Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Reeve hadn't tried to stave off sleep, because he wasn't an idiot. There was no telling how long it would take for Vincent to stir-- fighting could take it out of you, pain could take it out of you, fear could take it out of you and that was without the stunt of flying across the ocean, the actual injury and rapid healing, and the recovery from this new procedure. Or channeling the power of Chaos in his human form.

So, he had been happy enough to sleep in the room, when he saw everyone settle down, to follow suit. Next to Vincent, of course. He still wasn't an idiot.

He'd woken to Vincent stirring, and to his utter shock, Fiona of all people soothing the man back to sleep. Maybe he should have interrupted... but the woman had it in hand, and there was something there about their relationship that he didn't really understand, but she'd gotten Vincent to start reassuring her instead of being afraid, and honestly that was the neatest bit of manipulation he'd ever seen, and one of the most kindly. If it was manipulation.

Which he somewhat doubted when she started crying but... well, being emotional didn't stop you from manipulating people. Sometimes it made it a lot easier actually.

But, if it was, she wouldn't want him drawing attention to it. And if it wasn't, she wouldn't want him seeing it.

He settled back down. It wasn't long before he was asleep again.

***

It was pretty early in the morning, but Gauze was concerned. Not that there was any obvious reason to be, the vital signs on the monitor looked good, and the man seemed to be breathing more easily. Normally she'd be content with that, at least for a few more hours, but normally she'd be dealing with someone who healed at a rate that made some kind of cosmic sense.

The thing was, different parts of the body healed at different rates. Everyone knew that. Skin was nice and fast. Organ was faster. Bone was slow, but not as slow as to never cause problems. Muscle was slowest. Or, that was the simplified version that they taught to the youngest amateur students.

Organ was fast enough to be dangerous in some procedures.
Vincent Valentine, apparently back from the dead, healed faster than anyone she had ever heard of. Especially if Director Reeve's suspicions about how that lung collapsed had any weight to them. And if muscle and bone healed that fast.... then how long before that bit of tubing she'd threaded through his side was... complicated?

Flesh was incredibly resilient. If it couldn't push a foreign object out, then it would often grow around that thing, or through it.

The man did not need that in his life. None of them did.

Besides, fast healing had it's own set of problems. It increased the risk of things healing wrong, both on the cellular level and the more visible level.

Not that she could stop him from fast healing. And the man had clearly already been through hell, he'd want to be away from people poking at him as soon as possible.

As soon as possible was going to be a lot later if she had to open him up to extract a tube that his own chest wall had sealed inside him.

And none of this was precisely an obvious danger, she knew, because... well, clearly someone had let him do most of his healing without anything that could be termed help. But it was her job to think of these things.

A compromise, then. For now, when he was still going to be out from the cocktail he had already been fed, she could and should just take a look at the site-- make sure there was no bleeding or signs of compression around the tube. So long as it seemed to be working correctly, there was no reason to further distress the man or his friends today.

It wasn't difficult to pick her way between the sleepers, though she kept a certain distance away from Fiona and Veld. Both were... well, a little fast to choose violence. Better not to be in grabbing distance if they woke up suddenly.
There didn't seem to be any bleeding, when she looked. Nor did the tube or the skin around it look constricted or constricting. Vital signs were good-- less sluggish than she'd think given the sedatives that were flowing through him.
She reached down to check the machine itself... and everything happened at once.
She was suddenly a good ten feet behind where she had started out, and feeling new bruises settle onto her skin. Reeve... she had a half formed image in her mind, of Reeve lunged across the bed, or lunging, pushing her out of the way, but it had been too fast too blurred, and she couldn't... think....
He must have pushed her out of the way. And she was glad for that, because Vincent was awake. The alarms were chiming on his life signs, and he was upright, looking frantically about, trying to place himself, or Reeve, or both.

