Tifa and Lily didn't leave until the middle of the evening, despite a few subtle urges on Tifa's part (a yawn, a comment about how she was tired, a question about whether Lily wanted to go back downstairs), and by then Vincent's leg was so stiff and sore he could hardly sit still. The workout he'd given his damaged muscles in cleaning the apartment had taken its toll so that, by the time the door finally closed behind them (half a glimpse of Tifa, peering in until the last second as if she expected him to suddenly beckon her back), it was all he could do to get to his feet without groaning aloud.

And then he made the slow, arduous trip to the bathroom where he kept his supply of painkillers and bandages.

The wound was still bleeding, had bled through the gauzy strips he'd wound tightly around his thigh. But the stitches were holding. And in a few days he knew it was going to itch like nothing else as it healed. Though it wasn't as if he hadn't been able to hide that before, from Lily. The only wound, in fact, she'd ever known about had been the one on the back of his left shoulder a year and a half ago, and only because it had required stitches he hadn't been able to do himself. And he hadn't been about to take himself to the hospital. Not surprising, maybe, that professionals in long white coats made him nervous.

Though Lily had been almost as bad: she wasn't the type of person to worry fretfully; she worried demonstratively. He couldn't even recall all of the times she'd demanded to have a look at the ragged cut. Though by the third day he'd steadfastly refused to keep pulling off his shirt for her scrutiny. Because she wouldn't have understood about his body's recovery rate. And he hadn't wanted to frighten her.

Lily had never walked in on him, though, any of the other times. Maybe that had just been providence. But the same luck didn't seem to hold true with Tifa. Not at poker, not at anything. He'd glanced up from where he was leaning toward the sink, already feeling a buzz from the whiskey, to see her standing there with her mouth open. Of all the times to neglect to close the bathroom door...

Though she hadn't told Lily, and she'd actually gone so far as to make herself available to help him clean his apartment so that Lily wouldn't recognize that anything was amiss. That had surprised him, though it was definitely more like the Tifa he remembered from Avalanche, who had often taken it upon herself to look at the injuries of others, with her materia and a rudimentary knowledge of how to deal with wounds.

Though she'd never tended him. His own choice, of course, and after the first time she'd offered (maybe a little nervously) and he'd refused, she'd never offered again. What was a gash, a broken rib, the burning skim of a bullet compared to the need for vengeance? What was death, even?

Now, however, he might not have been so averse to having someone tend him. Someone he could trust. Though... He grimaced a little. Though he wasn't about to let Tifa look at, or touch, anything that high on his thigh. Lily, maybe, if it had been necessary, if he hadn't been so sure about how she would react to the wound itself -- nothing could embarrass that woman, and that fact, in turn, made him comfortable. But he couldn't imagine Tifa...

Not when he remembered the feel of Lucrecia's proximity in those first few months, when they were not much past the talking stage, like standing too close to a fire. If only he could somehow teach himself to stop feeling this way. Because he was sure it had more to do with a misplaced residue of desire, still tied up with the terrible guilt and bitterness, for his former lover than with Tifa herself. Not that, in her own way, Tifa wasn't...

He shook his head as he replaced the bloody bandage with a clean one and then took a quick peek at the slash on his arm, hardly a scratch anymore. This wasn't the way to deal with it. He would just have to make sure he was looking at Tifa as Tifa, the woman from Avalanche who, although worthy of some regard, he had not been attracted to. And maybe the attraction would simply go away, like a fading memory.

He slipped back into his pants and then shook a couple of painkillers into his hand before heading for the kitchen. At the sink, he poured himself some water and swallowed the pills down. Then he took the cup with him into the bathroom. Might as well make things easier on himself -- cup and pills in the same place.

And then, feeling exhausted by so many recent sleepless nights, by the pain, the alcohol, the painkillers, he went to bed. There were other things to worry about -- how he was going to keep this from Lily until he could walk on it; how *they* might react to the possible length needed for recuperation (seven days had been the longest he'd gone without a kill since he'd arrived here, in Nibelheim, and even then he'd been pushing the limit. They had threatened him with their hungry anger, threatened to *make* him transform, and he'd known they wouldn't be choosy about their prey). But right now he was too tired and sore to feel much concern. Tomorrow. He would worry about these things tomorrow.

