(Note: Post-Advent Children, but Pre-Dirge. Nothing too earth-shattering, just a thought wandering around in a writer's sleepless brain. And yes, according to what I have read, it is possible.)
Serendipity:
–noun
1. an aptitude for making desirable discoveries by accident.
2. good fortune; luck
As it often did in winter, it was raining.
It was the heavy, constant variety of rain, the kind that left you drenched in minutes, even while wearing layers upon layers of clothing, some of it waterproof. It was the kind of rain that left you shivering, dreaming of a fire, or, better yet, an extra-large umbrella; to say nothing of the havoc inflicted upon any bits of metal on your person. Once stable pathways turned to ankle-deep mud, tiny rivers making their way down towards any unfortunate, low-lying areas, forming impenetrable, impromptu bogs. Even the elusive golden chocobos balked at crossing these. Just to spite the odd traveler still lingering on the road, a cold wind sliced down from the mountains, driving rain into faces lowered to watch the treacherous pathway. Needless to say, it was not a day most people would pick to travel.
Despite all this, a lone figure trudged through the rain, stopping only when his garments became entangled in the muck. He didn't curse, merely narrowed his eyes at the offending bit, then yanked it out. Deep patches were carefully avoided, though, now and again, his boot sank to the ankle with a decided splash. Even then, he made no sound, save a muted groan of irritation as a few determined flecks of mud hit him in the face.
Passing a small hill, he noted the overhang, formed on the far side, by an exposed boulder. With a glance at the sky, he slipped under it, lingering for a few minutes in the scant shelter. A tug pulled his cloak tight around him. He leaned heavily against the boulder, frowning. His muscles twitched, their rendition of shivering. It set his teeth on edge. He hadn't felt this cold in years, hell, he hadn't felt cold in years. The experience unnerved him.
Still, he had a goal, and for once, reflecting was something he had no time for. He started forward again, flinching only slightly as the pound of rain resumed its march across his body. If he stayed too long, darkness would fall, and there were enough creatures lurking on the road in daylight, without the cover of night adding courage to their ranks. Not that he couldn't handle the occasional monstrosity. But a battle would put him even more behind schedule, which began a cycle he preferred not to initiate.
At the crest of yet another hill, he looked up again. The clouds had grown darker, steel gray in the growing twilight, but already the craggy face of Mt. Nibel loomed overhead, it's peak hidden in the cloud cover. The barest hint of a smirk graced his lips. At least one thing was going right. He'd reach the town in less than an hour. Plenty of time to find the inn. With an early rest, he could begin the climb to the summit far earlier than he'd planned originally.
Just want to make sure… there's nothing else there…
The splash behind him could have been from the rain. It could have been a late crow finding an interesting rock in the muck. It could have been a larger piece of mud falling off a pile. Regardless, he turned, gun already cocked, and came face to face with a nightmare concoction of a wolf and a lizard. It sprang at him, jaws snapping, only to be turned away with three sharp shots, each finding their mark in a spray of dark blood. With a high-pitched yelp, it fell, writhing on the ground.
He turned back towards the mountains, only to stop again, this time with a restrained sigh. Apparently, not all monsters were content to abide by the rule of darkness. And where you found one wolf, you inevitably found a pack.
A few shots fired behind him dropped two members of the group, approaching stealthily from the rear. The rest took this as their signal and sprang, snarling and hissing. Calmly, he took aim, firing more rounds into the steadily shrinking pack.
One of them slipped through his guard, launching up to sink wet fangs into his neck. Instinctively, he brought his free hand up to protect himself. There was a confused scrabble of claws against his body, some raking shallow furrows through leather, as the beast found its jaws full of gleaming, golden metal, instead of yielding flesh. He flung it off, studying it for a second as its body spun through the air, then coolly dispatched it, the shot sending the body another ten feet.