Where was Reeve? She looked around, and saw him peeling himself out of the now- deformed metal cabinet, eyes solely on Vincent. Had he been thrown? Was it--

“Gauze, I want you to wake the others up and get out of this room. Now.” Reeve said, with his eyes like flint and fire. Vincent's head swung toward him, toward his voice, but his eyes snagged on her, and then they changed colors from gold to glowing red--

She bolted and knew she should have frozen until he looked away the instant she did it. Prey shouldn't run, it was foolish, and her movements were all too obvious with her long lab coat trailing behind her like a cape--

She felt his hands brush against her and knew she wasn't nearly fast enough, but then there was a grunt and the sound of a crash to her side. She didn't question it, ran-- tripped over Veld's legs and felt distantly grateful that it wasn't Brick or Fi. The boss was if not generous, then realistic, and Fiona was less than merciful.

The group was mostly awake, some groggy and some twitchy, and she urged them out, remembering her duty and clinging to it with both hands.

She could hear something crunching in the background. And something tearing. It sounded like bond and flesh. She didnt look back, dragging Veld out with all the adrenaline in her and a lot of help from Brick, and Fiona followed... slow. She thought they'd have to go back for her... but she came.

They made the door and she had one moment of dizzying blinding joy at having made it before realizing that there were several problems. First, Reeve was still in there. Second, anything that could throw a grown man into a locker and mess up the locker could get through these doors, which weren't meant to hold people out unlike the outer doors...

And then Reeve let go of the monster for just a second, because it didn't look like Vincent anymore, grey and hulking and scarred, with red eyes and knobs of steel poking out through it's flesh, grabbed another locker, and slammed it down, sealing the door shut, them outside and him with the monster.

***

“Just you and me,” Reeve said, as soothingly as he could. Gigas screamed and rushed at him again, but there was no reason to stay there and take it anymore-- no one here to protect but himself. “I won't hurt you...”

This was evidently the wrong line, or maybe the wrong time to use it... or maybe the creature just didn't trust him. Fair enough, they didn't seem as smart as a man-- he might not even know Reeve was the man behind the Caits. Still. Try everything.

“Easy there, ye daft bastard. We aren't lookin tae buy the whole joint, are we?”

The other forms didn't usually attack the party though. They might not be as smart as a man grown, but they might be somewhere between smart dog and young child. It cocked it's misshapen head at him.

“There ya be, cub. There ya be,” he soothed, but his hand brushed against something-- steel, a tray, and the beast's eyes narrowed with suspicion. Lightning crackled through the room-- he held his hands up, showing he was unarmed, but Gigas roared, enraged at the sudden movement and the setting it so hated.

Then it staggered sideways, eyes going wide and blank as if it had been struck in the head. Red fur grew down it's body in streaks, receding and expanding as if watching two armies fight from the sky.

Reeve blinked, took a deep breath, and took a moment to assess the situation. It looked like there was a custody battle over Vincent's body at the moment. The Turks were banging at the other side of the door, and slowly making headway. Vincent still had the tube in his side, and was dragging it and the device attached across the floor every time he moved.

All and all, this wasn't the best day he was going to have this week.

He wasn't sure if it was helping or hurting, but he kept talking. Slowly, the fur grew all over the hulking form. Slowly, it shrunk and twisted. Slowly. Slowly.

Or... maybe he was the one going too fast. Air felt like a bonfire in his lungs, and suddenly, he felt all the aches and pains he had registered but not felt until now.

Finally the beast dropped to all fours, and looked over to him. And gaped it's jaw in a canine grin, and wagged it's butt. That was... friendly? It looked like a dog. Was that... on purpose?

Reeve supposed he'd find out.