Nightmares be damned, he needed the sleep.

        * * *

Tifa was on the couch in Lily's living room, staring wakefully at the wall unit that stood across from her in the darkness, idly studying the sleeping shadows of the porcelain dancers. Lily was sleeping by now, too, she was fairly sure. But Tifa couldn't sleep. The couch wasn't uncomfortable; she had a pillow and a blanket and a long nightie to keep her warm. There wasn't any noise or too much light in the room. Nothing to distract her.

But maybe that was the problem. Because now she was thinking again. Thinking about the first argument they'd ever had that had ended with Cloud sleeping on the couch, because he'd been too angry to want to share the bed with her. She'd cried for hours that night, maybe mourning the dying relationship even before she'd known -- really known -- that it was in trouble. And, of all the silly things to fight over, they'd been arguing about beer. Beer. A beer she hadn't wanted to order for her bar because no one had ever asked for it -- no one but a friend of Cloud's who only came into her bar once or twice a month. Not worth it to buy the minimum amount. And Cloud just hadn't understood; he'd never had to run a business before. And he'd thought he'd known better than her, because his friend knew this supplier, blah, blah, blah.

Maybe she should've just bought the stupid beer, she thought with a doleful scoff.

Twenty minutes passed, and she was still awake and staring at the wall unit. So she began to think that maybe she just needed a drink, a reason to walk around. Quietly, she got to her feet and went into the darkened kitchen.

She got a glass out of a cupboard and poured herself a drink from the tap. And then she sat at the table and explored with her fingers the dark shapes of things Lily had left out. Package of cigarettes. Her lighter. A crumpled paper towel. Keys.

The keys were cold against her fingers. She twisted them around until she was holding one by its uneven teeth and then took a long sip of water. This one unlocked Vincent's apartment, she knew, because it was the largest of the group. Others Lily had pointed out as the key to her mail box at the post office, the key her safety deposit box, and the key for her own door.

Maybe Vincent would be up. He'd been up before when she'd come out of the room looking for ice for her ankle. She didn't exactly want to talk, so maybe he wouldn't mind it if she occupied his couch. Because she just needed some company, she felt, and wakeful, silent company seemed more appealing than sleeping, silent company. And, since earlier that day especially, she'd found she was no longer quite so uncomfortable around her former-companion. Human, just like the rest of them, and maybe he would even welcome a distraction from his own pain.

That thought reminded her suddenly of something she'd seen in Lily's bathroom; and it gave her an idea.

At his door, her feet barely tucked into her shoes, she stopped to debate whether or not to knock. Should she, if it meant he would have to limp over to answer it? No, she decided immediately. But was it proper just to unlock the door and walk in? And what if he *was* sleeping? He probably wouldn't appreciate being disturbed in the middle of the night. She pursed her lips. Maybe she hadn't thought this out properly. Just because she was wakeful didn't mean he would be. And he was injured; he needed the sleep.

A bad idea. Very selfish of her to assume. She turned on the landing.

"Did you need something?"

His voice carried through the door. Tifa froze. And then she winced as a blush of embarrassment start to crawl up her neck. "Sorry," she apologized, raising her voice to be heard clearly -- though he'd seemed to hear her well enough, shuffling her feet on his doorstep. "I just...I couldn't sleep." She paused uncomfortably for a moment, caught in indecision. And then she took a breath. "Can I come in?"

He didn't answer for what felt like an inordinately long few seconds. "All right."

"Thanks. Don't get up, I have the key."

His living room was dark, but she could see him, half a blur of black pants and pale skin, as he made his way back toward his bedroom. She thought at first that he was just going to go in and close the door. But he returned before long, limping out of the darker shadows as he finished pulling on a gray sweater she recognized. And she couldn't help a twinge of guilt for having made him get up to make himself decent for company. It *was* the middle of the night; of course he hadn't expected to entertain a guest.

And she'd always thought of herself as a considerate person...

