes. It was open to claim for whoever did that.”

Nope. Breathing wasn’t possible. “By yourself?”

“…. Seph helped.”

“You fucking—” Veld started hunting around for a flowerpot. Or a rock. A branch. Anything nearby that he could launch at the man’s head. Anything at all.

He couldn’t find anything suitable, and tried to light another cigarette—he had dropped the first in his search. It was hard—his hands were shaking.

Vincent took the lighter from him, lit it, handed it back. “He would not have needed to help, except that… I failed to account for something. Up until that point things went well. Stronger now. Faster too.”

And, alright, that was reassuring except “that’s why they always sent us out in pairs. There’s always something you can’t take into account, a variable that isn’t on the dossier.”

Vincent nodded, and after another two long drags, he changed the subject. Coward. “Speaking of. The manor.”

“Fuck. Yeah. The Manor. That whole place is a hellscape.”

“Well, more so now that it’s smoldering, but yes.”

“Is this funny to you?”

Vincent just looked at him.

Veld looked away first—not from the eyes, from Vincent. “I’m sorry. You always made stupid jokes when you were… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t go into his domain without backup. That’s all I ask. I’ll beg on my knees if that’s what it takes.”

Veld looked at him again. Vincent looked back. There was no humor in his eyes now.

“Everything I can do without exciting suspicion. Until I can kill him.”

“There’s a line.”

Veld managed not to yell, but only just. “Don’t fucking start about anything approaching decency after what I saw him do—”

Vincent flinched again, but shook his head. “You misunderstand. There’s a queue. Take a number. Lot of people want a piece of that hide and unless I’m mistaken, before I’m done a lot more will turn up. I’m inclined to give Sephiroth first swing, but I daresay I get a close second. And Ifalna might want to castrate him herself. I’d be inclined to hold him down for it. He’s certainly not owed any decency.” Vincent rubbed at his eyes with the hand that didn’t have claws. “Ifrit’s balls, Veld—Sephiroth doesn’t even know how fucked up his life is. Not yet.”

Veld had a bit of a hard time deciding which part of that to respond to. “….Ifalna? Gast’s missing research specimen?”

“She’s a woman. A very strange and very pissy woman, but then she has cause to be. They got out before they became… as I am. I cannot judge them for that. Far from it. I think they were wise.”

Veld’s eyes went wide, then narrow, and he evidently decided to stick to the topic at hand, though Vincent was sure he’d ask about Ifalna again later. “Fine. But if I get a good shot…”

“Take it. But don’t martyr yourself for this. After the scars I got I’d look worse than you in a dress. If you choose to act, make sure no one can trace it to you and there is no possible way he can survive. I’m not losing anything else to that man. Until then… we can plan. Gather allies. The usual Turk thing.”

Veld paused, nodded, finished his cigarette. Took a breath of the night air. There were so many stars here—like someone spilled powdered sugar over a jeweler’s black velvet display. “I’m looking into the subjects you asked about. It’s… slow. What’s Deepground?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No. I will tell you what I can about Deepground, and the synaptic net dive—but I only have half your attention, and you only have half of mine. So not now. We’re dancing around the real topic.” Vincent took a deep breath. “What did you see in the manor?”

Veld paused, shutting his eyes and bowing his head. Opened his mouth to speak and couldn’t. Dug into one pocket—pulled out two red strands, one black, a shard of wood with padded fabric on one side, pressed the whole mess into Vincent’s hand.

Vincent weighed it in his hand, in the darkness his eyes looked the way they used to, except… ancient.

Veld sucked in air, tried to talk again. He managed to make the words empty instead of a plea. Not much better. Vincent knew him. “Tell me I got the wrong impression.”

Vincent folded his hands around the shard and strands slowly. “Veld. Come inside. I think I need alcohol for this.”

***

“Cider?”

“You are still so fucking weird. No beer I take it?”

“No.”

“Cider then. As long as it’s the fun kind.”

“There’s another kind?” Vincent paused—he hadn’t put the gauntlet back on since he had stitched the man up, though he felt… naked, going without. Seph hadn’t so much as blinked. Reached out with the talons instead of bothering to get the bottle opener, ripped off the caps. Veld took the bottle without comment. It cost him effort. Vincent could see it.

He didn’t press it to his lips. Vincent could read that too, didn’t like it… but one war at a time.

He made the words as mechanical as he could. “You got the right impression. Near as I can tell, I spent most of the last eight years in that coffin.”

Veld’s knuckles went white around the bottle. He didn’t speak. To Vincent’s eyes he looked ill.

“Good portion of it, I was asleep, or… comatose, hard to say. Nightmares galore, but better than the rest of it. I say near as I can tell, because… the time in the tank and… out, is… blurry. Could have been a year. Could have been a month. Could have been a decade.  What else did you see?”

“Hojo kept tapes. In the basement. Recordings of research events.” Veld wouldn’t even look at him now, so he had tripped over a bad one. “Could only watch one through—all I could stomach. An autopsy. He’d put… on life support, in a spirit of… he called it scientific inquiry. He didn’t know, the man couldn’t move. But the look in his eyes. He was aware.” Veld’s voice broke. “There are ways to fake tapes.”

Hojo wouldn’t have bothered with that. Lying on paper was as much bother as he would devote to the subject.  To push his perfect SOLDIER to snap. To break all his limits at once. Vincent shook his head, stood, walked to the bathroom. Left the door open—wasn’t surprised or indeed displeased when Veld staggered upright after a moment and followed him in. He took the cape off first, buckle by buckle. Then the shirt. Had to turn his back to do it—knew the back wasn’t much better from the sharp intake of breath. Made himself turn around, hating himself as he did it.

Letting anyone, even Veld, trace the scar—the big one, shoulders to breastbone to just below the navel—was hard. Agonizing. The look in Veld’s eyes was worse, as he catalogued each new line of puckered flesh. The bullets. The incision he hadn’t explained yet, the protomateria. The others. There were a lot of others. The look in Veld’s eyes was worse when Vincent flinched at the touch and looked away, controlling his breathing carefully, and Veld looked up and saw that.

Turks often had to patch each other up after fights. Veld knew what didn’t belong on his partner’s body. And he knew that Vincent had never flinched from touch before. Not when the wound was closed, at least.

Vincent took no joy in knowing that he was the cause of Veld sobbing twice. Probably the only two times in the man’s life. But this time, at least, when the man broke, he was there to hold him as he cried.

***

Sephiroth woke briefly in the night. There was talk—Veld was the kind of not-agitated that meant very-agitated. He was talking about an autopsy tape, and then he started sobbing.

Sephiroth knew what the Y shaped scar was, and alright, it was very weird. Very, very weird. But… Vincent was very obviously alive. He had managed not to worry about it too much up until the moment he heard Veld say that the man on the tape was aware.

And then Sephiroth had to grip his dragon very tightly, burying his face in it so as not to make a sound. Because… because…

Vincent?!?

It helped that Vincent murmured comfort to Veld—audibly there, audibly less disturbed than his friend. It eased Sephiroth back into exhausted, fitful sleep—rife with nightmares. Vincent was in the dreams with him, for once, but that was no comfort. Vincent was in the dreams with him, and he was in agony.

Sephiroth couldn’t help him.

***

Vincent waited until the sobs eased back into mere tears, and then… went on. Because this wouldn’t get easier. Because making Veld sob twice in his presence was too much. Because Veld would still demand to know the rest. Even reduced to this, clinging to a shirtless Vincent on the edge of a bathtub, face pressed against his shoulder. Veld didn’t look away from truth.

Funny. It was a lot easier with a face pressed against him than a hand.

Veld didn’t ask him to stop. He shuddered, sometimes… but he also asked questions.

“He tested that procedure on you?”

“As far as I can tell, for the period of time between him… shooting me and Lucrecia giving birth, he tested anything he could think of on me. Particularly things he later used on SOLDIERS. Not all of it worked. And some of it only worked because of all the other tests.”

Veld swore and let him go on for a while.

“That… I recognize the machine you describe. A different kind of life support. With mako. It was only approved a few months ago.”

“Well. Has it at least saved some lives?”

“Hundreds.”

“At least I have that comfort.” Vincent’s voice was so dry he found himself surprised he didn’t start a forest fire.

 Veld let out another noise—not a sob, not anything else either. Not dissimilar to choking. And then waved for him to go on.

Vincent let him drag out nightmare after nightmare, scar by scar. He would not have allowed that of many others. Perhaps Cloud, after… everything came to light. But this was not Cloud’s way. And it wouldn’t have surprised him, the way it did Veld. Wouldn’t have hurt the same way.

He hesitated when he traced the scar above the protomateria, and Veld looked up at him. It was the first time they made eye contact in about an hour.

“Not Hojo. Lucrecia… I was still… I was aware, I could feel, but I was… rotting. And I couldn’t move. Lucrecia wanted to save my life. If she had turned me over to you… you wouldn’t have let the experiment go on. So she didn’t. She did… something. And… I started healing. After that point, nothing left a scar. I started to be able to move again. It… would not be repeatable.”

“You’re holding something back?” The whisper would have been a scream if Veld wasn’t already hoarse.  

Vincent hesitated, then started, slowly, to explain. “In… the experiments. Hojo had been interested to see if he could get a person to change their shape.”

“Like in the old stories? The shapeshifters?”

“Yes.” Except in the old stories, it was always an Ancient and their shift was a sort of magic—a blessing of the world upon them and a mark of their oneness with nature. Vincent’s forms might have been more powerful, but they were a perversion.

“Ridiculous.”

“Turns out he could. I can do…. Four other shapes. Problem is, they all have their own personalities.”

Veld jerked in place—he wasn’t sobbing anymore, but hot tears flowed again—as well as a tension in his arms that Vincent could recognize as the start of a berserker rage he had only seen once. “You… even in your own head they didn’t leave you alone.”

“The strongest, Lucrecia gave me with that one experiment of hers. I could barely control it at first. No… that’s a lie. It was dominant at first. If she hadn’t all but tripped over a materia that could keep it under control… it would have been very bad. But I would be dead without it.”

“She implanted it in you.”

“And gave Hojo the impression that it was the materia that gave me the shape at all, so that he would leave it alone instead of digging it out and turning me into his guard hound. Found out the truth later, but… Well.” One of Veld’s hands clenched at that—he hit a tendon in Vincent’s shoulder with the convulsive motion and Vincent only just managed not to flinch. “After that… I was rapidly too powerful to control.”

“So he put you in the coffin.”

Vincent took a deep breath. Reminded himself that lying to Veld, even by omission, was an abuse of trust. “Not… strictly true.”

And, for the first time since he started… “if you’re going to say what I think you are—”

“He threw the lock on. But I put myself in.” Veld writhed—likely trying to get an arm free to hit him. The embrace that was meant to be comfort turned briefly into a restraint.  “Veld. Veld, listen. I was… stupid and self-destructive and I admit that. But I was also in agony. Every sense doing a lot more than quadrupling at once—locked in an empty room I curled up and tried to cover my ears to ease the sound of my own heartbeat. Breezes felt like razors. And… I wasn’t confident in my control. I almost broke free of a reinforced specimen tank, Veld. It would have been easy—if it had been Hojo there instead of Lucrecia, I would have done it. I don’t know if I could have reined myself in—or when I would have stopped. Who I might have killed. I was terrified. And…. My body was still… settling. Still is.”

“Settling.”

“Sometimes things break and heal, rapidly. I don’t have control of it. The first few times it was bad—hours or days on end, the whole body at once. These days… mostly limbs, mostly just for a few minutes.”

Veld cursed, once, bitterly but simply. Unlike him—Veld usually favored louder and more complicated curses, preferably graphic in nature. Then: “That isn’t why you threw yourself into a coffin.”

“Not the only reason. It hurt, and it was… so confusing, and… I was ashamed. I’d failed at my job—“

“Vincent—”

“—and I could already see that the future that kid would have was bleak. The lack of control… over even my own head, my own body--and… I don’t think I’m human anymore, Veld. That… I didn’t know losing that could hurt so much. The clamor, the pain, the loss of control—I was stupid. I was stupid. I was selfish and irresponsible. But—I was also terrified, and—”

“You listen to me, Valentine. Listen good. I don’t give a damn—” his voice broke on the lie, Vincent nodded to let him know he heard the lie—“I don’t give a damn what happened. What they did. What—Any of it. But if you ever crawl into a coffin again, Valentine—”

“I won’t.”

“You’d better not.”

“I won’t. I won’t.”

Veld’s grip shifted back more into a hug, tightened--“It’s not failing at your fucking job if one of your principals is fucking running into danger full speed and the other one is the danger. It’s not failing when what you’re supposed to protect betrays you and tears you apart—you fucking moron…”

“I know,” Vincent murmured, but… something in him settled.

Veld didn’t ask about the other shapes or the possible dangers of being near him. He didn’t care.  

Chapter Text

Not late at night—they had surpassed that before he and Veld stopped speaking, not out of things to say but long since out of energy to say them or hear them—but while it was still dark, Vincent woke to hear footsteps outside. Light and small and too fast to be so quiet—a normal human would not have heard.

“Sephiroth. Did you have a bad dream?” he asked without getting up or opening his eyes. The steps hesitated—just outside his door. “I’m sorry I didn’t hear you. I must be more tired than I realized. Do you want to come in?”

The boy’s voice was very small, and strained. And quiet. “Yeah. Is… is that okay? Please?”

He frowned in the dark—was the boy breathing a lot faster than normal or was that just him—

then made himself sit up and open his eyes. Nighttime robbed his room of color—but not of detail, and he could see the doorknob shiver at a touch. “Yes. Come in. Come here.” The door opened—silver hair and eyes that were glowing faintly with mako and distress, slit eyed, and troubled.  “What—ophh”

Sephiroth, suddenly and firmly implanted against his torso, looked up—would have jumped back— Vincent brought his arms up to hold him even while he managed to get his breath back, though Sephiroth squirmed for a moment. The dragon plush dropped as he wiggled. “Sorry! Sorry, sorry!”

“It’s fine, just maybe a little slower when I’m half awake buddy.” The entirety of Sephiroth’s weight slamming into his torso was one hell of a wake up call, but then, if Sephiroth was upset enough to run to him at night with only one set of permissions urging him onward, then… he didn’t want him to hesitate. He had an idea of what his dreams might be like, after all. No eight-year-old should go through that. Particularly not alone. He scooped the toy back up and pushed it into the boy’s arms and couldn’t actually get him to grab it for a moment. Having been assured that it was fine, his grip on Vincent was ferocious.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No. Knocked the breath out of me for a moment and surprised me, that’s all.”

Seph was shivering in waves, and his face was buried against Vincent’s chest now, breath coming hard and fast. “I’m sorry. I’m—”

“Shhhh. It’s fine. It’s fine.”

“I…”

“Really bad dream, I take it? It’s okay—It’s okay. Do you want to talk about it?”

Shaken head pressed against his chest.

“Okay. It’s okay. I’m right here—you’re safe.”

“Are you okay?” Barely a whisper, a little choked. And Vincent thought ‘A mountain nightmare, then’.  But he did not say it. The boy didn’t want to talk about it. He knew what that was like too.

“Yes.” He shifted the boy in his arms, turning his head and pressing it against his chest higher, so he could tuck it under his chin, then eased backward against the bed—Seph squeaked and wiggled again,  then seemed to realize their descent was controlled— went back to shuddering from time to time. Somehow, the weight of the kid was stabilizing, not helping to disperse his own nightmares but helping to make an odd, momentary ceasefire with it. He might regret what was done to Lucrecia, and to him, and how he had not stepped up the first time—he could regret the loss of his team and Veld’s grief and pain on his behalf.

But he did not regret being here to hold this boy.

“Too tired for a story,” he whispered into the hair. “Sorry. Wanna sleep here?”

Another shudder. “Don’t… wanna bother you…”

“You aren’t.” Hesitation and then a nod. The boy didn’t look up at him—and that was fine. But he reached up to ruffle his hair when the spot on his chest the boy pressed his face against grew wet. “Hey. Hey. Whatever happened in the dream, I’m right here. I’m here and I’m okay, and you’re okay, and if anyone tries to mess with us Veld and our friends will get really foul tempered all over the problem. I’m safe. You’re safe. Can you say that?”

“…say it?”

“Yeah. I’m safe. You’re safe. We’re okay.”

Another shudder. “I’m safe. You’re… you’re….” more wet. “You’re safe. We’re okay.”

“Attaboy. We’re okay.” He kept messing with his hair. The boy’s head moved incrementally towards the arm doing it. “Try to sleep. I’m right here.”

Soggy nod. After a moment the boy shifted a little, to be more comfortable—his head turned to one side, an ear over Vincent’s heart, and his arms tightened in what was either a hug or some kind of hold. Vincent didn’t mind.

After a while, Sephiroth, once Firstborn of Jenova, once the Nightmare, once the Demon of Wutai, slowly relaxed and fell asleep on the chest of a man who in another life had helped to kill him. Vincent felt the discontinuity of it when he opened an eye to give the room another onceover—the boy was otherworldly in moonlight, with his silver hair and tears drying on his cheeks.

He laughed, helplessly, but kept it quiet, and even so, the boy shifted and murmured in protest. He ruffled his hair again and managed to thread the dragon under one arm before he fell asleep too.

He had uneasy dreams. But not nightmares. Not that night anyway.

***

Veld was starting to wonder if anyone else was in the house at all. True, given a choice, Vincent was not a morning person, and they had managed to reach morning before he had gone to bed… but it felt rather strange to be awake before the owner of the house. It wasn’t the first time, true, but… even so.

He grew alarmed when he saw that Sephiroth’s bedroom door was open, and peering through, saw that it was empty. “Vincent?!”

“No need to shout. I’m awake.” The voice was muffled, mildly amused, coming from Vincent’s room just to his right.

He blinked, then shook his head, “Sephiroth isn’t—”

“He’s in here. Come in. Just be quiet.”

Veld cocked his head to one side and opened the door carefully—Vincent looked at him from under the sprawl of boy and silver hair. The color of the eyes might have been wrong, but the amusement in them was unmistakable. “He’s still out. Someone had a bad dream.”

“Well, it was very gracious of him to keep you safe from the monsters,” Veld managed.

Vincent considered him for a long moment, smile twitching on his lips, before raising his left arm —warped, blackened, inhuman, and flipping him the bird with one overlong clawed finger. The right arm was holding the kid.

Veld laughed, quiet, and turned around. “I’ll heat water. Tea I assume?”

“Tea. But there’s coffee in the cupboard for you. Same setup as the old breakroom.”

“Say no more. Vincent?” he asked, turning his back.

“Yes?”

“You’re adorable.”

“The moon and back Veld.” Vincent shut his eyes, smiling still. “The moon and back.”

***

Vincent had hot chocolate in the usual place in the kitchen too.
                Beside it, sprinkles. Neither was opened, but they were both there. Veld smiled and shut the cupboard. The kitchen was still a little bare bones—a combination of settling in and being this far from the city.

Mismatched mugs, that was what he needed. He’d bring some with him. Next time.

***

“The Director is, alas, not contactable at the present moment.” Tseng said, quiet but firm. The board stared back at him—all except the Director of Urban Development.

He wasn’t here anymore.

“Is it usually the custom of the Turks to run off and leave their tasks to their juniors?” Scarlet finally asked. Tseng bit back the obvious response—she was a bit young for the position she held herself, and ruthless and bloodthirsty to the degree that Tseng was rather surprised they managed to get her to play nicely with others instead of ripping off limbs in the meeting room.

But he didn’t answer to her, so he looked to the President. Who looked displeased, but not enraged. “I would have you answer the question, boy.”

He dipped his head. “Very well. Scarlett, have you ever attempted to infiltrate… for example, a terrorist cell while carrying your civilian cell phone?”

“I—no?”

“It’s a good way to get killed, your plans exposed, and your backup also tracked and killed.” Not that he knew what Veld was doing. It hardly mattered—he might answer to the President, but Veld was his boss and his mentor. “Certain instances—and I will not go into details, for security reasons—with respect to the president, but between the plausible deniability of black ops situations and the fact that you delegate such tasks as these for a reason, I doubt you would be interested…?” The president waved him on and he nodded. “In certain instances, an opportunity only exists for a moment. I can only surmise given the communications I received from Veld before he vanished,” actually he was reasonably certain that Veld was on some kind of vacation. Irrelevant. He was Veld’s student, and he guarded Veld’s back. Someone had to—“that he noticed something of security importance and took off after it, disposing of phone as he did. Such is procedure for circumstances in which something could be tracked back to Shinra.”

“You cannot call him back?” Heidegger growled.

Tseng resisted the urge to speak very slowly. “No sir. That sort of contact would compromise his security and thus, the company’s. Messages have been placed in dead drops, however depending on the nature of the situation his opportunities to check such may be limited.” Tseng moved on before they could object—a trick he had learned from Veld in a meeting once. “With regards to the investigation of the death of the former Head of Urban Development, I have dispatched three of our best agents to investigate and another pair to guard the sole surviving witness—that would be his assistant, one Reeve Tuesti, if I recall correctly.” He did recall correctly. He knew that. But there was no need to assert that—better for everyone he genuinely served if the sack of madness known as the Board of Directors did not know how his full capabilities. The Turks served the Board, but only at the President’s say-so. They weren’t a Branch the same way the others were. They served a different function.

“Yes… what is the condition of the former assistant?”

Former? Interesting. It was not strictly his job to keep an eye on convalescent members of Shinra… but he had come prepared. “He seems to be recovering from mako poisoning exceptionally well, though he was exposed to it for an exceptionally long period of time before he was rescued. He has not woken yet, but he exhibits rapid eye movement when he dreams—something that the mako addled simply don’t do correctly—and sometimes when he is spoken to, indicating occasional awareness of his environment. During these periods, he also responds to loud noises and changing of IVs with a flinch response. As such, I am assured that he is expected to wake at any time.”

“I would be interested in learning what effects the mako exposure has on him—”

Hojo. Unprofessional though it was, Tseng had to admit he didn’t like him either. “If the President allows you the security clearance, I will see to it you get his medical files. There are rules, Professor, that I am bound by. Submit the proper paperwork.”

That got all the other Branch leaders looking nervous. Good. Let them think about that. Tseng wasn’t entirely sure why Veld was bound and determined to make the man’s life a living paranoid hell, but he had Veld’s back.

“No.” The President said, mildly.

“Sir?” Tseng asked, hoping he hadn’t overstepped. He had something of an idea of the President’s body count, after all. But this was the job. There were no safe zones.

“No. I want the man’s psych evaluation and the analysis of the incident on my desk asap. However, we need a new Director of Urban Development, and I think we all know the young Mr. Tuesti has been running that department for the past year.”

Hojo looked like he had sucked a lemon. Tseng kept his face expressionless as he had been taught. “Certainly sir. Is there anything else?”

“See to it that Veld reports to me when he returns. Dismissed.”

That was routine. He was getting away with this. Good. “Sir!” He bowed, lightly—not necessary, but it flattered the President and reminded the others that he did not serve them—and turned on a heel and left.

He hoped Veld would get back soon. He was not certain that he could cover for him for too long. But… Veld had always returned before. And he would make the attempt to protect him just the same. He had promised the man’s partner he would, after all.

                Veld didn’t know he had seen.

                He’d paid a lot of attention to Veld and Vincent since they’d saved him—by the end of that afternoon, he knew exactly what career he wanted to follow.

                They were Turks? Then he would be a Turk.

                He did not deceive himself into thinking that he was special in any way to the two of them—this had just been another day at their job. And for that very reason, he adored them. He had only just made his way into the junior cadet program for trainees when Vincent had been sent to Nibelheim. He knew that the calm, studied discussion in the office was a raging fight. He had watched them. Aspired to be them. Hoped to train under them.

                Veld didn’t know he had seen the argument, but Vincent had. The man had gone straight to the breakroom after it, lighting a cigarette and fumbling through mismatched coffee mugs to find a clean one, cussing quietly in Wutain about assholes who didn’t wash up after themselves. Anyone else, it would have been mild irritation. On Vincent it was a rage.

                Slowly—because he had not quite managed to desensitize himself to angry men, not yet, not after… slowly, he crept up beside the man, cleaned out the sink, and filled it with hot soap water. He started washing mugs. After a moment, the man turned to watch him. After another, he joined him at the sink with a towel, drying as he washed.

                “I thought you don’t smoke?” The child finally asked.

                Vincent snorted. “Smoking is one of those things around here—sometimes you don’t smoke, but you need a cigarette. It’ll make more sense when you get older.”

                Tseng considered that. It was true that most everyone seemed to break out the cigarettes after fights. It was the first time he saw Vincent smoking though.

                “Besides, Veld smokes enough for two—I usually bum a cigarette off him but this time I came prepared.” He took a deep breath, dried another cup, and said, offhand, “I suppose you saw that.”

                “Everyone saw. They didn’t understand, but they saw.”

                “Indeed. Look… don’t worry about this, okay? This… this is just a stupid fight and we’ll make up later, it’s not a big deal.”

                “Why fight then?”

                Vincent blinked, leaning back in place, then smiled. It was a bitter expression. But he answered the question. Unlike many, he and Veld always had time for the cadets. “Because I want him in danger without me about as much as he wants me in danger without him. I know… I’m a hypocrite. But there you have it. He’s a good friend and I want to be there to have his back, and the fact that he’s pushed me to relative safety while staying behind himself is enough to make me want a fistfight.” Mugs dry, he pulled out two and started making hot chocolate. He put sprinkles in both before winking and covering them with whipped crème, so no one would see.

                Vincent was simplifying his reasoning, of course. Looking back with older eyes, Tseng could see that. But his response to the man had been genuine. “I’ll look after him until you get back?”

                Vincent had let out one of the huffs that were actually laughs, but his shoulders and eyes relaxed minutely. “You do that, buddy. You do that. I gotta go pack my bags for my assignment—see you around.”