The two remaining creatures whined at one another, as if trying to decide what to do next. Without any apparent signal, they sprang at him, each from a different angle. He expected that. Turning to one, he fired at it, just enough to bring it down, before lashing out with a kick as he spun to gun down the second. Both fell, twitching, one with a gunshot wound to the head, the other neatly gutted.
Without sparing the creatures another glance, he holstered his weapon, and continued down the road. His attention focused briefly on his boots, the sharp toe of the left stained with black blood and tissue. He preferred the mud. It was much easier to clean.
The shallow cuts on his chest tingled, already beginning to scab over and heal. Unfortunately, the leather would require more than enhanced physiology to repair. And he was damned poor with a needle and thread. As he walked, he closed the buckles on the cloak, securing the worst of the damage behind a relatively intact layer. Nevertheless, the wind worked its way into the small openings, brushing, ice-like, against his skin.
In a way, the bizarre feeling of cold was welcome. As was the rain, and the growing fatigue in his legs. Environmental discomfort distracted him from thinking beyond where he would place his feet on the road. It distracted him from the memories that, even after all this time, pricked tendrils of guilt through his conscience. The battles of recent years were even more of a reprieve than wandering. You couldn't think in a fight—especially not against Jenova's spawn. If you took time out to think, you ended up as a smear of blood and organs against a wall.
So, he kept his musings to the elements, to the physical, burying the guilt down below those thoughts, until there was time and shelter to examine them in.
Behind the clouds, the sun sunk down to the horizon as he stepped into town. Few people were on the streets, and those that did linger, gave him no more than a passing glance. After all, Nibelhiem had seen things far more frightening than he. Its people usually had more on their minds than a wandering gunman. Part of him was thankful for that.
He stepped into the inn, earning a raised eyebrow from the keeper. A few stray gusts of wind followed him, accompanied by rain. This particular inn appeared to double as a bar, as a few men were gathered around a table, drinking, flicking cards back and forth. They looked up as he entered. The innkeeper made a face from behind his counter, a face which only blossomed into a look of dismay when he took note of the puddles following in the wake of the silent guest. For a moment, the innkeeper waited, sizing up his guest. No one else in the lobby spoke.
"I need a room," said the gunman. His voice was low, deep and rough around the edges. He said nothing else, simply stood and waited.
"I can see that," answered the innkeeper. The unspoken question hung heavy in the air. In answer, the gunman revealed his wallet, raising an eyebrow. Sullen at the wordless rebuke, the innkeeper reached below the counter and pulled out a tarnished key. He mumbled directions as the key was accepted, and the silent man headed up the stairs, still tracking in puddles. "Hey!" he called up. "I need a name on this!"
The gunman paused, as if considering. "Valentine," he answered, not even turning his head. With that, he disappeared up the stair.
I------------I
It felt as if only a moment had passed since he shut his eyes. Yet the darkness of the room told him hours had gone by. As always, the dreams had come, haunting him with their "What Ifs" and "If Onlys".
Lifting his head from its rest against his knees, Vincent studied the room and its sparse furnishings through clumps of still-wet hair. It was bare, save for a bed, pushed haphazardly in a corner, and a chest of drawers opposite it. He sat on the wood floor, against the window ledge, having decided against further perturbing the owner by drenching the bed sheets. The cloak, the infamous cloak, hung by a nail from the door, dripping onto his boots. In the darkness, the gleam of metal was muted, yet another thing to be thankful for.
He probably should have changed clothes. Trouble was, spare garments were not at the forefront of his mind when he left Edge. Usually, he could count on dripping dry, but today's soaking proved more stubborn than the usual.
Frowning slightly, he pulled his legs and right arm closer. The claw kept him propped in a sitting position, leaving subtle marks in the floor. He was still shivering. That was odd, and perhaps a bit worrisome. It wasn't like him to be so susceptible to the elements.