He lowered himself back onto the couch and, after a moment, lifted his right foot to rest it on the coffee table in front of him. Then he sat back and she saw his red eyes focus on her. She half expected him to ask her a question, or invite her to sit down, but he did neither. He simply glanced away again. So she took it upon herself to sit on the couch, though not too close beside him, and curled her legs up underneath her. A few seconds passed in silence.

And she amended her earlier thoughts. Silent, wakeful company was better than sleeping, wakeful company, but not by much. She quietly cleared her throat. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No."

"That's good." She rubbed a gritty eye with her fingers, if only to give herself a moment to think of something else to say. "How's your leg?"

He didn't answer her right away. And then he gave a twitch of his shoulders that she almost missed in the dark. "It will heal."

She was still carrying the keys, and the thing she'd grabbed from Lily's medicine cabinet. She absently rubbed the small, plastic jar with her thumb. "I...I found something that might help with the pain." She reached out and placed the container between them on the couch, a modest offering since she felt there was very little else she could do. "It's a creme made from comfrey. I found it in Lily's bathroom. Someone in the hospital brought me some when I had stitches." So many stitches, she remembered, absently touching the scar on her abdomen through the nightie. "It kept my skin from getting irritated and itchy."

He glanced at the container before reaching out to pick it up. Then he spent a few moments inspecting the label and, though Tifa couldn't see much of his expression in the dim light from the windows, he seemed interested. He twisted the top off and smelled the creme. And then he replaced the cap.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Anything to help, I guess."

He didn't reply as he moved to put the jar on the coffee table. Tifa slipped some hair behind one ear and took a breath. "Well, I..." She cleared her throat again. "I'm sorry for just showing up in the middle of the night. I just...I couldn't sleep, and..." She was repeating herself. She trailed off with a grimace. "Sorry if I disturbed you. I can go back downstairs if you want your privacy."

He seemed to consider her words for a few moments before shrugging again. "Do what you like."

"But do you want to go to sleep? You don't have to stay out here with me, or I can leave..."

He glanced over at her. "You can stay if you like," he said clearly, as if to clarify. Then he swept his eyes away again. "I've already slept."

He couldn't have slept long, Tifa realized. But that was his choice.

Nearly a minute of silence followed. Tifa lay her head against the back of the couch and stared at the coffee table, though her eyes wandered over to Vincent once in a while, almost of their own accord. He remained all but motionless beside her, alone in spite of her presence, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.

And, despite herself, Tifa wondered what he was thinking about. Once upon a time, it hadn't been anything unusual to see Vincent sitting just outside of the circle of firelight, sometimes doing maintenance on his guns, sometimes just on watch. Maybe none of them had ever felt inclined to ask him what he was mulling over in his solitude; maybe they'd thought he wouldn't answer; maybe they'd all been too busy with their own dramas to care.

But she'd seen him, heard him almost participating in conversations with Lily. Watched him smirk when Lily got sick of losing, heard him bait her occasionally -- a dry, quiet wit that had become less atypical over the days she'd been here -- evidences of a personality no one had thought to look for. She'd seen him surprised; see him offended; seen him slouch in a chair and smoke. Seen him watch her like a man watches a woman...

And now she found herself curious to know more about this human being she almost couldn't believe he might always have been behind the cape and the stoicism. Almost jealous, she realized suddenly, at the ease that existed between he and Lily, comfortable enough to share the same cigarette over the table. Because, even though she knew about the wound Lily didn't know he had, even though she'd fought beside him, even though she'd seen him transform -- she still didn't really know him.

She'd sometimes watched Cloud in his moments of silent reverie, she recalled, wondering at the memories, monologues, dialogues going on in his head. It had bothered her more than once that she didn't know, couldn't even really guess with any kind of certainty, what he was thinking about -- jealous, then, to think that he would've talked to Aeris, would've bared his very soul to her. Jealous despite the number of times she'd seen him bare his body...

She picked distractedly at a crease in the material around her knees and took a breath. She'd come up here expressly so that she *wouldn't* think, and what was she doing? Like a bad habit she fell back into when she had nothing else to do. Maybe Vincent and Lily had the right idea with those cigarettes...