                Danger was sometimes in weird places. Vincent never came back from what should have been a safe assignment. Tseng knew he hadn’t really thought anything of his promise—that to Vincent, it was just the words of a child, however competent. He wouldn’t have held him to it.

                That didn’t matter. He had promised one of his heroes that he would look after the other. Child or not, he meant it. Then and now.

***

Vincent came down, eventually, eyes still tired, smile still present if just in the corners of his eyes. He rolled down the stairs a few minutes after Sephiroth, who was perfectly, militarily neat, hair combed back into studied formation, and showed no signs of drowsiness in spite of having been the last one awake. Veld quirked an eyebrow and tilted his head toward the kid when Vincent came down—Vincent half bowed his head and sighed but brightened again when Veld pressed his tea into his hands.

It had been surprisingly easy to remember how to make. He knew he had gotten it right from the way that Vincent shut his eyes and leaned into the steam to enjoy the smell.

He had coffee with crème and two sugars because there were no trainees out here to terrify and because he didn’t need to be kicked in the head by his drink after the night they’d had. Black coffee for black days.

He wanted it to be a good day.

Vincent sighed and nodded when the shadow crossed before his eyes. He’d put on his full costume again with the morning light, except for the cape—the gauntlet seemed more natural now then it had, and that both pleased and disquieted Veld. But it was only now, in the clear light of late morning, that he noticed Vincent’s hair. Not that it was long—that it was unevenly long, a two inch chunk missing from his left side. It didn’t hold a candle to what he saw last night… but…

Vincent followed his eyes and trailed a hand down his hair, assuming something was caught in it—ran out of hair and frowned, nodded.

Veld was going to punch him. Probably. Not now. Not in front of the kid. He shook his head and turned his attention back to his coffee.

Sephiroth was clearly accustomed to little conversation when he got up—he got himself juice of some kind from the fridge and helped Vincent, more allowing the appearance of muzzyheadedness than actually unaware at the moment—Veld had always gone to intimidate and Vincent to be underestimated. He could recognize the caffeine taking hold, though he wasn’t sure anyone else would. They actually scrambled eggs. Adorable. As he had the thought, Vincent looked at him over one shoulder, an eyebrow raised, and Veld saluted him with his drink.

Vincent rolled his eyes “Cheese, sausage and onion?”

“Sure. Need a hand?”

“Got two, plus his. We’re fine. You made drinks. Sit.” Sephiroth beamed up at being listed as being helpful, and Vincent ruffled his hair with the taloned hand—they were doing alright.

Veld sat. Vincent was a good cook. He wasn’t hideous at it… but Vincent was good.

“I think I should show you something today. Both of you.” Vincent said as he pushed eggs onto plates.

“What?” Sephiroth was somewhat subdued… but he seemed to be in front of Veld, except in what may have been the one spate of temper Veld had ever even heard of in the boy. Good. Kids didn’t let out their temper unless they had been pushed way too far or they felt safe expressing their frustration. Seeing the kid asleep sprawled over the top of Vincent like a dragon on it’s treasure was a pretty good indicator of which it was.

“I think I promised that you could meet some of my other forms. And… Veld, you should meet at least one. So you understand how different they can look.”

Veld smiled at his coffee mug. It was not a nice smile. “Trying to scare me off again?”

“No.” Veld blinked, because Vincent meant it. “But… well, for one thing, if you see something weird on a battlefield, it would be a lot better for me if you understand it’s me, or at least, that it could be. I don’t think I have it in me to do all of them today—last night went late and Hellmasker and Chaos in particular are… taxing. But I could at least do one.”

“Chaos is the red one, right?”

Vincent ruffled Sephiroth’s hair. He must have been working on making it something of a positively associated sensation—the boy all but leaned into the touch. “Yes.”

Well. That raised multiple questions. Start with the easiest. “Chaos… the theoretical Planetary Weapon from Lucrecia’s research?”

Vincent gave him an odd look. He understood it—he hated reading research papers. “It was meantioned in the mission files. Because…” because of how your father died.

                Vincent took a deep breath. “Ah. Yes.”

                “My mom researched Chaos?” The boy did not look overly happy about this revelation. Veld was not sure when he was eating either—the food was vanishing but he had yet to see him put food in his mouth or chew. Perhaps it was a game of some sort… or perhaps those nannies had been particularly strict about not speaking with your mouth full.

                “Not that way. Before I got it.” Vincent told him. Veld was not sure what that meant—though something in the back of his mind was sure it would occur to him early some morning when he was trying to sleep—but the boy relaxed a little.

More important. Vincent was possessed by a Planetary Weapon. He sent Vincent a look and got a slow nod in turn.

Well. No wonder the damn thing was ‘taxing’ to control. Good thing Vincent was stubborn as hell.

It had taken a Weapon’s power to let Vincent heal? Veld wasn’t even sure he believed in Weapons. They were too… big. It helped if he thought of them as overblown Summons. It had taken a crazy-powerful summon to let Vincent heal?

He frowned at his mug. Vincent sighed and nodded again. He decided to change the topic before the boy started dissecting their facial expressions. “So… which were you thinking?”

“I… call it the Galian Beast. It’s the most animalistic… and the easiest to work with. I… managed to forge a partnership of sorts with it during the last big fight. It actually likes you—”  to Sephiroth—“and you… it respects. Wants to fight you for dominance though.”

“Pack mentality?”

“Yes. It… cannot pass as an ordinary animal though.”

Veld nodded.

“Should I go do katas?” Sephiroth asked, done before anyone else.

“I’d actually like to spar with you, but katas to warm up should be good, yes.”

Sephiroth frowned. Veld had to admit that he did not find the notion pleasant either. “In front of…”

“Veld won’t tell. And I’d rather get some sparring done before I shift.”

The boy shifted uncomfortably. “But… are you sure?”

Vincent looked at the boy and his eyes softened. “Seph. I promise I’m okay. We can spar. I’m sure.”

“If he starts acting exceptionally stupid, I’ll punch him.” Veld said, mostly to his coffee mug. And Seph… giggled.

“Promise?” the boy asked. Vincent gave Veld an arch look over his head. Which was perhaps part of why Veld couldn’t resist.

“Promise. I don’t like it when he’s stupid either.”

The boy was smiling when he put his empty dishes in the sink—though he had to stand on his tiptoes to do so. Vincent was giving him a look, and Veld was hiding a gentler smile than he usually sported behind his mug.

Just like old times.  

Chapter Text

Reeve had such strange dreams now. The trouble was… he wasn’t sure what were the dreams anymore, and what… wasn’t.

When he woke up, he woke up by degrees—he ached everywhere and his limbs felt heavy, and there was sunlight on his face, turning what he could see, eyes shut, from a wash of black to a wash of yellow-orange. Sensation was… sharp in a way he assumed had something to do with the fall—he could taste antiseptic in the air, bitter and burning, but… if he was in a lab or a morgue, he wouldn’t have heard the quiet rustle of someone… reading? Beside him, nor would he be resting on a mostly comfortable bed. Even if the sheets were rough and too-thin, it still wasn’t straight cold steel. And if he was in a lab, he wouldn’t be feeling sunlight on his face.

Ridiculous thoughts. The rumors about the labs were overblown because of the disturbing persona of the head researcher.

Pink ribbon coming undone—the smell of lilies and blood. No it wasn’t.

He took a deep breath, apparently something not unexpected, because whoever was next to him turned another page without hesitation. His mother and father had to be so worried… if they knew. If Shinra had told them about his little dip into Mako.

Of course they would have—

No, they wouldn’t.

The steel sky falling for the second time, hundreds of thousands of civilians lost—

He took another deep breath.

Reeve was not prone to panic. If he couldn’t handle himself under pressure, he would never have been—

--our spy—

--Traitor!

--double-crossing shit-stained—

--would never have been Director Markus’s assistant, would never have been allowed into meetings with him. Markus. The man hadn’t been a friend, exactly, had been hard and a taskmaster in fact. But his employees didn’t have to fear him, and when they had ideas he listened. Markus may have taken advantage of his willingness to work for long hours, but he had recognized Reeve’s talent.

A part of him grieved. The rest of him was screaming. This was all wrong. But Reeve could keep it together under pressure, and if he hadn’t been able to, he would never have been…

Commander.

Traitor!

Spy.

Director!

Ally.

The cacophony of voices—and it took him a while to realize they were both out loud and in his head—didn’t let up. Mako often did that to SOLDIERS when they were getting made or ranked up, he remembered dimly. Someone had told him that at night, around a campfire—blue eyes still blue even in the darkness and firelight, glowing, but only dimly, because the man was drowsy. Who? No, not important, not now. Focus. Focus past the people you hear in the hospital—crying and frightened, asking questions, the child shrieking—past the voices that whispered madness and folly and horror in his ears—

The voices said it wasn’t madness. How comforting.

But it didn’t matter. He needed to learn what was happening. And he couldn’t do that with his eyes shut. So he took another deep breath and whispered, “would it be too much to ask for someone to draw the blinds? The sun is very bright.”

Beside him, the book—no, there was a warble to the noise that suggested more movement than a book. Perhaps a magazine? The magazine snapped shut, and he heard whoever sat beside him get to their feet. “Apologies, Mr. Tuesti.” Female. Unfamiliar.

But they called him by his name, and not a number. And they cared enough about his comfort to shut the blinds. It was a start. He let out a slow breath and opened his eyes.

***

Vincent heard a smart rap on the door of his house just when they were getting ready to head out to spar—they didn’t spar in the front or backyard, usually, it might only be a handful of people who approached his house, but he had no desire to try to explain off why they could move so quickly or why the child was clearly already so deadly to a friend or worse, some already frightened townsperson who needed his help with a monster.

This time, it was Var. “Valentine! Rells got some mail for you and I thought I’d drop it off.”

Vincent took it—elegant script on the front. Gast? “Thanks Var. You’re…really here to make sure my guest didn’t kill me, I assume.” He could feel Veld raising an eyebrow behind his back.

The man hesitated, but then his grin was cheerful and bright. “Of course! Mr. Lockhart said you got a pretty good strike right across the face—which I assume you healed, so no point looking for bruises.”

Vincent snorted, and offered the man a smile—Var actually blinked. “He was somewhat upset with me—something about not being careful enough.”

“Again.” Veld growled.  

“Oh hi, Mr…?”

“Dragoon.” Veld said, surprising Vincent. He expected one of his pseudonyms. “Veld Dragoon.”

That shit-eating grin gave Vincent a warning, but not enough of one. “Are you the unbelievably pissy man?”

Veld gave Vincent a look. Vincent laughed. “He was with me on the mountain, until I got him to leave by threatening to kneecap him.” Important to include that, given Veld’s current state. “I needed a description that was both very short, and would actually describe you as you would be if you arrived and I wasn’t there. This worked.”

Veld started rubbing the spot where his eyes met his nose, hard. “He’s the one you gave the lock of hair to?”

“Yeah. I burned it when he was getting better.” Var said, stuffing his hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed.

Veld gave him a long look, which Var returned with no particular distress. “Vincent.”

“Yes dear?”

Veld’s eyes could have cut steel. “I am going to kill you.”

Var must have been familiar with threats spoken from a friend—he looked insufferably pleased with himself. Vincent was beginning to suspect that he had come here to make his life more difficult, no matter what he said it was for.

It was the sort of thing Cloud would have done.

“He doesn’t mean it, Seph—don’t shank him.” He said mildly over his shoulder—Sephiroth didn’t have a weapon in hand, but his face had gone blank except his eyes, and those had started to glow, cat slit. Var couldn’t see it—he was pretty well hidden by Vincent’s body, in his current position—but Veld actually did a double take. Right. SOLDIER was still in it’s infancy—they wouldn’t have the really powerful or temperamental versions yet. He probably had never seen a mako glow that bright.

Let alone on a child.

“Why would he say that?”

“Gesture of intimacy. We’re close enough that I know he wouldn’t cause me serious harm, so he speaks threats to remind both of us that he both is that close to me and would not hurt me, and also that he is in fact irritated at me.”

Var raised an eyebrow at this description. And Veld looked uncomfortable. Good. Vincent looked back over his shoulder to Seph—his hands had relaxed and his eyes weren’t glowing, but he still looked confused. “It’s okay?”

“It’s okay. I’ll explain more later?”

“’kay….”

An abbreviated word! Magical! Vincent smiled at him before directing his attention to the other two strong idiots.

They were considering each other openly now, until Var, laughed and held out a hand. “Var Strife. I do woodworking in town. You’re Veld? Friend of his?”

“Yes. I investigate things for Shinra.”

Var froze, just a little bit. “You were dispatched already?”

“No. I was supposed to investigate something nearby and detoured to see an old friend. Arrived in time to see the fire though.” Veld shrugged. “From the speed it caught with, probably used a mako enhanced accelerant,” which was a term they used when they wanted to say  ‘shit is weird and mako makes things weirder I have no idea why it burned like that’. Very useful term to bullshit things you didn’t want the higher ups to know about, “doubt you could even get that out here. Normally I’d be in there already, confirming, but since it wasn’t what I was dispatched for, don’t have the equipment to deal with the remaining heat yet. Tomorrow, before I head back.” Veld rolled his eyes. “Probably something stored improperly inside the manor, heaven knows that some of the people who went in there last time were careless. Heads will roll at Shinra.”

“Good?” Veld’s tone was far from reassuring, but the fact that he was obviously looking at Shinra itself for a culprit had Var’s shoulders relaxing.

Veld snorted. “It’d be better if they could avoid being stupid, but if they can’t, then having blame assigned to the appropriate parties is… as it should be.”

“Don’t mind him, he gets intense when he’s irritated. Incompetence irritates him.” Vincent said, mild and amused and letting it show. Smoothing ruffled feathers for Veld was a familiar role. Even after all this time.

***

“And can you tell me the date?”

“Obviously not.” Reeve said.

The nurse—and it was, genuinely a medical nurse, and thank Holy for it—the nurse raised an eyebrow.

“Ma’am, I have… “ he brushed a hand over his chin. “what appears to be several days of beard growth. The sun indicates that it is earlier in the day than I went into the mako facility, but is it one day or three? Mako exposure has few consistent side effects, but among them are increased metabolism, growth and healing and increased sensory awareness. As it was always an academic interest before, I never bothered to check if that increased growth included hair growth.” Though that would explain why no one seemed to be able to keep to a crew cut even if it would be far more comfortable in a helmet. But that hadn’t happened yet. Didn’t happen? Did?

The woman smiled, and to his left, the woman who had been reading a magazine—a Turk, he was fairly certain, and one he did not know, let out a quiet chuckle. “Well, that answers that question. You definitely have command of your faculties.”

Rather too many of them, all told. “May I ask you for the date?”

She rattled it off, thoughtless and smiling. “You’ve been out for a few days. Must have a high mako tolerance—you barely even have any eye color change. Just a few streaks of bright green in each iris.

That… still rather bothered him. But… nothing to be done. And… a useful distraction from the date. “Can I actually see myself in a mirror at some point?”

Wary look from both of the women, and he understood, suddenly, why he had been assigned a female Turk. The recently mako infused had a violence rate of about four hundred percent the average population—partly due to pain and stress, partly, Reeve thought, because the job was a violent one and it attracted both those who wished to protect and those who wished to exert force. And partly because increased aggression and confusion were frequent side effects.

But if he was running on instinct…. Rarely did those who ran on instinct perceive a female as a threat the same way they would a male. The greater fools they—if a person had made it as a Turk, then they had succeeded in a combat field with no enhancement. That took cunning and ruthlessness, and it knew neither gender nor was it limited by frame.

He took a deep breath. “I’m not intending to flip out on either of you. This is not your fault, nor is there anything to be done about it. But surely you can concede that it is rather frustrating to hear others remark about how your appearance has changed while being unable to asses it for yourself?”

That got another soft huff from his Turk (and was she assigned to guard him, or keep him in check, he wondered) and a slightly bashful smile from the nurse. “Of course, I’m sorry. I’ll get a mirror.”

“Thank you.” He breathed, and was rewarded with a smile as she left the room.

“You’re taking this rather well,” the Turk said idly.

“I’m trying to divide this into things I can do something about and things I can’t. The fact that I can now hear people talking on the floors above and below us and the fact that my eyes have changed color fit squarely in category two. I’ll save my frustration for things in category one.”

“Such as?”

He gave her a horrified look. “My boss is dead and no one has been attending to the paperwork he and I did for days. Can you imagine the buildup?”

She hadn’t been expecting that, and burst out laughing. Rule one of infiltrations—everyone has moments of weakness. It is only a matter of patience. Her laughter allowed him a moment to breathe, and to allow himself to think about the date. Not quite two decades before he and his friends had saved the world, and no idea at all how he had got there. If he had. If he wasn’t just having a mako fueled hallucination.
                Unless he was crazy. He did remember everything clearly, right up until the mako…

It didn’t matter. He kept his breathing even and gave the Turk another horrified look when she paused for breath, provoking her to another explosion of laughter. He would find out. He would deal with it.

It was a very basic business principal—problems are opportunities. He only had to figure out it’s exact shape.

***

Sephiroth was under Vincent’s cape again—this time out of a protective urge rather than a fear, but none the less, present. Veld looked sheepish, as well he should. Var had left them with unwarranted cheerfulness.

Just as well.

They were almost to the clearing when Vincent spoke to Sephiroth. “I meant it, you know.”

“Sir?”

“Veld would not hurt me. He was angry because of the reminder that I had been hurt, and badly.”

“When someone says they will do something, it is better to assume they will do it.”

Vincent paused. “Something Master Derrik said?”

A nod, wordless.

“That’s a good rule. But rules have exceptions—maybe you should consider Veld yelling threats as an exception.”

“Exceptions. Like Hojo had rules for the lab, but he didn’t have to listen to any of them?”

“Very like. Except that Veld is not a moron.”

“….maybe.”

Vincent managed to turn that laugh into a cough, but only just. “He’s saved my life too many times to waste all that work with killing me.”

That made the little silver head perk up. “He saved your life before?”

“Many times. And I his. He’s… family. You make extra allowances of family. And they for you.”

“You trust him.”

“Yes. With…. With my life.” And most of my secrets. But the boy looked unhappy. But they were in the clearing now, and that gave Vincent something of an evil modification of his previous idea. “Sephiroth. Wanna scare him back?”

The little head cocked slowly to one side. “May I?”

“Vincent, I don’t know what you’re thinking but I don’t like it…”

“It wouldn’t be hard. See, he doesn’t realize how much faster I am now. I want you to spar with me at full speed.”

Seph leaned forward a little, like a hunting hound anticipating the order to charge… then frowned and rocked back on his feet. “But… you’re still more tired than you normally are.”

“What.”

“Not now Veld, the adults are talking.” Sephiroth snickered while Veld muttered in indignation. “We’ll only go one round. And… just hand to hand today, nothing pointy. It’ll be okay.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Kay.” And the boy moved, quickly.

Just not quickly enough.

***

Veld had never seen anything like it.

He had actually let out a strangled yell when the boy first started moving, because… he could only just see the motion. It was a silver streak circling Vincent with violent intent—and he knew to the pit of his bones that if he tried, he could not move fast enough to do anything about it.

And… Vincent had told him, yes. But he hadn’t believed it, not in his bones. The streak almost touched him—and his brother became a crimson wave in turn. He could see, as if in a series of afterimages, the motions—the expertly aimed fists, too fast, and yet, avoided, as if in some perverse dance, whirling and ducking and jumping over strokes. Vincent wasn’t even fighting back, not really.

It took a moment longer to realize that while Sephiroth’s speed was just speed. But Vincent’s movements were both speed and… something else.

Vincent wasn’t fully solid when he didn’t want to be. He exploded into mist, red streaks in the air, and alright, that was terrifying too, because. Well. Pink Mist was a term for a reason. But Veld knew what that looked like. This was not that.

Vincent reformed a barren moment later, moving with Sephiroth--- teaching and a little taunting, to urge his student to greater exertion. It was beautiful. And terrible. And… something else. Something ugly.

Vincent could have learned a lot in a few months. He was a fast learner, and beasts were educational opponents. Veld could see the seeds of his old fighting style in his new one. It wasn’t very different—but a man couldn’t learn to use his mental gaunt with this kind of ease against another human when one was holding back all the time. And powers like the mist, the way he seemed to hover in midair between strokes, the speed….

Vincent had gotten some exercise since he had seen him fight last.

The man brought the boy to bay easily enough, and they stopped, panting, the boy looking exultant—“I did better this time!”

“You did!” Vincent praised, ruffling his hair.

“I’m gonna beat you someday!”

“Yes. But you’ve got a bit to learn first.” They turned and started walking back to Veld, and he opened his mouth to speak, to ask—

And everything happened in slow motion.

Vincent’s eyes went wide with alarm, that was the first warning—and his motion blurred with that same nimbus of red as the hand on Sephiroth’s shoulder changed it’s grip, pushed the boy ahead hard—the boy was sent stumbling forward, would have fallen on his face except that Veld stepped into his path and caught him—

And Vincent fell.

He fell and Veld’s mind started running through all the possibilities—sniper? Monster? Tripped? But the questions stopped when the convulsions started, the boy crying out in alarm and distress when the man’s ribs collapsed and writhed.

When Vincent’s head twisted until his own neck snapped, Veld did the same.

Chapter Text

“Vincent!” Veld darted forward—how could anyone survive having their head at that angle—Vincent, if you died on me again—

And found his progress abruptly halted, left hand seized in an iron grip. The child.

“Don’t!”

“He needs—”

“Chaos fixes what it breaks—but what if you hurt him, trying to help him?” The words were almost a scream—Sephiroth was shaking, eyes wide—and his grip was one of the strongest Veld had ever felt. “If you move him, while his neck is broken and sever his spine— Chaos might not fix it!”

Veld jerked back, staring at his partner, prone and thrashing in horrifying, unnatural ways—to the tune of the heavy snaps of bone and clicks as the bone ends parted and met again at speed. Vincent’s eyes were open—barely, they were slits with pain—but they were still open.

“He said… things break and heal, rapidly. Like this? You’ve seen this before?” Veld’s voice wasn’t shaking. When you commanded the Turks, you held it together no matter what you felt.

But it wouldn’t take much more of this before he came unglued. He was only Veld here.

Sephiroth hesitated. “The ribs, I’ve seen that. I never saw the neck before, never.” His voice was shaking. He was eight, Veld remembered distantly. The boy was only eight. Only a little older than Felicia.  “He’s still really strong—that’s why he pushed me away, he’s afraid of hurting me. But he doesn’t want to hurt you either if he spasms wrong!”

“Okay. Okay. I’ll wait for him to stop. I’ll wait. Damnit.” Sephiroth let go of him, and Veld cursed for another moment before looking over to the boy—his green cat eyes fixed on Vincent, shaking. “Are you okay?”

The boy didn’t look at him, but his voice was confused. “I… yeah? Why wouldn’t I be?”

Because you’re just as terrified as any other child under all that robot. “Vincent pushed you pretty hard.”

“He was just getting me out of the way!”

“Shit, kiddo, I’m not mad at him. That doesn’t mean you couldn’t have gotten scraped up by accident.”

Sephiroth gave him a look that was frankly, flatly, baffled, but they were interrupted by another heavy crunch. Vincent’s neck was doing something… obscene. If he had been beside another adult, Veld would have lost it. But the only person here was Vincent’s kid. He forced a deep breath through the tightness in his chest and prayed while he murmured reassurance for the sake of the boy. “He’ll be okay. He’s a tough bastard. And he said this happened. He’ll be okay.”

Now if he could just make himself believe it.

***

Vincent let out a soft grunt at the last punch, eyes unfocused and blinking too often. He would have fallen had he not been tied to the chair. They had only been partners a few months, but they had been doing… much better than the other recent trainees with their partners.

“I told you everything I know!” Veld roared at their captors—he was tied to a different chair, though not for lack of trying to get free—as it was, he was going to have very interesting bruises twining his arms for a few weeks. “Stop!”

“I think if I hit him any more, I might kill him,” their captor, a scuzzy man who Veld mostly thought of as ‘That asshole who smuggles ‘Stream’ into Junon and sells it to kids’ though he was rapidly becoming ‘the man I should kill for hurting my partner’. “So… I’m going to get something a little more creative, and we’ll change tactics.”

“You fucking—”

“I can go back to beating your partner?” Veld fell quiet, fuming—Vincent didn’t seem to be following the conversation. The man… thing, smirked, looking between them, and waved a hand—turning and walking away. “I’ll let you think about it. Won’t be too long.”

Veld started whispering the instant he left—doubtless that was the point, but just sitting there wasn’t an option. “Vincent. Vincent, look at me. We need to—”

“Get out of here, yes.” Vincent said quietly in a voice both grounded and mildly amused. Veld gawped at him for a long moment, then his eyes narrowed.

“You—”

“Egged him into focusing on me on purpose, yeah. Your tough guy image helps though.” Vincent turned to one side, spat blood from his mouth, and grinned. His teeth were pink. “Besides, you have a date later this week right? This was easier than helping you make your face pretty again with makeup. I’ll ask only one thing in return.”

Feeling relief and frustration at the same time wasn’t familiar yet. “What, you arrogant pisser?”

Vincent smiled and there was a terrible popping noise—he slipped his arms free of the chair and the ropes. “Next time, you’re the one who dislocates something to get out.”

***

Vincent had always had a high pain tolerance. Veld had always hated it. They had their roles that they played into in the field—Soft and Hard they called it. Vincent presented weakness, deliberately, like the light of an anglerfish, with his hair in his eyes and his eyes on the ground. And Veld intimidated anyone who could be intimidated, bringing order and confidence to allies and browbeating foes foreign and domestic. Veld distracted, and Vincent attacked from behind. The unfortunate side effect being, of course, that when people targeted them, they aimed for Vincent first, assuming that he was the weaker of the two. Vincent had a high pain tolerance. Veld hated that he knew that.

