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Despite everything, the train comes screaming to a halt. Sparks fly as brake gears crack and hiss against wheels, rusted out tracks and bent railroad ties straining under the pressure of a runaway train laden down with enough materia to level a town. There are only a few casualties, some unfortunate engineers amidst the fiends and machines securing the train. But Mount Corel stands as it did before, free as ever under the imminent hell of the meteor above them.
By all standards, Vincent’s certain that this mission is over. They can return to the airship with the Huge Materia in tow, and carry on. It’s an outstanding success. The others are flitting about, ecstatic. Even Barret, who had been incredibly reluctant to return after a reportedly cold homecoming the first time around, seems beyond at-ease. This, he assumes, is why they fight. For those brief moments of relief in the face of total, terrible fate. He finds himself wishing that Cloud could be here to witness it. Tifa, too. He assumes Aerith, in some way, keeps watch through the lifestream. It’s all he has, in that regard.
Vincent scans the crowd, finally catching Cid trying to slink back towards the ship, nervously waving off the locals trying to goad him into something. Probably a stay at the inn, given how his hands hadn’t stopped shaking since the train was stopped. He leans on his spear to keep himself upright, giving a more insistent shoo gesture when the man won’t take the initial no for an answer.
In lieu of a shouting match, Vincent opts to slink through the crowd, intervening in the only way he knows how. Standing close, looking the opposition over, and saying absolutely nothing. He’s learned over the past few weeks that silence is an outstanding equalizer in a budding argument, and no sooner than he locks eyes with the stranger does the stranger put up his hands in mock defeat.
“Alright, alright! No drinks, I hear you, buddy. Thanks for everything, anyways.”
Drinks. A bar invite. Vincent shakes his head as the celebratory solicitor leaves, turning all of his suspicious digression towards Cid.
“Turning down an invite to a bar, Chief?” He asks, appropriately cautious. It seems odd, coming from the man who had tried— with pitiful luck, no less— to get Vincent to drink with him early on in their travels. Eventually, he caved to the request, content to listen to Cid talk for hours while he firmly neglected his drink.
Cid doesn’t dignify him with an attempt at eye contact. “Feels wrong goin’ out for drinks when we got two animals and a kid. Like, borderline irresponsible.”
Vincent tries not to immediately balk at the insinuation that Yuffie or Nanaki’s presence changes anything. Let alone Cait Sith, whose place of supposed employment was the Gold Saucer. He keeps his expression neutral, giving Cid another once-over. He looks exhausted, distant. Which would explain the abysmal state of his excuse to not get a drink.
“I’m certain they can entertain themselves. Would you prefer my company, then?”
Cid turns to face him, squinting as if trying to find some loophole to the question scrawled on his face. He curses under his breath, shaking his head when he can’t find a way out.
“Y’know what? Fuck it, sure,” he says, with a sigh heavy enough that Vincent can watch it course through him. “Everybody could use a little excitement, right? We won, right?”
Cid smiles, opting to punch Vincent in the shoulder, and Vincent opts not to address the fact that his smile doesn’t meet his eyes.
North Correl doesn’t really have a bar, so much as it has someone who has an absolute chokehold on his corner of the market when it comes to liquor. It’s a local grain alcohol situation, or very rarely exports anyone could ship in from their time abroad. But since this act of revelry means many people, it means local stock. Those who are willing and able nurse their liquor, milling about the open air between tents lit by lamplights scattered around in the night.
Vincent takes his place next to Cid on the outskirts of the excitement, watching as some folks gather around to start a bonfire and trade stories. Barret starts talking about AVALANCHE, and the others seem to listen. Nanaki’s ears perk up at the mention of other friends, sidling closer when that story begins to falter.
Yuffie makes one solitary attempt to sneak a drink in the midst of the story, only to reel and sputter in disgust when it is in fact, just as bad as Cid had said it would be. It gets Barret’s attention, snapping him out of whatever grief was threatening to claw its way out of his throat. He laughs, loud and irreverent. Vincent takes in the noise, the security of a night well earned. He looks to Cid, curious to see if anything about his demeanor had changed in the presence of a sort of comfortable calm.