***

Brick removed the last pin from the door hinge, and caught it before it fell open.
He and Fiona lowered it slowly, trying not to make too much noise. They had only been able to get it open a few barren inches-- maybe a centimeter if that on the hinge end, which was all they could expose the hinges, and then they’d had to find a tool that would fit through the crack while still prying up the pin. The noises inside the room had stopped a few minutes ago, but it had taken a moment to get something that would work. They didn't want to alert the beast, if it wasn't already too late.
Gods high and low, how was he going to tell Vincent if...
With the door opening and the small space above the tipped over locker clear, Brick waved his hands for silence and all four of them fell quiet, not that they were talking much anyway. Veld was pale as a sheet and wound tighter than a rubber ball, Fiona was a second away from snapping, though even she hadn't decided on how yet, and Gauze... Gauze might not have seen him actually. She was staring into the middle distance and the look on her face made Brick think the only thing stopping her from bolting to the back and hyperventilating in peace was her boss' presence. Or theirs, Fiona could be... judgy.
But Reeve was talking, in a low, soft, singsong voice. “There. Good lad, ye silly hooligan.”
Brick frowned, and peered over the makeshift wall. Reeve was sitting against the far wall, a furry... behemoth cub curled up, and partially in his lap. As he watched, it whipped it's pointed muzzle around to mouth at the tube in it's side.
“Nae, cub, that's not for the likes of ye to be removin, nor by that means.” Reeve said, scolding, gently, gently. He looked... well, a little shell shocked. His hair was a mess, and his clothing had seen better days. But he didn’t look bloody, or even too bruised. A little bruised which… was terrifying, but good news.

Reeve didn’t turn his head, but his eyes flicked up toward them, slowly, calmly. What on earth had his past been like, to make him so calm in the face of this madness? The man visibly considered what to do next for a long long moment, then reached over to grab at the beast’s muzzle as one might with a familiar dog. “Will ye be behavin’ yerself iffin our friends come back tae the room?”
The behemoth cocked it’s head, and looked back at them. Brick froze.
Then it wagged it’s butt. Not it’s tail. It’s whole back half.
“That seems to be as clear an answer as any,” Reeve said, and nodded to brick. “Lay down, beastie, so ye donnae cause undue alarm?”
The beast whined, but sank to it’s haunches, butt still wiggling.

***

The difficulty as it turned out wasn’t with the Galian Beast, per se, but rather with coaxing him into shifting back.
He didn’t seem to mind the crowd that surged back in through the doors at the first sign that this might be acceptable, and was happy to accept attention, and even some petting from the bemused Turks. He didn’t like anyone touching the tube, but it wasn’t something he snarled about either, only flattening his tiny ears and looking unhappy.
“I don’t even know how to check if a behemoth is okay,” Gauze said. She didn’t sound hysterical, not yet at least, but she had reached… strained. Galian didn’t nose at her hands, seeming to prefer doing so with Veld, Fiona and Brick, but he hadn’t shrank from her either, at least not until she had suggested hooking it back up to the vital monitors.

Honestly growling would have been easier to deal with. Cowering on a person was bad, but most of the time it wasn’t… most of the time people didn’t go cower the whole way animals did. It was in their shoulders and their eyes. Galian cowered like an animal, and it was… horrible.

He didn’t want to change back though.

“Well you can’t just—” Fiona started, and then stopped as Galian whined piteously at her. “I’m not trying to upset you, I’m—”

Reeve watched. It was bizarre. How could he look away?

Brick walked up to him, quiet, and laid a few fingers on his arm. Gentle, careful-- Galian looked at him, suddenly, and they all stood very still until he looked away, but it didn’t take long. He wasn’t nearly as threatening or as persistent as Fiona, and she was evidently hell bent on having Vincent’s attention… or barring that, the attention of the beast.

Are you hurt?

Reeve shook his head, and winced as a new set of bruises made itself known to him. “I’m not… I’m fine.”

Are you sure?

Reeve gave the Turk the best look he had, and was somewhat gratified by the way the Turk rocked back on his heels before settling again. “I am fine.” Probably.

Oh, he’d be sore in the morning, but being sore was no reason to alarm anyone, least of all in these circumstances.

It was… strange, knowing that was all it would be. Or at least, being sure that was all it would be.

Brick gritted his teeth and looked around for a moment-- for Gauze, he realized after a moment, and presumably the moral support she entailed. She wasn’t here, and that was… concerning. But, Reeve knew his place, and it was here.

If he hurt you, he’ll be upset.

