Vincent was not asleep. Vincent rarely slept.

It had been three years, and many things had changed in him, around him, without him. Hard at first to find a rhythm where he fit, and then easier as he'd settled into a routine of work and homelife. Not exciting all of the time, not pleasant all of the time, but predictable and with its merits. Hired first by a council in Nibelheim to keep monsters out of the area, and then recommended to a council in Kalm for the same reason. A sharpshooter, though no one cared how he got rid of the threat, and it kept *them* satisfied if he transformed for the taste of blood. Still a small appetite for death, he admitted, thanks to Hojo.

Though he was far from jealous of mortals who could take their own life, he thought with a lingering twinge of anger that Tifa had simply assumed she knew how he felt. Maybe he had been envious once; maybe he would be again in years and years when he was tired of living. But not now. Now that he had a life that suited him: a job atoning by protecting humans from death outside their time; a place to live where he was basically left alone -- except for Lily, though three years had taught her where to draw the line with him; enough humanity left to relax sometimes, though he was forced to admit that Lily had been a large and subtle influence in that area, too. Friendship was not something he had ever sought anywhere before, and so he'd never realized how rewarding it could be. Nice to feel for once that someone cared whether or not he came home.

But some things had stayed the same. Waiting behind his eyelids for moments of soft unconsciousness, something not even the strongest man could consistently fight, were the nightmares. As surely as he had black hair, stood six feet, lived in a body that was not always his own; as surely as he had a past and had once hunted in the city -- civilized man existing in a primitive world where seventy floors were protection and a blue suit meant you were at the top of the food chain -- he still had nightmares. Still dreamed of his guilt. Nothing, he was beginning to believe, would ever be enough atonement for what had happened to Lucrecia.

He was on the couch again, waiting out the night. Tifa had jumped off of a bridge, and somehow landed herself in his bed, in his home, disrupting his routine. If only she'd waited five minutes, he might never have known what she was trying to do, and he could've continued on with his own life, blissfully unaware...

But that wasn't fair. In the end, he couldn't blame her for the fact that he'd rescued her. His own conscience; his own revived sense of right and wrong, and leaving her would've been wrong. Honour-bound by the memory of a woman who could perform a perfect round-house kick, who had sometimes cursed under her breath when she'd thought no one could hear her, who could play poker with a straight face and firmly trounce him...

Who'd worn glasses that had never stayed put on her nose, who'd spoken so firmly about what she'd been doing that to take her from her work would've ripped her in two, who'd never complained about the trials of a painful, and ultimately fatal, pregnancy...

He pushed himself up from the couch and took a long breath before stepping into the kitchen. The quiche was where they'd left it on the counter and he fished a piece onto a plate. He wished Lily had left her cigarettes, but since she hadn't, eating would have to do. Something to do with his hands, to keep himself occupied.

If he hadn't felt the need to stay close by in case Tifa tried something, he would've walked. Walked and walked into the night, and returned as Lily was shaking out her mat in the morning, still in her nightie, and she would ask where he'd been (as always) and he'd just say (as always), 'Walking.' And she'd warn him about the chill night air as if he hadn't heard her the last time.

All of his routines had been disrupted.

He didn't want to think about it, about the similarities; he was no psychologist. Tifa and Lucrecia...both strong women reduced to courting death. But could he deny it any longer? Was there another explanation anymore? Save Tifa to atone for Lucrecia? What did he think he could do differently this time?

Fool... She'd put her cards down on the table, called his bluff with an effervescent grin he hadn't seen for three years, and then bumped his hand...

The soft brush of fingertip kissing fingertip as she'd passed him a cup of coffee, and then she'd stared up at him in surprise with her perfect green bespectacled eyes as she'd felt the electricity between them, what people called chemistry.

Tifa was not Lucrecia. He had not been attracted to Tifa. His mind was simply substituting. It was the only explanation that made sense.

He finished his quiche and dumped the plate in the sink. Dishes to do tomorrow. And he would have to ask her for his t-shirt back, because he was afraid to think now what the sight of long, bare legs might bring to mind.

        * * *

Tifa had fallen asleep with the help of the last two anti-inflammatories, and when she woke it was to the renewal of the pain. With a frustrated groan at the ache, she kicked the blankets off with her whole foot and sat up to touch the swelling. Her skin was puffy and it felt hot to the touch. Gingerly, she stroked it with her fingers, willing the hurt to go away. Why did everything always feel worse at night?