Nor was it like him to feel this… "lousy" was the best word for it, probably. His head was heavy, and a vague burning sensation was spreading through his nose. With a sigh, he again rested his head against his knee, allowing his eyes to shut, and his mind to loose itself again to its remorse.
He was completely unaware of the intruder on the roof. It wasn't much of a glaring error, as the figure was doing everything in its power to be stealthy. Even so, someone of Vincent's caliber should have been aware of the prowler.
It crept across the wooden shingles, the cover of darkness hiding it from any casual observers still about at this hour. Its weapons were all wrapped in cloth, preventing the telltale clang of metal on metal from revealing its presence.
An inn wasn't the best place to break into, especially for what the figure sought. However, travelers were bound to pick up interesting things on their journeys, and where one found "interesting things" one usually found the prize. The figure grinned in the darkness. It had scouted the target out from the ground earlier in the evening. All the rooms, save one, appeared occupied. It was this unoccupied room the figure was headed for. All in all, breaking into an empty room was a great deal easier than trying to keep your equipment quiet while people slept. There was no way to tell whether they would be a light sleeper, waking at the slightest gust of wind, or one of the heavy sleepers who needed a Meteor-sized explosion to wake them. Too much risk in the one area the figure was not willing to take risks in.
There was a small overhang on the window it sought. The plan was to hang from this ledge and survey the scene from that position. Thus, if anything were to go wrong, all it had to do was flip back up onto the roof, out of sight.
The figure dropped soundlessly in front of the window, one hand gripping the overhang. Sure enough, the room was dark, no sign of an unwary guest. The figure's free hand sought the long, dull throwing knife it used purely for this purpose. It was even slightly notched from use as an impromptu lock pick. Finding the hilt, the figure eased down onto the narrow ledge. In earlier days, it might have housed a few flower boxes. Now it was empty, providing easy access.
Carefully, silently, the figure slipped the knife into the narrow crack between the two sections of windows. It stuck slightly, and the figure frowned, leaning a little against the panes of glass in an attempt to gain leverage. Too late, the figure felt the window give beneath its hands.
It's unlocked?
Strangling the cry of surprise, the figure tried to pinwheel backwards, but kept falling forward, landing in an undignified heap in the lap of one very startled, very unseen, person.
Before the figure could stammer out an explanation, or even right itself, its eyes came to rest on another pair, this one crimson. The long barrel of a gun was planted against the figure's forehead, cocked and waiting for an excuse to fire. For a long moment, neither of them moved.
"Vincent?" the figure squeaked.
"Yuffie." It wasn't a question. The gun eased itself back into its holster. Its owner leaned back against the wall, tacitly putting distance between himself and his unexpected visitor. An arched eyebrow voiced his question: "What are you doing here?"
She gave a nervous chuckle, pulling off a rain-slick hood. A worn poncho covered her usual attire, save the tan boots. That aside, she looked no different than she had in Edge earlier that year, ranting and raving against the idiot who dared touch her precious materia. "I was just in the neighborhood and heard you were hanging around!" Yuffie announced. She got to her feet, moving to close off her dramatic exit. "So I came to say 'hi'. And you really gotta learn to lock your windows up! Who knows what kinda crazy people could get in." To punctuate her argument, she slid the latch closed, folding her arms.
Her chatter washed over him, both welcome and irritating at the same time. Part of him told him it was a blessing he did not excel at conversation, as Yuffie could talk enough for three people. How such energy stayed bound up in her small body, Vincent could only begin to fathom. She was talking about the "nasty weather" now, systematically shaking out both hair and raingear, resting her giant shuriken on the floor of the tiny room. As much as he wanted to concentrate on the nonsense, his attention kept wandering as his eyes kept drifting closed. The room ceased to spin when he did so.
Then she turned to him. "Geez, it's cold in here! What kind of dump doesn't have heat? And you could have at least put the light on for me." For a while, she fumbled along the wall until she found the switch. Yellow light flooded the room. "Much better!" She squinted one dark eye. "What're you just sitting there for? Are you all wet?"