Vincent wasn’t so much as whimpering as his ribs pulsated and undulated, and his neck writhed. He let out little grunts now and then… but no cries and nothing that would carry past their clearing. He was keeping himself quiet. That or he was paralyzed right to the vocal cords.

Veld chose to believe that he was keeping himself quiet, but that was only a little better. Because… Vincent’s control was good, but it wasn’t this good. He still cried out on bad hits, he still shook after beatings. But not anymore.

Vincent’s body cracked and splintered and healed itself, and Vincent muffled any noise he might have made, like an animal that was trying to avoid notice. And Veld couldn’t do anything except keep up calm talk to a boy who barely seemed to notice and a man who probably couldn’t hear him over the sound of his own bones collapsing. He tried to ease the boy’s fears, at least, but… the boy wasn’t really listening and what the hell could he say in the face of that?

So. Just waiting then, really. Waiting and watching Vincent suffer. Assuming that the boy was right and he wasn’t dying.

***

Sephiroth didn’t understand how Veld had known when it was ending—he jumped up and ran forward as the last spasms stopped and had his hand on Vincent’s shoulder before Vincent could push off the ground. “Stay down you many-times-damned fool.”

“Veld.” Vincent’s voice was rough with the shouts and cries he had contained, and his eyes were glazed and watering. “I—”

“If you’re about to say something stupid, like ‘I’m fine’ or ‘that wasn’t so bad,’ just shut up.” Veld’s voice could be very scary, but mostly at the moment it was just very small. He took two deep, shuddering breaths, reaching down and pressing his fingers under Vincent’s jaw—Vincent reached over when he paused and just set his hand over Veld’s wrist—Veld looked away from both of them for a moment. “I’m going to check you for any obvious breaks.”

Seph could hear the last few bones settling into place in Vincent’s torso—but Vincent only nodded and didn’t object as Veld ran a careful hand down his spine, then across the span of his ribs—they held. He shuddered, and Veld jerked back, but Vincent just shook his head and after a moment Veld finished. “Well doc?”

“Shut the fuck up, you arrogant—” Veld cut himself off and helped him ease into a sitting position, sitting so that Vincent could lean back against his right arm and shoulder. He was shaking again. “What the fuck was—”

“Veld. Watch your fucking language.” Sephiroth must have made some noise, because Vincent looked up—his hair stuck to his face with sweat, but he forced a smile. “Seph. You come here too. It’s okay.”

Seph took a little more coaxing this time before finally pressing himself to Vincent’s side. “You said you were okay.”

Vincent actually flinched at the words. “Seph. You know I don’t know when that will happen. But it’s okay now.”

“That wasn’t okay,” Veld hissed.

“Alright. That sucked ass. I’d rather roll around on a bed of nails for an hour than do that. But it’s going to happen, and it does happen, but then it’s done and it’s over.” Seph leaned into him a little, pushing himself under Vincent’s left arm—Vincent lifted the arm to accommodate him.

“That’s what you call ‘settling’?”

Vincent gave Veld an even look. That he could do so while still moving a bit gingerly, hair still damp with sweat, made Veld’s teeth grit. “Veld. It is what it is. It’s enough that it’s happening less than it used to, and is getting to be less still. Most of them aren’t so… dramatic.”

“Oh? And what are most of them like?”

Vincent shut his eyes and looked away. A bad sign. “Remember how we met at the train station before I took off?”

Veld went still. “You stupid son of a bitch—”

“I didn’t exactly check but… pretty sure my shin was doing that as we were talking.”

“And you just… fucking… stood on it? Walked on it?”

“I got to sit down pretty quickly.”

“Not the damn point!”

“Veld.”

“Sephiroth, if he says ‘it’s okay’ again, can I punch him? Right in the face?”

Sephiroth shivered. “…I’ll get his arms?”

“Attaboy! Knew I could count on you.” Sephiroth shivered again as Vincent looked between the two of them. Veld didn’t. “Don’t give me that look, you shit. You aren’t invulnerable, and if you get hurt, I will make your life a living hell until you start to pretend to have some damn sense again.”

“I may have more endurance than you have drive in the ‘living hell’ department.”

“Bet?”

Vincent looked at him evenly again, his eyes bright and burning in the shadows of the trees. “Bet. Remember where I’ve been, Veld?”
                Veld swallowed and looked away and down, fists clenching and unclenching, eyes watering. “I… fuck. Vincent, what if that happens in a fight? What if that had happened on the mountain, where you had no backup?” Vincent sucked in another breath, slowly, like he was hunting for the words to explain something, and at his side, Sephiroth looked at him, wide eyed and horrified. Veld knew that look too. “No. No, no, no—”

“It… thinks. I try not to listen—it doesn’t usually think in very human ways. Sometimes I feel like I lost something if I listen too long. It doesn’t think too much of being stuck in my body, any more than I do of it being here—but it doesn’t like the idea of being in a crippled body either. It tests to see if I’ll panic—but it also likes asserting it’s power. It helped in the fight on the mountain, and so did the beast—and it was a fair fight when it was just me and the beast were fighting, but when Chaos helped… that wasn’t a fight. That was just killing. It wasn’t particularly hard. When we were done, it dropped me into the snow and broke things, just to be an ass I guess. Then I got up and worked on getting back down the mountain.”

“Vincent…”

Vincent sighed and pulled Veld in for a hug with his human arm. “It will stop. Until then… I’m more stubborn than it is. It’s okay because it has to be, Veld.”

Sephiroth looked confused, and even leaned out to look at Veld when he pressed his face to Vincent’s shoulder, shaking a little. He opened his mouth to ask if Vincent could smell saltwater too, but fell quiet when Vincent shushed them both.

***

“It’s like a funeral here,” Vincent said, after watching the sun trail through the sky for, he felt, long enough. This time when he moved to stand he didn’t let Veld’s hand on his arm stop him, pulling him up with him instead. “Actually I hope my Wake, at least, was more festive.”

Veld shook his head, still trying to gather himself. “I… don’t remember a lot of it, actually.”

Vincent felt himself smile, to his own surprise. “You drank? Good for you.” Sephiroth craned his head up to him curiously, but didn’t seem confused—he’d heard far worse in the labs.

“I didn’t intend to. I had coffee in fact. But… someone… did something to it… and the next thing I remember, I was in a bathroom in Wall Market, trying to figure out which end I should aim at the toilet.”

Vincent couldn’t resist. “Were you still wearing the dress?”

“Most of it.”

“That was almost certainly Jasper’s handiwork, though how he found something to slip in your drink that you weren’t immune to by then I don’t want to imagine.”

“My conclusion too, but… well. It was an improvement.”

Vincent shook his head, though that last bit wiped out his smile. “Seph? Remember that. If you ever hang out with any Turks besides Veld and I, don’t ever let one of them near your drink.”

“Like the scientists?”

“What the actual fuck?” Veld whispered.

“I think we’re getting off track,” Vincent decided, firmly deciding to steer the conversation in a new direction. Any new direction. “I could still show you both the Beast—”

“NO.”

“Please no, sir?”

“And how did I know you two would say that?” Vincent murmured. “So. Second option. We head back to the house for now, I put the roast in the oven, I take a shower, and we all calm down. Seph, I can show you a new constellation tonight, and Veld… I wouldn’t mind catching up on more mundane news. We can revisit the beast tonight or tomorrow or later, whatever works.”

Sephiroth and Veld exchanged a long look.

“If you sit when we get there,” Veld said.

“And we walk slowly,” Seph added.

Vincent sighed, but nodded.

***

“Mr. President, sir.” Tseng said quietly, at the edge of the presidential office. The office was large and dark, meant to promote a sense of vulnerability and exposure, but to his eyes, it was tactically unsound—with the only light coming from the desk, the president’s position was revealed to a greater degree and any idiot assassin could approach all but unseen. But he wasn’t in charge of décor. He pitched his voice to carry, but not to be more than a murmur when it reached the President’s ears. “The psych eval, sir. Mr. Tuesti has been willing to converse with the Turk I assigned to him, and woke up several times. He displays no undue distress and seems unusually clearheaded for his situation. All in all, she was actually impressed with his stability of mind, and recommends maybe giving him a day or two off but if he is to be promoted, he is highly recommended for the position.”

“I thought you said you assigned two Turks to his safety?”

“Yes sir. However, due to the situation, we had only placed one in his line of sight at any given time—if the mako had affected him adversely, we wanted to be certain we could subdue him. If he had displayed undue aggression, it was also less likely to set him off if he only encountered one at a time. Since Fiona was the one who seems the less dangerous, she was the one who spoke to him and evaluated his psychological state.”

“Fiona?”

“An alias, sir. She shows up in other documents as ‘Chameleon’.”

“Ahhh. Her. Surely her talents are better used elsewhere?”

Tseng did not shrug, nor did he wave away concerns… but he could imply both with a twist of his wrist and a tilt of his head. “I was told that when she returned to Midgar, I should keep her and her partner here as Veld had a mission for their particular talents. This is assumed to be a temporary assignment, so it seemed a worthy way of keeping her and her partner busy and… out of trouble.”

“Idle hands are Ifrit’s playground?”

“Turks are almost universally troublemakers and troubleshooters, sir. Creativity is an excellent trait in the field, but without an outlet it can lead to… embarrassment. I thought it best to keep them busy. The circumstances of the case are just bizarre enough to keep them engaged.” Which did, indeed, mean ‘out of trouble’ and Tseng could see that Shinra saw that, because he smiled. It was not a nice smile. Very few of the man’s smiles were, if any. But it wasn’t the body dropping smile, so Tseng smiled back because it was what the man wanted. You walked lightly in a room with a tiger.

Then the president frowned again. “Yes… concerning that. What has your investigation of the circumstances turned up? Given the hostility between the departments, I wouldn’t be surprised at sabotage—but that doesn’t mean I’ll condone it. The Midgar Plates and Reactors are a big project, and the stars were shining on that department—I can understand and promote a bit of departmental rivalry, but I won’t have them sabotaging each other to the degree that they sabotage me.”

“Noted, sir. Unfortunately, there is a problem—we cannot access the blueprints to check the design against the wreckage. We’ve found several lines of welding and the like that look suspicious to my eyes, sir, but then, the reactors are not my specialty. It’s not on purpose—apparently Reeve is very well liked in his department, and we’re getting unusually good cooperation in our investigations. But the blueprints are triple encrypted to prevent… well. Likely the very espionage you spoke of, and apparently they were further encrypted at the department’s attempts to log in and retrieve them for us.”

“Surely whoever drew them up can provide the information you need?”

“That’s just it sir—apparently this particular design was drawn up by Reeve himself. We hope to ask him to retrieve them in the next few days, but for now he’s still easily exhausted and sleeps frequently and heavily. I’m told this is to be anticipated with a newly mako enhanced individual.” Tseng hesitated, his eyes flicking over President Shinra’s sharp and hard features, made more so by the stark lighting of his computers from below his face. He wasn’t upset yet. “Given the possibility of further setting back his recovery, I thought it better to delay for a day or two and continue to explore and research the rest as we could.”

“He designed the new reactors for Midgar?”

“Personally, it would seem.”

“They’re the best model we have yet.”

“Yes sir.”

Shinra smiled slowly—Tseng was powerfully reminded of a shark. “Perhaps if there was a saboteur, they did us a favor. No word from your Director?”

Tseng did not vidibly react. He was too well trained. “Not yet sir.”

“He’s always served well.” Shinra muttered, looking sour but not enraged. “I still want a report when he gets back, in private. Dismissed.”

“Sir.” Tseng would not admit that the sensation of relief was almost enough to make his knees watery, nor would he admit that his insides froze when, a few steps back towards the door after a bow and a pivot, he was called back.

Shinra was considering him with his head cocked to one side, eyes slightly narrow. It reminded him of a great cat in a zoo considering a domestic shorthair. “You modeled yourself after him.”

“I—sir?”

“Not Veld. His lost partner. Vincent… Vincent… V-something.”

Tseng’s throat had gone dry, and as a consequence, he barely managed a whisper. “Valentine, sir?”

“That’s him. No, don’t deny it—you aren’t a photocopy, but you’d expect a student of Veld to behave like Veld—you’re quiet. Try to make people want to give you what you need.”

What to say to that? “Sir. I was a cadet when the man vanished, but anyone could see that his loss lost the Turks a valuable skill set. It made sense to teach myself to utilize the skills that were already suited to my personality and abilities, to stand in the gap.”

“Indeed. But there are reasons that Veld has survived as long as he did—beyond the rest of his set. Take care that you don’t emulate his partner so much that you forget to imitate the survivor. I will be gravely upset if you deprive us of your services as early as Valentine did. Dismissed.”

What did that mean? What did that mean? “Sir!.” Tseng bowed again, a little deeper than last time, and marched for the door at a deliberately slow place. One does not run from predators—it tempts them to chase you. He would deny to the end of his days that as soon as the elevator doors shut, he sagged against the far wall for a moment, hands coming up to cover his face.

What did that mean?

He shook his head and straightened, a study in stone again before the doors opened up to the Turk’s floor, home. He hoped Veld would return soon.

***

Vincent preferred to zone out when he showered, sometimes taking quite a while within if he had the luxury of time. It was information Veld had learned the hard way over years of traveling with the man and sharing hotel rooms—he had learned quickly to be the first one into the shower. This time, he waited until Vincent had gone into the bathroom—had been about to relax when he heard a sharp crack and called out. “Vincent, you have three seconds to tell me what happened before I kick down the door.”

“Calm down Veld. It’s the gauntlet.” Vincent shouted back through the wall.

Veld managed not to say anything scathing, and managed by a thinner margin to wait until the shower had started up to walk over to Sephiroth. The boy was still pale and uneasy and when his eyes flicked to Veld through his bangs, it was with mixed gratitude and suspicion. The gratitude, he suspected, for insisting Vincent walk back and not shapeshift tonight. And the suspicion because he had threatened him on more than one occasion. He had seated himself on the floor, on the far wall from the bathroom —watching the closed door and listening for problems with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them.

The kid was Felicia’s age. He didn’t trust scientists not to tamper with his food and drink.

Veld sighed and sat next to him. “So. Is Vincent always this much of a handful these days?’

A tiny flicker of movement across his lips. A smile that was strangled in infancy. “Sir?”

“Nah, no sirs here. You have my permission—Veld, or Mr. Veld if you need to. Is he always this… gung-ho about getting hurt?”

Sephiroth looked at him, then back at his knees. “He fights well, sir. He doesn’t usually get hurt.”

Veld gritted his teeth, frustrated, because that was an evasion if he ever heard one, opened his mouth… closed it again. Thought of Vincent explaining why his threats were different and the incomprehension on the boy’s face. Tried again.

“I’m not asking as a coworker, or a director, or a Turk. I’m asking because Vincent matters to me and the more I see, the more scared I am getting, both at what was… “ Veld caught himself, “and at how…dismissive he is about it. Please. Tell me about my brother.”

That got… something. A flicker across the eyes, mostly invisible with the head bowed. “Brother?”

“Not biologically. But… it doesn’t matter how pissed I am at him, he’s always had my back, and I’ve always had his. I’m not into dudes and the word friend is used very casually, though he is that too, it’s not a good term to really explain to people why we’re this close. Vincent is family because I say he is.”

Sephiroth opened and shut his mouth, looking troubled, and raised his eyes to meet his, slowly. “It works like that?”

“Sometimes.”

Sephiroth stared for a moment, then looked back down. “Sometimes Vincent scares me. He doesn’t mean to, but he’s… I don’t like it when he’s hurt, or could get hurt.”

Veld nodded, slowly. “he’s chosen a dangerous job.”

“Not… bad. Usually. But… yeah.”

Veld nodded, slowly, taking in a deep breath—reached for a cigarette and remembered half a minute before lighting it that Vincent’s senses were sharp enough that lighting it indoors would only be just shy of cruel. Reached into a pocket and pulled out a card, blank, and a pen. Wrote out a number. “Do you know what a PHS is?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you know why Vincent and I don’t use one to communicate?” Hesitation, then a wary shake of the head. “That’s okay. We don’t use them because there are ways to track them. They take time, but they exist and are getting more advanced all the time. But they’re a lot faster than a letter. This is my personal PHS number—only four people have it, including you. I’ll give it to Vincent too before I go. It can be traced, so it’s for emergencies only, but if Vincent ever gets really hurt or…” or his body self destructs and won’t stop—“or he’s in really bad trouble, and he needs me, you call, okay? I’ll figure out some way to cover the whole thing up later, but if you or Vincent need me, and a letter’s not fast enough, I want you to call. And I will make sure I get here to help.”

The boy hesitated, then took the card. “If Vincent needs you.”

Veld nodded. “Or you. Need-need, like, he’s—”

“If he’s going to die without help.”

Veld winced. “Yes.”

The child ran his fingers over the card, feeling the slight embossing left by the strokes of the pen on it’s surface. “Okay. Thank you, Mr. Veld.” To Mr. Veld’s utter horror, the child’s eyes were watering.

“Hey. No thanks needed—this is a familial duty, just one I haven’t gotten to attend to in far too long. Okay? Here—” He pulled the card-clutching child under one arm, gave him a squeeze. “here. Thank you.”

“You people are so… so weird!” the boy said, clutching the card for dear life.

“I know kid. I know.”

***

Vincent heard it all, of course.

He grabbed Cloud's arm to prove that he knew he was sick, held it as he spoke even though he could see it was hurting him-- Look at me you damned idiot, you don't need to use my approach to problems-- known the message was sent and understood by the look in Cloud's eyes, but had been relived when Marlene drove the point home just the same--

He stood under the stream of water—hot and thank Gaia for it, face tilted up into the stream—

Cloud was bleeding fairly badly, he could see even from there, and he felt a moment’s regret—if he had also insisted that they land and help him with this reborn Sephiroth, would he have gotten hurt so badly? He shook the thought off—he was alive, and that was what really mattered, and unless he missed his guess, he had needed the fight to clear his head, to help him throw the ghosts that haunted him from his mind.

He lived tangled in the embrace of ghosts. Cloud didn’t need to.

It had reassured him that the man could stay on his feet—until a flicker of light and motion in the corner of his eyes made him turn—he opened his mouth to yell a warning but it was too late and he was too far away. The first shot made Cloud drop to his knees. And then he turned and leapt at the remaining Remnants, and they had pooled their power the top of the building vanished in a blaze of light and sound—

He had been relieved to see Cloud  when he was brought back into the church. But he didn’t really believe it until he reached a hand out to help Cloud out of the water and Cloud had grasped it, solid and real—and grinned before pulling Vincent into the pool with a newly sleeveless, unmarked arm.

Veld’s hand had been shaking when he had reached Vincent after the fit. And the look in his eyes… the terror on Seph…

He sat down in the shower and let the water fall over him, and listened to Veld and Sephiroth offer each other reassurance because he did not know what, if anything, to say. He could not make this better. He could not make it stop. And explain how he knew it would stop would be a neat trick.

He let the hot water comfort him, inasmuch as it could. But he had no comfort to dig up that would be both accepted and not a lie. Sephiroth and Veld were what he had left-- he didn't want to lie to them.

Chapter Text

                Vincent’s voice started to give out halfway through the scene with the sharks. Sephiroth was beside himself—swept up in the story again, he was worried for the kidnapped Buttercup, who had jumped over the railing of the ship to try to get away after being kidnapped while riding her horse.

                “What’s a horse?”

                “I’m not sure. They mention them in a lot of these old stories though. Apparently it’s some kind of mammal that you ride like a chocobo.”

                “Why not just ride a chocobo?”

                Maybe they didn’t exist in the made-up world? “I don’t know.”

                “Still. They must be cool if you can ride them.”

                “They must be.” Vincent agreed. He was sitting with his back against the wall—Sephiroth liked having his bed shoved into a corner so it touched two walls, Vincent suspected so that no one could approach without being somewhere he could see. His was set up similarly. And for that reason.

Sephiroth, in a move rather unlike himself, had crawled into his lap, he suspected so that he could reassure himself that Vincent was breathing right and his ribs were intact without making it obvious. So he sat cross-legged to allow him a spot to sit, and read out of the story… but between the fact that he spoke more the night before than he had in… decades… and… not yelling was sometimes a strain too, he felt his throat start to feel… off for a few minutes before his voice cracked at the very moment where the short evil mastermind started fulfill the threat with the sharks. Sephiroth’s head jerked upwards to look at him, directly overhead, and he frowned when Vincent coughed.

                “Are you sick?”

                “No,” Vincent said, or tried to say, what came out was a rough noise, and outside the door, he heard Veld sigh, get up and start to rattle around in the kitchen. He tried again. “No.”

                Green eyes went narrow. Upside down of course, since he was sitting directly in Vincent’s lap and was looking straight up at him. “Like I wasn’t sick on the boat?”

                “Seasickness isn’t sick proper either. Just spent a long time talking to Veld last night. Your voice can get tired too, you know.”

                Veld kept futzing around in the kitchen. Which didn’t matter, exactly, but was distracting. Not that there was anything in there that Vincent didn’t trust Veld with, but what was he doing?

                Sephiroth was frowning unhappily, his eyes sketching over Vincent’s face. “We should stop then. Does it hurt?” He started t reach up, then frowned and lowered his hand.

                It felt a little wrong, but “no, it doesn’t hurt, Seph.” Veld had done whatever it was he was doing and was coming up the stairs again.

                “Are you lying?”

                “He’s probably not, “ Veld said, coming in the door without knocking—apparently Seph hadn’t been paying attention because he jumped and smacked his head on Vincent’s jaw. “Well, now it probably does. Bite your tongue Vincent?”

                Vincent just raised an eyebrow. He had, but he was already rubbing the top of Sephiroth’s head, when the boy’s hands came up to clutch at the part he had smacked into him.

                “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

                “You didn’t!” Seph said, a little too quickly, then looked up, eyes tracing over Vincent worriedly. Vincent only smiled at him and kept rubbing the boy’s head.

                “If you say so. Vincent, tea.” He passed him a steaming cup. Slightly rushed by the smell. Heated by materia? “And hand me the book, that’s no place to leave off the story.”

                “Tea?” Seph asked, dubious.

                “Good for lost voices.” Way too much honey in it—probably because it was also good for voices. That slight metallic undertone wasn’t so pronounced when it had only been water when it was heated. He raised an eyebrow and Veld only rolled his eyes and made a grabbing motion at the book. “Gimmie. Hope you don’t mind—I was waiting for you just outside so I heard.”

                That apology, Vincent thought, was more for Sephiroth then him, but he tipped his head and opened his mouth to thank him—

                “No talking. Just tea for you right now. Seph, where were you at exactly?”

                Sephiroth tipped his head to one side and Vincent could hear the dubiousness in his voice, but he replied, “the sharks. The small mastermind was going to cut himself and bleed to bring the sharks to hurt the princess.”

                “Shit Vincent, this is what you call a bedtime story? No, no talking.”

                It seemed unfair to have questions asked of you and then be ordered not to reply, so Vincent sighed and rolled his eyes and took another sip of the tea. Still too much honey. But… not that bad, with that in mind. The honey helped cover the metallic tones.

                “Sure you don’t want something with a little less bloodletting in it?”

                Seph sounded horrified. “Then how would I find out what happens to Buttercup?”

                “Sharks it is then. Vizzini is a real piece of work.” Veld… was actually quite good at reading stories when he put his mind to it. He leaned against the wall just inside the door, and told them about how the giant plucked the girl from the water at the last minute, and they sailed onward to the Cliffs of Insanity, with a ship gaining on them as they went.

                “Does Vizzini know that he’s overusing that word?”

                “Probably.” Veld told Seph with a frown, then pointed with the spine of the book to Vincent. “That mouth better only be open for more tea, Vincent. So help me I will make our talk later occur on paper if I think I have to.”

                Sephiroth giggled. Vincent was thinking of a finger. A very particular finger. Veld just raised an eyebrow and went back to reading.

                Unlike Vincent, Veld did the voices.

                “Why is the mastermind so mean to his people?”

                “There are good leaders, and there are bad leaders,” Veld told the boy, though he was frowning at the book as he said it. “Some leaders think that you get the most out of your people when you terrorize them and make them feel unsafe, and stay in charge by denying their worker’s skills. Those are bad leaders.”

                “I seem to recall the secretaries being terrified of—” Vincent was cut off by Sephiroth’s hand reaching up and covering his mouth, and okay, it wouldn’t be hard to talk around an eight year old’s hand, but he was too surprised to try. Sephiroth’s expression was both determined and completely unsure, jaw jutting out a little but eyes searching his for any hint of anger.

                Veld started laughing, hard, and Vincent rolled his eyes at both of them.

***

                 “You didn’t open your mail earlier.” Veld said, waving the letter about before placing it in Vincent’s outstretched hand. “Anything urgent?” It was late, and they could both use sleep—but there was still so much to discuss. Sephiroth had fallen asleep before the Man in Black had made it up the cliffs—his small head still leaning against Vincent’s chest, lulled by the rise and fall of even breathing.

It had taken a while to extricate himself without waking the boy. It had taken a while to convince himself to make the attempt—something Veld seemed to understand.
                “Probably not. Will you be upset if I say I’m in contact with Gast?” Vincent kept his voice to a murmur. Veld gave him a sideways glance and he rolled his eyes at him, but his voice seemed much better now.

                “I can recognize handwriting, same as you.”

                Vincent snorted. “There’s a difference between knowing it and saying it, and you know that.”

                “Bigger fish. Besides, I’m inclined to do whatever will fuck Hojo over more at the moment. He wants them? He can’t have them. I’ll probably make up some bullshit about them having come through this area… explain why I was out… or something.”

                “You can’t really get them in any more trouble then they already have. At least not with words.” Vincent agreed. “Hojo will probably kill Gast outright if he catches them, though, and take Ifalna back to whatever hell is serving as his lab.” He hesitated. “She’s pregnant. A girl.”

                Veld flinched.

                “They’re going to name her Aerith,” Vincent said mildly, playing with the closed envelope.

