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Living with Vincent was sometimes like living with a ghost.
It would be easy, Cid thinks, to forget Vincent was even there at all. He’d been surprised Vincent had said yes at all to his fumbling, awkward proposition (when all this is over, come home with me to Rocket Town - I mean, my home, but it can be yours if you want - fuck, don’t laugh at me), even more so when Vincent had met him at the ruins of the Highwind when everyone had left - that it wasn’t just an hollow promise at the end of the world, but a cold hand in his when he walks back through the front door of his empty house.
But Vincent slips through his fingers like smoke - there one minute, a dry half-smile across the table at breakfast as Cid curses the slightly burning frypan, and gone the next, a whisper of red fabric disappearing out of the corner of his eye. He doesn’t ask where Vincent goes for those long hours while Cid buries himself in endless work, a whole new ship to build after the loss of the Highwind, and Vincent never says a word about his long absences.
He never sleeps alone, though - Vincent returns as the sky darkens, and Cid draws him into inane conversation over dinner, reminiscing and joking until the shroud of unease that Vincent wears across his shoulders seems to lighten. There’s a vague sense of victory whenever he catches Vincent’s eyes lingering slightly too long, an absentminded fondness painted in crimson, though Vincent always flicks his gaze back to the table when he thinks he’s been caught staring.
The red cloak lies draped over the back of Cid’s favourite chair like it’s always belonged there. As Cid watches Vincent slide into bed beside him, cold skin finding its place beneath worn hands as Cid wraps his arms around him, he hopes that Vincent feels he belongs here too.
It happens one day when Cid is working on his new ship. The sun was beginning to set below the horizon, painting orange hues across the metal, and Cid heard a clink of claws that he knows to be deliberate - Vincent had only had to scare him once, always silent as the grave, to know he needed to alert Cid to his return. He put his wrench down beside him on the ship’s half-built hull, shifting so he can face the figure that shifts in the slight breeze, cloak always in motion.
“Back early today?” He calls, and Vincent nods minutely as he leans against a stack of boxes.
“Nibel wolves coming up from the south.” Vincent says in lieu of an answer. There’s a hint of post-battle exhaustion in his perpetual frown, and a fleck of brownish red across the burnished metal of his fingertips.
“Tough guys, were they? All that mako and shit bein’ out of sorts probably doesn’t help.”
Vincent ducks his head into his collar, turning away with another nod, and Cid hums back at him consideringly.
“Well, I ain’t meaning to cage you like a bird or nothin’, but don’t you go getting yourself hurt wandering around out there by yourself. I’m happy to come with you if you want.”
“No need. I can handle it alone.”
Cid sighs, drumming his fingers on the metal beneath him.
“Well, all right, so long as you’re careful.”
It drags a hint of a smile out of Vincent, at least, wiping the hint of exhaustion away as the corners of his lips turn upwards.
“Of course.”
Cid shuffles again, trying to find better traction against the sheet of metal he’s on. He’s half settled again when his arm bumps his discarded wrench, sending it tumbling down the side of the ship with a metallic rattle. He reaches out to grab it and falls -
Falls -
Five points of pain prick into his arm as Vincent leaps up to catch him.
He’s lowered to the ground slowly, Vincent’s flesh arm curling around his back to steady him as he stands. The other arm is -
Ah, he thinks as he looks down to where the metal claw is still curled around his arm, the panicked grip so tight the claws pierce the skin, that’s why.
The blood wasn’t much, he thought - not enough to justify the way Vincent snatches his hand back like he’s been burned, not enough to justify the fear that flashes in his gaze for a moment..
“Hey, hey, I’m all right.” Cid reassures him, steadying himself against Vincent as he squeezes the other man’s arm. There is a tense set to Vincent’s shoulders he doesn’t like, and it’s best to take care of this while he can.
“Make sure to watch yourself, Chief.” Vincent says, voice gravely quiet, his metal hand shifting behind his leg to hide in the folds of his cloak. Cid rubs his thumb gently across Vincent’s upper arm, but Vincent still won’t meet his eyes.
