Title Vincent
Fandom BZRK
Characters Nijinsky, Vincent, Wilkes
Pairing Jin/Vincent (one sided, and not super evident)
Summary Jin is not Vincent, but if he was, maybe things would have turned out differently.
Author Notes I wrote this upon finishing the book because I had this burning desire to see just a little bit more, and because I was completely destroyed by Michael Grant's description of Vincent's break down on the sidewalk. It ruined me in the best of ways.
Disclaimer Michael Grant is a God among men, and I'm just borrowing his boys for a little while, hoping to do them at least a little justice.

He wasn't Vincent.

He knew that, had always known it, had always held him a little in awe because of it. Maybe, if there wasn't all of this surrounding them, if they were just strangers passing by in the street, it would be different. There was something about Vincent, something in his eyes, and it was fascinating - half because of what they told you, and half because of what they hid.

Vincent was an enigma. He was the ultimate nanosoldier.

And Jin hadn't been able to save him.

Because he wasn't Vincent.

"How is he?" Wilkes asked, looking somewhat improved from the last time Jin had seen her.

He shrugged. "Better, I guess," he replied, though it wasn't entirely true. "I don't know, Wilkes. Sometimes he's okay, sometimes he's not."

Wilkes nodded, unusually respectful of Jin's internal struggle. "Is Anya with him?" She asked, and if she'd been a little more perceptive at the moment, if she wasn't distracted by the sting of the still-present burn scars on her body, she would have noticed the pained look on Jin's face. Or maybe she wouldn't.

"No," Jin said, "She's out with Caligula."

At that Wilkes looked confused. "With Caligula?"

Jin realized it sounded worse than it was. "They're just stocking up on groceries."

"Oh," Wilkes replied, not really relieved (because while Anya held no meaning to her personally, she was kind of responsible for Renfield getting shot, but Wilkes was trying to move on) but still kind of pleased that there wouldn't be another body to dispose of, not yet at any rate. The group had lost enough as it was. "Is he talking?" She pressed on, wondering how they were possibly going to carry on without Vincent. It had been a blow, losing Kerouac, and then, of course, Renfield, and she still hadn't fully grasped what it meant to lose the Indian and Chinese cells. But everyone knew that Vincent was the key. He was the head. Cut him off, and how could they hope to combat AFGC?

"Sometimes," Jin replied, but didn't bother elaborating.

Wilkes just nodded. "Well, that's a start, I guess. I was going to go and check on Ophelia. See if she's doing any better."

Jin nodded, not really wanting to think about Ophelia. No legs. Like Vincent's biot he'd had to carry out of the president's head. He closed his eyes for a second, not that it did any good. The visuals were ingrained.

"So, I'll be there if you need me," Wilkes said, but lingered. Oh, how she hated this! "Listen, Jin?" She waited until he looked at her, a look in his eyes that clearly told her to get on with it. "You brought him back, Jin. He's alive and as sane as possible because of you."

Jin just nodded, though inside he was screaming. He watched as Wilkes walked away until he was left standing outside of Vincent's room, alone.

Vincent might be alive and somewhat coherent because of him, but Vincent was also struggling, barely floating on the brink of reality, and that was his fault too.

Because he wasn't Vincent. He wasn't that good, and he wasn't that fast.

He'd rescued Vincent, but he hadn't saved him.

"No," he mumbled, sleeping lips forming the word over and over again, barely audible but definitely there. "No, no, no," he continued, head starting to shake and breath coming in short gasps. "No, no no no nonononono-"

"Vincent," a hand gripped his shoulder hard, maybe a little too hard, but that's what paranoia did to a guy. "Wake up."

And he did. Eyes flew open, looking terrorized and panicked, but then he relaxed. "Jin," he said, breaths coming more slowly now. "Jin," he repeated, his voice shaky.

Shaky but aware. That was something, at least. "Reliving it again?" Jin asked, though he wished he hadn't. Of course Vincent had been reliving it. It was the only thing he seemed to see anymore.

"Bug Man," Vincent said softly, no hint of anger or malice. Just awareness.

"Yeah, Bug Man," Jin replied, reaching out to stroke Vincent's cheek.

"I'm sorry," Vincent said suddenly, and Jin just stared at him in confusion.

"Sorry for what?" He asked, curious. This was new.

"For losing," Vincent said quietly, "For Anya, for Keats and Plath."

Jin swallowed hard, wanting to lean forward, wanting to grip and hold and just not let go. But he was Vincent now, until Vincent could be Vincent again (if he could) and Vincent didn't surrender to base emotions. "Don't be sorry," he said, because what else was there to say?

Vincent was silent again after that, his eyes closing and Jin left his hand there, stroking the other man's face, because that was all he could allow himself at the moment. When Vincent seemed to relax back to sleep minutes later, Jin finally lifted his hand and stood up. It was overwhelming, this urge of his, to go into Vincent's head, to fix everything.

But Lear had said no. Lear wouldn't allow it, not right now. It was Vincent's job to fix himself, not Jin's. And if Vincent couldn't do it, then Caligula.

Better not to think of the second option yet.

He left the room, closing the door behind him and walking down the hall to the bathroom. It was late night and everyone should be sleeping now. But he turned on the water anyway and sank down to the floor, tears coming to his eyes. Unsurprising, really, because he hadn't let himself grieve yet. There had been too much to do.

Vincent was here, he was alive.

But he was broken, and that was Jin's fault. Jin's fault because he wasn't good enough. Jin's fault because he wasn't Vincent.

"I'm so sorry Vincent," he whispered, wishing he could have said it back in the room, but knowing it wouldn't have made a difference.

None of it made a difference.