Cid fixes his gaze firmly on the meteor above them. His fingers curl around his glass, and he is almost stock-still. Vincent turns to stare at his own glass, clear liquor in clear crystal. If it were darker, it’d remind him of post-shift drinks at a bar in Junon when he was younger. When everything was simpler, and he didn’t have to be concerned with the idea that his teammate— his defacto captain— might catch him staring.
“They’re having fun,” Vincent says, nodding towards the others around the fire. “I think you’re to blame for that.”
Cid turns, giving the group a long, calculating stare. He pays special attention to the group of children surrounding Cait Sith— enamored with the fluffy toy and his intense brogue as he tells little fortunes.
“You’re goddamn right,” Cid says, conviction stronger than it needs to be. Vincent realizes he is absolutely trying to convince himself of that fact, to no real effect. Cid raises his glass, tilts it towards Vincent, and takes a protracted belt. It gets a slight cough out of him as he grimaces back at the cup. “Would have better luck drinkin’ melted boot black.”
Vincent looks to his own glass, still untouched. He took it to be polite, if anything. Which, judging by two very distinct responses, maybe that was the best choice to make.
“I’ve told you I admire your attitude before,” Vincent hazards, still catching an idle trembling in Cid’s fingers. “That still stands.”
Cid blinks back at him, as if he had fully started speaking another language. When he realizes the nature of the compliment, he waves Vincent off in the same shoo cue he gave the civilian prior to the little celebration.
“I’m not sure y’should be admirin’ dumb luck, Vince.” He says, impossibly cold and terribly exhausted.
Dumb luck. So that’s what this is about. Vincent knows better to even believe that it’s only about luck, and as he starts to think about the situation— Shera’s story comes to mind.
A rocket, a powerful thing, being stopped on a dime at risk to an entire crew, an entire town— to save one life. A train, laden with a devastating materia, stopped on a dime to save an entire town. The blind chaos of both choices, absolute selflessness to do nothing but save. To defend that sanctity of life. These things blend together, and how could there be anything but pride? Anything but relief?
Vincent knows damn well that the answer is fear. Or, the worse option. Surviving these things, that was never an option when he made these choices, but an ungodly, lucky break. This fear, or anger, is in response to—
There’s a sharp noise, the sound of crystal cracking and grating against itself. Judging by Cid’s spontaneous outburst of hooooolyshit and the cold sting of liquor rolling down his hand, Vincent knows without having to look down exactly what happened. He hadn’t meant to crush the glass— he figures he’ll pay the distiller before they leave in the morning— but he finds himself staring Cid down. Narrow eyed, calculating.
“Hey, y’got a little, well, everything all over the place,” Cid says, trying to get Vincent to react in any meaningful way. He leans in, scanning his face for any sort of tell regarding a transformation of some kind. To his credit, Vincent assumes that sort of property destruction is usually a herald to the death gigas. When he doesn’t respond, Cid waves his hand in his face. “Hey, Gaia t’ Vincent. Lights on upstairs?”
Vincent blinks back at Cid, glancing down at the blood starting to spider across the expanse of a liquor-soaked hand. It stings, but not enough to inspire any sort of visceral reaction. Instead, he decides to seat himself next to Cid on the rocky ledge— setting the broken glass beside him.
Cid wastes no time, and asks for no permission, when it comes to grabbing Vincent’s hand and a fistful of his cloak.
“You’re doing it again.” Vincent says, voice low as if to discourage any sort of eavesdropping. Cid doesn’t look back at him, dabbing at his hand with the fabric of the cloak.
“Yeah, ‘cause I’m pretty sure I’m the only one you let actually touch you,” Cid says, hands becoming increasingly steady as they work. “Now, we both can’t be pissed about bein’ out here. Was your idea, anyway.”
“I’m not upset about being here,” Vincent’s response is immediate, a quiet grumble of discomfort caught in his throat. “I don’t think you recognize what you really are.”
“Your personal nurse?”
“ Cid.”
He has the audacity to laugh at Vincent’s sharp exasperation, hazy blue eyes averting slightly when Cid realizes that Vincent isn’t laughing with him, or cracking a third of a simpering smile in response.
“A’right, if you’re gonna be such a hardass about it. What am I?”
“What are your hands good for? What do they do?”
Cid turns Vincent’s hand over, tracing the ridges of his knuckles. “That ain’t even remotely close to an answer and you know it. Th’fuck did you start speakin’ in riddles for?”