                “You’ve made your point, Vincent.”

                Vincent nodded, looked down and finished his mug of tea. Veld sighed and held out his hand for it. “You don’t need to—”

                “Shut up and accept more tea, Vincent.” Vincent surrendered the mug. Opened the letter while he listened to Veld putter about. When Veld came back into the room, he frowned and sat down the mug on the far table. “Vincent? What’s wrong?”

                “I—nothing.” His eyes were watering. He swallowed and looked away. “They had their girl. A little premature. But… she’ll be okay. Near miss with Shinra—they took my advice and got the hell out of…” laughter in the newly empty battlefield—fearless green eyes. Aerith is--he frowned and looked up. Shook his head to focus. “Well. There was an attack the day after they left.”

                “If I don’t know, I can’t tell, even unwittingly.” Veld agreed, quietly. “But… he didn’t go through the Turks for that.”

                “Maybe not a fully condoned movement then. Gast is brilliant and valuable—they don’t want him dead. But Hojo wants his position. And… Gast loves Ifalna, Veld. Hojo won’t take her while Gast is alive.” Actually, he should have a word with Gast about that. See if he could teach him some basic self defense. Marksmanship. How to dig a spear pit, anything.

                “Gast loves everything and everyone he ever ran into. I think he loves scorpions. No one loves scorpions.”

                “He wouldn’t die for a scorpion. He’d die for her.” And his daughter. His daughter.

                Who was alive. Aerith is alive.

                The ribbon felt lighter—and he hadn’t been conscious of it’s weight before, how could it feel lighter?

                “Vincent. Vin. I don’t know where you are, but it’s not here.” Veld’s voice was… quiet. Gentle. Vincent’s eyes narrowed, and his partner let out a laugh and looked away. “You scared me. Today.”

                Vincent ducked his head into his collar. “I’m sorry.”

                “I don’t want you to be sorry, Vin.” Veld, it seemed, had finally run out of protective rage. For today at least.  He grabbed the mug again, held it to Vincent handle-first even though it’s heat on his fingertips had to be excruciating. “Just… drink the damn tea. I need to leave tomorrow, much as I don’t want to. Shinra will get suspicious if I run off for too long.”

                “Not too surprising. But I’ll be sorry to see you leave.”

                “You’ve not seen the last of me yet. Not remotely.”

                “Good.” Vincent breathed, and to his own surprise, he meant it.

                “It’d be easier if you would be closer to Midgar—”

                “No. For a lot of reasons.”

                “Probably thought of half of them myself, so I won’t drag them out of you. But… why here, Vin? The Manor?”

                Vincent shook his head. “No. It’s definitely not the Manor. It’s—”

                “-the light, right?”

                Fresh from the coffin, Vincent couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to—he felt as if he had given speeches and lead a march up a mountain instead of a simple, quiet discussion and a walk (albeit broken up by a few monster attacks) back to meet the rest of the party. He had a headache the likes of which he had experienced before, but usually in conjunction with something Hojo did, and his mind was swimming with the personalities before him. Once upon a time, this could have been the start of a very wild party.

                Now he wanted nothing more than to sleep, and couldn’t. “The light?”

                The leader, whose head looked shockingly like the plumage of a chocobo, nodded. “The light. When they enhance SOLDIERs, they keep em in a dark room for a few days—your eyes are one of the first and easiest things to enhance. Then they brighten it up by a few degrees each day. Brutal headaches, sleep loss and general pissiness usually follow. You’ve been in a coffin, which was underground, which was accessed through a dim manor, for how long without seeing a drop of light, natural or otherwise—and unless I miss my guess, you never got to see the natural world with the enhanced peepers. So even though you feel like you’ve been dragged behind a chariot, you can’t sleep.”

                Vincent opened his mouth, shut it, tipped his head in a nod. “It will be fine.”

                “Yeah. But, two ways to speed it up? First, blindfolds—”

                “No. Tactical disadvantage is… no. Not for love or money.”

                “Thought you’d say that. Good man—someone else with some basic survival instinct will be welcome around here.” Later, that’s hilarious to Vincent, but in the moment, he doesn’t know who’s saying that. Not yet. “Second option is a pain in the ass and you’ll hate it, but it always works.”

                “Oh?”

                Cloud smiled. “Just stay awake all night. Tomorrow you’ll collapse and life will go back to normal.”

                “Brilliant. Is that your way of asking me to join you on watch?”

                “Is it working?”

                Vincent fell quiet, his eyes staring off into the middle distance.

                Veld paused. “There’s a lot you aren’t telling me, Vin. And that makes me incredibly nervous, given what you did manage to share.”

                Vincent opened his mouth, shut it again. Looked off to one side.

                “You don’t fight like you’re getting used to your powers. You fight like you got them in hard combat.” Vincent only looked at him. “And… you’re taking this all too well. I’d expect… rage, maybe self-loathing from you, if you only slept between now and… before Nibelheim. You don’t let go of things easily. Why are you… in a state to be raising a child?

                Vincent looked away, then, very, very slowly, whispered, “yes. There was… I slept most of the last eight years. But more happened since I last saw you as… as the person I was.”

                Veld shut his eyes. “I should be a lot more pissed than I currently am. Why hold back? You… we’ve discussed…. Things that were already terrible—” his voice broke on the last word, and Vincent flinched, reached forward and placed a hand over his partner’s knee.

                “You know the worst of it.” Vincent managed, quiet, and very, very slow. “But… other things happened, yes. Veld… it’s not about what’s bad. I just don’t know how to explain it without sounding like a madman.”

                Veld blinked. Then, volume building, he started “you’re worried about sounding crazy, after telling me about Chaos and what it felt like to be autopsied alive?”

                There is a gesture that is not quite a blink, a flinch, because time can only ease so much and that was a very, very bad day. “Quieter, Veld. And… yes. Parts of it don’t make sense to me, and I was there. There was… magic, and the lifestream, and…” Time. And Time. “I’ll explain it when I know how, but at least I had physical marks for the rest of it. That I could look at and tell myself I wasn’t crazy.” Would he? He would have to, now. Because… because it was Veld. And because Veld was terrified for him.

                Veld took a very deep breath. Pointed at Vincent down the length of his arm. “You will. You absolutely will tell me.”

                “Yes. Later. When I figure out how.” Vincent paused. “Vastly simplified version? I… When I first… got out. I was a mess. Some people helped me, coaxed me out and put up with my shit until I figured out what I… was now.” He took a slow breath. “I probably wouldn’t have left the coffin at all if it wasn’t for them.”

                Veld opened his mouth, shut it, walked over and sat next to him so their shoulders brushed. Vincent stared deeply into his teacup, as if looking for answers, not looking at him, so Veld prompted, “what happened to them?”

                I left them. I undid everything they sacrificed to achieve. And I don’t regret it. Or I do, but I don’t regret the child upstairs, who’s sleeping and safe and hopefully not going to kill the baby Ifalna and Gast just had. What kind of friend am I, Aerith? “I… One was murdered. Some.. don’t.. they aren’t here anymore. Others… It’s complicated.”                

                “Vincent. Tell me you didn’t join a terrorist organization for fellowship and therapy after… all this.”

                Vincent laughs because… Well. Classifying AVALANCHE is a neat trick on a good day. Maybe particularly for an ex-Turk. “It wouldn’t be the first time, would it? It was contra-Shinra, I give you that, but… mostly we focused on saving people. A lot of things crawl around reactors that get… really bad in distant places. Places Shinra doesn’t care about so much. Did some other stuff later, but… most of it was running stupid errands and fighting monsters.  That… that helped. Learning to see myself as someone who did things again.” Cid’s hard bark of laughter after a good kill, spinning the spear and offering Vincent a cigarette. His surprise, when Vincent accepted what felt like the hundredth offer—hating the taste because his taste was too good and Cid’s cigs would gag a Marlboro. But the feel of it, that was different, and familiar, and Cid laughed when he saw that he knew how to light it and smoke it, and the laughter made his shoulders relax, thinking of other times, other people, other missions.

                “I thought we weren’t talking about that incident in Kalm?” Veld said quietly, a teasing note in his voice.

                “You brought up terrorist organizations. As if we haven’t both joined a few just to get the roster and meeting location.”

                “You know what I meant.” Veld reached out with one hand—“does it have to do with—” and in what may be the first time Vincent had genuinely surprised him since he was… not dead, Vincent’s hand caught his before he could touch the ribbon, his face blank and remote, and it’s by that that Veld was certain he was right. “Easy, there. Ribbons, though—not like you. Obviously not for aesthetic or it would have matched your clothes.”

                Vincent took a deep breath, and the seconds ticked to minutes. “It does. We all… one of us, a girl, barely more than a child.” Funny. She hadn’t been much younger than he had been when he vanished, but she seemed centuries younger when he had been… found. Maybe living things always seemed young to… dead things. Yes—he had thought of himself that way, at least. Living things grew and changed their environments. Only dead things slept, stagnant. “She was sort of the group cheerleader—and the team healer. Ridiculously fearless, damn good mage, and one of the few people who actually got along with everyone at first. Only person I ever met who had healing magic for her first limit break.” That made Veld gape at him—limit breaks were reflections of parts of yourself, amplified by stress and adrenaline and the shape of your need when you first hit it. Healing limit breaks were—that alone would land someone a place of honor in Hojo’s lab, it was so rare. The Cetra never had a chance at a normal life, did she? “We… had an enemy.” The silver hair sweeping in an arc, and still seeing Lucrecia in the part and the style of it, the eyes inhuman but shaped like hers— “and he knew that she was the only one who could counter a magic he used. So he waited, watched… manipulated some of us to cause a diversion. Ran her through right in front of us in the heat of the madness. She was… she died fast.” He shook his head—the smell of blood almost overpowering the smell of lilies, hair coming undone in that last moment—she didn’t even try to grasp the sword. Her eyes glazed so quickly. “That… a lot of things happened after that. But we all wore the ribbons.” No problem telling him that. It wasn’t like anyone else would show up with the marker. Vincent shut his eyes. “She liked ribbons, you see. A pink one in particular was her favorite. She was wearing it when she died, and our leader took that one for himself. We just imitated him.”

                “Shit. I’m sorry. But I’m glad you weren’t alone,” Veld said, very quietly, and then, with more of his usual heat, added “even if you’re an idiot and should have come to me the very second you woke up.”

                I should have. But— Veld’s face coming into view, a scar that wasn’t present now arced over a cheek. “Vincent, please, help me. It’s my daughter, Felicia.”

                Surely after everything they had been through that should have been enough to get him out of the coffin and keep him there. But Vincent had only helped to find the materia he needed before heading back to the basement.

                “Vincent. I don’t have time to fight with you over this, or I would be. Please. Don’t do this.” Too quiet for the rookie to hear as he went. Vincent knew. A man should be willing to ignore an idiot for his daughter, no matter how close they had once been. Veld saw it in his eyes. Then, face hardening, “I’ll come get you when I have more time and my daughter isn’t dying. And I won’t take no for an answer.”

                Vincent had believed him, but that was a problem for another day.

                And he had expected, the next time someone knocked on his coffin, that it would be Veld, too pissed to be ignored. But it was a blonde stranger.

                “I don’t know you. You must leave.”

                “I’m so sorry, Veld.” Vincent whispered, his vision swimming.

Veld blinked, a lot, then looked away. “You’re sorry? Prove it. Come visit me in Kalm. And my wife and kid.”

                Vincent felt his jaw fall open. “I—”

                “We wanted to make you the godparent of our kids. I still do. Veris will, when she knows.” Veld’s jaw worked, tense, and then he added, at a choked whisper, “Let me tell her. You’re family—you belong among family.

                It was a stupid idea. The fewer people knew, the less danger, to them and to Vincent and Seph. And Kalm was basically a suburb of Midgar. And there was a problem, the bombing coming up…

                He opened his mouth to tell him all of those things, but what came out was “yes. Please.”

Chapter Text

                They talked late into the night again, Veld making tea over and over as he went. Vincent sighed and accepted the drinks, and… for his part, Veld pretended not to hear the sighs.
                Vincent had unbelievable things to say. But…given what he had shown Veld so far…

                “So… not only is Hojo likely a mutant at this point, not only is he dangerously insane… but there’s a chance he could upload his consciousness to the infoweb and replant himself in… Odin knows what?”

                Vincent frowned, mostly at his tea mug, mostly in thought. “I don’t know. Depending on how far along it is, though… yes. I have… seen evidence that it’s doable. And if that’s the case… we may end up with a problem.”

                Veld looked at him sourly. “There’s an under-fucking-statement. Still. I’ll think of something. After we find out things. You’re alive—I’ll deal with a little extra difficulty for that. Maybe we could prop up Hollander and see if the infighting and sabotage will get us the opening we want.”

                “Maybe.”

                “You remember Tseng? He’s my second now… not a lot of us left, mostly just me and the students of the people we knew. I mean, technically he’s my student, but… still.”
                Something odd flickered across Vincent’s face, before he looked down at his cup again. “I remember Tseng. I’m glad he’s still doing alright.” Veld looked at him, for a long moment, before Vincent sighed. “How many of our generation are left anyway?”

                Ahh. Well… small wonder Vincent was pensive. The notion of waking up one day in a world where most of the people you knew were dead, not by sudden or clever attack but because you had been unconscious through the years when they got picked off… Another thing Hojo had taken from Vincent. And something that he likely wouldn’t even understand. “Not too many, Vin. Chameleon, she’s changed her name so many times I’d be surprised if she remembers who she originally was—”

                Vincent’s voice was soft. “Rebecca.”

                “If I called it out I’d be surprised if she blinked. I think she’s going by Fiona now. Brick—Todd, and thank Shiva for that, because I don’t think anyone else would keep her in line. She hasn’t gotten any saner. And… Ghost.”

                “How the hell is Ghost still up and running? He’s been a senior agent since I was a rookie.”

                “Not due to age. I can see his records now—he’s only about a decade older than us. But… yeah, he’s a paranoid fucker. Working in deep cover in some terrorist groups. Plural. Somehow. Says it keeps him young.”

                Vincent let out a little huff of laughter. “Well, that sounds like him at least.”

                Veld let out a hard breath. “Yeah.”

                “That’s it?”

                “Shinra solidifying it’s power base politically… a lot of us died. And for a bit they put Heidigger in charge—he’s not careful with the lives of his forces. Shinra took him off the case when it was clear he couldn’t do subtle, but I live in fear of him being put back in the role. I have a few backup plans.”

                Vincent actually shuddered. “He’s a piece of work.” And if the words, and the anger in them, helped the man drive beat back the wet gleam in his eye… well, Veld wasn’t telling. Turks looked out for Turks. They picked on each other and messed with each other and fucked each other up, but Turks looked out for Turks. In a warped way, even the drugs in his coffee during the wake had been a kind of gift—a senior agent who had lost his own partner years earlier, helping him to forget for a few meager hours.

                All of that, too, had been taken from Vincent. All the wakes, all the funerals, all the stories told by the others who grieved with you in the dark, at least half drunk. All he had was the cold knowledge that so many of his friends were simply… gone.

                “Don’t I know it. Which brings me back to Hojo. You say Deepground is another SOLDIER project?”

                “Yes and no. It started out as a hospital—not everyone takes to the SOLDIER treatments well. Reinforced, so that they could be contained, underground and away from the public eye… but a hospital out of the way, out of public sight….”

                “Hojo’s already proven he doesn’t care too much about ethics even when he has other eyes on him.”

                Vincent tipped his head to Veld. “Precisely. Again, I don’t know what stage it’s at, but…”

                “Could be very bad. Understood.”

                Vincent opened his mouth, and considered shutting it again—Veld watched the indecision crawl across his face. “Veld. There’s something you should know, but… it’s related to the weirdness I can’t explain yet. So… I can’t really explain how I know this.”

                Veld cocked his head.

                “There’s going to be a bombing mission near Kalm. Check, recheck and check the message you send to your man again. Make the man rephrase it and send your instructions back to you or… something. There will be a communications error, and something very bad will happen.”

                Veld’s blood ran cold and he sat up straight, looking at Vincent—the red eyes almost looked the right color, in the semi dark, except that the faint glow in them brought the red out clearly. “That—how do you know that? How can you know that?”
                “I can’t… if I explain, and you don’t believe me because of it, I won’t forgive myself.”

                Veld felt both hands turn to fists, the nails biting into the flesh… but Vincent didn’t flinch from his eyes, holding his gaze with perfect seriousness. So he took a deep breath. “If an informant tried to tell me something that fucking vague, I’d beat their ass.”

                Vincent flinched but didn’t look away. “I know.”

                “You are damned lucky I trust you more than an informant. When you figure out how, you are telling me everything.”

                “Yes, Veld.”

                “But I do trust you. Damnit. I’ll be careful. Very careful.” Vincent let out a long, shuddering breath—Veld blinked, for a moment the man looked closer to tears than he had since… “Idiot. How long were you trying to figure out how to say that so I would listen?”

                Vincent just laughed, shook his head.

                They talked more, of course—it had been eight years. There was no shortage of things to say. But it was late. Very late.

                Veld was the one to straighten, slowly, stretching. “There will be other nights. But we both need sleep. If you wake up without your voice in the morning I think your kid might kill me.”

                Vincent huffed out a laugh. “He’s like that, sometimes. Blame Hojo, I do. I’m working on it.” He rose to his feet, then hesitated. “Veld… are you sure you want me near your family? I’m not—”

                “Vincent. The end of that sentence had better be ‘not fully in control of my vocal cords’.”

                “But—”

                Veld considered punching him. But… he didn’t have the heart for it in the dark, Vincent looking away from him, fiddling too carefully with a mug in one gloved hand and one gauntleted. “I’m more than sure. The next time you impugn my brother’s honor, we’re fighting. Got it? You’re lucky your kid is scary. Now go to bed.”

                “I—”

                “Go to bed, Vincent.”

***

Reeve cursed quietly, pulling the ruins of the latest suit off. The pants were salvageable, if unpleasant, but the shirt and the coat—he had stretched only slightly. There wasn’t a tailor he knew of who could fix them now.

“Everything alright, Reeve?” Fiona—if that was her real name, which he doubted—not that Turks didn’t use their real names, but there had been a hesitation once when he called her by that name, and he could only wonder… But more important, he still wasn’t sure if she was genuinely there to help, or there to kill him if he lost it. The hospital bathroom was… too nice. He had never been in the VIP section before this visit. He hoped it wasn’t on his gil. Probably not—they treated Directors differently. Which was why someone had stopped to get his old suit shirts for him so he could walk out of the damn hospital dressed to the nines.

In theory, it was about presenting a strong and confident face for the public (and just as important, the other Directors). In practice…

“I just destroyed my third suit in five minutes trying to get dressed. Nothing is hurt except my checkbook and my sense of normalcy.” He allowed the irritation in his voice—it wouldn’t do to be too even-keeled. And it was a relief to have the opportunity to vent, even that little bit. There was a pause, then the door to the bathroom opened and he sighed heavily. “If you could knock?”
                She grinned, impish, and he rolled his eyes in genuine irritation. There was… something, a sudden heat in his eyes, and she blinked, leaned back—he gritted his teeth, shut his eyes and turned himself bodily away. A moment later, he felt a hand on his arm, and let the attached hand clench, so she could feel it. It didn’t seem to put her off. “I can help?”

“I would prefer if you—” he paused, and turned back to her very slowly—that scared her as the mako flare and tensed stance had not, but she hid it well. A consummate professional. “You’re doing it on purpose. Trying to egg me into losing my temper so that you can tell your superiors,” Veld, “what that looks like.”

Got it in one. She blinked a few times, opening her mouth, and he turned back away, watching from the corner of his eyes instead while snagging a new shirt from the pile. “I… alright. You got me. They wanted to be sure you wouldn’t lose it in a board meeting. The other Directors are—”

“At best, trying, at worst, likely homicidal.” More than likely. “I have been in a board meeting a time or two. I am acquainted with the charecters present. I know better than to get between Palmer and the chocolate filled donuts. Or Scarlett and the eclairs.”

“Knowing is one thing, having a mode of dealing with it is another. Those shirts aren’t really your size anymore, are they? Let me help.”

“That’s hardly—”

“I know a thing or two about suits—gauging the fabrics least likely to give way under stress is, allow me to assure you, almost a pastime among the Turks. We have a favorite tailor—he makes suits that look normal but stretch so they aren’t destroyed the first time you have to really exercise in them. I’ll get you his number, that way when you twist you won’t destroy things like rice paper. They aren’t cheap, but they last—and on a director’s salary, you’ll be able to more than afford it. Besides, if something is fitted right with that fabric, it’s very flattering… and you’ve put on a lot of muscle. You can show off a bit.” She trailed a hand down his chest—still testing his boundaries and reactions. He didn’t want to fight—the mako hadn’t changed that, at least. So he just stepped out of reach.

“Can you not?”

“No,” she dimpled up at him before going back to looking through his remaining shirts. “This one—it’s a little larger and made of a slightly more forgiving fabric than the rest.”

Having his wardrobe ransacked by an overly helpful Turk who might be here to kill him-- all before they even left the hospital. He was starting to think that the way it had happened last time might have been a lot better. Assuming he wasn’t mad. “Fine, I’ll try or possibly destroy that one next.”

“Hold out your arm.”

“Really?”

“Think of it this way—the less you move, the sooner we get a suit on you, the sooner you get to leave.”

Reeve took another deep breath and obliged. Because as annoying and alarming as the Turk was, he really did want out of the hospital.

It would be easier to make sure he wasn’t crazy when he was home. Even if he did have an odd shadow stalking him.

If he wasn’t crazy, he had dealt with worse. And if he was crazy, she was the least of his problems.

***

                The Beast woke him up early. This happened sometimes, though it wasn’t usually the Beast. The Beast was the best behaved of his uninvited roommates.

                Vincent sighed when the creature’s restlessness didn’t relent and got up, made for the door. Seeing in the dark was… different, than when he was human. Not just better—different. In dark rooms it was the most similar, though the texture and detail he could see now was… well. The dark didn’t really bother him anymore.

                Out in moonlight proper, he could see three colors he had no names for. It had taken him a while to slow down enough to really identify them as such. Initially all he had seen was that the world by moonlight wasn’t nearly as dull as he had once believed.

                “the hell you staring at? It’s a damn field!” Barrett, grumpy and suspicious, two weeks after they had coaxed him out of the coffin. Tifa had elbowed him in the stomach—hard from the sound of the grunt. “What the hell—”

                “It’s his first full moon. In decades,” she had hissed at him, then, quieter—she probably hadn’t meant for Vincent to hear, actually—“you don’t have to be a prick just because he used to be a Turk. He’s gotten as badly shafted by Shinra as any of us. Worse than most of us, actually—if Aerith and Cloud can deal with him, you can too.”

                “I—”

                “It isn’t just his first full moon in years. It’s his first full moon with enhanced eyes,” Cloud had added quietly—possibly to cut them off and save them all further embarrassment. He was more likely to remember than Barrett, after all, just how good enhancement could make your ears. “Let him stare. It’s the first time he’s actually paused to look at anything this whole time.”

                And, alright, Vincent was no stranger to pretending not to hear things to keep a conversation going—one good way to cut off the flow of information was to acknowledge it—but he didn’t think he could have raised his voice to speak in that moment if he had wanted to. The dew drops on the grass, half formed, gilded everything with silver light—the barest dust motes in the air caught the moonlight in pale, translucent beams.

                It was beautiful. And he wouldn’t have seen half of it if he had looked at it with human eyes.

                He wasn’t sure if he loved it or hated it, but he would never forget it.

                There was a lot of things like that, it would seem.

                He wished he remembered how moonlight looked with human eyes a little better, though. It may have been only eight years for his body, but for him it had been decades.

***

             Vincent,

                My wife gave birth a few days ago. Premature, a little girl, and… she’s so tiny. I’ve never been so terrified in all my life—she’s so small, but Ifalna says she’s fine. We finally decided to name her Aerith. I admit I didn’t really believe Ifalna that she was fine, until she started crying properly—nothing that can make that much noise is weak.

                She has her mother’s eyes.

                I’m sorry, you probably have better things to do than listen to me talk about how beautiful my daughter is. (She is, though, Vincent. My daughter looks like an angry pink raisin except for her eyes and I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.) I have no idea how anyone can think straight after having a child and I’m on the run and I’ve never been happier or more absolutely certain I made the right decision, leaving Shinra.

                And… for that, I have you to thank. As you recommended, I moved Ifalna and Aerith as soon as Ifalna could stand to be moved—we got word a few days after that not too long after we left a man came with some Shinra troopers and ransacked our place. I have no idea how they knew where we were, but… well. We would be back at Shinra if not for you. At best. Thank you.

                That said, I hadn’t really thought beyond that point. I was wondering if you would mind us coming to visit—or if you think it would be wise. I… could use some help thinking of what to do next, to keep my family safe. But… I would not endanger yours.

                If this is what you feel when you look at Sephiroth, I have no idea how Shinra is still standing. How anyone who ever worked there, and especially those in the science department, like myself, are still alive.

                The dead drops you set up—we’ll be in “area 5” for the next few weeks. If you are willing to let us visit… then I look forward to seeing you. If not, any suggestions you have would be appreciated.

                Vincent. I’m a father.

                Gast

                Veld probably would have felt worse about reading Vincent’s mail if he hadn’t left it open on his table. If he had been a Turk under his command, he would have made sure he was reading it openly when Vincent walked into the room, as a rebuke to his carelessness—

                “Look, if you don’t have the balls, give it here. It’s our duty. As Turks,” Vincent said, holding out a hand and wagging his fingers.

                Abby had hesitated, “but—”

                “Give him the letter,” Veld said, between mouthfuls of food. “GIVE him the letter. He’ll make it fun.”

                “For us, or Charles?”