Vincent managed a nod.
"Tifa'd kill you if she found out," she informed him, dropping into a crouch to better look at him. "Can't you at least try and dry off a little? You're making another ocean over here." When he didn't answer, she forged on. "I mean, change clothes at least. Hey, where's your cloak?"
Opening an eye, he glanced in the direction of the door. Yuffie followed his gaze. "Oh man, what happened to your boots, Vinnie?" He heard her move in that direction. "Wha'd you do? Gut something with your feet?" There was a soft thud, indicating her inspection of his abused footwear to be at an end. "There's blood and mud and I don't wanna know what else all over these things."
She padded back over, flopping down opposite him, and began unlacing her boots. "You mind if I stay here a while?" she asked. "I'll be gone soon as it stops raining, promise! It's bad for my gear to be out in the wet like this."
The silence he gave in reply must have lasted too long. Yuffie's chatter ceased. She leaned forward, peering into the pale face of her old ally. There were uncharacteristic shadows underneath his eyes, and his skin bore an odd greenish tinge. His eyes were tightly closed. "Hey, Vince?" Her voice was soft. "You don't look so good. You okay?"
A pause.
"You should leave."
Her first impulse was indignation. "What? Why?"
Another, weary pause. "I'm going to be sick."
Yuffie fell backwards a bit, bracing herself before she landed too embarrassingly. "What?" she asked. She thought a moment, then added, "You get sick?"
"Apparently." Leaning on the wall, he slowly stood. Neither moved until Yuffie recovered from her surprise.
"Oh, geez! Um, okay. I'll go out in the hall or something! Good luck!"
She was out the door before he moved again. It was dark in the hallway, her eyes taking their sweet time adjusting. It was quiet too. With a thump, she settled herself against the wall, covering her ears. This wasn't going to be pretty. Yuffie had enough experience with "being sick" to know that much. All those times aboard all those stupid ships, be they air or seagoing, came rushing back to her until she had to fight down her own urge to imitate Vincent.
Which was, she decided, weird. All the time she'd known him, Yuffie had never known the man to show much more beyond the occasional grimace when distressed. And even then, that only came about after being practically gouged through by a stray claw of whatever creature they'd been fighting. In her mind, Vincent's stoic exterior built him up as invincible. Even Cloud had needed a rest after a particularly intense battle. Vincent would just lean against a wall, and… brood. There wasn't another way to say it. His tight-lipped admission a few moments ago through her for a loop.
Maybe that'll be the end of it, she thought. Then there won't be any more creepy and he'll just go back to looking at me funny. That was how it should be. Her mind wandered again back to her chronic sickness, and she pushed it away. All the more reason to keep cutting my hair. Can't have someone around all the time—how embarrassing would that be? The Great Ninja Yuffie! Having a puke buddy--…oh man. Oh no, his hair Oh ew.
Yuffie let her head drop against her knees, groaning. He was her friend and she'd ducked out on him. Like it or not, he needed her, and she'd dropped him like a fake materia.
Steeling herself, she rose to her feet. "You better not be all disgusting, Vinnie," she called in, cautiously opening the door. "Because I'm coming back." She kept her eyes studiously on the floor. "Sorry about that… I didn't wanna, y'know, be in the way…" She trailed off, lowered eyes catching a glimpse of something sprawled on the floor in a heap of black leather.
"Vincent!"
He was prostrate, eyes shut, dark hair spread in a limp fan behind his head. Yuffie was next to him in a moment, manhandling her taller friend into a sitting position against her. His back now pressed against her chest, wet clothes sticking to her bare midriff. Pressed against her as he was, she could feel him trembling. The sensation frightened her. "Hey!" She contemplated slapping him. "Wake up! Don't make me smack you!" In answer, his head lolled on his neck, eyelids fluttering. "C'mon, Vinnie! Wake up! You're scaring me here!" Shifting his weight, she reached around to pry his eyes open manually. If nothing else, it would annoy him into consciousness.