Reeve shut his eyes before he said something cutting about how much Brick knew about Vincent. He didn’t deserve that. He didn’t. So he breathed through his nose for a long moment before looking at him. “If I get upset, or I look like I should be upset, he’s going to get wound up again. And I don’t know how that’s going to work for the rest of us.”

Brick nodded. That’s true. But… broken ribs can seem fine one minute and be a real problem the next.

“…. This isn’t broken ribs. I know how that feels.”

They exchanged long unhappy looks then. Abruptly, it was almost funny. Before they cleared the air this would have been a nightmare and now it was barely a footnote.

Reeve.

“You still have Scan, right?” He knew the Turk did. Not that it was good form to cast in a medical environment usually-- if anyone official was using scan sometimes your magic could fox with it, but more commonly, the magically talented could sometimes feel the spell, and that could alarm the sick and hurt, or distract a doctor at a crucial moment. But this wasn’t a traditional hospital, and there wasn’t a lot of anyone around. “Use that, if you need to.”

Brick grimaced. I’m still more familiar with the standard ways of checking ribs.

“I get that,” Reeve said, though the thought of taking his shirt off and letting himself be prodded at made him want to crawl out of his own skin. How Vincent would cope when he could finally wake up properly didn’t bear thinking about. Reeve could count on one hand the amount of times he’d seen the man shirtless, and that was with having been in camp with him… if only in spirit, for months. “But,” he let his eyes drift toward Galian, who was being given an ear rub by Fiona and looked well content with his lot in life, for this exact second anyway. “That man is a guilt junkie, and we don’t really want to dig up any other reasons to make him crawl under the floorboards. Understand?”

Brick winced. But he nodded.

One hurdle down, only a few thousand to go.

***

Gauze was panicking.

She knew she was panicking, she could feel it, observed it from one remove as she breathed too fast, curled up on the floor of the storage room.

The noise of the shift---

She knew that noise. You had to hear the odd bit of tearing flesh or snapping bone in the emergency room now and then. It wasn’t the desired outcome, but… but it did happen. Sometimes on purpose. Sometimes because something lodged abruptly unlodged.

At least she’d had the good sense to leave the room before doing this, she thought, observing her own panic severely. How could she help them if they thought she needed reassuring every five seconds? She needed to reassure them-- not just the patient.

She made herself take a few deep breaths. It took a few tries.

How was she supposed to help this man if he would take one look at her and fight her? She knew full well just how well she stacked up, combat wise. She wasn’t as good in a fight. Her instincts were for holding back, not going full out. Oh, she was more capable than the average, but next to the other Turks?

She was close to being an honorary Turk anyway, rather than an actual one.

Turk.

The idea helped. More deep breaths, and her hands stopped shaking, and her vision stopped spinning. Slowly, she came back to herself.

She didn’t need to be in control of the situation, she only had to help as much as she could. And… there was one thing she should have thought of earlier.

She stood as soon as she could do it without visibly shaking, and she walked to her own private rooms. Close to honorary as a Turk she was… but she did have the uniform.

The scrubs went into the laundry, with the coat. It would be fine. It would never have flown in an ordinary hospital… but she wasn’t in one anymore. Hell, the point of this place was that she helped in the ways a hospital couldn’t-- hearing what an ordinary nurse or doctor wasn’t allowed to, bending rules where she had to to make them comfortable.

Veld came and knocked on her door as she was refastening her hair. He blinked when she swung the door open and he saw the suit.

“He didn’t go after any of you until Tuesti threw himself between us,” she said by way of explanation, standing there in a suit instead of scrubs. It wasn’t usually her uniform… but of course, she had it. “Probably a lot of that is just familiarity, but maybe some of that is group trust too. If it makes it easier… well, I should have thought of that sooner.”

Veld’s eyes softened. She’d seen him soften for his other Turks in duress, but not for her. “Do you need a break?”

“I just took one. Maybe a tea and coffee break soon, but first, I think we should probably coax him back to a human form.”