“Well, thanks for catchin’ me.” He laughs as he says it, deliberately carefree, ignoring the way pain creeps across his own arm. Vincent’s eyes are locked on the wound, and Cid tries not to show his discomfort as blood begins to trickle down.
It’s really not that serious - he’d suffered far worse, Vincent had seen him suffer worse, and he was more glad not to have crushed his skull on the scaffolding beneath - but he knows Vincent is haunted by demons beyond his understanding, and the dead metal of his left hand had always been a sore spot.
“Come on,” Cid says, moving the hand on Vincent’s arm to wind around his shoulders, “That’s some kind of sign to stop working, right?”
“You could stand to take a break once in a while.” Vincent reminds him, a half-hearted argument they’ve had before, and though he doesn’t sound upset Cid doesn’t remove his arm as they head inside.
“You always seem busy, too.” Cid responds, but he gets no answer.
Vincent slips from his grip once they get to the kitchen, leaving Cid staring after him as he ducks into the bathroom for bandages. Vincent wraps his arm in silence, almost clumsily as he tries to avoid using his clawed hand on Cid’s skin, and Cid can’t help but reach out and take the cold metal with his own hand.
“Y’all right there?” He prods, and Vincent gives him a flat look.
“I haven’t fallen off anything today, so I’m doing better than you.” He shakes free of Cid’s grip, tying off the bandages, “Just be more careful. I won’t always be around.”
“You’re not around much at all during the day.” Cid says, not intending for it to sound so pointed and immediately regretting it when Vincent turns around, “Don’t have to tell me twice, though.” Vincent hums at him, considering, and Cid adds, “No, really, I’ll be careful.”
Vincent throws his cloak over the back of the chair, but leaves his headband in place.
“Dinner?” He asks, and Cid lets it go - hopes that normalcy will erase the lingering shadows that haunt him, day by day, piece by piece.
It’s entirely by accident that Cid stumbles across where Vincent goes during the day.
He’s passing through town for a handful of supplies when he sees a familiar flutter of red in his peripheral - fabric twisting in the wind, curling around a corner, and he feels compelled to chase it.
He knows it’s not his business what Vincent does, knows he should allow him his privacy, but some part of him can’t help but let worry drive him to follow the hint of red past the buildings, past the rolling hills that surround Rocket Town into a small copse of trees. Vincent’s back is to him, his hair dishevelled and his cloak billowing in the wind.
Watching him sit beneath a tree, head bowed to look at something in his hands, Cid feels like an intruder.
He does not have to wait long, frozen in indecision - Vincent’s shoulders shift in a sigh Cid knows all too well, lifting his head and turning until Cid knows he’s been spotted. He waves sheepishly at the undoubtedly flat gaze, forcing a casual pace as he wanders up to Vincent’s chosen tree.
“Nice view.” He says when he’s in earshot, and it is - all green grass and the long plains of Rocket Town, a plain yet beautiful scenery that stretches into the horizon. Vincent hums in agreement as Cid stops beside him, the tattered ends of his cloak curling around Cid’s ankles in the breeze.
Cold metal curls around Cid’s wrist - Vincent’s clawed hand snaps up to drag him to the ground, and Cid lets out an undignified squawk as he tumbles down to the grass, bumping his shoulder against the thin bones of Vincent’s. He feels more than hears the soft rumble of Vincent’s laughter, leaning further into Vincent’s side.
“I wasn’t following you.” Cid says, because he does still feel like he might be intruding. The whole area around them is quiet but for Cid’s voice and the breeze, and Vincent snakes his arm back beneath his cloak.
“I figured,” Vincent murmurs, still sounding more amused than annoyed, to Cid’s relief, “but don’t forget about what you came down for, Chief.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Cid assures, turning his head to catch a glimpse of how the corner of Vincent’s mouth curls upwards, “I just saw you and thought, well, what the hell have y’been doing out here?”
“Reading.” Vincent offers, and as he shifts Cid can see the pile of worn volumes near his legs.