                Vincent snagged it from the junior agent while she was distracted, then mounted the breakroom table, unfolding the paper as he went. When Charles came into the room, it was to a spirited rereading and critique of his love letter. “Charles, old pal! If you’re going to write a limerick about a girl’s hair, choose one type of thing to compare her to—and my advice, don’t make it food!”

                “At least I have a girl to write to!” Charles had yelled back after a long, frozen, horrified pause. Charles had always been a good sport.

                “ Not for long if she has any kind of standards!” Vincent yelled back. And the breakroom had laughed.

                Charles had always been a good sport—more importantly, he learned his lesson—he never left letters of any kind lying around again. Good. Leaving those around could get an agent killed.

                This was Vincent’s home. He wasn’t a Turk… at least not the same way, anymore, though he was in Veld’s eyes. Being a Turk, staying a Turk—that had very little to do with Shinra, in the end. It was really about who you were to other Turks. He still glanced over it. Professional habits—never refuse free information, regardless of the source.

                Only one piece of information really stood out to him—Aerith. ‘We finally decided to name her Aerith’.

                Maybe they had meantioned it to him and simply forgotten it? Vincent had meantioned it before opening the letter, after all. People contradicted themselves all the time—it was probably just that. But for some reason, it bothered him.

Chapter Text

                Veld startled when Vincent stepped into the room, not from the stairs as he expected, but from outside. Vincent raised an eyebrow. “A little less aware of your surroundings than I would prefer, Veld.”

                “I relaxed. Sue me.”

                “I’ll ambush you if you keep this up,” but his shoulders were relaxed and his eyes suggested a smile might be possible. “Is that tea?”

                “Yes. I made it the fancy way you prefer, not the quick and dirty way from last night. Princess.”

                “Philistine,” Vincent countered amicably, leaning into the steam to enjoy the smell, eyes shutting as he did it. “Shinra Manor? I’ll ask someone in town to watch Seph for a bit. I… don’t want him near… I don’t want him to see…”

                Var shook his head “I wouldn’t want Felicia to either. We could probably do with some basic tools—it won’t be as official a fakery as it might be, but I can only use the tools available… oh no…”

                They exchanged bland smiles.

                “Shovels, at least, we can borrow from Mr. Lockhart.” Veld gave him an odd look. “No one calls him by his first name except his wife. And not always her either. I don’t know why. I just go with it.”

                “Huh.” Outside, a raven cawed and Veld looked up at it. “I wonder if it’s the same raven… Creepy bird. Vincent, what are you doing up this early?”

                Vincent was relaxed… but completely awake. “Walking the dog.”

                “What dog, it—oh.”

                Vincent nodded. “It was frustrated. I… never really tried to make alliances with any of them before—but the beast is… not human. But it thinks like a hunter. It has things it wants… it can be bargained with. I killed a dragon with it after I ran out of ammo on the mountain.”

                Veld stopped breathing for a moment. Then he shut  his eyes. “You ran out of fucking ammo.”

                “It was a very long fight. And there were a lot of monsters. Galian… liked that, liked the challenge. It’s kind of nice to be on not-outright adversarial terms with all of what’s in my head.”

                “You ran. Out of ammo.”

                “Not for lack of ammo, I assure you. And I’ll carry more on mountain treks from now on.”

                “Definitionally for lack of ammo, Vincent!”

                “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

                “I’m rather pissed you didn’t say it earlier!”
                “Veld. I was carrying twice the recommended load for a monster hunt.”

                Veld blinked.

                “Sometimes shit just goes bad. You know that.”

                Veld looked away. “Yeah. Alright. And you made it out. But… damn. I don’t like leaving you this far away.”

                “I know.” Vincent decided to ignore the implied request this time instead of outright refusing. “What were you saying about the raven? I know that one—she roosts just outside the widow’s walk.”

                “A bird… helped me after I opened the safe in the Manor.”

                Vincent had been raising the cup to his lips—he lowered it again. “You actually opened the fucking safe. Speaking of things you should have meantioned earlier.”

                “I handled it. Sort of. It dropped what was in the safe, and I used it.”

                “Odin. A good summon, I suppose.”

                Veld blinked. “Was… shit, was it yours?”
                “Not really. I used it briefly, but we never really got on. It’s very important that you get along with your summons. If he works for you, please keep him. I’ll be happier knowing you have him.”

                “You and your affinity for weird shit,” Veld says without thinking, because.. because he used to give him shit over the ghost stories and the willingness to entertain supernatural explanations. And now it’s… something else, something darker and weirder. But Vincent only snorts and takes another sip of tea.

                “Says the man who’s still talking to me for some reason that lies beyond thought or self-preservation.”

                “Oi. Fuck you, and also we talked about this.”

                “I’m letting your statement stand. But your bullshit, that I’ll make fun of. You have no idea how weird the weird shit is just yet. The summon bit is just common knowledge for anyone that works with summons. The god-avatars are fussy.” Veld muttered something uncomplimentary about his heritage. Grimoire would have laughed at that sort of thing, so it had never particularly bothered Vincent. He smirked instead.

                “Anyway, when I won the fight, the crow-“

                “—raven.”

                “—raven or whatever came back and tried to grab the materia. I thought that was a bad idea—”

                “It’s tried to grab fire materia from me before. Let that sink into your nightmares.”

                Veld shuddered, “—so I didn’t let it, but when I went to check out the safe, it had one of those old limit break teachings in it. So the damned bird stole that instead.”

                Vincent frowned and stood, setting his glass down gently on the table, turns and walks up the stairs, and up the other stairs and by the time Veld catches up, he’s opened the window—leaning out and ruffling through a very indignant raven’s nest. “Vincent?”

                Vincent pulls himself back inside holding a familiar slip of paper in one hand, and the Raven sqacks at them both. Veld laughs, but stops because Vincent’s expression doesn’t change—it’s remote and hard and… lost. “Vincent?”

                “You aren’t real. Don’t taunt me.” Vincent hisses at the bird, and shuts the window suddenly, which the bird pecks at irritably. Then he sees the look in Veld’s face and lies. Lies while meeting his eyes and knowing he can see it. “It’s a saying for warding off misfortune.”

                Veld nods. “And I’m Sephiroth’s biological mother.”

                “Veld, it’s—look, it’s connected to the weird shit in a way I don’t trust, alright? And I can’t explain it yet.”

                That was… more honest. “You know that if you need help, and you don’t tell me, I won’t necessarily see it with the letters.”

                “Veld—”

                Veld pulled out his best weapon, for rare and devastating use. “And that’s not fair or safe. For Sephiroth.”

                Vincent flinched, then took a deep breath. “It is connected to the weirdness. But if it seems to suddenly increase in amount, then I’ll tell you, explanation ready or not.”

                Which really wasn’t what Veld wanted, but he could tell it was what he would get. For now.

                “I know who can use this—I’ll see if I can arrange for them to get it.” Vincent said, and swept downstairs, away from the raven, who was pecking irritably at the glass. You’re not real. Don’t taunt me.

                When it saw Veld looking, it made full eye contact and took a shit on the windowsill.

***

                When Reeve got home, the Turk did not dismiss herself.

                “We haven’t worked out security protocols for you yet, and the house hasn’t been secured—given that we just lost one director—”

                Reeve took a deep breath with his eyes shut. Reminded himself that Fiona—if that was her real name—wanted him to lose his temper. And remembered what Turks were capable of. Or remembered his hallucinations. One of the two. “Do what you want.”

                “Anything I want?”

                “Do not touch me.”

                “Awww.”

                He growled, shook his head, and darted up the stairs, opened his home office door, trying to go quickly—felt vaguely rewarded by her yelp, even as he fought down his disturbance at just how fast he could move. He’d had security details before… after… before… he let the thought trail off before he distressed himself, only hanging up his jacket on the coatrack and growling, “Go away Fiona!” when she knocked on the door a barren second after he shut it. “Make up your mind—either you’re a security detail or you’re working to drive me crazy. I’m not interested in losing my temper with you.”

                Irritated muttering on the other side of the door. Well, he felt irritated himself.

                “I’m going to go do math. Long, boring strings of math. Leave me alone.”

                A pause. “Why?”

                “It makes me happy.”

                “I doubt that.”

                “Doubt it then.” He sat down at his desk, starting up the computer and pulling out a pad of paper. The equations first—they were the easiest to check. He remembered inventions—inventions and innovations and designs that he thought he had made… later. Well. If this was some complicated hallucination he was producing, surely even his mako laden brain wouldn’t have worked out the load bearing equations, the fuel intake, the wiring systems.

                It all added up and checked out. Every bit that he could drudge up. Every load bearing joint, every pressure release valve, every hydraulic system. Having something work on paper wasn’t the same as having it work in the wild, but… he took a deep, heard breath through his nose and dropped his head into his hands. There were gaps in what he remembered—and he didn’t know how he had gotten here again, not after… Meteor. The WRO. Deepground. He didn’t know how things had changed—why he had ended up in the mako pit. But whatever else was true, he wasn’t crazy.

                And then he decided to recalculate that assessment when a tap at the window made him turn around and look out— about three stories from this angle, the front of the house came out to a different level than the back door—and found Fiona looking back at him, hanging from the windowsill. “For fuck’s sake!” he hissed, and went to open it, to let her in.

                “Holy crap. You actually are doing math!” she said.

                “Get in before you break your neck, idiot.”

                He offered her a hand, and she grabbed it, trailing her own up his arm to his bicep as soon as she was inside. He stepped back out of reach. “You don’t have the sense to change before you ruin this suit too? Shame. I was hoping to catch you changing.”

                “Bad touch,” he said, weary and mocking—it would be more genuinely upsetting if she felt like a real threat, but for all that she had killed people—some people wore it very lightly, but there was a dead place in the back of her grey eyes—she just… wasn’t. Not after facing Sephiroth.

***

                The set out relatively early in the morning, Sephiroth militarily neat, Veld in slacks and a button down shirt, sleeves rolled back past his elbows—it wasn’t that cold of an autumn day, and he wanted to savor it—and he didn’t want to ruin the coats while shuffling through the ash.

                Vincent initially stopped by the Strife house, but Var stopped them while still outside. “They kicked me out. I doubt you’ll get a better reception—rough birth.”

                There was a yell from inside as he said this, which made Sephiroth flinch and huddle closer to Vincent. “It’s okay, Seph. Some parts of life are painful even when they aren’t bad.”

                “Like the labs?”

                Var cocked his head.

                “Not at all, but I don’t have time to explain why. Let’s put a pin in that thought for later, though?”

                “Kay…”

                Var wasn’t a man easily shaken, Veld had to give him that. He shut his eyes for a moment, gave Vincent a deliberately eloquent look, and then looked away. “So, what brings you here today?”

                “I was rather hoping you might watch Seph while we poked the still smoldering remnants of the Manor.”

                “But Vincent—” Seph said, then caught himself, seeming to freeze in place, shut and opened his mouth. That got both Vincent and Var stiffening again—before Vincent shrugged through it and knelt down.

                “It’s not dangerous unless you do something silly, but you weren’t trained in it. Veld and I were. That’s all.”

                Sephiroth searched his face for a lie—and alright, Vincent wasn’t giving the real reason he didn’t want him along, but it was a real and legitimate reason, and nodded slowly.

                “I was co-opted for brunch with the Lockharts, actually, but she won’t mind if I drag Seph to her kitchen table—it was supposed to be Claudia and I too. You two will have to scrape and apologize to that half of the cooking goddesses if you want to be spared her wrath for skipping, though.”

                “We need to ask if we can borrow a shovel anyway. Just in case we need it.” Vincent said, solemn in the face of the ridiculous threat. Veld sympathized—just because the threat was ridiculous didn’t mean it wasn’t real. But when they got to the house, it was to find a woman abuzz with excitement. Brian was outside, speaking to the driver of a white truck, but he waved them in. Mrs. Lockhart, a rather too thin and too pale figure with lovely black hair and warm wine colored eyes was staring at a piano.

                “A new acquisition?” Var asked by way of greeting, and the woman looked up at them all and smiled, eyes lingering on Veld for a moment before dismissing him because he arrived in company she trusted, and because of the instrument before her. It wasn’t the grandest instrument Veld had ever seen, but he had been hauled to some rather fancy concerts on more than one occasion.

                The woman replied at an awed whisper. “I don’t even know how to play. He always goes all out on gifts, and he knew I always wanted to learn, and… it’s…”

                Vincent leaned back for a moment rubbing his left hand uselessly through the gauntlet. But after a moment his face cleared and le looked up at the instrument, eyes sad. “That’s a good brand—older, but a lot of good instruments are. Perhaps a little overblown for a learning piano, but you’ll be well served by it.”

                The woman’s face lit up. “You play?”

                Vincent’s eyes clouded over again, and Sephiroth—the child was very observant—huddled to his side. Veld frowned, but… well. What could he do? Vincent… his left hand folded into a fist, or tried to. It couldn’t do that properly, anymore—the tips would have punched into the palm of his hand if he had tried. “I used to. Not anymore.”
                Veld didn’t know music could have a ghost, but he could hear it in that moment.

                “Well, if you would want to—” she started, perhaps not seeing the phantoms drift across Vincent’s face, and although logically he could not blame her, Veld thought a little less of her for not seeing.

                “That… may not be the best…” Veld started, trying to diffuse the situation— a man should only have so large of an audience when he acknowledged a ghost.

                “You can play music?” Sephiroth asked, and the argument was lost. Veld could watch the exact moment it was lost on Vincent’s face.

                “I… used to,” he said, cautious. It was incredible to Veld that no one else seemed to know that these were the death throes of the argument.

                “Well, by all means! I certainly won’t judge you if you’re a bit rusty—I don’t actually know how to play. My husband got me the books so I could teach myself, but… as of yet I don’t have anything learned. In truth, I’m not even certain it’s in tune—I don’t know how to check. Yet.”

                Vincent sighed, took a step forward, head bowed. Hesitated again, throwing out his last defense, the one he hadn’t wanted to say. Veld could read that on his face. “I’ll scratch up your piano—the gauntlet… I didn’t have it when I last played.”

                “You can take it off?”

                Vincent winced. He let her see it—Veld wasn’t sure if that was trust or manipulation with the truth. “No, Sasha. Best not.”

                She blinked up at him, then smiled again—Veld blinked when she darted forward and grabbed Vincent by the arm above the gauntlet, tugging him forward. “Then scratch it! An instrument should bear the marks of use—it should be worn and smooth, and played! Play!”

                ‘I don’t know if I can.’ Vincent did not say, except with his shoulders and the angle of his head, looking down at the piano bench as if it could bite. Veld expected he was the only one to hear it—except that Var, watching, suddenly cocked his head to one side, frowning—half opened his mouth and looked at Veld.

                Veld frowned back at him. What could he say?

                Vincent sat, finally, gingerly and cautiously. Ran a hand over the keys, wincing on a few of them—“alright, a few are out of tune. If you have the tools I can see to that another time—”

                “Thank you!” The woman-- Sasha purred, in simple, genuine delight.

                “that said…” Vincent hesitated again, then took a deep breath. He moved his right hand first—and alright, the motions would be more fluid if they weren’t in a glove, but they were pretty damn passable. Eight years was a long time not to play. When the rust wore off, the right hand would be fine.

                No surprises there.

                Then the left hand. Lower notes—Veld had never thought about it before—would bet Vincent had never thought about it before—but the lower notes were usually not played as quickly, you had more time to adjust—which was good. The hand left hand was bigger than the right, if not from a huge amount when viewed objectively—it was the gauntlet, not the size, that gave it away as a little strange. Which was why Vincent was wearing the gauntlet after all.

                His left hand was clumsier. Whatever instinct guides the right is… if not absent, then still finding its way into a warped frame, and Veld frowned, remembering how effortless it used to be. Vincent may not have been a professional pianist, but he was still good, remarkably good, good enough that even people in Midgar stopped and took notice, with all the theatre and music that they were exposed to.

                The effortless is gone, at least for now, and the gauntlet—and what’s underneath it—slow the hand, slow the notes, cause hesitation where there should be fluidity. He could hear it—but he also heard the gap narrowing as Vincent starts simply, which a children’s lullaby about stars.

                And then, cautiously, tries his hands at something a little harder.

                Vincent could still play.

***

                Vincent never told anyone, but he always associated noise with color. It wasn’t consistent—sometimes it was a flash of color to match a mood and a situation, a flare of burgundy to match a dark chuckle, a kaleidoscope of yellows and whites to match the sound of children at play. He hadn’t fought the music lessons the way he had fought other lessons his parents had insisted on, because when he heard a complicated piece played, he saw it in his mind’s eye, a swirl of color and light. Hojo’s experiments, among so much else, had robbed him of his ability to summon that beauty.

                In his darker moments, he had wondered if he had done that on purpose, but he doubted it. If only because Hojo had never really expected him to survive.

                Lucrecia was getting married today.

                Vincent was well practiced at keeping an even face—she had made her choice, and he would live with that, even if he was quite certain that she was running from him, not to Hojo. He could stand and show nothing as she went about her morning routines—he could ignore her, as she seemed to prefer.

                But no one should look that sad on their wedding day. Even if the marriage was a mistake… even if the groom was insisting that they would just go down to the courthouse and ‘have it done with’.  She didn’t want him, didn’t want comfort… but that didn’t mean he couldn’t give her anything.

                Shinra Manor had a lovely piano, well tuned, incredibly expensive, luxurious. Vincent practiced on it sometimes, savoring the tones it could produce—he knew from back when Lucrecia was talking to him that she hadn’t paid attention to much music in the last few years. None of the scientists had except Gast, and he wasn’t here.

                So he sat and played, a modern piece that had words that Lucrecia wouldn’t know, not really made for the piano—but it was beautiful, for all that the words were sad. That was okay—she wouldn’t know them, and it was the beauty, not the words, that mattered here. Though perhaps it came to his mind because he felt it suited her.

                So she ran away in her sleep, and dreamed of—

                He played, adding delicate notes to dress up the main melody, and the image painted behind his eyes, for once coherent, was of snow falling from a blue-grey sky. Stark and cold and beautiful. He didn’t look when he felt her pause, half hidden behind a corner, head bowed—gave himself to the music. He could not protect her from her own unhappiness, but he could lift it, if only for a moment. When he played, he did not have to feel it either.

                When he stopped, he breathed for a moment, holding the afterimage of the sound with his eyes shut, then gently closed the instrument, slid in the bench.

                “Thank you,” she whispered, head still bowed, barely audible. He pretended not to hear her, because he thought that was what she would prefer—it was the first time she had thanked him for anything since the day he had learned that she had inadvertently killed his father. Since he tried to tell her it wasn’t her fault, and she had refused to accept that.

                He was just glad it had helped.

                His hands were clumsy on the keys, in a way he was certain the others didn’t see—and he clicked, clicked like an ill mannered fool who hadn’t had the good sense to trim his nails before recital—his instructor and his mother would be ashamed.  Worse, he was quite sure that the gauntlet was scratching the keys, just as he’d feared, as it clicked away.

                But he could still see the music. And if his… new hand was a liability, well, it still obeyed him—and maybe some of that hesitation and clumsiness would go as he played. Maybe he would never be as good as he had been… but… he could still paint the air with the colors that no one else saw.

                “Mr. Vincent sir? Are you crying? Are you okay?” He heard Sephiroth… no, Seph’s voice—it never occurred to him before, but he saw his voice now as silver-blue, where before it had been a burgundy so dark it was almost black. He hadn’t let himself think about it. “Sir?”

                He barely processed the words and couldn’t reply, noticed his hands were shaking and couldn’t stop them. Distantly, he heard Veld gently herd everyone out of the room— “c’mon Seph. He’ll be okay, he just needs a moment. Let’s give it to him.”

                “But—”

                “I promise it’s okay. It’s not hurting him—it’s… I’ll explain, but I don’t want to interrupt him here. Come with me? He wouldn’t still be playing if it hurt, would he? We won’t go far. Just the hallway.”

                He felt distant relief—ignored it, trapped in the world of light and color and noise, and started playing something else, something harder. Something that took more of his left hand and right, together.

                --when I’m wiser, and I’m older, all this time I was—

                Vincent played the piano, clumsy, making mistakes, and ignoring them, and little by little, found ways to compensate, and found other ways in which he was still lacking. And the air around him flared in bold laughing crimson and yellow, tears leaking down his face, also ignored.

                He could still play.

               ***

                Veld thought at first that Seph wouldn’t move, huddled up in something like horror at the sight of Vincent crying, expressionless—and alright, that was shocking, but… Veld understood it, and it seemed like no one else did.

                Unsurprising. Vincent didn’t want pity—why would he mention that he used to play?

                But Seph’s eyes shifted to his right, to Var, and Var nodded and held out a hand, mouthing ‘it’s okay’ as he beckoned him forward. And Seph took slow, reluctant steps out of the room.

                The woman, Sasha, looked almost as stunned and horrified as he did. “I didn’t mean to… if he’s genuinely bothered by—”

                “That’s… not what just happened,” Veld said, shutting the door behind them and leaning against it. Var was murmuring something to Seph, who was shaking, but his eyes flicked up to track Veld when he moved. “I’m Veld, by the way. Old friend of Vincent’s. His parents were big on classical education—everyone knows at least one instrument and two languages. And… he’s pretty smart, always has been. But the music, in particular, was something his mother insisted on, and she died when Vincent was young. When Vincent… was injured…” Var’s eyes narrowed and he cocked his head at Veld’s hesitation, and wasn’t that interesting, “I think he thought he wouldn’t be able to play again. Used to do the violin too… that might be harder, if it’s possible at all.”

                Sasha flinched, and Var looked back to her, said to her, quietly “my wife said that the first thing he did after waking up was check to see if the gauntlet was still on. It’s…. pretty bad. I understand why he doesn’t take the gauntlet off—with his personality, it’s a lot easier to accept someone staring at your clothing choice than something that happened to you. Especially if he thought it took something he loved away from him.”

                And that made Veld look at him again, rather more sharply than he should have, if the way Sephiroth stiffened and moved slightly between them was any indicator. He let himself huff out a laugh and offered a half smile to the boy, which eased the sudden tension in his shoulders, before looking back up. Var met his gaze like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

                Alright, so he was starting to like these people. He offered the man the nod he would have given another agent, once, and the man doesn’t know it’s that, but he knew respect when he saw it. The secret lay between them, acknowledged but not spoken of, and they moved on. “It’s… Sasha, right? Thank you.”

                “Thank… me?”

                “You pushed him to try it. You too, Seph.” Veld said, quietly, looking to one side. "He would not have tried it on his own. And I would not have pushed that issue." They used to have a piano in the Turk lounge-- no one knew why, but sometimes, after bad missions, Vincent would play it. When he became Director, he put it in storage, because it hurt to look at it.

               Maybe he should dig it out. 

                “But… but he’s crying. Tears are bad!” Seph said, still upset.

                “Not always,” Var said, quietly. “Sometimes you cry when something important is given back to you.” Veld doesn’t know why he isn’t looking at Seph when he says that, or why Seph looks at him sharply, but that’s not important, just at the moment. What’s important is that Sephiroth seems reassured, and they all fall silent, listening to notes of increasing confidence drift through the door.

Chapter Text

When the music slowed and stopped, Veld meant to just let himself in, to assess the situation—to make sure Vincent was alright. The music had… had meant something to them once. Not just to him. Not even just to him and Vincent.

Rebecca trembled—she had been shaking, on and off, for hours. Ever since they got her back from that compound on the Mideel. It was supposed to be a simple infiltration job—usually her forte. Something had gone wrong—a Shinra operative, not a Turk, a helicopter technician, had turned coat on them… she was wrapped in bandages and terrified and if she spoke to anyone about what had happened, it wasn’t to Veld or Vincent. And that was fine—she was under no obligation to talk to anyone. It was something that… happened sometimes.

Christine had come back from the time she was held captive—actually held captive, not the one or two day intervals they had all been held before—laughing and hard edged. Veld, a year later, had come back cursing and swinging, and Vincent hadn’t spoken to anyone else for a week, though he hadn’t been the one locked up. Rebecca shook, sitting in the Turk break room, their most secure sanctuary. Normally she’d hurt anyone who tried to be too gentle to her—she had famously pinned Todd to a wall and threatened him with a knife when he had attempted to do too much on her behalf early in their partnership—which made the impact of this… worse.

The third time she had seen Vincent walk into the breakroom, she had grabbed his sleeve, pulling him to the bench—draped herself over his shoulders when he would have shrugged to one side. She always used to shirk touch—to a rather extreme degree. But she all but pulled him to the bench, then dropped herself into his lap—holding him hostage with his unwillingness to push her away when she was like this. She might not be his partner, but she was a Turk, a Turk he and Veld had been team with.

“Play.”

Vincent obeyed, Veld walking into the room shortly after to find Rebecca half curled into Vincent’s lap, Vincent moving stiffly, trying to avoid slamming into her with his arms or legs. It didn’t fix anything. Not one damn thing. It didn’t banish her fear or her helplessness, or theirs, to help their then-youngest (though not least experienced) member. All it did was offer her a few minutes where she could forget, now and then, until she learned to carry her fear more lightly, to assert her authority over it.

It was the first time someone forced Vincent to play like that, in the breakroom. To help them pretend things were normal. It wasn’t the last.

So he opened the door a crack, and Sephiroth, whose stance had not indicated awareness, darted through ahead of him, scampering up onto the bench and grabbing Vincent’s left arm, clutching at it. Vincent’s face was hidden in his right hand—the leather gleamed wetly.

“I don’t know why I expected that to go any differently.” He murmured at Sephiroth’s back—Vincent heard and understood, he could see the tremor in his shoulders. Laughter, probably, although one could become the other shockingly fast in this state. “Give us a second?” he asked over one of his own—Sasha nodded a little frantically.

“Please. Take all the time you need.”

He slipped through and shut the door after himself. Vincent didn’t react… but he counted that as a trust. Vincent knew he was there. He certainly knew Seph was there, slowly turning his eyes to the boy as he huddled against him, one tiny hand reaching up and brushing at the tear trails that ran down his face. “I’m sorry.”