“… He’s learned that being a patient is the same as being a victim.” He didn’t say that was how it was, just that it was what Vincent had learned. She’d seen enough to know that if a doctor went bad, it went really bad, until it was stopped. She’d known that well before she saw his scars. “Treating him as one, even talking to him as his doctor—”

“Then I’ll talk to him as a junior Turk helping a Senior tend an injury. You do that.” She’d been cut out of the process more than once. Whenever they could get away with it honestly. “Maybe acting as someone learning from him would be better. Probably won’t help enough to make this …. but it could make it closer to tolerable for him. Maybe.”

“He likes learners. Or he did.” The admission that he didn’t know for the present was a trust, and one she would keep. “We never got apprentices of our own while he was here, but he helped train Fiona, and he taught Brick to cook in his off time— can’t even tell you how many times he volunteered to teach magic or accuracy and gun maintenance.”

“Hopefully, it helps him. That would be a lot. I’m not expecting any miracles, but if it helps him, then it’s better. And besides, it’s true enough. He is a senior agent. I am by almost any metric, extremely junior to him.”

“Thank you.”

***

Ghost threw up again.

Mr. Lockhart looked up at him and then pushed another file onto his stack rather than look at it in depth. He understood the sentiment, but he only looked at the files long enough to identify them correctly.

He still felt nauseated.

“Maybe you should take a break,” he said as Ghost dove back into his work. The older man was white when he wasn’t green and his lips were a hard compressed line in his face when he shook his head. “At least get some fresh air. Maybe some food.”

That had been unkind, he thought to himself as Ghost threw up again. Not… unfair, but unkind. Normally he’d be gentler toward a man who was in hell, but the man had, however tacitly, threatened his wife with that look at his wedding photo.

And he was here looking at this shit too, and he wanted to hurt someone for it. Admittedly not this way, but….

Gods and Gaia, he had seen too much even in the briefest photos. He was going to need to drink tonight.

It wasn’t easy to keep the cool, sardonic tone of his thoughts as he preferred it. There was a part of him that wanted to start screaming and let Ghost deal with that too. He tried to feed that part of him. If he was being petty than he was capable of functioning.

***

Vincent was on a bed again, though it was in a different room now. It helped, a little-- this room wasn’t… wasn’t the workroom, as the Junior Turk had called it. It was easier to call it a workroom when it was so near. It was still too cold, too stiff, too clean-- but it didn’t have the horrible sterile lights, and he wasn’t in the middle of the room. Like the center of a macabre banquet.

He was under a blanket, but still bare chested, still with that thing in his side. It wasn’t… it hadn’t done it’s full work yet. He couldn’t think about it for long.

His skin was still crawling and he still wanted, with all his heart, to rip the thing out of himself the way you would tear out a lamprey and run.

Veld patted his shoulder. “Easy, Vincent. Easy.” He’d asked if he could let Reeve out for a few, on the condition that he would be here with him. He could deal with that-- Veld would have fewer qualms killing a… a madman than Reeve. He suspected that the switch was at least in part so someone could get Reeve alone and get his shirt off, which did not help. Reeve had promised up down and sideways he was fine, but… there were enhanced people and there were enhanced people and Vincent was of the most powerful echelon.

And damn that all to hell.

He did try to ask Veld, of course. Veld muttered something about Brick being overprotective, and… all right, that made sense. But.

It stank in here and the only noises-- even with the… monitor muted, the only noises were the noises of machines meant to scope out and sculpt the inside of a body. Those noises, and Veld’s voice. He tried to listen to that, and that alone. But you couldn’t close ears the way you could eyes.

Becca walked in like she belonged in the room-- she always did that, especially when she was sure it wasn’t true. Her motions had that belligerent declaration of marking her territory about them.

“I stole this from Veld, when they gave him your shit,” she said, still belligerent. She didn’t turn her head to look at Veld, but her eyes flicked to him.

“I knew you had it,” he said. Quiet. He didn’t look at her either.

“Shut up,” she told him, and took the thing in her arms and plugged it into the wall.

