Something had changed. Not a big thing, Tifa knew; not at first. Vincent still basically ignored her unless she made an attempt to gain his attention; Lily still made most of the conversation and the food; there were still subdued poker games, though Tifa was now content just to watch them. But something had definitely changed between herself and Vincent, as if they'd accidentally shared some terrible secret that they would rather have kept to themselves.

And it was three days before she was sure she knew what it was.

It had all started with the poker game, touching his hand. That much she'd been fairly certain of from the beginning. Both of them had been uncomfortable with the contact -- she, because it had awakened something in her she'd unconsciously wanted to bury away; Vincent, because...well, maybe because he just didn't like being touched. He was still Vincent, whatever else had changed about him.

But it went beyond that. Something in her had recognized it, even if she hadn't, not right away.

Vincent was attracted to her.

She was weak; her body was lost in her oversized clothing; she'd neglected to brush her hair or shower since she'd arrived -- what was the point?

But there it was, as unbelievable as it seemed, in the way he glanced at her when he thought she wouldn't notice, in the way he quickly averted his eyes when she *did* notice, in the very way he avoided her. She'd had enough interest from men in her life to know the signs.

And it frightened her.

She'd learned to ignore the following eyes in the bar, and she'd been able to deal with anyone who had gotten too bold. Sometimes she'd flirted a little; sometimes she'd enjoyed it. (Sometimes she'd hated it, when they were drunk with pinching fingers and lewd tongues. Cloud had upbraided a couple of guys; most of the time he'd just shrugged it off. 'They're men, Tifa. That's what men do. We're a bunch of horny slobs most of the time.')

But Vincent was certainly not someone to flirt with, and somehow it was difficult to simply ignore him, the feel of him watching with his particularly red eyes that seemed to know too much. And so she had no idea how to react, what to say. Should she accuse him? Ask him to stop? It was obvious enough that his attraction was making him just as uncomfortable as it was making her. Though it didn't seem to be inciting him to let her go.

Then, the third night, she had a dream. And it all but made up her mind for her, making willing and unwilling only words.

Most dreams now were about Cloud. Nightmares, really. Sometimes Cloud was leaving; sometimes he was coming back and saying horrible things to her that she couldn't deny. Sometimes she was tearing through her house in Kalm, searching frantically for something that she knew wasn't there, but she had to find before it was too late.

This dream was about Nibelheim: burning charred buildings, burning bodies, burning sky. Barret was there, standing behind her, and though she was crying she didn't want to turn to him for comfort. Because he was busy. Busy, as a good father should be, comforting Marlene.

Vincent was also there, standing beside her and dressed in charred black and flaming red, just like she remembered. He, too, was watching Nibelheim burn. She didn't expect him to pay any attention to her. He'd never given any of them any particular recognition.

But he turned to look at her, and something in his eyes told her he wanted to say something. And then he was speaking, but she couldn't hear. She couldn't hear him over the sound of Nibelheim burning...

And then the dream changed, and she was in her house in Kalm. And Vincent was speaking. "Why do you live here when the house is empty?"

She shrugged and walked away, angry at him for not minding his own business. But things weren't where they were supposed to be. It did seem unusually empty. And then she suddenly remembered that there was something important she needed. Oh god, where was it? It would still be here, wouldn't it?

"What are you looking for?"

"Leave me alone, Vincent."

"Are you looking for these?"

She turned. Vincent, dressed in black slacks and a button-up, his hair hanging simply around his face. He was holding her shoes in his human hand.

And she knew. Her shoes. That's what she'd been missing. She looked at him in surprise. "Where did you find these?"

"You left them on the bridge." He was meeting her eyes, and there was something warm there. So warm.

He was so warm. She was like ice, but his lips were warm, melting away the frozen agony in her body...

And then she woke up, cold and craving heat.

        * * *

"Her ankle is getting better. She'll be able to walk on it in a couple of days." Lily placed a mug of tea beside him on the table and then sat down across from him with her own. She took a sip. "You going to raise me, or what?"

Vincent pushed four gil into the pot. Lily raised an eyebrow. "You're sure of yourself." She took another sip and then put the mug down to focus on her cards. "How in hell could she have known you were bluffing. I still can't tell."

Vincent didn't feel like smirking. It was late; Tifa had gone to bed hours ago. This last game and then he would ask Lily to leave. He was too distracted to play, and he didn't doubt Lily had noticed.

"What are you going to do with her?"

He glanced at Lily from where he'd been staring idly at the door of a cupboard. "Nothing. Let her stay until she works things out."

"Yeah, and how long do you think that'll take?"