Involuntarily, her hand drew back as it contacted his skin. It was uncomfortably warm to the touch. "You're burning up!" she exclaimed, not sure whether she was informing him, or trying to convince herself. This was too bizarre. Vincent couldn't be sick. He couldn't be felled by something as simple as a sickness… could he?
As if in response to her surprise, the crimson eyes opened, unfocused and dull. They shut again hastily. For a moment, she feared he'd passed out again, but the stiffening of muscles in his back betrayed him. The claw scraped against the floor, trying to push its owner to his feet. "Oh no you don't!" Yuffie gripped his shoulders tightly. "You're sick, Vincent Valentine! If you think for one second I'm gonna let you go running around and making yourself worse… you're… you're wrong!"
He relaxed, giving in.
"Okay, that's better." She thought for a moment. "Can you stand up okay?"
His head shook slightly. "Room spins." His voice was gruffer than she was used to.
For another moment, Yuffie was silent, thinking. "Here's what we're going to do then," she said. She heard another voice in the back of her head, lecturing a sullen Marlene in the upstairs section of a certain bar in Edge. "We're going to prop you up somewhere, like on the wall or something. And then I'm going to go get you something dry to put on. That'll help."
Keeping her hands on his shoulders, she got her feet under her, preparing to hoist Vincent to his feet. Part of her was happy for his unresponsiveness. He never would have allowed all this contact, had he been healthy. The most she'd ever seen him permit was a hand on his shoulder, and that only sporadically. Though, now that she thought about it, she had seen Marlene hanging off him on more than one occasion. The thought made her grin.
Returning to the present, Yuffie slipped her hands under his arms and gave a sharp tug, standing at the same time. Vincent rose to his knees, then, leaning heavily on her, managed to climb to his feet. He swayed slightly, but remained on his feet. She kept hold of his arm, ready to help wherever she could.
"See! That wasn't so hard!" she said. "How about we prop you up by the bed? That way it's easier to get in it. And you can lean your head on it or something…" She trailed off, eyeing the article in question. His hair was soaked once again, dripping onto both her and the floor. "How'd you manage to get all wet again? You need some air…" Their earlier exchange came back to her. "Oh… geez, Vinnie, I'm sorry."
Another head shake.
She steered him toward the bed. "Not far now, okay? Then you can sleep all you want! Well, you can after I get you some new clothes that is." Carefully, she started setting him down. He would have fallen, had she not grabbed a handful of his shirt. "You're like a big sack of flour! Help me out here, would you? I can't carry you!"
Surprisingly enough, he steadied himself with the claw, wrapping it around the headboard. Together, they lowered him to the floor, Yuffie settling his limbs as best she could. He was all leg, she noted, somewhat taken aback. Underneath the cloak, it was almost impossible to study her friend's proportions. It was odd to see exactly how lanky he was, and she turned her attention away quickly. This whole business was unnerving.
Seeing his head drop onto his chest, Yuffie slipped away. She knew where she needed to go. Again, she found herself grinning. It looked as if her skills wouldn't be wasted tonight after all.
I-----------------I
In the dream, She is there.
She is there, and there is nothing within but his quiet soul. In the dream, She comes to him, white and soft and cool against the fire he suddenly feels across his skin. There is nothing, in the dream, holding him back from Her. There is nothing hanging ominously over their heads… There is no Sin.
But then, as She grips his arm, running long fingers over a hand not marred by metal, the familiar pain returns. The familiar tug of a life not his own. He feels as if his skin will burst for all the agony.
And She looks on, eyes no longer warm, no longer caring. She only watches as he falls apart, as the monster slowly takes over, burning his body away to dust. The world begins to tremble, the monster's form moving with it…
Someone was shaking him.
The dream was slow to wear off, and he woke with her name on his lips.
