FF7 ficbit

Mar. 29th, 2006 06:13 am
swordage: Vincent Valentine. Gloomy. As always. (x vincent van kickurass)
[personal profile] swordage
Not really a drabble or a fic, this really isn't long enough for me to come up with a title. With all the nummy fics about Vincent's alter forms going around, and all the interesting takes on the repercussions of his first transformation with the posse, I thought I'd toss in my two cents. So. Vincent and Cid, and things unsaid.

Cid's approach to most problems, Vincent had observed, was to swear at things. Particularly if the things being sworn at were actually responsible for the problem. It was surprising that this approach worked on most occassions; when it didn't, Cid's response was to hit things. It was, however, very unusual for Cid to deal with a problem by offering said problem tea, which is the only reason Vincent accepted the mug at all.

They crouched next to each other, neither quite relaxing enough to sit, until Vincent sighed and took a sip. The tea wasn't particularly disgusting, although the mug bore a faint patina of engine oil where Cid had gripped it. The nervous shifting of his fingers was spelled out in swirls and identifying prints. Vincent tried not to memorize them.

"So," Cid started. "That fight."

"Yes," Vincent agreed mildly. "I had hoped that was naught but a nightmare from my tomb."

"The fight?" Cid leaned back on his heels, sucking the last puffs of smoke from his cigarette.

"Myself," Vincent murmured.

"Ah." Cid stubbed out his cigarette in the dirt, pausing to pick up a pebble and toss it from hand to hand. Vincent took another sip of the tea, his knuckle sliding through the smears of Cid's first and second fingers. Right-handed. A cricket chirruped tentatively. They both pretended to be watching the sun set.

The sky behind them was tinged with deep blue before they spoke again. Cid stood with a wince, knees popping, and dusted himself off. He held out a hand to Vincent. Vincent's first response was to stare. Pointedly. He did notice the dark oil worked around the nails, into the creases of Cid's fingers in a highlight of every whorl. The nails were chipped, flat and short and business-like. The palm was open, calluses built for curling around a wrench or spear.

"Your tea's cold," Cid pointed out, his hand falling to his side. Vincent rose to his feet, pouring the chill water over the grass as Cid lit a fresh cigarette, and they began to walk back.
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