Vincent doesn’t acknowledge the touch with much more than his other hand caging in Cid’s hand— a sharp brass gauntlet pinning them in place. “It’s not a riddle. It’s a means of understanding you. What are your hands good for?”
“Pickin’ glass outta your hands?”
“ Fixing things. Saving things.”
The silence that follows stings. The bonfire crackles in the distance, but the stories are dying down. Someone in the group yawns, stretches wide. Children are shuffled away from the large, animatronic cat. The others start to make their way to the airship. Barret turns, locks eyes with the two of them, and gives an affirmative nod. A quiet understanding to give them space— catching Yuffie by the shoulder before she can bolt into their general direction.
Cid takes another sip of his drink, excruciatingly more cautious than the first attempt. Which, judging by the groan of disgust, didn’t make the situation any less terrible. In a blatant effort to stall until the others are clearly out of an earshot, Cid offers the cup to Vincent.
“Since y’went and tried t’ arm wrestle with the first one.”
“I figure this is some sort of punishment.”
Vincent doesn’t rebuke the offer. He takes the cup in his armored hand, and takes a cautious belt. Shoe polish was certainly something of an understatement, but more accurate than calling it liquor. Still, he finds himself unmoved, finding it no worse than the acrid taste of decades of experimental alchemy. Or bottom-shelf liquor in Junon.
He catches Cid staring, and the second he realizes he’s been caught, Cid takes the glass back. With the others gone, Vincent watches the tension in his shoulders fade. He seems so much less loud without the limelight and the excitement, and the fact that he hasn’t let go of his hand isn’t beyond him.
So, this is the captain. So human that it almost hurts to watch him, so human that he can’t stop himself from falling into his orbit. The crew on the Highwind had called him warm, and it couldn’t be further from the truth. He is, in all regards, blinding. The sun reflecting on steel, adamant, all these things that never touched the basement of the mansion in Nibelheim.
“I think you misunderstand the sheer importance of your work,” Vincent finally says, tangling his fingers into Cid’s own. “Likewise, what so many people would give to have your conviction.”
“Shiva’s tits, Vince. It was one person,” Cid groans, gesturing to the wild beige yonder of Mount Correl’s dimming lamplight. “I’m not some saint for destroyin’ the space program t’ save one dumbass engineer.”
“And how different would our lives be if I could say the same? If I could have saved one person?”
The grip on his hand tightens, suffice for words that can’t quite seem to form between them. They both know the answer. Had he had even a mere fraction of Cid’s ability to preserve life, to act recklessly and intervene, there would be no meteor. There would be no terrified child flitting through the lifestream, damning all life on the planet, crying out for his mother. The Cetra, maybe, could still live. He would not be death itself, compacted into a human frame.
In a kinder world, they could have peace. But the world they live in is not kind, but ambivalent to all imperfections. There is no world where he dies as a human, and the others go free. There is only this world, where the lifestream swells in his wake.
“I envy you,” Vincent adds, as if to emphasize the obvious green tint to the friction between them. “You have that which I eternally lack, and for that, I envy you.”
He hears the quiet, clean sound of the glass tapping the stone ledge. Cid’s newly free hand gravitates immediately to the pack of cigarettes tucked into his goggles, deftly maneuvering from the carton to wedging a filter between his teeth as he looks for his lighter. He finds it after two pocket-pats, and Vincent listens to the steady snkt of the lighter flipping open and igniting. He raises his hand instinctively, covering the lighter’s flame to shield it from the steady mountain breeze.
Cid takes a drag as soon as the tip of the cigarette catches an easy ember. Vincent watches the exhale, the curling smoke, stricken by the comfort it brings.
“You don’t eternally lack shit. You trusted me enough with the train, right?”
“I—“
“Trusted me enough t’follow me, kill that engineer, an’ watch us nearly crash a train into the whole town.”
“ Kill. My grief lies with that act, my envy with the opposite. ”
Silence falls again, Cid nodding and mouthing a quiet well behind another protracted drag. Vincent knows all too well that death is just a function of their work. Not every person could be placated by a promise of a more beautiful future, talked out of laying down their weapons. Sometimes, for their lot, the only option is violence. The world is not gentle enough to absolve itself of a kill or be killed dogma. He knows that better than anyone. Someone has to pull the trigger, he just happens to be the most decisive headsman in the group.