"Nope, it's just me, Yuffie." The ninja tilted her head at him, holding an armload of dark clothing. "You doing any better?"
He closed his eyes, a clear "No" in his vocabulary of silence. In truth, it was hard not to slip back into sleep, even with the dream fresh in his mind. He could still feel his face burning, even as the rest of his body shook with cold. His eyes only opened again when he felt small hands working the first clasp of his leathers. Out of reflex, he grabbed her wrist, at the same time confused and stunned by her actions. "What are you…?"
Yuffie withdrew her hand, glaring at him. "Okay, fine," she snapped, folding her arms in a mock-pout. "You do it then. I'm only trying to help!" She scowled at the floor, muttering under her breath. "Like I spend all day thinking about how to get your shirt off. Get your mind out of the gutter!"
In the end, however, she had to help him peel the wet garment off. The myriad of buckles and zippers defeated his feverish fingers. Yuffie then pounced on the pile of ill-gotten clothing, sorting through it to find something to fit reasonably well on her tall friend. Without the black, she noted, Vincent's hair stood out remarkably against the paper-pale of his skin which was marred only by an ugly, circular scar near the center of his chest. The claw looked even stranger now, lacking the proper camouflage of leather. "Here," she said, earlier irritation forgotten. "I know it's not black, but it's all I could grab before that guy came back." She held out a dark blue sweater, smirking. "Need help with this too? Or wanna give it a shot?"
Darkness took him before he could form a reply.
She saw his eyes roll back and she swore. He slumped backwards, sprawled against the bed. "Idiot!" Yuffie grabbed the sweater, once again shoving him around until she managed to tug the sweater over his head. She had to fight with the claw, however, as it kept tangling and snagging. The wet leather was left in a heap beside her. "Couldn't even give me a warning! Just pitches over like it's naptime! Thanks a ton, Vincent!"
Sitting back, she could only stare at him for a time. She had no right to be angry with him… but it was all so weird. And rather frightening. Vincent was like Cloud. They didn't break down, they didn't faint. And they certainly didn't need help changing shirts.
"Now what?"
Not surprisingly, Yuffie received no answer. Despite all her bravado, the ninja had relatively little experience with the sick. She supposed she should get him lying down—preferably in bed—but without his help, it was going to be a losing battle.
"I'm going to need help…"
Too bad she appeared to be the only person awake in the whole blessed town. It was rare Yuffie found herself in a position of responsibility—indeed much of her time was spent avoiding it, roaming the planet on a whim. She supposed she could look for a doctor, though, having a stranger poke and prod Vincent was probably the least intelligent course of action. He still had his gun on him after all. Her eyes wandered to her pocket.
"I could… no… it's too late..."
He started mumbling then, dreaming, his voice rough and thick. Yuffie jumped at the sound, and froze. It must be a nightmare, she decided, as he twitched, bringing his arms up limply to protect his face.
Then he cried out, the sound cut off by a sudden spasm of coughing. On the verge of panic, Yuffie grabbed at his arms, trying to restrain him somehow. "Vincent!" she yelled. "Wake up! Come on! Snap out of it! It's okay! Just a dream!" He tensed, as if to throw her off. She planted her feet, cursing. "It's me! It's Yuffie! The one who steals your materia! You're okay… kind of!"
Something in her voice seemed to work. He ceased thrashing and settled for shaking again, body going slack as quickly as it had tensed. Somehow, his head ended up resting against her shoulder, he'd fallen forward this time. His hair slid forward as well, tickling uncomfortably on any bare skin it contacted.
For a long time, she couldn't move. The only sound in the room came from two pairs of lungs, breathing raggedly. "I seriously need help here," she finally grumbled, shifting to reach for her pocket. A battered phone emerged, decorated here and there with the strangest of stickers—most involving faces blowing raspberries.
"Cloud, you better be awake," Yuffie muttered, dialing.
(TBC)