He twitched a corner of his mouth. "Are you going to raise my rent?"

She scowled at him. "No, shit. Don't be stupid." She turned in her chair and fished around for her cigarettes. She handed him one, and then passed him the lighter when she was done with it. "She needs more than just a place to stay."

Vincent sighed and took a drag from the cigarette. So many memories associated with the leisure of smoking, nearly all of them devoid of serious conversation.

"I wouldn't say anything, but you got me involved. She needs someone to talk to her, and it doesn't have to be you. I can't imagine you stringing a full dozen words together." She shifted the cards around in her hand. "Well, okay, I call." She pushed four pieces of gil into the middle of the table. "I may have to raise your rent just to get my money back." She lowered her cards: a flush, all diamonds.

And then Vincent felt like smirking. If he was going to lose a hand, of course it would be the last of the evening. Three of a kind, all kings, but it didn't beat a flush. Lily raised her eyebrows and grinned. "Well, look at that. That's three games for me against your...what, eighteen?"

"Seventeen."

"Well, I'm glad one of us is keeping track." She stood from her chair and, sticking the cigarette into the corner of her mouth, gathered up the cards and the gil. "Are you going back to Kalm anytime?"

It was his job. He couldn't play watchman forever. He shrugged.

"'Cause if you are, I'll take her. She can live with me downstairs."

It would solve a couple of problems, if Lily could keep a diligent eye on her. And Lily was nothing if not diligent. He nodded.

"'Kay, just give me the word, then. G'night, Vince."

"Good night."

The couch wasn't exactly welcoming, so he spent a few minutes finishing his cigarette and the tea Lily had made him. And then, craving some activity that would keep his mind occupied, he turned to the mug Tifa had broken.

A clean break. The porcelain was too strong to have come apart so that it couldn't be fixed. He sat back down at the table with the glue and began to set it back together.

The door to the bedroom opened suddenly and Tifa came limping out, toward the kitchen. He couldn't see her at first, but he could hear her, and then she was arriving in the doorway. Through the doorway.

She was crying, her lips trembling as she sobbed under her breath. Vincent quickly looked back at the mug. Even tear-stained and distraught, there was *something* about her. And he suddenly remembered how Lucrecia's tears had always affected him. Dammit.

"Do you need something?"

He wasn't sure what to expect. Maybe she wanted to talk; maybe she wanted to yell; maybe she just didn't want to be alone.

What she did want surprised him. Caught off-guard so that, although it was awkward and impeded by the table, her ankle, his arm, she still managed to break through and kiss him solidly. Her mouth was dry, though he could feel the moisture of a tear shivering on her upper lip. It only lasted for a second and then he darted his face away, trying to deny in his mind that for a moment he'd been tempted...

She was nearly falling in his lap, trying to keep her weight off of her ankle. "I'm cold," she whispered. "Please..."

Not Lucrecia. It was barely even Tifa, so far gone into that first dark grief, grasping for some warmth, some life, some respite from the pain. Though she was still grasping in the wrong places. What she wanted was a balm that would only irritate the wound.

And from him, it would only be poison.

He turned away, shrugged her off, pushed out of the chair. "Go back to bed."

She made an angry sound, somewhere between a sob and a scream, and forced herself up against the table. Her eyes were suddenly hard and dark, the blank windows of an abandoned building. "Stop it! Stop ordering me around! Stop...controlling me! Fuck you! I don't want to go back to bed! I want..." She stared at him for a moment, faltered, and then broke down crying. "I don't want to be here," she nearly whimpered. "You save me like you want to help me, and then you...push me away, lock me away. What the hell do you expect from me?"

Lily had been right. It wasn't enough just to keep her here. It was time to get back to work.

At his silence, Tifa's eyes became stony again and she moved to a drawer, opened it, rifled through it.

But he'd hidden all of his knives, and his guns.

She opened another drawer, and then a third. And then she screamed out her frustration. "Goddammit, why are you doing this to me?" she demanded. "What's it to you if I die? You didn't care about us in Avalanche! Why now?"

She was just venting. He wasn't surprised this time when she hobbled over and tried to attack him with her fists. But she was weak and tired and out of practice, and it took very little to grab her wrists and pin them to her sides. "Tifa, stop it."

She struggled and glared at him with something close to hatred. And then her expression crumbled and she sagged down. He let her slip to the floor where she sobbed openly beneath the curtain of her tousled hair.

And when he crouched down beside her, almost a minute later, intending to urge her to her feet and then back into the room, she seemed to misinterpret the gesture. And she threw herself into his arms and just cried.

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