“Must be a good book, keepin’ you out here all day.” Cid reaches across, one hand on Vincent’s thigh as he snags one of the books, sitting back to flip through it absently.
“It’s informative, at least.” Vincent says quietly. It’s a whole bunch of chicken scratch and diagrams Cid doesn’t really understand, and he’s only half-looking at it as he nods back at him. He continues flicking through the pages, the paper aged and worn under his thumb, and it’s only when he makes it to the very front that he understands what he’s looking at.
Dr Lucrecia Crescent.
Vincent’s eyes are locked on Cid’s face, expression impassive - waiting.
Cid swallows the first impulsive words that try to claw their way out of his throat - hurtful things, poisonous things he doesn’t mean, why are you stuck in the past with her even when you’re here with me?
“Is this what you’ve been doing all this time?” He asks instead, though he fears Vincent can read Cid’s poisonous insecurities on his face from the way the crimson gaze tears itself away, staring instead at the wavering grass.
“Had to find them first.” Vincent answers, and many nights of Vincent coming home looking haunted begin to fall into place. The air of Nibelheim’s mansion felt crushing even to Cid, the weight of all that had happened within its walls tangible despite Cid having no connection to its dark history, and he can’t imagine how Vincent could stand to return to it once again.
“I would’ve gone with you, if you’d asked.”
“I know.”
Vincent likes to shoulder his burdens alone, Cid knows. It doesn’t ease the momentary guilt he feels suddenly, irrationally, nestled somewhere behind the lingering sting of his poisonous hurt.
Cid stands up.
“Cid-”
“I didn’t ask you to come be a ghost in my home.” Cid says, and the surge of regret is immediate but he soldiers onwards, committing now to an impulsive honesty he’s not sure he’ll still mean when it’s done, “I asked you to come make a home with me. But you go off doin’ - hell if I know where you are all day until I find out you’re still wallowin’ by yourself about what happened to you.”
Cid takes a breath, and then another, watching Vincent stare sightlessly at the ground.
“And you’ve got a right to know all that shit. Of course you do. But what’s the point of me bein’ here if I can’t be someone who-”
“You do help me.”
Cid swallows hard, watching Vincent tap his metal claws together, the clink of the thumb meeting the fingers resounding in his ears.
“If I do, then - then good, but-”
“I wake from my nightmares each morning, and you are there.” Vincent interrupts, still looking at the grass, “And though I go out chasing more, trying to dispel them at their source, you are always there when I return.”
Cid sighs, looking up at the faint clouds.
“I’m still learning how to live as I am now.” Vincent continues, “I didn’t have a chance to get used to my body when I woke. I slept for so long, the waking world is too bright, too bewildering, and some part of me wishes just to return to that long sleep.”
Cid crouches down again, eyes trained on Vincent’s profile as he slowly blinks, wanting to reach out but not wanting to interrupt this rare moment of honesty.
“But you are here,” and Vincent’s voice is soft, not fragile but close to it, “so I wake every morning to you.”
“Y’know, I’m more of a fixin’ type than a passive type.” Cid says, half-smiling as he reaches out for Vincent’s hand. The breeze had slowed, the rustle of the tree above their heads quietening, and Vincent’s hand is as cold as ever in his.
“I know you are, Cid.” There’s a hint of a smile in Vincent’s face, even turned slightly away and half-buried in the collar of his cloak, and Cid lets himself smile reassuringly back as he squeezes Vincent’s hand, “But I still have to do this myself.”
Cid nods once, twice, his other hand coming up to encircle the one he’s still holding.
“Well, whenever you need someone,” he says, voice even softer than the whisper of breeze that still remains, “like you said, I’m here. Always, I’ll be here.”
He lets go of Vincent’s hand, straightening up again and wincing as his knees crack with the movement - but Vincent is tall enough Cid can lean over one more time, pressing a kiss against his forehead, whispering, “I’ll see you at home.”
He turns back the way he came, leaving Vincent to his journals and files, and desperately craves a cigarette.