“Why?” the man asked, bringing the right hand up slowly—the boy went still, like he wasn’t sure what he was doing, and alright, in the cold place in his mind, that made sense. People acted differently in different circumstances—he hadn’t seen Vincent cry before, or this wouldn’t worry him. There was a part of Veld, which would have been considered unprofessional in any profession but his own, which quietly observed the not-flinch and wondered how long and what tools he would have to employ to get that exact reaction out of Hojo. But he didn’t say anything—this moment wasn’t for him, not really. Vincent ruffled the hair and the boy’s fear or doubt melted, he leaned into the touch. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I made you cry.”

“I cried. There’s a difference. I… I needed that.” Vincent’s voice was rough with shed tears and emotion, and Veld slipped onto the bench on the other side. “I… I missed that.”

“Piano?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t know you could play. I asked for lessons once… but… it was… they said it was frivolous?” The green eyes came up, questing, and there was the ripple of anger through Vincent’s face… but the man was tired, and pulled his boy into a hug, resting his head against the small silver one.

“They aren’t in charge anymore.” Vincent said quietly, after a long pause. “I can teach you.”

Sephiroth didn't say anything, but his eyes relaxed and he managed a wobbly, if real, smile. The hunter responded by hugging the boy just a little tighter. 

Vincent didn’t move when Veld finally reached up and hooked his arm over his shoulders, making them a human tangle. “I missed piano too,” he told Vincent, quiet. “Haven’t been able to stand to listen to it in years.”

“Sentimental ass.”

“You and me both.” Another shiver traveled Vincent’s shoulders, and Veld frowned and cocked his head. “What is it?”

“Our Nibelheim friends,” Vincent said, a half smiled fighting onto his lips.

Sephiroth cocked his head too, and giggled.

***

Mr. Lockhart frowned when he came in, looking between Var and Sasha. “What happened? Where’d the three troublemakers go?”

“Getting acquainted with your piano.” Var said, with an odd look on his face. Like he was considering something unpleasant.

“Why? And why is the door shut? Are they peeing on it to mark territory?”

The unpleasant cleared off Var’s face, and his eyes—a brown that shaded to gold around the iris—glinted with amusement, though his words were bland. “No, but your wife made Vincent cry, so we have been exiled to the hallway.”

“I didn’t mean to!”

Brian blinked a few times, then turned to face his wife and his wife alone. “Woman, what did you do? I saw that man stumble back in from the mountain—he looked annoyed. Annoyed! He collapsed in Rells’ shop just a few minutes later—he only looked annoyed!”

“I just noticed that he seemed to know things about pianos… and he didn’t deny that he knew how to play, so I urged him to try it out—and he sat down and started playing—”

“He plays the piano?” this was addressed to Var.

Var shrugged, “you just missed an above-average performance. And I think he’s rusty.”

“—and then he just… broke. Without making a sound or stopping.”

“Which, in turn, scared his kid. His buddy seemed to know what was up though. Your wife is terrifying, Brian.”

Brian and Sasha both looked at Var sharply, then Brian shrugged. “My wife. Tormenter of mighty hunters, pianists, and small children.”

“Stop it,” Sasha started, but her distress was starting to turn into a twitching smile, besieged but rapidly conquering hostile territory.

“All will fear her wrath,” Var intoned, his head bowed in mock fear.

“I will never sleep peacefully again.”

She was trying not to laugh now, neither man looking at her. “Come on you two—”

“Soon her power will grow, and nothing will stand against her.”

“The hunter was our last hope. But, alas, he too was too weak to challenge her.”

The pale woman started laughing in earnest, though her husband’s expression changed not at all, save that he lifted an eyebrow when Var grinned at him openly.

A few minutes later, when Vincent opened the door, he offered the man the same expression. “You know there’s easier ways to get sympathy than to subject yourself to the horror of my wife, yes? She is not to be trifled with. You should have agreed to come to brunch.”

“And now I know better,” Vincent said, his face expressionless, and Sasha mimed a cuff to the top of his head.

Lurking in his cape, Sephiroth giggled.

***

“Hey baby, sorry I didn’t call sooner. Miss me?” Brick didn’t answer her, of course. He did let out a loud sigh—and she laughed, reading the frustration onto it correctly. “Of course I had to give you a call, silly. In all seriousness… he just went to sleep, and I need to figure something out. And you’re just the best listener.”

She could swear she heard him roll his eyes. The house was dark now, the shadows cast by furniture and the streetlights outside dancing in bizarre, macabre patterns on the walls and floor. So many places a person could hide. She loved them, slipping from one to another as she spoke. “So we knew he was smart, right? But he’s not just smart—he came home and stepped into his study and started doing… math. Like some sort of maladaptive comfort behavior. I don’t think he realized how much I saw—some of it was fuel calculation, weight distribution, things like that, but I didn’t recognize too much of it. Seemed to be for different things, like he was just pulling all that he could out of his head and loading it onto paper.”

“Hmmmm,” Brick said, quite clearly. She laughed and perched on a banister.

“Exactly. So his recall was excellent—I think he was just trying to make sure he hadn’t lost any brain cells, certainly didn’t trust the nurse to fully understand the weight of his intellect, I guess. But… that’s not what bothered me.”

“Hmmm?”

“He saw me, Brick. He took one look at my act and he caught it, called it out. Civilians don’t… they don’t see me like that. This guy was supposed to be soft, Brick. He’s supposed to be some pampered upper middle class kid—someone smart but harmless. That wasn’t harmless—that man isn’t giving away shit. Sure, I’m getting under his skin… and that’s another thing. I get under his skin.” It wasn’t that no one was immune to her charms—Chameleon knew full well that no one approach was guaranteed success. But most people, with someone being flirty, touchy, either tended to tell them to back off or to be reciprocated. Reeve reacted like… like the other agents reacted. Annoyed. Dismissive. As if it was an act. Which… it was. She didn’t act any differently in the Turk lounge, but… that wasn’t the point. “I get under his skin. I’m a Turk, and he looks at me like a Turk. Like I’ve killed people, and… and he’s not afraid. He’s not worried about the lack of privacy. He’s annoyed.”

More drawn out and considering, this time. “Hmmmmmmmmm.”

“Yeah, I know. And… it’s not that he doesn’t see me as a threat. It’s that I’m a threat… but not to him. Like he’s faced so much worse I don’t even measure up. That pisses me off.” A snort, this time. “Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. But… this guy has experience… in something. Somewhere.”

“Nnn-nn.”

“What do you mean, no? No—sorry, that was unfair. We’ll talk again soon, baby. When we get relived for next watch, I’ll let you rant me out if you like. I know you hate it when I call, it’s not fair. I just needed to think. Can I see his file again?”

Outside the building at his post, Brick rolled his eyes again, then sighed into the receiver. He didn’t say anything, really. You needed a tongue for that, and his was long since AWOL, cut out on a mission not long after Vincent had disappeared. But she understood him just the same.

“A conversation? You’re far too kind, love. But if you insist. I’ll definitely talk about this pretty little puzzle, and his file, with you. Later. Thanks for listening.”

***

Reeve woke the next morning with a throbbing headache, after a night full of nightmares. This wasn’t unusual for the recently mako exposed—something the nurse had told him when he’d been discharged. It was the connection to the lifestream—to the voices of the planet, to the planet itself. Knowledge from… from last time. From Aerith. From talking to Cloud, who still knew what it was like for new SOLDIERs, even if he wasn’t one himself.

Some of that was extrapolation, sure. But inventors had to do a lot of that. He had enough sources that he felt comfortable with that.

The voices would fade. He could ignore them. The screaming—the babble. The whispers. The pleading. It wasn’t aimed at him, not really—he didn’t need to let it drive him mad. But… was this what it had been like for Aerith? How, how was she so calm? Or was that why—that after enough of this, the world of the living was simply not enough to flummox her?

He couldn’t afford to show weakness—couldn’t afford to let the Board, or the Turks, see the frustration and the fear. Not now. His friends would need him—and he needed to find out how he was here, again, how he had gone back in time… and why.

If he could… if he could change things… if he could only save a few more lives… then he needed to hold it together, to gather all the power he could—so he could help. So he could—

Watching the plate fall from above, muscles clenched so hard they not only hurt, but burned, making himself watch while the assistants and the aides looked away, pale and sick and shaking. Making himself watch because he didn’t deserve to be spared the sight—

The voices clamored louder, spurred on by his distress, and he turned on a heel and started digging through a closet. His mother kept sewing tools there, he recalled, when she came to visit—he lived more at the office than at home, he didn’t mind, but if she had—

“Director? What are you looking for?” The-Turk-who-said-her-name-was-Fiona said, sounding momentarily nonplussed when she rounded the corner in the hallway and found him hip-deep in craft supplies.

“Ribbon. Not the accessory, the craft item.” Even Shinra Directors didn’t have Ribbons just lying around. Too useful.

“Why?”

“Why not?” he said, because he didn’t really have an explanation handy—stupid, stupid—and because in theory, as a Director, he didn’t need to explain shit. Not to his security detail, anyway.

In practice…

She blinked a few times—he heard it, and didn’t know if it was his imagination or yet another unwanted noise in the din of his empty house on a quiet street on Midgar—how do SOLDIERs stand it on a battlefield anyway—then knelt down in the mess with him, sorting through boxes. He wanted to bark at her to leave him and his stuff the hell alone, but for once she was actually trying to help—and he didn’t want her to have even one odd incident of bizarre temper to report to her superior(s). She was quiet, and efficient—perhaps too curious to be making jokes.

“I haven’t organized the closet in years,” he muttered at one point. “This is a mess.”

“I’ve seen far worse.”

“I believe you,” he told her, which garnered a smile.

“It’s the one place here where there is any clutter.”

 Talking with the Turks was a bad habit, but he still replied. “Easy to keep a place clean when you don’t really live here—I spent much more time at the office. But, mother always needed more space to keep craft supplies.”

“This is a lot of craft supplies.”

“She is a crafty woman.” Dear Gaia. She is crafty. She is alive. She and his father were both… The thought stilled his hands for a moment, but he only shut his eyes and shook his head when ‘Fiona’ sent him a questioning glance. And the clamor in his head died down with his focus on the task.

He hoped the mako voices would leave him soon. This would be hard enough without them.

“Will these do?” Turk-lady asked, lifting a box for his inspection. A plastic box, with spool after spool of silk ribbon inside, most patterned, but one, in the corner… dark pink, almost red.

“Perfect. Thank you,” he murmured, scooped them up, and snipped off one, just the right length, from memory, trimmed the ragged edge—And it was too short. Mako encouraged muscle growth and prohibited degradation. His arm was thicker now. He muttered something uncomplimentary about ribbons in general, recalculated with an estimate of his arm’s new dimensions, snipped and trimmed—and this time, it was long enough.

“Do you need a hand?” Still the Turk—but—

“It would be helpful,” he said, conceding defeat—he could do it himself, but not gracefully-- and held out the arm. “Can you tie it high on the bicep, so it doesn’t get in the way for anything?”

“Sure. What is it?” She raised an eyebrow, the solemnity of the previous moment forgotten, and added in a falsely sweet voice “I didn’t know you were into pretty pink ribbons, Mr. Director!”           

“A reminder,” he told her, and he rolled his eyes at her act, but it was still true.  He could have lied, he supposed. The meager weight of the ribbon—and he could feel it, as he couldn’t really before—was reminder and focus. Of the things that were real, the things that he could do something about.

That night, when the mako-voices  and the elevated senses were too much for his exhausted mind, he clutched at it, and woke up with it in his hands, well-rested and with the voices… not gone, but quieter.

And that, at least, was progress.

Chapter Text

Mr. Lockhart had laughed briefly when he had asked for a shovel, though he had waved Var and Sasha off when they had asked what was so funny, and neither Veld nor Vincent had felt the need to enlighten them. Veld choked back a laugh himself, which made Vincent raise an eyebrow even as he smiled.

And then they were presented with the nicest shovel either had ever held.

“What the hell does that man do? This thing looks expensive. How can a shovel look expensive?”

“Not… actually sure,” At Veld’s indignant look, Vincent snorted and added “I could dig. Finding out wouldn’t be hard. But… the man is fussy about his privacy and I’ve no desire to upset him. I like having him as a friend. I gather that he was in some armed force at some point, a prestigious one—the town mostly defers to his judgement on matters of security, or did until I came along. Though… not one that trained him in improvised combat, or he would have been a bit more threatening with the shovel. Something more… formalized.” That was a ferocious insult in the Turks, but… some armed forces were very formal. Most, actually. Such a thing would have suited Mr. Lockhart to the core of his being—but—“he understands the limitations of his training, whatever it was—and I don’t think he saw any real action. Mostly he’s an organization guy.” There had been reasons that Nibelheim had needed a hunter.

“Maybe logistics?”

“Would make sense. Logistics can also teach you to maintain resources. Hence—he can afford the piano.”

“And the shovel.”

“Even with shipping,” Vincent agreed. They had faked investigations for their own deeds once or twice before—cover-ups were squarely within the purview of the Turks, after all, and so was investigating cover ups. The work was automatic, even if the… setting… made it interesting.

“You gonna get shit from the townsfolk for helping me?” Shinra was one thing. Shinra’s spooks were another, and no one liked their hometown being investigated.

“… no. For several reasons. One, because a lot of them actually used to quite like Shinra—this town got a huge economic boost when that reactor was built, and every time the manor had people in it.” Veld winced. Vincent snorted. “The rose tint apparently wore off some time ago. I blame Hojo—the place was reputed to be haunted and… they said you could hear screams at night, when Var’s age range were teenagers.”

Veld winced. “That…”

“The timeline adds up, yes. We didn’t have enough to do with the town that they recognized me. Thankfully. But, also… they trust me. If I’m doing something odd, well, they see me as eccentric, but they also see me as tough, capable, and dedicated to their survival. The holdouts got convinced by the Mountain. If I am doing a thing, it is assumed I have my reasons, and they should shrug and allow it.”

Veld grunted, and they  continued for a bit. Then—“your friends here. They look out for you.”

“I am fortunate,” Vincent said, quietly.

“It makes me feel better. About leaving.” About letting you stay. Nibelheim had a bad track record as far as places to live went.

Vincent heard the unspoken. “I… will not vanish again.”

“See that you don’t,” Veld said, quiet. “I will find you. Do… no. Nevermind. Not yet.”

Vincent looked at him—he could feel it, as he gathered ‘samples’ from the ash. Carefully mixed with the other ‘samples’ so nothing too useful would be gained from them. After a moment, he sighed. “Another day, ask me... what you were about to ask. Next time.” There will be a next time.

“Yes,” Veld said, stepping forward and being saved from, at the very least, significant injury when Vincent darted forward and pulled him back—the ground started to cave half a second later.

Vincent did not say ‘you know better than to walk around like that on an unstable site’ or ‘be more careful’ or even look at him oddly, but then, he didn’t have to—Veld still heard the commentary. He knew Vincent. Instead, Vincent crouched at the lip of the new hole, grimaced lightly, and said “well. That answers that question. We still have basement. But we can leave that for another day too. There are things in the sewers that will keep… the living things contained, for now, and the heat may well have melted whatever was inside anyway.”

“Think so?”

“On the first? Yes, I’ve been down there. For such a small town, huge sewer. Shinra was originally planning to build the heart of his empire here, but Midgar could support multiple reactors, so he changed his mind. On the second? I’m not nearly lucky enough for that hellpit to be completely destroyed in the fire as it so richly deserves. Maybe a few of the tapes—that much heat, trapped, but… maybe not. It’s mostly concrete and stone down there, not much to burn. And a lot of space, all told. Maybe the science library burned. That could be nice.”

“You aren’t upset I—”

“If I weren’t worried about it drawing attention here, I’d dance a bloody jig. Later, in private. This place is misery and despair, and I’m glad it’s ash. Thank you. That was very cathartic.” Vincent straightened with a sigh. “We don’t have time for the kind of exploration that would put this place in the ground for good. Metaphorically. It already literally is. Not today.”

Veld decided not to respond to that. If Vincent was making stupid jokes, it was best to let him.

“Perhaps next time.”

“Perhaps,” Vincent murmured, staring at the gap. “I’ll warn the others around here that the ground is unstable. Do we have enough?”

“Yes. I think I’ll go with ‘inproper mako storage may have attracted monsters and caused problems once those monsters got the fires going,’ with a side order of ‘your old science experiment is pissed’.”

“Well. She is. We are. Give me a heads up if they send anyone else out to investigate?”

“Of course, Vincent.”

***

They said goodbye at the edge of town after they picked up Seph. Well. Not goodbye exactly.

“Don’t get all sappy now,” Veld said. Vincent snorted—the Turk’s eyes were awfully shiny to be making that statement.

“There will be other days. Stay safe, strike true.”

“You vanish on me again, Vincent, and I’m going to beat the shit out of you when I find you. No offense Seph. It’s a deterrent.”

Seph’s face cleared a little. “Like a bad dog pack? You scare them so they don’t attack?” They hadn’t encountered any wild dog packs, but an encounter with some less-than-friendly Nibel Wolves had led to Vincent explaining the differences between “lost but tame pets” “Feral pets” “Wild pets” and “Wild animals”.

“Close enough,” he clapped a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Hey. Look after this doofus for me, would you?”

Seph giggled, and nodded.

“Good. Vincent? Try not to exceed yourself in stupid shit.”

“I promise nothing,” Vincent said blandly. “The stupid comes to me and lights things on fire sometimes. I can’t plan for that.” He held a finger to his lips and winked when Sephiroth looked between them, understanding dawning in his eyes and cocking his head to one side. “You didn’t hear that Seph.”

“Okay.” Seph was confused but obedient. Turks did do some strange things now and then.

“Jackass,” Veld muttered.

“Yeah, that one I deserved. Keep in touch?”

“Always. I expect you two to visit soon, got it?”

“Of course. And I still have to get you back for the last letter. I have ideas.”

“Good. Stay safe.”

“As I can. You’re the one who’s going back to a pit of vipers.”

“Eh. I can handle them. Seph, Be good and give Vincent shit sometimes, alright? Keep him on his toes.”

“Give him shit?” The silver head cocked again.

“Right. I have got to teach you some slang terms and bad words next time. It means make his life difficult just to be difficult now and then. Don’t give him literal shit. That’s weird.” Sephiroth giggled again, holding tight to Vincent’s hand.

“He knows the bad words,” Vincent said dryly. “As to the slang, good luck, I’m rooting for you.”

“Right. I should head out…” Veld took a deep breath.

Vincent shook his head with a half smile and pulled the man into a one-armed hug. “Idiot. I’ll be here. Or at your house.”

“Better be. Later, you two.”

When he was gone, Seph looked up at Vincent. “He burned down the manor?”

“Don’t tell anyone that. But yes.”

“Why?”

Vincent hesitated. “Something very bad happened to a Turk there. He learned about it and he was very angry, so… he burned it. It’s not a method I recommend, at all… but the manor was also thick with monsters and that was going to be bad for Nibelheim eventually. And no one got hurt. And… I think he wanted to make sure that no one else would get hurt there again.” Belatedly, it occurred to  him that justifying burning something down to Sephiroth was probably laying the wrong foundation.

“Turks are weird,” Seph said, eyes on the ground and brow furrowed. Then he looked back up. “He made a mistake but it didn’t hurt anyone so it’s okay?”

“More or less. And… a very bad person had made that place more or less his. Destroying it may slow him down.”

“Oh.” Sephiroth frowned. “You’ll miss him.”

“Yes. But we’ll meet again soon. Let’s head home.”

Seph’s hand came up and grabbed his left again. “What should we do today?”

Vincent smiled, mostly with his eyes, and let him see it. “Let’s take the day off. Do you have something in mind?”

***

Reeve frowned, craning upward to look at the steel beam. Behind him, Tseng, ‘Fiona’, and the Turk introduced as Todd who hadn’t said a word yet—and given the scarring around the corners of his mouth, Reeve wondered if that was by choice, though it was slight enough that he suspected most people didn’t notice and as such, he had deliberately not noticed it as well—were behind him, Todd by the door, Fiona looking around, and Tseng looking over his shoulder. The reactor had been drained—it hadn’t been all the way full, of course, since it was newly built, but it had been emptied for his inspection.

It had still been draining when he looked the place over… last time. They hadn’t needed to wait, since he hadn’t been in the hospital.

It wasn’t, to his distress, the only thing that had changed. “See this weld?”

Tseng came closer to look over his shoulder. “Yes?”

“Wrong type of weld for this sort of beam. Wrong filler material, wrong thickness of filler material, maybe the wrong heat applied. Barely holding together.”

“Sabotage?”

Yes. Probably. “Maybe. I’m a bit surprised it stayed on as long as it did. It could have snapped off as soon as they put it in place.”

Tseng’s eyebrows rose. It was the blandest gesture with eyebrows Reeve had ever seen. “Could it be an accident?”

“Yes.” It could. Except… it hadn’t happened that way the first time. How to take that into account? Could he? Should he? Presumably if there was a chance of some accident happening and time travel gave it another opportunity to happen, it had another chance, but… that seemed wrong. He needed to do some hard thinking about probability.

“But you can’t definably say that it was.”

“Not just from this. If someone was handed the wrong beams and told to weld, and it just happened to hold long enough, this could happen. This sort of weld is used elsewhere. Or maybe they couldn’t get the right filler material, made a substitution that the foreman approved without passing on news to me.  I don’t oversee every screw, and not every bit of information gets passed on to me. Substitutions are made in most builds, though I’m going to make sure it’s not on anything structural from now on.” Which should have been a given… but it could be an outright mistake. “Sometimes things get sorted into the wrong piles. Not often—we have multiple checks for a reason, and they’re very effective. I’m not sure why it wasn’t caught in inspection…”

“Weren’t you doing inspection when it broke?” Fiona(?) asked.

“A formality. Not a real inspection, more a ‘rah rah’ session where we look at it, go ‘yep, it’s working’ and pat ourselves on the back. Pageantry—necessary to some degree for morale after a long build, and it’s always pleasant to see something you designed in motion—helpful too, something always can be improved—one of the structural inspections should have caught it before that point though.” He frowned. “Unless…” He craned his head to try to look at the twisted steel from another angle.

“Unless?”

“See the way the beam is twisted? This was originally the… not interior, but it wouldn’t have been visible from this angle when it was assembled properly.” He reached up and grasped the beam to get better leverage, and with the low, grinding protest of moving metal, it straightened, just a little. Reeve stiffened, taking a deep breath and rubbing his face with a hand, trying not to scream, or break down in frustrated laughter.

Everyone was staring, in an intent yet carefully nonreactive way that was very, very reminiscent of Vincent. Maybe they trained Turks to do that? He took a deep breath and turned back away from them, to look exclusively at the beam.

“I forgot about the… I forgot. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mess up your scene.”

Tseng spoke first, in the same controlled tones he had used in the hours after dropping the plate. “We already have photography of how it was. This should allow you to see the… ‘outside’ weld, yes?”

“Yes…”

“Director Tuesti, you’re bleeding,” ‘Fiona’ cut in—he supposed it made sense that someone who had been dedicated to urging him to madness would pay attention to his hands, so maybe it wasn’t surprising that she had noticed the blood dripping from his right first. Before him, even.

Now that she meantioned it, it hurt. A lot. He could feel it in a way he was reasonably sure he couldn’t before. The slight pinch where the cut crossed palm lines, a tingle from where the beam had grazed tendon, an ache from where it brushed bone. He stared at it stupidly for a moment, then shut his eyes and took a deep breath. “Does anyone have a handkerchief that they don’t mind getting blood on, or something? I have one that my mother gave me, but I’d sooner bleed on the new coat than on the embroidery.”

Tseng fished around in one sleeve for a moment, then produced a clean white pressed thing. “I don’t need it back.”

“Thank you.” It was large, but figuring out how to tie it with one hand was trying—after a moment, Fiona took the hand and secured it. “And thank you.”

“You’re shaking," Fiona said mildly.

“I just bent steel trying to get myself into a better position to look at it. I’m a little shaken,” he hissed back, then shut his eyes and shook his head. The weight of the ribbon on his arm, under the suit jacket now, because he didn’t want every idiot at Shinra to see something that important, steadied him. “Sorry. Let’s just get this done, then… I should probably get that stitched.”

“Probably. If you feel like you’re getting faint, sit down—what? I know I drive you insane, but I am your protective detail. Be pretty stupid of me to protect you from others and then let you drop yourself off a catwalk.”

“It would be the single stupidest failure in our history,” Tseng said. Reeve couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. It reminded him of Vincent.

“Right,” he said, an acknowledgement rather than an agreement. Because they were Turks. And even now, after years of knowing them, working with them, even recruiting some after the fall of Shinra—even given his friendship with Vincent, he did not fully understand them.

And… they were loyal to Shinra. In a way, so was he… but in a very different way. They were loyal to what Shinra was. He was loyal to what it should have been.

He breathed a curse in Wutain (he had tried learning the language from Yuffie, but she had mostly taught him swear words and what the various words on a menu were), looking over the weld from the new angle—Tseng raised a single eyebrow. “I rather doubt it has parents, let alone parents of a dishonorable nature. What are you seeing?”

“The weld. Look at it—see how it looks on this side? And how much thinner it looks on that side?”

Tseng’s eyes narrowed.

“Not enough penetration of the filler—”

“Is that what you wanted, baby? We can arrange that—”

Reeve groaned. “Firstly, trust me, every possible sex joke about that, I have already heard. Engineers and machinists get a little weird after a bit. Secondly, if you continue to act like a randy cat, I will get a spray bottle and spritz you in the face with it when you misbehave. Thirdly… Tseng, is she always like this?”

“Regrettably. She is, however, one of our best agents…” Interesting. The woman had some kind of rank on Tseng… he wasn’t comfortable dressing her down, at least not in public. Right… this man wasn’t the one who dropped the plate, not yet. He was Veld’s apprentice only. Interesting.

