To Know You
Epilogue
By Rachel "D" Winslow
It was most definitely the rosaries that had given it away.
Looking at her old friend, a man whom had become almost an obsession to her as of late, she had to feel a twinge of sympathy. Indeed, it was mixed with wonder, confusion, and even a sort of admiration. But most of all, she felt that there were things she was beginning to understand about him that she knew would take a lifetime to fully come to appreciate.
It was in that moment, when she had entered the house behind him, that she had realized not only what type of experiences had shaped his life, but exactly what light they had been cast in. It was only when she was caught up in avoiding the other guests milling about, that she had noticed so many of the objects in the house for the very first time.
She had been so focused on him before, and there had been such a lack of light in the house. How she'd missed it, she couldn't be sure. Her mind must have been so caught up in what he was thinking, what he was feeling, what she was thinking and feeling for him, that she hadn't really taken notice of anything else in the house.
Votives, candles and statues alike. A crucifix, above the mantle, the centerpiece of the room. And she had seen all the varied rosaries that Leilani's guests had worn. Had it not been for them, she might have wondered if it was only his mother. Apparently, it ran deep in his family.
Had those even been there before?
She had come to be his distraction, his shield, and his comfort among people he had hoped wouldn't recognize him. True, many of them hadn't seen him since he was small enough to hold, since his father had kept them in isolation from her family. But he accepted it as a risk, and she was willing to go along with him. She was actually more than happy to be able to see a part of his life that he had kept so hidden, so protected. She felt almost honored.
And though the event was supposed to be a solemn observance, she couldn't help but be excited and horrified at the same time.
She had begun to understand what drove him to guilt, to atonement, to a most unhealthy obsession with his own misery, and she felt a rising ache in her chest. He was human in a most extreme way, beautiful in his feeble attempts to correct his faults, and yet, it was those faults that made him human. Such a paradox, and so painful watching him, as he held desperately to the sins he would inevitably have to let go altogether if he ever wanted to live.
It was apparent to her that she had been right about his demons. He was plagued with not only four, but perhaps even thousands of them; In his world, his hate, his self-loathing, his resignation to his stagnant apathetic state, his temper, his coldness and indifference, and all of his many other sins were all demons in themselves. In his world, hell was a real place that he was most assuredly going to. She began to see, when the entire picture was assembled before her, what colors his nightmares must truly take on.
The two of them lingered in the back of the room, away from personal contact with anyone who might ask how they had known Leilani, offering condolences or even expecting them. Tifa hadn't found it as difficult, being that she really didn't know anyone there, but she could almost see the lonely need in Vincent's eyes when he recognized someone he had once known. At least, she liked to think it was there, liked to think she had really seen such a thing. She could have sworn by the moment he had placed a face, but she may have been fooling herself. So like her lately, to find delight in his humanity.
He had been brave, showing up, and she let him know in more ways than one that she was proud of him for it. Though he had risked running into his sisters, he would later tell her that none of them had been there. They had all been much older than he, and had been out of the house by the time his dad had taken that awful job and lost what humanity he'd had left. Vincent didn't know what had become of any of them.
She had never taken pleasure in his pain, never enjoyed seeing him cry. But she had been relieved, even comforted, by the idea that there was much more to him than he let on, and that she was finally able to read him somewhat. Once she had begun to understand his motivations and his fears, she found it much easier to interpret his actions and his expressions.
Tifa had never seen Vincent as the bitter, resentful, hateful demon that he thought he was. Even when he'd told her that he'd killed his own father, she had already formed a string of words in her mind to bring to his defense. Living with his father must have been horrible, she imagined, for him to do such a thing. Because Vincent would never...ever...
But he maintained that he was not the same person back then as the Vincent she knew and wanted to be close to. She could see even then that he was continually changing every day, especially with such a sudden upheaval in his life as his mother's death. And it seemed that she couldn't help herself from twisting at the roots that held him above ground, pruning away at him and building him back up. They were small steps to her, but for him, there went his whole world.
Maybe he had been another man, another time. But she saw who he was, and had been, to her. How could she not forgive him? Hadn't that always been a big part of everything she was seeing around her at that very moment? Why couldn't he see that?