It was his old CD player. She plugged it in, and put a CD in it without asking.

It… was one of his old favorites.

“Brick will be making dinner when he gets back,” she said, and left. Her eyes might have been watering, and she held onto her control. Vincent watched her go, the way you watched a comet streak across the sky.

“I don’t think I can eat here,” Vincent said, quiet.

“Just try to,” Veld said, as if he was a child. He wasn’t angry or upset with him. Worried, maybe.

“Is Brick angry at me?”

“No. Why would you ask?”

“He hasn’t said anything to me.”

Veld reared back like he’d been slapped.

“Veld?”

“… There’s a reason for that.”

***

“Did you raid all of the nicest grocery stores?” Reeve murmured when he saw the bags, eyes flicking over the logos. Brick had dithered about who he was going to fuss over most for a bit, and he’d Scanned Reeve enough that it was starting to really irritate him, but he had, eventually, decided that feeding everyone was absolutely needful for his continued sanity and went out to get food. Reeve had needed to make a few calls to Annette and his people anyway.

Brick looked at him, opened his mouth, and shut it again.

“What?”
….. Vincent isn’t eating.

“…. Are you thinking a gourmet kick will change that?”

…. I suppose he didn’t talk about food any more than he did about music.

“… Well. No. Not really.”

Brick bit his lip and started sorting through the first bag. He used to be the best cook out of us. His mother worked a string of culinary jobs before marrying his father—fancy drinks at fancy coffeehouses, cute breakfast meals, implausible packed lunches. He taught me… most of what I know about food. He paused. I kept learning since… since he left. It was something I could do to remember that didn’t make everyone flinch.

“Oh. I… see.” Reeve couldn’t think of anything to add about that. The Vincent he knew… the only thing that matched up with that was the man’s taste in wine. “Brick. It’s not the food’s fault he’s not eating.”

The Turk threw his hands in the air. Unless you have a suggestion, it’s all I have to work with!

Reeve sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Brick… Look. It’s the place.”

Brick cocked his head.

“It’s… the lights are cold and he can’t even curl up on his side with the drainage tube, he feels trapped and exposed. He’s got the tube itself in his side—and trust me, as much as he is seven kinds of traumatized about medical centers, he is worse about shit screwing with his chest. He’s exposed, immobile, he knows he’s being unfair, he’s ashamed of that and of the whole situation—”

Brick held up a hand, Ashamed?

“He stayed away, hid, while you were grieving him. He failed to protect a woman he really did care for… and her son. He doesn’t think of himself as human. And that’s without the various shades of survivors guilt and ptsd and brand new phobias that are all over the inside of his skull. Tell me, is that something the Vincent you knew wouldn’t feel guilty about?”

Brick winced.

“And all of that isn’t helped by the damn smell or the hospital noises or—”

Brick frowned, harder. The smell? The hospital noises?

“The person who had him was fucking incompetent, not unequipped. And I suppose the fact that the whole city smells like Mako once you leave it for a bit and come back isn’t in your head, but it’s in his. Add to that the smell of hospital antiseptic— which doesn’t just smell bad, it burns in the nose and the tissue around the eyes, trying to eat is like trying to eat while huffing a bottle of hand sanitizer.”

Brick winced again, but his eyes were…. Sharp. You didn’t want to stay in the hospital.

“That wasn’t exactly the deciding factor. But it wasn’t a point in it’s favor, no. The point is, unless you are willing to turn this place on it’s head, and franky, I doubt you can do much about the basic nature of a med center without being really, really unreasonable, the place is what it is. Don’t beat yourself up over that.”

Reeve, I just got a friend back after he was dead. Unreasonable is the least of what I am willing to do.

Reeve blinked. “I—Fine. I’ll help however I can. But I don’t know how you can change this without messing up Gauze’s workspace.”

I’ll figure something out.

“Also, you’re letting me buy the groceries next time.”

Brick looked up at the young Director.