Reeve pinched the bridge of his nose to stave off the headache. It didn’t help. “Right. Back to the point. It is possible this was by accident, yes… but not plausible. This is a pretty obvious flaw. Pretty obvious it would give way, I mean. It is possible that someone new to working here might have been scared to admit that they messed up—”

“Only new workers would fear that in your department?” Reeve didn’t turn to look at them, but he could hear the rolled eyes in ‘Fiona’s’ voice.

“My secretary’s name is Annette. She doesn’t like going by Anne, but she does because she doesn’t want to inconvenience anyone with an extra syllable. I call her Annette. She has two cats, Tom and Jerry, and she feeds them better than she feeds herself. Under her are Richard and Amos.” Amos… Amos… that meant something. Something important. It would come back to him. Not this Amos, another one. Maybe. “I mainly have them employed to work the phones and to scare off the people she doesn’t have to deal with—she’s an exemplar at organization, not at shooing time wasting fools away. Richard is allergic to basically everything, and keeps trying new foods and hanging out with pets anyway. Amos is hot tempered and actually scares people, but he’s been late five times because he stops to fix other people’s cars if he sees them broken down on the highway. He’s invaluable, so I deal with it. I can name everyone by first name and bad habit and pets down to the middle managers in my reactors. I realize Heidegger and Scarlet and Palmer have very different ways of running their departments, but I encourage trust and admitting when you’re wrong. Otherwise, welds like this—accidents like this—deaths like this—happen more often.” He realized abruptly that his voice was rising, and behind Tseng, the one called Todd frowned and pulled Fiona behind him. That was enough. He shut his eyes and breathed deeply for a few minutes. He had seen Vincent do this, often, after a fight—

The man was panting, eyes golden, the crown of his horns arrayed about his head, but the battle was over. Reeve had watched him before—had become acquainted with the patience and will of the man, but it was never more terrifying than seeing it pitted against Chaos. He had traveled with them so long before he could even bear to let it out—and wrestling it back down was always a challenge.

Cloud was standing between him and the group, one hand out to stop them from coming closer—“he’s not hurt. Give him a second—” sword sheathed, but shoulders tense and ready for all that he kept his voice calming.

Vincent regulated the very air in his lungs. In. Out. In. Out. And the wings folded, and the light in his eyes faded, and when he looked up, he was a man again, shaken but whole.

Reeve would never forget the flash of surprise in his eyes the first time he had pulled himself back together from Chaos, and Cloud had still walked up to him right after, a hand under his elbow in physical and emotional support. Chaos was terrifying and Vincent knew it. But if Cloud felt fear—if Hojo hadn’t surgically removed it or something—he didn’t show it.

Vincent had Chaos in his head. His voices were temporary. His anger was his own, only sharpened by the mako. He could do this.

He opened his eyes. “This is senseless destruction, senseless death. It is lost hours and money for Shinra, lost revenue, lost wages for workers who should be here, a man’s life, and a reality shift for me. I encourage people to turn in their mistakes and try again. So long as they do so, they aren’t even written up. I encourage a very different atmosphere to avoid problems like this.” He slapped a hand against the beam, and flinched a little when it dented, just a tiny bit. “So. Mistake? Possibly. On purpose? Unfortunately probable.”

And that was the worst thing. Because first time it had been, obviously and clearly, a mistake. A distraction that had resulted in spilled chemicals—a beam that looked solid on the outside that was eaten away with acid within, and the man who did it not dead but crippled and devastated when he had learned what had happened because of it.

No sign of that now. If this had changed… he didn’t know enough. Not nearly enough. He needed to talk… Vincent would be alive by now, alive, mature and… quite literally, with no life of his own. And he understood espionage in a way Reeve didn’t, almost instinctively. If he could just persuade him to talk. To come out. He knew about Lucrecia’s location and Sephiroth’s situation… that should be more than enough to pry the man out. Right?

It would have to wait. Until he could slip his Turks… or until he could make a Cait. He could survive that long. He had survived worse.

Tseng was frowning. The man Reeve had been the first time around wouldn’t have seen it. The man who had been friends with an Ancient and a Weapon, and a SOLDIER though… he saw it clearly. “I see. Until I have a firmer grasp of who did this, and what they want, I’m keeping your protective detail of Turks on you.”

Reeve didn’t bother to argue. He had expected no less. “Can I assist the Turks in any other way, or can I go get stiches?” The notion of voluntarily entering the hospital again made his skin crawl. But… it had to be done. And it would get him out of here, away from the voices and the chattering of the mako, drained but only just beneath the surface.

“Of course, Director. Fiona. Todd. I will take this from here.”

Reeve turned to go.

"Director. If you had to guess... was this on purpose?"

If he had to guess... "It looks like the outside weld was applied after the inside weld. A surface weld, to hide the problems. And it's made of the right filler."

Tseng frowned. 

"It could be someone trying to cover their ass. But no. I don't think so." And that scared him. Because if that had changed, what else had? And... why?

***

They settled back into a routine. Vincent went out to check for new hunting requests every other day—sometimes they went out to fulfill them, though they slowed with the weather cooling. Food was still plentiful—the monsters would be more bothersome in late winter, when they had time to get desperate, but for now, the dropping temperatures settled them, and most everyone else, into their dens more and more.

There was an exception, of course. Vincent, at the command of the domestic goddess Sasha, came over regularly to play piano. He hadn’t started teaching lessons yet—but the rust was wearing off, and he noticed, with a pungent mix of amusement and despair, that dinner parties had started to fall on the days he would be there, and everyone tended to arrive early.

He wasn’t as good as he had been. But… he could manage passable, maybe. It felt good to do something constructive again--

He went with the girls to market, sometimes. Cloud looked… unimpressive, until you met his eyes, Cid was too loud and Barrett was… too intimidating. His temper, the obvious weapon for an arm and the sheer size of the man—Barrett was a ridiculously soft to those who knew him, and endlessly terrifying to those who didn’t. But Vincent could be quietly alarming when people were bothering them… and quietly unobtrusive when they weren’t.

It wasn’t that the girls couldn’t handle themselves. They were both terrifying in very different ways. But two girls who looked harmless beating the living shit out of a town’s worth of miscreants attracted attention, much more so than a man walking with them with forbidding eyes, warning by his presence—don’t, idiot, don’t—so he went with them, to protect their anonymity.

It was a simple, destructive task, at it’s heart. But… it was in the service of something good. It felt… good, to do something again. Even something so simple as this.

After Aerith died, his purpose in going with Tifa to market changed again. He didn’t want her to spend too much time alone in her head, and while he was with her, she’d focus on keeping up a brave face, even to herself. He also didn’t want her to take out her frustration and fear on the stupider members of society. That really would attract attention.

Seph watched with wide green eyes when he played, not begging to learn… but he sometimes say him imitating hand motions without touching the keys from the corner of his eyes.

“The music. I guess I didn’t expect you to like it,” he told the boy, while tuning the instrument. “It’s not a bad thing, I’m just surprised. Where did you hear it? Hojo never used to play it…”

The boy fidgeted on the bench. “One of the nannies played music during break time. She was nice, but she didn’t work there long, and she didn’t say goodbye, so I guess she didn’t like me either. And.. Swordmaster used to play music when we did katas. It was nice. Peaceful. And… it’s so beautiful and precise and clear… I saw someone playing one for the President once when Hojo took me to him to… to get more revenue approved for a project?”

“It is clear and precise,” Vincent had agreed, hollowly, and resolved to look harder at the file Veld had left him. Being trotted out before Shinra like… like a stud chocobo to potential breeders…. He took a few deep breaths and went back to tuning the piano.

He didn’t have time that night, and he didn’t have time the next morning either, because it snowed properly for the first time that night down in the Nibel Valley, and Nibelheim and his home were covered in thick white blankets in the morning. It left him in quite a good mood—he had always liked snow, but he was enough of a city boy that getting to see it like this had never been common for him--  until he saw the way Sephiroth was staring out the window, frowning and arms wrapped around himself and his dragon.

“Seph?”

“Um. Are you going out today? Without me, I mean?”

And, to be fair, Vincent did that sometimes for very simple tasks—the overgrown rats were steady pay but not exactly a threat to him at this point… and for ones he feared might really be dangerous.

“No. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“I… don’t like it. Sorry sir.”

“No need for apologies.” He had anticipated this. But he still didn’t like that remote look in Seph’s eye. “But I was hoping you’d be willing to help me celebrate anyway. Since this snow will be unimpressive for building or playing in, I thought we’d make an easy day of it, and read a few chapters by the fire. We just at the swordfight, right?”

Seph bobbed his head, eyes lighting a little. “But—should we really—”

“Take the day off? Why not? Nothing is pressing—if an emergency comes up, someone will come get us. But.. the snow is pretty, and cold, we have a fire and extra blankets and pillows, and good books, a roaring fire, and I have new food to introduce you to. Have you ever had hot chocolate? Popcorn?”

The boy shook his head, mystified.

“Right. Come on—I’ll show you how to make both.”

Seph watched with awe as the popcorn exploded under the glass kettle cover—his eyes shut with pure bliss when he put the first piece in his mouth. Sephiroth liked sugar, and it was clearly something he hadn’t had much, if at all… before, but he liked the tastes of fat and salt more. Maybe because it was strange enough to be pleasant, but familiar enough that he didn’t have to think about it too much. Maybe because predatory animals—humans and other things among them—had a preference for such things. Buttered popcorn pleased him.

Hot chocolate baffled him, at first.

“Wait, you melt that?” Seph stood on tiptoe, to see the oven again, momentarily distracted from the popcorn by what Vincent was doing on the stove.

“Yes. And stir it in carefully—with a whisk, so the milk doesn’t scald. This isn’t the best stuff, but it’s pretty good—there are powdered forms that are much cheaper” synthetic chocolate. The horror. The horror. “—but there are places where they chip the chocolate and melt it for your drink order by order. I’m not that patient when I want a hot drink,” he confided to the boy at a whisper, and Seph giggled. “So this is a nice compromise. When I was a kid, my mother used to make it all by hand, but she used to work for this artsy high end coffee shop back before she met my father—so she used to do things to dress it up without thinking. Fancy designs in creamer on the top, whipped cream in strange colors, sprinkles and things written in lines of caramel and chocolate sauce. I just sorta got used to it and kept applying sprinkles ever since. It’s also a useful distraction—a lot of times if you throw out an odd detail, people will forget how scared they are to focus on that, so it was good for calming people down.”

“Really?”

“I’ll tell you stories, sometime. But right now, we have a swordfight to focus on, right? Let’s bring a damp towel in a bowl—if we touch the book right after eating popcorn, we’ll leave oilstains.  And we don't want that, now do we?”

Sephiroth shook his head, eyes wide, and they settled on the floor in front of the fire—they still had a regrettable lack of furniture—on blankets and pillows, and the wind howled outside as Vincent explained who the swordfighter was, and why he fought. Seph cried out in delight as they fought, the swordfighter switching hands midway through to show his true skill—and the man in black doing the same.

“They’re so nice to each other?”

“Just because you’re fighting doesn’t mean you’re inherently enemies. Don’t mistake me, some people are utterly, wholly and completely, your enemies. No matter what you do, they won’t change. But some people are just your enemies because of a situation they are in, and that can change. These two could be friends, in another situation.”

“That’s sad, though,” Seph said, leaning back against him. “They could be friends and the Swordsman has orders to kill him. That’s not right.”

“Circumstances can change,” Vincent said, had another handful of popcorn—he liked the taste himself—and smiled, when Sephiroth exclaimed in horror when the Man in Black disarmed his opponent. “I’d sooner destroy a stained glass window than an artist like yourself.”

“What-“

“He did not have orders to kill. He commands himself, and he can choose,” he murmured into the boy’s hair, and laughed at the boy’s delight in the spared life.

Chapter Text

When Reeve walked out of the building, the two Turks flanked him, a few paces behind.

‘That is the closest I have seen to him losing it.’ Fiona mouthed to her partner, silent, behind the back of the Director. All Turks were trained in reading lips, and some in sign language. Necessity had made them proficient in both.

‘People who are losing it don’t reassert control when they see someone is alarmed. That was protective rage’

‘Oh, is that why you got all protective? Cute, Brick, but not necessary.’

Sensing danger, Brick sighed, softly. ‘For a moment, focus on this and not your bruised ego, yes? He calmed himself down the moment he saw that someone was responding to him as if he was dangerous. He got angry talking about how people under his command were going to suffer because of this. And he flinched back from an actual display of his own power. That was protective rage’

Fiona paused. ‘People aren’t like that. That’s some stupid fantasy story shit. They do that for people they care about maybe, Turks do it for Turks, but—’

‘Deny the evidence of your eyes again. Either he’s a unicorn, or he sees anyone Shinra as family. Or he thinks you’re a lot cuter than current evidence suggests.’

Fiona rolled her eyes.

‘That was also my assessment. Also, Randy cat? Don’t get in trouble, Fiona, getting temporarily assigned a newbie while you’re on desk work is agony. Just ask to switch out with me if you get bored.’

She managed to turn the laugh into a cough—and Reeve still caught it. “Interesting conversation back there?”

“Not as interesting as your eyes!”

“Gaia’s sake…” Reeve muttered and went back to walking ahead.

‘What did I just say?’

‘I didn’t hear anything.’

‘Cham… you are an idiot sometimes.’

‘Can I point out that he thinks someone probably arranged the accident that almost killed him and he’s taking it like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth? Apart from that one rage, protective or otherwise, he’s not so much as raised an eyebrow at any of this.’

Hesitation. Brick’s stride faltered for a bare second—he was taller and longer legged than either Fiona or Reeve, so he had no problems catching up in spite of a fairly brisk pace. ‘He… is a very cool customer.’

‘Or trained.’

‘…the earmarks are there, I admit. But… Fiona, his record is spotless and well documented.’

‘Records can be manufactured.’

‘Then why would they have manufactured a Midgar record? It’s easy to check this—they have his schooling, his youth, his friends—his family to the last five generations have all lived here. It’d be much easier to fake someplace in the asscrack of nowhere, like… Gongaga, or something.’

Fiona gritted her teeth. It didn’t make sense. ‘We should still check.’

‘Yes. But… for an operator this smooth, either he’s entirely innocent, or he’s got the best damn cover story and training I’ve ever seen. Want me to take the inside the house shift this time?’

Reeve stopped in place for a barren moment, eyes shut. “Not Amos. Abel.”

“Sir, your aide?”

“No, that’s definitely Amos. Abel is someone else.” Reeve started walking again without explanation, and Brick and Fiona exchanged a long look.

‘No. I got this. I’m more familiar with him than you.’ Brick nodded, but looked like he was chewing on a thought and finding the taste unpleasant, so she rolled her eyes. ‘What?’

‘You realize that if he is a plant and he got this far, our department will never live it down, right?’

She managed not to swear, but it was a near thing.

***

Sephiroth might still be wary of snow, but there was awe in his eyes every time he rounded a corner to see a new landscape draped in it.

Vincent made a point of letting them rest when the snow fell, reading more and trying to associate the snowfall with things Sephiroth liked. He managed to get donuts once or twice, though he didn’t risk it in the heavier snow—sure he could do it, but the boy got alarmed anytime he tried to sneak off to surprise him.

On the fifth day of snowfall, he decided it was time for the next step.

“We’re going out today, I think. I want to introduce you to one of my other forms.”

Sephiroth frowned. “In the snow?”

“He doesn’t mind the snow. You should bundle up though.” It helped, sometimes, that he was obedient. But obedience was a trust, and one that should be honored. Back out in the snow, he led them to the sparring spot—out far from the town, where people wouldn’t meet them, then he knelt in the snow, to talk to the boy at eye height. “Now, some of my… shapes, could hurt you. Some of them are dangerous if I don’t keep a very careful grip of the reins. I think this one, though, we could trust, so maybe we’ll add him to our sparring routine at some point. If he behaves. I call him the Galian Beast.”

Seph nodded, hesitant.

“He’ll be the one in charge, so to speak, but even if he tries to be naughty, I’ll be here. Okay? So there is nothing, nothing at all, to be afraid of.”

“Not scared.”

“Good. He wants to play.” Vincent hurried the transformation, pushed—but Seph still flinched, hearing the noises that the body made, warping—but then it was over.

The beast shook his great, shaggy head, his horns dipping to one side carefully. So as not to hurt the boy. Then he raised his eyes, slowly, to the cub, belly in the snow, so as not to tower over him. A cub sired by a strange alpha might have reason to be afraid of strange males—but the pack leader had claimed this one. His. So, theirs. Theirs to feed and hunt with.

Careful. Don’t scare him. The pack leader’s command was gentle. Not the fierce chains of will he used to wrap the beast around in.

After a moment, the cub with his silver pelt rubbed his forepaws together, then held them out, and the beast sniffed, careful, and rumbled, then froze. The Galian was the only remaining behemoth of his kind. The others, the pack leader informed him, did not purr. They only growled.

But the cub let out a braying bark—laughter, beast. He is laughing. And ran a long flexible paw through the beast’s mane.

“You’re fluffy!” The silver pelted cub whispered, and The Beast purred and leaned into his touch.

***

Tseng didn’t know anything about woodworking. He was drumming gloved fingertips on the executive meeting room table, and he didn’t know anything about woodworking, but he knew this table was expensive. It was dark wood, cut and sanded and oiled and lacquered so that it felt like glass, and it seemed strange to him that the mark of expensive woodworking, at least to Shinra’s tastes, was making it look like it was not wood at all. He was braced to be grilled by the board again.

He watched them file in, in the room before them to observe them as they came. Heidegger (stiff shoulders, bright eyes, wants to expand his power base through the upcoming SOLDIER department and the Turks, threat) and Palmer (eyes unfocused, crooning at teacup, put in charge of a dead end department from sheer nepotism. Little ambition, but easily swayed) were predictably late, Scarlet (very young and ruthless, uses makeup and clothes to appeal to the less logical head, highly dangerous, no real interest in running human based security but might try to take a department over just to see Heidegger lose it, or to drain the department dry and drop the husk. Threat.) barely on time, President Shinra (THREAT) late enough to emphasize his power over them, that they must wait for him. Hojo (occupied with his experiments, dangerous but not in a political maneuvering sense, moderate threat) later than him, not calculating anything save his next experiment. If Hojo turned his attentions to actually manipulating people instead of showing them open contempt in favor of his experiments, Tseng would likely see him as a far greater threat. As it was, if his performance slipped an inch, Shinra would probably shove his ‘resignation form’ down his throat from sheer irritation.

Well. That would make Veld happy at least.

“So, our first order of business…” the President paused, then, looking up at a knock on the door. “Director Tuesti! We weren’t expecting you to be ready for your duties yet!” Tseng’s eyes went wide—Fiona had informed him that they were making a stop at Shinra Tower today, but not that Reeve meant to take up full duties so soon--

Perfectly pressed and fitting suit. Clean and alert, only emphasized by the slight change in his eyes.  “Thank you for your concern. However, I find whatever difficulties I might be having are, for now, less important than keeping up to speed on my department’s doings in the whole of Shinra. Besides, it reassures my people to see me about.” Reeve was… different than his fellows on the board would remember from his time as the former Director’s assistant. Tseng remembered his own faint surprise from meeting with him to assess the reactor. His shoulders had broadened, his body put on muscle, shed fat. His face had lost the last of youthful roundness—he was very young, Tseng’s age… but not too young for Shinra. He countered the remaining babyface with the start of a goatee—still a little thinner than was really respectable in facial hair, but different enough that it made him look less like a child. “I also apologize for my lateness—my people were also not expecting me to be about, and as such, didn’t forward news of the meeting to me.”

Tseng had assumed that it was merely an exhausted lack of grooming when he had come to the reactor, but the truth was much more interesting, observing the differences when he had clearly made a point of what to emphasize and what to play down. He was rebranding himself, so abruptly and completely that his board members would not see him as the same man who had hovered, eyes down and harmless, at his mentor’s side.

A potential threat… or perhaps a potential ally. Reeve was keeping his cards close to his chest for now… and that meant he was a lot smarter than Tseng had thought he was. Fiona had said something about that… though he suspected she had more insights she would only share with Veld. She was only a few years older than Tseng—he wasn’t sure how many, less than five—but she had basically started field work as a young teen, when Veld and the others of her training generation were in their late teens and early twenties. A fact that she was eternally aware of, in dealing with Tseng.

But… Reeve was interesting. The way he had reasserted control over his moment of anger in the damaged reactor spoke well of him. Self-control was the mark of a good Turk… and was wretchedly unheard of in the other Directors. Exarchs of self-indulgence, in one way or another, every one. Heidegger lived for violence, as Scarlet did for ever larger explosions. Palmer’s waistline made his weaknesses apparent. Hojo may as well be blind for as far as he saw outside the science department. Reeve could be… something else. Something more multifaceted. Something dangerous.

The man straightened his jacket and took the only open seat, across from Tseng, with deliberate dignity, his eyes cutting like knives. President Shinra watched… then smiled, head cocking. Pleased. “Well. Diligence is well and good, but don’t push yourself too hard.” Genuine concern, for once—he did maintain the tools that were useful to him.

“The thought is appreciated, sir. I will be careful,” Director Tuesti… and even with the scraggly facial hair, the other changes and the sheer dignity he carried himself with were more than enough to make the title felt, inclined his head.

“See that you are. So, the first order of business—” Tseng took the opportunity to take a look at how the other Directors were reacting, listening with one ear. They were all… surprised. Heidegger was blinking a lot—Scarlet looked speculative. Palmer looked stunned, but that didn’t take too much. And Hojo… Hojo stared at Reeve like a dog with a raw steak just out of reach. Reeve ignored them all… but it still seemed like he was aware. Satisfied… and wary.

They didn’t really know what they had brought into their fold, did they? He seemed… satisfyingly competent. This had been a power move—to unsettle the other Directors enough to keep them from encroaching. That much, it would do. What else it might do… well. They would see.

Tseng looked back to the President when the subject turned to him. “Tseng, no sign of your mentor?”

“No sir. I—” Timing, too, could be a weapon, and Veld’s was a little too perfect. He had probably been listening in on the various listening devices in this room—any room the president spent any time in was observed. Unlike Reeve, he didn’t knock—he slammed the door open, his hair just a little messy, his clothes just a little ruffled, his jacket slung over one arm and his shirt’s sleeves wound backwards.  He was smiling cheerfully, and moving fluidly except for a slight tenseness about his ribs on one side (Angry. Proceed with caution. Possible injury. Playing up disheveled appearance as a power move—flattery to the president, that he was more important to report to than to be presentable. Insult to the rest—that they weren’t important enough to factor into that).

“Sorry I’m late—just got back into town and thought you’d prefer I not wait to report in,” to the president directly, no glances spared to anyone else, though as he walked in he clapped Tseng’s shoulder in a way that made Tseng suppress a shudder of relief.  He wasn’t angry at him, evidently… and more importantly, he was back. “Busy few days.”

Something odd in Veld’s tone there. No one else would hear it, not here.

“Where in the hell have you been?” Hojo barked—he hadn’t been particularly inconvenienced by his absence, but he was fairly open in his willingness to treat with the Turks as the company’s dogs. Which they were. That did not make them Hojo’s dogs, of course.

“I’m glad you asked,” Veld said with a laugh and a smile that made Tseng freeze in place—yelling was one thing, that was a danger sign. “I’ve been cleaning up your godsdamned mess!” He looked back to the President then, dismissing the man—Tseng could feel him seethe. “I got a sudden lead on Hojo’s missing research experiment, Ifalna—”

“—subject three—" Hojo growled irritably.

“—or whatever his pet Ancient’s name is, as well as the missing-possibly-kidnapped former head of the Science Department. Obviously, given the possible importance of a top scientist and department head, I dropped all else to pursue.”

“With no results, or you’d be crowing your victory.”

“Would you shut up? You’ve caused enough trouble for me today. Where was I…” Veld sat—on the table, one leg hanging off, one folded and mostly pulled in front of him, his torso twisted so he faced the president, his back entirely to Tseng, who he trusted, Palmer, who wasn’t really a threat, and Hojo… an insult. He snapped his fingers—a dramatic gesture he had adopted from his partner, after his death. It used to hurt to see it, but now it lit Tseng’s face with a brief, hard smile. “I tracked them to Nibelheim but it would seem either they roused an escaped experiment while trying to get something from the Manor, or they realized I was on their trail and lit the fire to distract me and cover themselves. It worked—Shinra Manor is gone. Apparently some mako accelerated the burn— it was fast, and hot.”

Mako didn’t have a consistent burn pattern, though it did tend to make things worse… no one outside of the Turks knew that. Not even the President. Which meant Veld didn’t know that was the case, as he would have had no formal testing equipment with him. If Veld was invoking the old obfuscation, he had his reasons, so Tseng merely nodded solemnly, as he would when absorbing new information.  It could just be a guess, given how fast or furious the burn was. Or a cover up for something else entirely.

There was a crack from the other side of the table and everyone looked up to see Reeve with a slightly glazed look on his face. After a moment, he looked down at his hands—one bandaged—and the ruins of his writing utensil. “Stupid cheap pen. I apologize for interrupting.”

Veld, still in firm command—this whole thing was a power move, Tseng was certain, to remind the other directors not to send him on pointless goose chases in the future. Hojo had more than once demanded the return of his experiment, though they had all noticed the lack of like concern for his superior. “No harm done. Where’s Director Markus?”

There was a pause. Tseng said quietly “he died, sir.”

Veld went still. That could have been a disaster for his whole act—information was the real power of the Turks, after all—but he sighed, rubbing his eyes with one hand, and looked around at the table with disdain. “Sometimes I think I can’t leave any of you alone for five minutes… and sometimes you prove me right. Tseng, full details later.”

“Of course sir.”