Of course, she had no right to forgive him for things that didn't affect her. There was no way that she could, no way for her to understand the weight of what he had done, not being on the receiving end of it. How could she absolve him for things she hadn't felt the full force of? She had no right; it wasn't hers to give.
Not quite innocent, but definitely no demon, she was sure. And she was convinced that he needed comfort, understanding and guidance more than anyone she'd known. He would be the least likely to accept it, and yet she needed him to. She needed him to not let it go to waste, because of all people, she was sure it would be least wasted on him. At least that was how it should be. Oh, irony.
And she'd wanted to know him so very badly, yet there were things she could never be made sure of. There were the matters of the heart, concealed thoughts that no one but he would ever know. He thought himself terrible for a reason, and perhaps he had harbored ill intentions, terrible thoughts toward innocents. The way he'd paraded around like a demon, one would think he'd jump to kill a man for the way he looked at him.
Maybe he would. But Vincent had told her once that ever since he'd been living with four demons in his head, he'd found it hard sometimes to tell the difference between their voices and his own inner workings. It might be easy sometimes, for him to get confused, to not know which thoughts really were his own. Perhaps he carried guilt for merely the opportunity of transgression; perhaps he took some sins as his own, when they did not belong to him after all.
Such a burden. And she felt the need to hold him again, was want to comfort him even when he would have denied needing it in the first place. So much inside of him, begging for release. She knew that the most recent days had only been the tip of the iceberg. There was so much more that she wanted to draw out, slowly, though it would inevitably cause him a world of pain. As if he needed any more pain in his life.
Like a bandaid. It had to be ripped off sometime, even redressed, but the cuts had to be allowed to breathe. Otherwise, how could he ever finish healing?
She watched him closely as the eulogy was given; he silently mouthed the words that were commonly spoken - such eloquent words - but they meant so much more to her then. She hadn't had a funeral for her own father; when she'd woken up she was in the back of a wagon, in the middle of a convoy, merchants on their way to Midgar. She couldn't be sure what had become of his body, and she hadn't even gotten to say goodbye...
She was happy that he'd gotten his chance to see her one last time, even if it had been over the boundary of space and time, from one world to another. At least he had known. And she had been grateful to be the one to stand by him through it all; she would continue to stand by him for as long as he wished.
She'd always believed in a happy ending for herself. Not because she was special, or because she deserved it, but just because she always had. No matter how many trials life had thrown her, she had always had a feeling that somehow, it would all work out in the end. And she was so sure that if she could touch him in some way, then he might have a happy ending, too.
Because if she invested enough in him, then fate couldn't deny her that.
When the ceremony was over, the two of them had left abruptly. Vincent had known about his mother's secret will; it was her way of protecting him from his father, should anything happen to her. It was a feeble attempt, nothing he couldn't have used his rubbing elbows with the rich to get around, but Vincent had appreciated the gesture. He knew he had a great deal coming to him, but he couldn't care less. He had all he needed; better to let someone less fortunate take care of her estate. They all thought him dead, and he didn't plan on sticking around long enough to show them that his corpse could still walk.
He'd paid his respects and gathered his memories; he held on to those that were good, and the others...
They could divvy up the rest and liquidate it for all he cared. He had no need for a table with a broken leg, linens that had long past had the blood soaked out of them, or her wedding band. The others could have them.
Though his expression was grim, he was nearly ecstatic to find that her hands were bare in that coffin. But around her neck, she wore the locket he had given her for her birthday years ago as a small boy, a picture of herself in the one side and him as a baby in the other. He'd saved for so long to buy it, and he'd eventually had to give up his job for fear of her being left alone. It was probably the nicest thing he had ever gotten her that hadn't been paid for with blood money. But he knew she'd rather have his kisses and home-made cards any day. It meant so much to him that she'd kept it around her neck all that time, and it would stay there until it was the only thing left in the box.
Vincent, her only son, her pride and joy.
And he felt so badly that he had waited to see her.
But he'd held on to the best of things, and let go of the worst, and it was something Tifa hadn't missed. Still, she knew he was beating himself up inside.
Vincent had been working himself through a sort of purgatory. He had spent so much time trying to atone for his sins, and even still, it didn't seem like he'd ever forgive himself. She remembered that night in her apartment, when he'd told her that if he must live, then he must not loathe it. It had spoken to her of moving on, of starting a new life. But perhaps it had been more out of resignation, knowing that there was nothing else he could do.