“You bought fresh produce. It’s pricey. I make more than you… and I’m not stupid enough to think you’re just feeding Vincent at these amounts.”

… You said it was like trying to eat while huffing hand sanitizer. So when did you last eat, Reeve?

Reeve muttered nonsense, letting his eyes drift off to one side. Of course the man would catch that. Brick smiled, because for once the man looked his actual age. But he gathered himself quickly, hopefully more on reflex than fear now. “Let me help out. Veld’s in there—I’m not needed.”

You know your way around a kitchen?

“Nothing fancy. I fear I have a lot to learn.”

I can show you. You’re going to eat later though.

***

It was little things that were changed first. Rebecca ran in with a smug expression and a wax melter, and then marched over to the two of them imperiously and demanded that they pick: lavender, fresh cotton, gingerbread, or pine.

Vincent was still shaken from the revelation of how Brick had been hurt in his absence. The man wasn’t as aggressive as most Turks-- he hadn’t even wanted a job in this department, at first. But he’d needed money and better hours, and when things weren’t going pear shaped, their hours were better than infantry. Especially with a fully staffed Turk department. And with reason to need it, as he had, Veld would be willing to do a great deal to make sure he had what he needed.

But Rebecca would not be pushed aside in favor of memories.

“Which one? Come on, you can sniff em if you need it.”

He didn’t. He could smell them all fine, even sealed. “Pine.”

“Neat!” she said, and plugged it in nearby. It didn’t cover the antiseptic burn… but it helped soften it, disguised some of it.

It was an hour and a half later-- the three had gone off on a “shopping trip! Gotta run some errands!” as Fiona said, and Brick and Reeve came back, supervised by her, with the most atrocious area rug he had ever seen in his life. It was lime green and hot pink shag carpet, and it was almost too big to fit in the room-- Brick had to keep moving things around to accommodate it. They didn’t ask for permission, just moved things around until that abomination was comfortable.

“My eyes,” whispered Vincent, and Veld burst out laughing. They weren’t done, though. They ran back in-- this time with… pictures.

Two were pictures of chocobos, but not the calming pictures that often adorned professional buildings. One was of a chocobo chick, but it had, evidently, just bitten a farmer on the ass, because the man had leapt into the air and had his hands clamped to the site of the injury while the chick preened at it’s good work, and the mother of the chick watched with sleepy indulgence. In the other, two chocobo studs were fighting for dominance of a herd of females and chicks. There was blood, and torn feathers.

The third picture seemed to be an advertisement for a little known play called Loveless. A little known rendition of it anyway. It was cheap and made of particularly garish colors. And tentacles.

Vincent blinked at them in utter bafflement. Veld was grinning now.

Furniture then. Shitty, mismatched dorm chairs in garish color and what appeared to be a yard sale coffee table. It… was like a poke directly in the eyes. Some books, apparently also from a yard sale from the look and smell of them, got set there.

It took them all of five minutes.

“We’ll get some shitty candles too when we run out for more food tomorrow, but Brick said he wanted to be back so he could start cooking. See you in a bit.”

And Vincent was suddenly… so very tired. Which… was stupid.

“If you need to sleep, sleep,” Veld said, looking at his face.

“I already slept a ton—”

“You were passed out or sedated. There’s a universe of difference. Relax. Reeve or I will be here when you wake up.”

Vincent leaned his head back against the pillow, still… so vulnerable, and…

“I forgot!” Fiona said, poking her head back in. She had a mass of something orange and fluffy in her arms, which she launched at him like a net. Vincent found himself covered in a thick, orange, fluffy blanket. He stared at it stupidly, and then Fiona, who quickly vanished, laughing openly.

Vincent let his head fall back against his pillow, and he slept immediately.

***

Vincent slept for almost twelve straight hours. When he woke, he still wasn’t hungry.

Reeve had warned them about this, and Brick fought dirty.

A rich, yeasty dough was put out to rise. Cookies were baked. Broth was set to slowly boil down it’s component parts, and it boiled all day and into the night.

