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Outside, the storm raged. Inside, the lights were warm and so was the tea. It was gonna be a long night.
Curled up under a blanket, he turned the page, utterly engrossed in the story he was reading - the dashing protagonist's love interest had been attacked, and it was up to him to save the day. A certain someone had left the trashy romance novel on the shelf the last time he visited; tonight, with the cable on the fritz, there was nothing on TV. Vincent would be insufferably smug when he found out Cid couldn't put the thing down - probably they'd have to share some heated opinions about it together, next time he stopped by. Maybe some heated other things, too, he thought with a smile. Cid didn't realize he was humming a little as he flipped the next page.
The door banged open and a howling wind brought in snow, icy air, and a specter wrapped in a heavy, tattered red cloak. Cid looked up from his seat on the sofa and, with an oath, dropped his book. He dashed across the room in his socks to intercept the specter, who was now staggering across the floor. The pointed metal toes of the specter’s boots scraped along the wood.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he said, trying to peek under the heavy black hair and the layers of fabric hiding the specter’s face. “What’s wrong? Hang on a minute, hey!” The specter shrugged in an attempt to pass him, but for once, Cid was faster. With a silent prayer to whatever deity might be listening that nothing catastrophic would happen, Cid laid his hands heavily on the specter’s hunched shoulders. The specter paused. “Bright eyes?” No response. “Vincent.” He ducked again to try to meet the specter’s eyes. “Look at me, goddammit.”
The glowing red eyes, so familiar, were distant and glassy in a blank face. The specter tried again to shamble forward, towards the corner furthest from the light near the couch. Cid pushed more firmly against the front of the cloaked shoulders to stop him, and that was when he noticed the way some of the drips and puddles falling onto the floor weren’t just icemelt, but were also -
His palm was red and sticky as he pulled it away from the specter’s chest. “Fuck! Where are you hit?”
The specter simply continued to stare at him without seeing him. Cid ran his hands along the specter’s arms - “fuck!” he yelled again, as he got a nasty electrical zap from the prosthetic arm hanging uselessly from the specter’s left elbow - but he couldn’t find anything obvious. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” He looked back at the empty, far away eyes. “Come back, goddammit, where’d you go? Come back.” A glimmer of something moved in the depths of those eyes. “Yeah? Can you hear me, bright eyes?” Cid was not and never would be calm or steady, but he tried to keep his voice at least one of those things. Soothing. He sure as hell didn’t need any of the things that lived in the specter’s head to wake up in the middle of the kitchen. After a moment, the spark of movement in that gaze resolved into something Cid recognized all too well. A distant, untethered fear. There still wasn’t a sense of awareness. But it was better than the utter blankness that had been there a moment ago.
“Hey,” he said, softer now, trying out a tentative smile. “C’mon back. You’re home, you’re here, I’m here. You’re okay.” He wanted so badly to touch the pale skin, to pull him into his arms and keep the world out, but experience had taught him that skin-to-skin contact in moments like this was a surefire way to spend a few days recuperating in bed. Patience had never been Cid’s strong suit. He gritted his teeth and tapped a few fingertips on the cloaked shoulder to get his companion’s attention. The eyes flickered towards him briefly.
“Stuff’s all in the other room.” He pointed over the cloaked figure’s shoulder. “If I let you go long enough to get the first aid kit, you gonna freak out or disappear or some shit?” There wasn’t a verbal response, but the insistent pressure against his hands eased. When Cid stopped pushing, too, the other man stayed put, swaying alarmingly. “Hey, okay, that’s a start, yeah? I’ll be right back. Hang in there.” He gave the shoulders a reassuring squeeze and ran across the house to the workshop. The kit was right where it belonged, tucked under the corner of the bench. It wasn’t much - a couple of Cure materia, some potions, a shit ton of band-aids and some antiseptic - but it would get things started. His heart hadn’t pounded this fast since the rocket’s countdown sequence had started with everyone aboard.
He raced back towards where Vincent still stood unsteadily in the middle of the kitchen, but he made a detour to slam the front door shut, hissing as his socks splashed in the icy puddles that his companion had trailed across the floor. He stopped in front of Vincent, flung the kit onto the kitchen counter, and ducked his head again to catch the taller man’s downcast eyes. They were wide now, still glassy and distant with fear, but Vincent seemed a little more present than he had been.
Cid laid his hand on the cloaked shoulder again. “Okay for me to take this off, bright eyes? Get a look at you, see where you’re hurtin’?” His hand moved to rest against the buckles that held the mantle in place, but his eyes stayed on the frightened red ones under that heavy fall of hair. They blinked and stayed downcast. Below the cape and everything else, Vincent seemed to have traded his heartbeat for a frantic bird. It fluttered against his ribs, against the palm of Cid’s hand. “Hey.” The eyes flicked back up. “Just me. I’m here. You’re okay. Gonna getcha sorted out, toot sweet.” After a long string of minutes punctuated by the continued drip of melting snow and blood, there was an almost imperceptible nod. Cid set his clever fingers to work.