Good enough to see him moving on, but depressing to think that the only way to get him to do it would be to take away all of his other options.
Perhaps he was a man of religion. But was he a man of faith?
They made their way to the beach; the ship was already there and loading passengers. Vincent boarded the vessel, his expression blank, but she was staring at his eyes as she shuffled in behind him. Every time his head moved to the side, she could see one of his bright red eyes, then the other as he turned again. It might have been the sun, but she could have sworn that they were glinting.
It certainly wasn't the simple nature of his irises that had her thinking so; that day they had seemed dim, glazed over. As she sat down next to him on the bench, she wondered if it was a very bad time for a heart to heart.
She let him be for the moment. He was fitful, restless. His elbow came up to rest on the half-inch thick windowsill behind them as he mussed his own hair; he quickly gave up on trying to gain any support from the tiny ledge, and his hand sunk down to rest on his knee. He crossed his legs, then he uncrossed them. His ankle went to rest on his knee, but then he put his foot down. Finally he scooted far enough to the front of the bench that he could rest his back against the wall, and he would have fallen off if he was any closer to the edge; his legs were still tensed, as if he were using his feet as a brace to keep himself seated.
His head tilted slightly upward, he stared across the cabin at the vast expanse of water through the window on the other side. His eyes indicated that he was visiting another time, another world. Black slacks, black shoes, black shirt and trenchcoat, and pale as death itself; he was a stark contrast to the scene that surrounded him. But eventually, he shifted slightly, and she found those eyes looking back at her.
She studied him for a moment, and he let her have the time. He didn't seem to be returning the appraisal; he wasn't searching or impatient, or even curious. Simply looking into her, but saying more with his eyes than he was trying to gather from hers, and yet she wasn't quite sure what it was he was trying to convey.
She tried to paste on a smile. "Can I ask you something?"
He gave a faint nod and his eyes closed for a moment before he cast his gaze upon the floor in front of him, his arms crossed.
"...What do you believe in?"
Vincent's brow lifted a little, and he opened his mouth to speak, but he found himself shutting it again.
"I mean, you're kind of religious, right?"
She heard a slight huff escape his nose. "...You noticed." A corner of his mouth was tucked up into a wry smirk.
"Do you really believe in it, though?"
He paused. "I'm not quite sure I get you..."
"Really?" She bit her lip. She hadn't intended for it to sound like she was belittling him, or accusing him of anything. She only wanted him to see.
He lifted an eyebrow in her direction. "Not completely. Explain."
She took a deep breath, trying to sort out her words. "I guess what I mean is..." Started over. "Okay." She sighed and rubbed her hands against her knees. "Do you put your faith in the principle? In the words?"
Vincent leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His hands met flat against each other without a sound, and he held them in front of his face. "I didn't realize you were an expert." His eyes rose from the floor to meet her, and then they stared straight ahead.
Tifa shook her head. "I've been watching you, Vincent. I've been watching you try over and over again to make up for your sins. Don't you get tired of trying to work your way out of damnation?"
He sighed, realizing he was in for the long haul. "...You of all people should know how weary I am."
She couldn't be sure if he had meant it as a reply to her question, or if he was simply stating that he didn't want to be bothered. But she had her words ready, and she didn't know if she'd ever have the relevant opportunity to say them again; even if it had been the latter, she could pretend to mistake one reason for the other. "...Do you think it can be done?"
He sat up, staring across the cabin once more, his face hardening into a strange mix of frustration and defeat. He understood what she was getting at.
"All I'm saying is that you seem to be fighting against the very thing that's supposed to save you. No matter what it is that you believe in, it seems futile to expect it to help if you won't let it do its job."
His brow creased, and he exhaled sharply. She had begun to fear that he would keep silent for the rest of the trip and then walk away from her once it was over. Maybe he would never stop walking. But she kept going.
"Vincent..." She put her hand on his as it was, tensed on his knee. "You have to be able to forgive yourself before you can accept it from anywhere else." Another deep, slow breath. "I don't mean that you should try and justify anything, but if you've been craving absolution for all these years, don't you think it's about time you accepted it?"