She lay back down, and then after a few moments folded the pillow up and placed it under her ankle, to elevate it again. But the pain remained and she had no good thoughts to block it out with. She wouldn't get back to sleep like this. Not that she hadn't gotten used to insomnia.

It was so easy, in the night, to start thinking about *him*. Just to lay on her back and remember being curled up beside him in the beginning, before he'd become so distant and she'd become so quiet and hurt and angry. To remember being there with her head in the hollow of his shoulder, feeling like she'd come home after years of searching...after the fire in Nibelheim.

It always came back to this place, she thought suddenly. Nibelheim was where she always hurt the most, like a scar that was still ripped open underneath, stretching like a long, red, smiling mouth through the skin of her chest, abdomen. An ugly scar, though Cloud had once said it was a testament to her strength, that she'd survived Sephiroth's wound.

But now her strength had been sapped away, and she would never recover. She had no reason to recover. How was it selfish to want to get away from this? How was it wrong?

Her ankle was burning and she sat up with a sigh. Ice. She needed ice. Then maybe she'd be able to sleep for another few hours and at least escape her own thoughts. Though that would leave her exposed to dreams. To exchange one poisoned cup for another. It was a battle she'd accepted for awhile, and was now trapped in because of man who believed that time opened doors and no one stayed trapped forever...

Damn him. For all of going through hell, Vincent didn't know a thing.

Tifa hopped to the door and opened it quietly. Vincent was out here somewhere, she knew, in the darkness. She didn't want to see him, to feel that mixture of anger and shame that he made her feel, as if he was seeing right through her, as if he was correct about her when she knew he wasn't. Maybe he'd changed after all; maybe he'd recovered from being the silent, faintly suicidal man she'd always taken him for. But that didn't mean everyone recovered...he couldn't assume that everyone recovered...

It wasn't fair to assume that she would recover, to pull her away from the arms of death as if she was a child who didn't know what was best for herself...

She wasn't a child.

Though it was frightening to believe that there were parts of her that wanted to live. A lonely full-grown woman, abandoned for a year, and god how she missed the feel of being next to someone else. And it had taken the collision of strong, thin fingers against her own to awaken that lonely yearning for someone just to hold her...

God it was frightening, and she didn't want to think about it.

There was some light coming into the apartment from the windows, from streetlamps and stars and the moon, but things were still shadowy and indistinct. Slowly, she made her way forward, toward the kitchen. When she saw the back of the couch appearing out of the gloom, she put out a hand to steady herself against it. No Vincent yet, though she could fairly feel the room breathing and watching her.

"Do you need something?"

He was on the couch, blended perfectly into the shadow until all she could see were his eyes, staring red out of the blackness. She blinked and turned away. "Some ice."

She heard him stand, and then there was the loud rush of cooling units in the silence as he opened the freezer door. In a few moments he was standing a foot or so in front of her with a bag of ice that he must've prepared earlier. She took it from him, unsure of how to feel. It still felt wrong to say thank you, as if the words might somehow stretch to take in the rescue.

He moved back to the couch. "Was that all?"

"Yes." It was barely a whisper and she cleared her throat. "Yes." She turned and began to head in the direction of the bedroom.

"Tifa."

It sounded strange. Cloud had never said just her name to get her attention. 'Hey, Tifa, we need some more bread. Hey, Tifa, did you use up the last of the toothpaste? Hey, Tifa, is there any mail?' Hey, Tifa -- pal, buddy, substitute. Hey, Tifa, I'll sleep with you, but, hey, my heart's divided and you've got the smaller piece. Hey, Tifa, do you remember when we were kids? Boy, was I screwed up. Thank god I'm not like that any more...

"Yes?"

"I'd like that shirt back tomorrow."

Her own clothes were on the floor of his bedroom because she hadn't seen a point to changing into them. But it was Vincent's shirt, and if he wanted it back... "Okay."

The ice felt good, another shock of cold on her body, as close as she could get to the impact of freezing water after the hungry pull of gravity. Healing, hurting, healing. She wished she really was cold-blooded.

Maybe that was what had saved Vincent. Maybe he'd just learned how not to feel anything.

Warm-blooded enough to save her, though, however misguided the attempt...

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