Vincent slips through the door that night, quiet as ever, and they do not discuss it. Instead, Cid fills the silence with all the inane thoughts that float through his mind, in the hopes that the normalcy of it might be of some comfort - and it is, he thinks, watching Vincent’s shoulders slowly relax over dinner.
Vincent does not comment on the way Cid grasps onto him slightly tighter when Vincent climbs into bed, as if the embrace alone could ward off the nightmares faster than the slow healing of time.
He lets Vincent go the next morning too, without a word - for all his talk about wanting to fix things, he has no precedent for this, no schematic to follow, and so he lets the things he can fix try and fill the chasm of worry in his mind. The ring of metal is loud enough in his ears to drown out his thoughts, and the day passes in a haze of construction and heat and the ache of his muscles.
He’s poking at the incinerator in the back of the workshop, quietly melting down some wasted scraps, when the clatter of claws on a railing alerts him to Vincent’s return.
“Welcome back.” He calls over his shoulder, frowning as he stares into the flickering flame. He hears the clink of Vincent’s armoured shoes across the concrete, surely deliberate, and then watches a leather-bound book sail past him to land in the incinerator.
“Vincent?” Cid whips around, watching Vincent throw another of the small volumes into the incinerator, pausing to allow the pages to catch alight, “Woah, hang on, you just-”
“I read them.” Vincent says, and the glow of the fire casts shadows across his unreadable face, “long before yesterday.”
“Vince, look, if it’s because of what I said, I’m sorry - I-”
“But it didn’t feel like it helped me, so I read them again,” Vincent continues, dropping another bound stack of papers into the incinerator, “and again, and again.”
Cid pauses, watching the way Vincent’s fingers flex against the last volume he holds, the slight twitch of his brow.
“But maybe there’s no answers,” Vincent turns the book in his hands over, grip tight enough that the clawed fingers of his gauntlet begin to pierce the cover, “no relief to be found in the cold science of what was done to me. I know what it is, but not what it means for me now, trying to - to live as I am in a world that feels too mundane to be my home.”
And Cid knows what it is to take comfort in fact, in numerals, in the simplicity of engineering, and so Vincent’s frown makes his heart ache in affectionate sympathy. He reaches out, gently prying the book free from Vincent’s death grip, slowly slipping it out of his grasp as Vincent tracks his hands with a piercing gaze. He waits long enough for Vincent to protest, but met with only silence he slowly moves the book towards the waiting flame, dropping it in without looking as he keeps his eyes on Vincent.
“I don’t think there’s answers to be found anywhere,” Cid says carefully, “at least, not the kind you’re lookin’ for.” Vincent nods slowly, and the light the fire casts makes him look so beautiful Cid has to fight the urge to reach out, fearing Vincent might suddenly slip from his grasp if he tried, “But just because you can’t find them doesn’t mean you you can’t….make ‘em, right?”
He curses his clumsiness with words, but Vincent gives him a rare, full smile, blossoming across his face and making Cid’s heart stutter in his chest.
“You always seem to know what I mean, even when I can’t quite say it.” Vincent says, and Cid blinks at him, “But you’re right. Perhaps it is not the world that I should concern myself with - my home, after all, is with you.”
Cid’s resolve crumbles and he reaches out, folding his arms around Vincent and burying his face in the untamed black hair, feeling Vincent’s own hands coming to rest hesitantly on his back.
“Y’always say the sweetest shit, you know that?” Cid grumbles, trying to keep his voice level even though he’s sure Vincent can feel the slight tremble in his fingers. Vincent laughs, gravelly and with a slight hitch that makes Cid wonder.
“That’s not one I hear a lot.” Vincent says, leaning slightly more into him, and Cid echoes his wavering laugh.
“Well, you’re sweet as sugar to this bitter old man.” He counters, dragging a slightly louder laugh out of Vincent, and Cid can almost hear him rolling his eyes. Vincent pulls back only to take Cid’s hand with his own metal one, and Cid notes that the wary hesitation he’s felt ever since Vincent caught him is gone.
“Come on,” Vincent says quietly, and then more hesitantly, “I’ll make dinner this time.”
And Cid lets himself be dragged back into his home - their home.