Silence. Then, the answer she'd been waiting for. "...I can't."
She wasn't sure if the expression in his face leaned more towards angry or pained. "...Why not?" she urged gently.
He closed his eyes, and for a moment, the only sound she could hear was his breathing. "I've tried. I've tried for so long to let go of the pain and the hate. They're neverending, always being reborn again, renewed with every nightmare. I was reminded of that when I thought about my father, and I realized that I still hate him. I'm filled to the brim with resentment and thoughts of vengeance. If I could lash out any more, I would, but it seems I am run out of enemies. There is only myself."
He had spoken so softly, but she could hear the forced steadiness in his voice, as if he had tried too hard to cover the natural sound of his voice, emotions surging beneath his tone. "Vincent," she whispered, "that's so sad..."
A bitter scoff. "I hate myself for it, if it makes any difference."
"Oh, but it does." She smiled a little and leaned into him, though he remained an unmoving wall, his eyes still shut. "You shouldn't hate yourself, Vincent. And I suspect the reason you do is because you recognize it as something you shouldn't hang on to, and something you wish you could get rid of. You said yourself that you'd tried."
"Yes..."
"Well, isn't that the first step? The desire is there...you want things to be different. Maybe if you just started living like they were, it would fade over time. Meanwhile, accept the fact that your heart is on the right track, and stop beating yourself up. Don't look for the specific minute that you wake up and realize that you're forgiven. You've come to terms with the fact that you weren't perfect, and you've spent years being sorry for it. Working for something you don't believe you can have is a contradiction, Vincent. Just accept it and move on; the longer you dwell on it, the longer it will stay."
He was silent for a moment, and then he turned to look at her, something unreadable on his face. "Tifa..."
"It will go away." She cautiously reached up to brush some of the hair from his eyes. To her surprise, he let he linger there for as long as she wished. "The important thing is that you've drawn the distinction between good and evil, and you've chosen where you stand. You'll find it easier to forgive others soon, too."
He lifted an eyebrow in sincere doubt.
She gave a sad smile. "I know I'll never understand exactly what you've been through. But I do know what it's like to hang on to the 'what if's' and the 'should have's.' And you can..." She grasped his hand for a moment before letting it go. "I believe you have it in you."
He sighed hopelessly. "Tifa..."
"Have faith, Vincent."
She pulled away from him to give him a look of encouragement. "...Tifa, you realize you've just assumed that one day I will have the biggest heart of all. Because I would have to, if I were to ever..." Could he ever, in a million years, chalk Hojo's cruelty up to madness? Could he even remember as far back as when his father hadn't been a monster, just enough to appeal to his empathy for his human side?
"Then maybe you will."
"...I think someone has me beat." He looked down at the floor, a pained, odd half-smile on his face.
She wanted desperately to take his face in her hands, shower him with comfort and make him believe. "Time will tell." I love you. "It always does."
A/N: Yes, I did go there.
Thanks to all who reviewed and stuck with me through this; I'm so sorry for the haietus (Did I spell that right?). I might go back over this story and edit some of the earlier chapters. I was loathe to finish it, and my style has changed so much, but this chapter made me like it again, and after killing off his poor mother, I was able to take it in a direction that carries a nice bit of significance.
I will definitely be editing "Vincent's Last Birthday Escapade". When I look back on that story now, I see some elements that I should have definitely not included, but they quickly became the basis of the story. The hell was that anyway? I should have had her stumble across a journal, or a letter, or something better, but I chose a videotape. Man, am I lame. As if Vincent would sit by and let seven people watch snippets of his personal life anyway. I must have been sleep-deprived and on sugar high (This was over two years ago, so it's quite likely).
Third part coming very soon. A stand-alone one-shot by the title of "Consume Me." It's over a year in the making (probably two, actually); I think I came up with the idea around Valentine's Day or my anniversary in '04. It's the fluffy resolution to this fic, but I've been spicing it up and toning it down for so long; I wanted to achieve a perfect balance before I put it up, as it has the potential to haunt and embarrass me for life. It should appear on in a couple of days; I wanted you to read this first.
Now I've got to go. Tiny feet are tickling my ribs.
Fun times ahead :)