The cape always seemed both bulkier and lighter than it had any right to be. He worked his way down the line of intricate buckles until they were all released, and pulled gently on one side so that the peculiar red fabric would fall into his waiting hand. Cid wanted very badly to study it, to figure out how it worked - no way was it just a length of fabric. Another time, though. He laid it across the table with efficient care. Now that Vincent was out of his shroud, Cid finally had an opportunity to see what was going on. He swore under his breath. Vincent turned his head away and somehow seemed to curl further in on himself.
The prosthetic gauntlet was badly dented in a few places, its forefinger claw twitching uncontrollably. Okay. Annoying, but a problem for later. One side of his dark shirt was torn and clinging to his ribs in a funny way, and sure enough, when Cid reached to gently feel it, the fabric was slick with blood under his fingertips. He put a little pressure on the wound and Vincent flinched, hissing loudly through his teeth.
“Shit, Vincent. What the fuck happened?” When Cid looked up, the dark-haired man’s eyes were closed again, brows furrowed. With his other hand, Cid reached for the first aid kit without looking and rummaged through all the neatly-stowed supplies until he found the little marbles of materia. “Gonna be all tingly and shit for a second,” he muttered. “Never was good at this, but hang in there.” Vincent gasped and shuddered as the magic took hold; Cid felt rather than heard a crunch under his fingers as a broken rib re-set itself. Something else popped near the floor - an ankle, maybe?
He looked up and found that the frightened eyes were still wide and startled, but Vincent was behind them again. Cid let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
“Hey, bright eyes,” he murmured. Carefully, he reached up and laid his hand along Vincent’s cheek, curling them when Vincent leaned against the calloused fingers. The bird that had been fluttering so desperately behind his ribs seemed to have migrated, and Cid could feel it now racing in the secret place under Vincent’s jaw instead. After a few moments, though, the bird settled. “Glad you’re back.” Vincent reached to hold Cid’s wrist, running his thumb in circles along the back of Cid’s palm. He swayed again and closed his eyes. Cid’s other arm wrapped tightly around his shoulders, steadying him.
“Was gonna ask if you wanted to park on the couch, but maybe we’ll hang out here in the kitchen instead for a minute?” Vincent nodded and, after a moment, he collapsed all of his weight against Cid, as though someone had cut all of his strings. The pilot staggered backwards a step. “Oof, okay, okay.” He braced his feet and moved his other hand to Vincent’s waist. “Here, lemme help ya down. Take it easy, there we go.”
He’d not seen Vincent like this in a long time. As they settled on the floor, Vincent seated facing him and Cid’s legs stretched around Vincent in case the pale man lost his balance again, Cid scrubbed a hand through his hair, wondering what exactly the fuck must have happened to leave him in such a state. He sighed. “We gotta stop meeting like this, gorgeous,” he said sheepishly, peeking at Vincent’s haggard face with one sly blue eye. “Think you’re gettin’ the wrong idea about the kinda guy I am, always draggin’ your sorry carcass through my door late at night.” His smile was wide and warm as he fumbled in his pocket for his cigarettes and a lighter.
Vincent managed a low mumble that might’ve been words. Bright red eyes scowled at him from under the lowered brows, though he didn’t lift his head up. Cid offered him a smoke of his own, but the curtain of damp black hair shook softly to decline. The red eyes looked back down to the floor between them. With a deep breath and visible effort, Vincent unfolded his legs and scooted closer so that he could stretch his feet out and place them on the floor behind Cid. His chest heaved with the exertion of it.
“‘Sokay, bright eyes,” Cid said, his eyes soft. “Tell me about it later.” Again, he bit back the need to know what had happened, to understand, to solve a puzzle. Instead, he let the minutes coil away like the smoke drifting from the cigarette in his hand. Eventually, the pale man’s breathing eased, though he still did not move. Cid leaned forward, laying his arms around the other man’s shoulders. Vincent inhaled sharply but, after a moment, he let himself collapse against Cid again, putting his own arms limply around Cid’s waist. Slender fingers curled half-heartedly in the fabric of Cid’s flannel shirt; the wicked gauntlet lay heavily in the crook of his hip, one claw still twitching. His breathing was more even now, less frantic, but it was still ragged.
They sat for some time. Cid’s cigarette reached its end. Moving gingerly lest he disturb the other man, he carefully reached up to leave the butt on the table. Eventually, he rested his chin on Vincent’s shoulder. His toes were clammy and cold in their wet socks, but there were more important things on his mind for the moment. Toes could wait until the morning. “Glad you’re home,” he murmured next to Vincent’s ear. There wasn’t an audible answer, but the hand tangled in his shirt tightened in reply.
Outside, the storm raged. Inside, the lights were warm and so was the man he loved, curled in his arms. Everything was going to be okay.