The President (Threat) looked at them for a moment, them smiled, warmly. His dog had returned, after all, after attempting to retrieve something for it’s master. Good dog. “Yes… I want your opinions on that matter as soon as possible, as well as a bit more detail about your investigation. The loss of my old family home is… irritating, but not disastrous…”

“I had valuable notes there…” Hojo muttered. Everyone outwardly ignored him, but Tseng noticed a few muscles in Veld’s hand tense.

                Reeve looked… strained and pale before the meeting was up, though with everyone’s attention now on Veld, Tseng thought he and Veld were the only ones who noticed. Certainly Hojo was too wrapped up in his own irritation to pay him any mind, and swept out of the room as soon as the meeting ended, followed by the others. Reeve nodded to them and dismissed himself.

                Tseng and Veld let everyone creep or run or walk from the room by silent agreement before turning to each other. “Good to have you back, sir.”

                “You’ve been managing well if all this happened and no one was openly screaming. Usually the board tries to skin me once of them tries to kill another. How’s Reeve taking to it?”

                “Given that he dropped into a mako pit and is dealing with the side effects—” Tseng  walked over to the trash can, reached in… he had suspected, but it was good to have confirmation. He pulled out the destroyed pen… not a cheap thing, as Reeve had said. It had a steel barrel, now sharp edged, crumpled and destroyed.

                Veld’s eyes narrowed incrementally. “Begin at the beginning.”

***

                It did not feel right, to have the Director’s office again. Reeve barely noticed it, though. He walked in, shut the door, locked it, turned off the lights, pulled the blinds. Hopefully it would be a few moments before his Turk “protection” caught up with him. He needed every second.

                Shinra Manor had burned down. Dear gods. He felt the air catch in his lungs again—it had happened several times in the meeting. He had broken each breath down to a step by step process, to get through. Vincent wouldn’t thank him for drawing Hojo’s eye. But—

                “—I don’t think he’s gonna make it,” Yuffie reported quietly, curled up into her chair on the screen, in her oversized poncho. She had been… abnormally professional, recounting what Rosso had done to Vincent, and how she had tried to bandage the injury with the help of the driver of the transport he had sent for them. It had already bled through three times.

                Yuffie was prone to exaggeration, but not that way. She was all brash overconfidence, or occasional panic in the heat of the moment. This… sober recounting, eyes fixed on some distant point… he did not doubt she was telling it exactly like it was.

                Reeve’s eyes were dry. Too dry. And so was his throat. His hands were folded into fists—if I had insisted that he go with someone—but… Vincent had always gone his own way. He had to believe that. Especially now.  “Thank you for telling me. I—”

                “That’s it?!” Yuffie exploded, and some distant part of Reeve thought ‘I should have expected this’.  “Vincent’s dying from a fist sized hole in his chest and all you can say is—”

                “I can’t cry, Yuffie!” he roared back, getting some odd looks from other people in the command room and not caring. “When I made the schematics for this—I can’t bleed. I can’t cry. I’m… fuck, I don’t even know where I am right now, I’ve been switching between bodies at breakneck speed—I lost a Cait not long ago, I’m evacuating three towns, and I’m AT all of them, and trying to convince Cloud and Tifa and Barret to get in here, people are dying, and even if I could remember which body is my real one for five fucking minutes, I’d probably still be too dehydrated to cry!”

                Yuffie froze and curled up tighter in her seat, and Reeve reminded himself that she was a young, that she didn’t mean it, that she was lashing out because she was scared… but damn it all, he was too. Deepground had been stretching them all past their limits again.

                Another teammate was dying and all he could do was pray that they got back to HQ before he did so he could… what? See him? Say goodbye? Stuff him into a tank that the man hated so he could die hating his last moments of existence instead of in relative peace in a desperate bid to keep him alive for a few more paltry hours?

                “I can’t cry. I’m needed everywhere, and even if I wasn’t… I’m not here. This is another Cait, I… genuinely don’t recall where I actually am just now. I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to tell you, what you need to hear. I wish I were with you, so I could… but I’m not. I’m sorry.”

                “… No. That… that wasn’t fair. I’m sorry. I… Look, this isn’t your fault. I… I’ll tell you when… something changes. Okay?”

                “Yeah. Thanks Yuffie.”

                The call ended, and Reeve leaned against the console for a long, long moment before straightening.

                “Sir? Maybe you should take a moment.”

                “No. I don’t think I can afford to.” Reeve told the woman who had been daring enough to speak, rubbing at his eyes. The mechanical body, when under direct control, felt… almost right. It was easier with a normal Cait unit… he hadn’t had time to perfect the ‘Reeve’ units.

                Seven hours later, Yuffie had called him to tell him that the wound had somehow sealed itself. He still hadn’t been able to cry, but he had muffled the noises that tore out of his throat in his arm, and psychosomatic though it was, his eyes had burned.

                Vincent had survived what Rosso did to him. Somehow. But… if a burning building fell on his head, would he be able to get out? Would he try to? His attitude had been… the man who they had gotten out of the coffin might not bother to try to survive. He was tough, and no mistake… but everything died, if you kept hurting it enough. The fall of Omega was proof enough of that, to Reeve’s eyes.

                Vincent could be dead. And there was nothing, nothing at all, Reeve could do about it. He didn’t  have a Cait ready to send out—didn’t have the ability to get up and leave Midgar, not without drawing the eye of Shinra—and Vincent wouldn’t thank him if he survived only to end up on Hojo’s tables again. Didn’t have healing materia or potions even if he have a Cait to send out.

                But he would. Soon. This would never, never happen again.

                The next time one of Reeve’s friends needed him, he would be able to send help in some way. He swore it to himself, but it felt hollow.

                The Caits couldn’t cry. When Reeve was controlling one directly, he didn’t feel tears. Reeve didn’t have a Cait yet. He didn’t even have his own headspace, with the constant chatter of the lifestream in his ears and the low murmurs of the building—most of Hojo’s floor was soundproofed, Reeve was relieved to find, and felt guilty for his relief. But for whole floors in both directions… chatter. Printers printing, an army of clacking keyboards, two separate pornos, the call center, a simulation room being used for classes, one couple sneaking some action in a closet, hiLucycanyoufilethisreportIhaveahotdatetonightToddfocushellothankyouforcallingShinraCoarperationhowmayIdirectyourcallwehaveavarietyofdepartmentthatsouldbeinformed--

                Vincent might be dead.

                Reeve sat on the floor, against the desk that shouldn’t be his, with tears leaking silently into his hands because he couldn’t afford to make noise, not here, not now.  

***

                Hojo stormed back to his labs. Assistants took a look at him and stepped aside, people with forms took a look at his face and decided they can wait. Hojo didn’t head to his office after rough meetings.
                Hojo went to his favorite lab.

                Not the one where he bred new types of guard hound, though the more recent types had promise if they could just be controlled. Not the one where he gave the Mako doses to the SOLDIERs, even if it was something that idiot Hollander couldn’t figure out how to do, to enhance normal people enough to please their oaf of a president, steel tables and walls echoing with screams and the stink of sweat permanently etched into the leather restraints. To be sure, it wasn’t the results he would have, not yet… these first few prototypes were unpredictable, uncontrollable, dangerous. Perfect for Deepground, but not the SOLDIERs the President wanted. The ones that went out in public were… subtle.

                Hojo didn’t much like subtle, and neither did the president. But they were getting more dramatic as they went. The secret wasn’t the mako, after all.

                It was her.

                She twisted in her tank to look at him, just a little, and he paused, then tilted his head politely. “Hello, my dear.” Hojo was not a sentimental person, even in his own mind. There were no wedding photos that he had asked to be taken, though Dr. Crescent had wanted some made and he had indulged her. There was no baby album, though of course he had documented the child’s progress extensively. As such, this room, favorite though it was, was bare—stainless steel and glass holding her up, clean and smelling only of disinfectant. His irritation at the Directors fell away as soon as he came into her sanctuary-- why let such little minds trouble him here?

                Hojo. Don’t fret about my son. He will return. Good sons always do.

                “Fret? I am a scientist.” Hojo came and stood before the tank, gazing inside—right now she looked like Dr. Crescent, though that wouldn’t stay. When she was pleased with him, she let him see her true form.

                He had never used to hear her, back when she was first unearthed. It had been years in the tank and years after the birth of Sephiroth before she had spoken—only a few months ago, in fact. He had been in Nibelheim, retrieving her, the night Sephiroth had been sent away by the Turks ‘for his safety’.

                Hojo was not a sentimental man. But Jenova was beautiful, right down to the cells.

                It is natural to want to keep your eyes on an experiment, to see to it that no one can foul it up. But my son is stronger than this paltry world. Let the Turks do as they will. It pleases me, that he should acquire a taste for blood young. For now, you and I have other matters to attend to.

                “Yes. Our great works.”

                Jenova smiled at him, and let her façade fall. Armless, she was no less beautiful, and no less deadly, luminous eyes locked on his and purplish skin oddly patterned. She would betray him when it suited her, he doubted it not. Just as he would betray her. She was only the mother of his god, not the god itself. Still. She was a worthy and glorious creature, unlike the wretch who bore her son.

                This time will be different. What a glorious opportunity we have. Her voice, in his head, was pleased.

                Hojo leaned closer to the glass. It wasn’t a true partnership—he didn’t remember the things she claimed to, and he didn’t particularly care about them… except that they gave him ideas, opportunities to learn new things.

                Jenova smiled, and he smiled back.

***

                Sephiroth had started to get the hang of snow. They went out often now, going farther and farther as they went, sometimes a man and his boy, sometimes a boy and his… dog. Or rather, behemoth.

                Seph liked the creature, actually. He liked it’s fur, and it’s purr, and sometimes at night before it was time to read to Seph, they curled up together in front of the fire. Sometimes Seph told it stories.

                Sometimes they were stories Vincent had told him.

                The Beast, for it’s part, was thrilled. His delight was given to Vincent in sensations—a near-constant purr, and the sense of heavy, sleepy eyes in the flickering firelight, the room oddly proportioned and turned strange colors with the beat’s sight. They were most assuredly allies now— Vincent slept easier, the creature guarding against the excesses of his fellows in their sleep. And now, Sephiroth associated the snow with a hand in the ruff of a strong beast, with new landscapes, with hot chocolate and popcorn.

                And that was good. But that also made them careless.

                They had gone out through town that day, to see a frozen river—Var had told Vincent about a place where the river had frozen clear, and you could see yards down, to where the fish still whirled under the surface.

                “It’s slippery, so be careful—” Vincent said as they came to a spot—the wrong spot, where the river had worn down the bank so that it had a sharp little cliff in it, two, maybe three stories high. He had wanted the view before he led the boy down the sloped end—the whole world looked pristine, snow clinging to branches and sparkling in the clear light of day for all to see. But there were no bootprints here. No one had seen this place since the snowfall but them.

                “It’s pretty!” Sephiroth, then hesitated—Vincent strongly suspected an awareness of aesthetics was yet another frivolous detail to Hojo.
                “It is.” He agreed. “I like views like this.”

                “Yeah!” Sephiroth agreed, stepping forward, still a foot off from the edge… and that was thin ice over tall grass. It broke.

                Sephiroth fell.

                Vincent should have been able to catch him—he was fast enough. But he was used to pretending to be normal—and he couldn’t think—couldn’t understand—

                There was an explosion of black, as Seph fell, in perfect time with a cry of surprise and pain—just before he hit the ground.

                “Seph!” Vincent yelled, and jumped down after him, rolling to take the impact—there would be bruises tomorrow, but that didn’t matter—Sephiroth— the child lay on the ground, shaking furiously though he couldn’t tell if it was shock, fear or cold that made him do it. Vincent hesitated, putting out a hand to the boy’s shoulder and checking his own pockets for material with his right—the restore, he’d grabbed it out of habit. Oh, praise unto Bahamut, strong and merciful. “Can you hear me?”

                Sephiroth whimpered, and the spill of black flung over him shifted. A wing. A godsforsaken wing, six or seven feet long—about right for the wingspan of a boy sized bird. “V—vincent…?” The child slowly raised his head and looked back over his shoulder—his eyes going round as saucers when he saw the feathers.

                “You have a wing,” Vincent said, a little bit in shock himself.

Chapter Text

Reeve hadn’t come out of the office for a while—Annette frowned and tapped at the door.

                “Fiona. If that’s you, you can sod off.” She blinked. Reeve sounded… rough. And tired. And unusually irritated.

                “Um. It’s Annette, Director.”

                There was a pause. “Annette. I’m sorry, it’s been a rough day.”

                “Board meetings. Better you than me.” A low laugh came through the door, and she felt her shoulders relax. Shinra was a good company with a lot of potential for advancement… but it was wise to be careful whom you served. Reeve had always been a good boss. Even before he was the boss proper. “Are you alright, sir?”

                “Headache. Maybe it’s building up to a migraine. Been a while since I had one, so… hard to be sure.”

                Oh. “Well, the Board is usually migraine-inducing, yes?” He snorted, and she let herself smile on the other side of the door. “In all seriousness, can I get you anything to help? Water…. Ice?” Would standard pain relief pills work for him? She had started to do some research on mako enhancement on her off time when she had heard what happened to Director Markus and Reeve. There wasn’t a lot available to the general public and she didn’t even want to ask the Science Department—they had a reputation, though basing things of import on rumor was unkind. Still. She wanted to know if there was anything she should watch out for, or help with.

                The reports had been confusing, and… alarming.

                “… actually that would be lovely,” Reeve said quietly, sounding slightly muffled again. It had to be rough on him—he was still recovering from the mako—and the Board was neither gentle nor gracious. It wasn’t that it should be—they hadn’t become the world’s power company with lax procedure or a lack of competitive spirit. But…. Well.

                She got the ice and a pitcher of water. Her mother had been prone to migraines… she knew something of how much it hurt. On the way back out, she found the Turk woman—Fiona? Walking around looking… not concerned, precisely. Seeking and sharp. “Have you seen Director Tuesti?”

                ‘Fiona, if that’s you, you can sod off.’

                She frowned.

***

                Annette was about to get herself in trouble. It was… heartening, he supposed, that she cared enough about his comfort to try to enforce a bit of quiet time… but ‘Fiona’ did take her duties… whatever they really were… seriously.

                She would not respond well to being separated from her supposed charge.

                 He made himself stand up and open the door—the sudden flare of light felt like stakes shoved into his eyes, and he flinched and brought up a hand to shield his eyes. “Annette. It’s fine. As much as I’d very much prefer not to have her following me everywhere, she’s just doing her job. You don’t need to protect me from the Turks.” It would be wise not to intercede between the Turks and a target, dear.

                She frowned—he could hear it in her voice. “You look awful. You should sit down. I got water and ice for you…”

“Thank you,” he murmured—there was a hand under one elbow, guiding him back into the blessed dim of the office—the headache was real enough, crying often did that, even if the migraine was a polite fiction—the sudden light didn’t help, and the cacophony…

“You said it was a migraine?” Fiona’s voice.

“He said he thought he was developing one…” Annette’s voice was a bit chilly yet, talking to Fiona, but she was losing what little edge she had managed to work up in tones of concern.

“Director Tuesti, do you require medical assistance?”

“Fiona. It’s a damn headache not a gunshot wound.”

“You’re in uncharted territory, Director.”

“It’s a headache. Let me be miserable in peace until it passes,” Reeve growled quietly with his eyes shut. “I’m not checking into the hospital for a stubbed toe either.”

“A migraine is—”

“Not made better by fucking arguing midway through the damn thing,” Amos growled, having entered the office after them. He kept his voice low, but forceful. “If you’re going to argue with the director, have the decency to wait until he’s able to look you in the eyes while arguing back. Turk, it’s your job to see that he’s safe? Check then, but for the love of the gods, be quiet about it!”

That was actually rather restrained, for Amos. Probably because she was a Turk. Good—his life would be easier if he didn’t have to protect his employees from his ‘protective detail’.

Fiona made a noise in the back of her throat—a growl or a mutter, inaudible for anyone else here—then sighed. “Fine. Everyone out, I’ll check the perimeter and then leave him alone.”

They still hesitated, the two present assistants. Bless them. Reeve wrapped a few ice cubes in his handkerchief—he didn’t mind getting water on the embroidery—and pressed it over his eyes, waving gently with the other hand. Annette caved, but not to the Turk, to him. That was probably hard on her. She didn’t like confrontation. “Call me back if you need anything else, Director?”

“Thank you, Annette.”

She patted him on the wrist as she left, Amos just growling out, “Same, boss. Same,” as he went.

Fiona roved the room for a moment somewhere beyond the veil of his makeshift icepack, presumably checking for assassins under the desk or something equally ridiculous. She finally stopped in front of him, his hearing pinpointing her as exactly as a razor could cut.

“Fiona. If you have something to say, spit it out.”

“Just this, Director. Your people are loyal to you. I don’t know why. But the least you might do is take care of yourself on their behalf.” She was quiet, and… was that genuine anger? “You could do worse than to wait for your bodyguards and to notify us of your physical condition.”

Reeve frowned and pressed the pack harder into his eyes. “I’ll take that under advisement,” he said, but she was already gone.

Vincent could be dead.

Reeve took a deep breath, and let the headache’s throb ease with the slow radiance of ice. And it helped his eyes. Perhaps he would have to have a tendency towards migraines. He could hack it into his medical file. He could arrange for it to be a long-lost note that should have been clipped to a file.

Gaia what a mess. He was contemplating altering the contents of his medical file so he could have a few godsforsaken minutes to get his overextended senses under control and grieve.

Annette had died, last time. She had been pregnant—she and her husband had been trying to have a child for ages, but they always miscarried after a few months— he could still taste the shame of his question, when he had asked why she had taken off sick so much recently and she had told him everything, simply and quietly with averted eyes--

She had glowed with hope a few months later, and he had guessed—they had lasted longer, she had reason to hope— but on the night of meteorfall…

It didn’t have to be like that, not this time. And… Vincent…

A few barren days after the truth had come out, Aerith dead and Cloud… gone, Cait/Reeve had consigned himself to being watched. Every night, he would be assigned to the night watches… and every night, Vincent would volunteer to stay up with him. That was fine. He didn’t expect trust, and he certainly didn’t deserve it.

He didn’t realize the flaw in his reasoning until he said as much to the ex-Turk, who rolled his eyes.

“I’m not here to watch you. I’m here because the night shift sucks and assigning you to doing it alone in a fit of pique is both stupid and unsafe.” Cait blinked, turning to stare at him, and the gunslinger snorted. “Really. You act like you’re the only one who’s ever been on an infiltration mission. I was a Turk.  If the others can’t see the risk or the value in what you’re doing then they’re blinded by their own frustrations.”

That…

He hadn’t hoped that they would ever consider him one of them again. He hadn’t admitted to himself how much he wanted that until the words were already spoken.

No. He didn’t have a body. And until he did… until he did, he owed Vincent Valentine more than to write him off. And he owed these people more than to let them fall headlong into what was coming again. There were failsafes, safeguards, that he could program into Shinra Tech that would save hundreds of thousands of lives, that no one would question if he put them in now. He could do it right under the noses of the Turks, even. Reeve wasn’t a vengeful man, but he could take more than a little satisfaction in that.

But… not yet. In ten minutes. Maybe twenty.

***

Sephiroth was… not hyperventilating. He’d work himself into it if he let him though. Vincent hesitated—looking for limbs that folded wrong, and unable to see with the wing in the way—but if he was stunned or in pain, he’d focus on that and not the wing, right?

…Maybe not.

“Seph. Focus on me for a moment. Look at me. Okay. Is anything broken?” The boy would know what that felt like.

He shook his head, green eyes gone to terrified slits and watering.

“Okay. Take a deep breath now—” the pupils were the same size at least. He gathered the kid into his arms, suddenly aware that he was shaking.

Air rife with feathers and the occasional flap of too many wings, off balance and still somehow perfectly upright. Sephiroth had become… something else. Something inhuman. Something that needed to be put down. He grieved Lucrecia’s son in his heart of hearts… but when his gun ran out of bullets, he flipped open the cylinder and slotted more in.

“You scared me,” he told the boy, honestly. “I…. that’s quite a drop.”

“I… I didn’t know… I…”

“Shhh. Does the wing… hurt?”

Watching from just a little too far away as Sephiroth opened just one wing this time, hanging in the air over Cloud. Cloud needed the fight to clear his head, and he was strong enough to take a freshly remade Sephiroth, relatively weak with his rebirth, alone. Inasmuch as any of them were alone. The Cetra was dead, yes… but she lingered in the rain that was falling and the winds that scattered the flower petals across the city of Edge—and she was in the rustle of every flower. The part of him closest to Chaos could hear her laughing, and that soothed him.

Cloud had taken quite a few dips in Mako and Lifestream—he would be surprised if he couldn’t hear her too. Especially now, when she was so obviously exerting all the power she could on this moment in time.

She must have loved them all so much, to do this instead of allowing herself the peace of rebirth. To stay so close to the people she could no longer touch…

It wasn’t comfort enough, when the other two remnants came and brought all the power they could to bear on Cloud. He still wondered for a long moment if he had really hung back because he trusted Cloud and Aerith to finish this bit of business… or if he had simply refused to kill the son of a friend again, and thereby condemned the first person to believe in him in spite of his monsters to death.

Aerith had laughed at him, and whispered ‘no’.

“Why… why does it matter if it hurts? It’s a wing! It’s not supposed to be—”

“Hey, easy Seph—”

“—humans don’t have wings! I’m not… I’m… Hojo will—”

“Hojo will not lift a finger to you. If he ever tries, if he comes for you, I will shoot him. Or feed him to Galian.” Actually, this might be an arena better suited to the ministrations of Hellmasker or Gigas. Gigas took laboratory personnel as a personal insult. And Hellmasker… Hellmaster remembered being human with longing, and yearned to pay back the insult. He was reasonably certain it’s memory of being human was his, but it didn’t do, to look too deeply into that mind. Hellmasker was a psychopath stripped of humanity. It liked pain. It fascinated it. But that… no. What mattered here was reassuring the boy, not hurting the madman. Not today, at least. “The one reason, the only reason, I didn’t take you from Shinra by force was because Veld was there. No one will hurt you. Not if you sprout ten wings.” He said the words even as his fingers remembered the type of bullet he had loaded to shoot the SOLDIER—hollowpoints with a little extra materia-based kick. Solid copper not copper-jacketed lead. He could still feel their balance, their weight on his fingertips, lighter than normal bullets—

“But… but I’m not human. I’m a monster!”

This boy was not that man. “No. You… You are more human than anything else.”

“But—”

“No—listen, Sephiroth. You’re more human than me. Am I a monster?”

Seph’s eyes went wide. It was a gamble, Vincent knew that—and abruptly felt the ludicrous nature of it, that he had so casually handed his enemy the words that might be weapon enough to hurt him—no. He could take it. And if the boy heard himself saying it… then he might believe it.

“You—”

“Am I a monster?” He turned his eyes gold with a little effort—pulled his wings free with a crackle of bone and a tearing of skin. He barely felt it past his focus. Of all his forms, Chaos was the most… malleable. Reeve and Cid had gotten into a debate once as to why that was—Galian clearly had a defined body, though his fur coat changed length and colors, Gigas and Hellmasker never looked any different than they had started as. But Chaos… Chaos had started looking like some demon or gargoyle, and had ended looking more like… Well. Like Vincent. Winged and crowned with horns, face hardened into armor so thick it only moved because there were cracks in it, fanged, but by the time Deepground reared it’s head, Chaos wore a facsimile of Vincent’s face. Cid held that it was because Vincent had slowly warped it to his will. Reeve thought that it might be because Chaos didn’t have a body of it’s own until the time came to trail after Omega into the sky—you didn’t need a defined form to kill, as the Lifestream showed. And what was Chaos but the more aggressive side of the Lifestream?

Smart men, both of them, but not their field of study. Cloud wasn’t brilliant the way they were, though he could think on his feet like a madman and he might well have been brilliant in another life, where he could spend his brain cells on reading and thinking instead of how to hold a sword and who carried what materia. Then again… there was a restlessness in Cloud that might never have accepted the kind of focused study that would mark one as conventionally smart. He might have made it as a Turk. But never a scientist. Not because he was stupid, but because he was… driven.

Cloud had listened to Cid and Reeve speculate that night, nursing beer, and passed another—he and Vincent had been made, among other things, into absolute heavyweights—to Vincent. “It occur to you two it might be more than one of the above? We know Chaos didn’t have a form before—and it probably didn’t like having a human host too much, so when he thinks ‘monster’ it takes notes and shapes itself accordingly. But. It changed. Even kids don’t wear masks of faces they don’t respect. Fear, sure, dislike, maybe. But no one dresses up as anything they can’t respect.”

Vincent didn’t know what he thought of that notion. But he did note that Chaos bestirred itself for a moment to pay attention to Cloud, and Cloud, seeing it, had snorted and saluted with his beer.

Maybe… maybe it meant something that Chaos was in it’s last form. He hadn’t thought about it—it wasn’t like he donned the shape often or that he spent a great deal of time gazing into mirrors when he did. But… he just hadn’t thought about it—no, a problem for another time. He half opened his wings—let out the gentlest pulse of the red energy/light that he could. “Tell me, Sephiroth. Am I a monster?”

“No—” Seph voice wasn’t loud but it was still more cry than statement, and this time when Vincent pulled him into a hug he clung as if for dear life.

“Then you can’t be either, because I’m a lot less human than you. It’s okay. We’ll deal with this.”

He held him and let him cry from the confusion and the fear, his wings wrapped around them both and Sephiroth’s twitching, lying stretched out in the snow.

***

                “So. To review. In the… week I was away…”

                Eight days, but Tseng knew better than to nitpick…

                “… we lost one director, his successor got mako poisoning, which involved a catastrophic accident in a reactor that powers Midgar—”

                All true. Tseng sighed and nodded.

                “…which we then determined was an act of sabotage, not an accident.”