Nothing else was going on in the room, so it wasn't hard to notice when Vincent surreptitiously slipped his hand onto his thigh, where the gash lay under his pants. She nibbled her bottom lip and picked up the nearly inconspicuous thread of conversation. "Does it hurt much?"

He paused a moment before giving another partial shrug. "I've had wounds like it before."

That didn't really answer her question; a smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "So, that's a no?"

He glanced at her again, as if her attempt at humour had surprised him, and she thought she saw an eyebrow twitch.

A grin threatened. "Sorry. Maybe I've gotten too used to Lily and her straightforward replies."

Something seemed to flit over his expression, his face partially illumined in the moonlight. And then he turned away. Fully expecting another interlude of silence, Tifa was caught off guard when he spoke. "Lily does have that tendency."

That made her smile; her ready affection for the older woman would have allowed no less. "I think I can understand why you don't want her to know about your leg," she commented, hoping to keep the exchange alive. "She blunt, and she's stubborn, and she's always inclined to help, whether you want the help or not." In her case, it might've been invaluable; Vincent obviously did not look at it in the same way, though he seemed willing enough to let Lily help him in other ways. "Though I suppose that's what makes her so endearing."

Vincent raised his eyebrows in a brief, wordless gesture of what she thought might've been agreement.

"So, is this where you came after you left us? Nibelheim?"

He took a breath and Tifa shifted a little where she was sitting, feeling sort of eager for some kind of participation on his part. "No. I came here when I was hired to get rid of monsters in this area."

"What did you do until then?"

He looked back over at her, and though his expression remained the same she had the distinct impression that her curious interest wasn't something he'd expected. But still, he answered. "I traveled."

"To where?"

"Nowhere particular."

"Oh." She had to fight the urge to fidget in the silence that followed. "So, you've just been living here and killing monsters for three years?"

He turned his eyes back to his leg and nodded.

It sounded like a simple kind of life. Do what you're good at; get paid for it; share a duplex with a woman who knows how to cook and who could probably befriend a porcupine.

As simple as she'd thought it would be in the beginning when they'd signed that lease, birthed the bar together, lived upstairs the way two people in love lived. It had seemed so perfect and uncomplicated in the beginning.

She frowned despite herself at her thoughts. Why was this so hard tonight? Why couldn't she just forget for a few hours? She licked her lips and remembered the first couple of weeks after Cloud had left. She'd lived above a bar, after all.

She scratched restlessly at the hair above her temple, knowing it probably wasn't a good idea to ask. Knowing the thirst wouldn't leave her until she'd asked. "Um, Vincent, do you have any of that whiskey left?"

        * * *

She fell asleep somewhere between the third and fourth shot from the bottle he kept under the sink.

Lily knew he kept alcohol in the house, of course. They'd had drinks together sometimes. But she didn't know about the whiskey. His own small supply of hard liquor he rarely dipped into; only when he needed a quick way to numb the pain, physical or otherwise.

And tonight, Tifa had needed it. Getting stronger, getting better, but it never happened all at once. Not for anyone. He knew that too well to have been able to deny her the temporary respite.

It was easier to think of her as Tifa as they'd talked, he'd realized. She was not Lucrecia. The attraction would wear off eventually, it stood to reason. He picked the bottle up from the coffee table and took a quick shot himself. And then another. And wondered if he would sleep again tonight.

The nightmares were always worse, it seemed, the longer he waited to succumb to the pull of a bed and heavy eyelids. And this time had been no different. But maybe they'd leave him be now. Alcohol, comfrey, and a little bit of unexpected company. Different things to numb different types of pain.

Tifa only mumbled as he moved her, shifted her until she was lying on her back. Only sighed as he draped her in a blanket. And then he maneuvered himself back into his room.

It had to do with Cloud; he wasn't surprised. Drunk, but tired, she hadn't talked much after that. She'd fumbled, reaching for the table so she could put the whiskey down. He'd taken it from her so she wouldn't spill. And she'd smiled in a kind of relief. Somewhere between the third and fourth shot.

And mumbled, "Thanks, Cloud," before passing out.

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