“Nobody else I’d rather have watchin’ my ass in a fight, though,” Cid says through an exhale. “I got better odds a’ survival if you’re on the job. Can’t quite do that savin’ people thing if I’m dead.”
It’s an apt revelation. For all of the awe and envy, Vincent knows exactly how protective he can be. He regrets none of it, especially if it leads to small victories like these. It’s certainly a revelation fit for someone so painfully stoic despite all of his blustering. How much of himself he hides behind all of the smoke and bravado is fascinating.
Fascinating enough to lean in, and reject all pretenses of personal space— pulling the cigarette from his mouth and replacing the loss with a kiss. Smoke pulls between them and the acrid tang of the liquor still sticks to their teeth, but Vincent focuses more on the hand wrapped around his; and the other hand slowly slipping up his armored wrist to get his cigarette back.
“Th’hell was that?” Cid murmurs, just barely pulling away to catch his breath.
“An attempt at your degree of recklessness,” Vincent responds, voice dangerously low, tinged with a level of impossible fondness. “Does it suit me?”
It’s not the first time they’ve crashed into each other's orbit in this way. These moments happen sporadically, responses to indescribable amounts of stress in fleeting privacy. They never talk about it, and Vincent assumes it’s because there are always more pressing matters. Hell hangs above them with all of its impending oblivion, his would-be-son the herald of all devastation. How could they talk about anything in times like these? Worse, what would it mean to make the mistake of loving something— some thing, Vincent reminds himself— like him?
So, they meet in a silent middle, taking whatever they can tease out from one another. It’s triage for a broken world, brief moments of levity and connection. He supposes they’ll find the language for it later. Instead, he follows little cues, signs in a thousand-part dance between them both.
Signs, like Cid taking the cigarette from his fingers, and turning it to prod the filter against Vincent’s lips. There’s a smile on his face, eyes deadly focused on his mouth.
“Not too sure how it looks on’ya, really. Might need a bit more, hm. Not sure—“
Vincent takes the proding as a sign to take a drag from the cigarette, cherried ember flaring just slightly. Cid’s expression jolts up in a sort of pleasant surprise, giving a little whistle for the effort when Vincent exhales.
“Audacity,” Vincent says, matter-of-fact. “The word you were looking for is audacity.”
“Yeah, audacity. Let’s call it that.” Cid drawls, pulling the cigarette away to tap away the ash and snub the miniscule remnants on the bottom of his boot. It’s not lost on Vincent that Cid hasn’t let go of his hand in the slightest, his thumb moving in small, soothing circles against the back of his hand.
He doesn’t bother bracing himself for the hand on his face, but finds himself squirming under the interrogative gaze of stern blue eyes. He doesn’t miss the mischievous glint, either, allowing the kiss that follows with more ease than he would like to normally admit.
He wonders if it’s the liquor or the adrenaline, the comedown from near-death experiences piled on top of one another, the fallout of the future hanging over them. Maybe all of these things, Vincent decides, are catalysts for that audacious hunger. To want recklessly.
His claws find purchase on the back of Cid’s neck, tracing fine lines as he presses deeper into the kiss, blood running too hot to function. Cid pulls away first, patting Vincent’s cheek with a contented half-laugh.
“How’s that for audacity?”
“Just shy of inspirational.” Vincent deadpans, pulling himself away before Cid can even manage to fully form his response of youlittlefucker, standing up from their seat on the rocky ledge. He extends his hand, notably less bloodied and liquor-dampened, as an act of goodwill. Cid takes his hand, firm as a handshake, pulling himself upright. He gives Vincent a playful shove with his shoulder and becks toward the airship.
“A’right, bedtime fer smartasses. Unless you wanna wait for ‘em to send a search party.”
Vincent doesn’t respond with more than a nod, content to reach down and collect Cid’s spear, handing it over with the same gentle grace he would afford something made of glass. He catches Cid smile, something galvanized, something radiating that ever-apparent warmth.
He’d bask in it, if he could. But Cid’s hand firmly on his lower back, pushing him along the path to the airship gives him no quarter.
Not that he particularly minds.