They didn’t wait for it to waft into the room, but rather, set up a series of fans to force the air along, out of sight but not out of hearing. One was near the oven, and both cooled Brick down as he worked, and brought along the smell of food. This was left to convince or be rebuffed by Vincent on it’s own. The other was near a window. The smells of Midgar were nothing to envy, but they were not sterile.

“Give it time,” Reeve said, softly, when Brick grew frustrated.

He can’t keep doing this. Do you see how thin he is?

He can, Reeve thought, not happily, but what he said was “He responds poorly to force. Sometimes nagging works, sometimes it doesn’t. But I don’t think… he doesn’t move, if he thinks he’s under threat. That kind of threat anyway.”

The words were wrong, but they were what he could produce. Brick ground at his eyes like the back of the socket itched. I’m not trying to…
“I know. I know,” Reeve said. “It’s not you. It’s what he learned, no matter how false it is. This whole place is a threat, and that you know him… it only means he’s not allowed to fight back. So let his stomach talk to him. Not you.”
Brick grimaced and went back to the chicken broth he was making from scratch. Reeve was impressed-- intellectually he had known that such broths had to be made by hand at one point. In practice however… he knew nothing of it.
Reeve, is he going to… The Turk cut himself off.
“He’ll be all right. You wait till we can get him out of here-- it shouldn’t be long now. He’s not… you’re just seeing him at his worst, right now. This is pain, it isn’t who he is, not even after everything.”
Brick frowned down at his broth. I… he gave me my first few lessons in cooking, you know.

“No. Or not much about it anyway. It’s not like Vincent was an open topic for discussion, before.”
Brick grimaced again. No. I suppose he wasn’t.
“I didn’t know he cooked, before. Though… maybe I should have. He could give a blistering critique when someone fucked up camp food for the night, and he always had a fondness for the finer drinks.”
More raised eyebrows. Reeve, what the hell do you know about drinks? It may be something you have access to, but you’re hardly old enough to be… well, versed in it.
Reeve froze again, the way he used to, and Brick’s eyes went wide. But then he took a deep breath, and relaxed. “We had a bartender in the group, you know. I could probably tell you about the soil composition that gives rise to a good wine.”
Brick frowned at him, and stirred the broth one last fretful time before pulling up a chair. He seemed to be weighing things to say, and discarding them. Reeve. You have to know I really don’t give a damn about teenage drinking. If … you don’t have to hide that.
Reeve took another deep breath and shook his head, slow. Feeling his way with his words as he went, like a blind man. “That’s… that’s not the problem. I… don’t know how to explain. And… And most of them aren’t here, and I am. I don’t know… how many are left. Maybe just me and Vincent.”
The Turk looked at him steadily. You sure?
“Well… no. That’s kind of the point.”
Brick gave him the stink eye. Reeve let himself half smile.

“I… still don’t know, exactly, what happened. Our plan went wrong, somehow or… or something.” Reeve cut himself off, frowning, and not sure why he’d said even that much.
You are the only person I’ve ever met, then, who can claim the office of Director… by mistake.
Reeve brought his head up to stare at him, and then… he couldn’t help it. He started laughing.

***

Vincent knew what they were doing, and he sort of hated that it was working.
Only sort of, because… that smelled really good.
It had for several hours now. That was it, that was the game.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t hungry. He was. He was so very hungry. But the concept of eating here… Well, it was easier now that it looked like a budget dorm room assembled by a colorblind eccentric.
He could still feel the tube, every time he breathed, and that… that was more than counterweight to an awful lot of hunger. He still wanted to rip it out. But Veld would panic, and so would everyone else, and they’d probably put it back in. He didn’t want to find out if he had any say in that or not. If not tearing it out meant getting it out for good sooner… he would try. This time.
He could make no other promise. And the presence of the thing was a constant torment.
But he was still hungry, and it did smell good, even if it was only broth.
He ignored it.
He could hear, now and then, hushed, worried talk.
He ignored it.
He did not hear anyone speaking of forcing the issue. That surprised him. He did not want to know if their largesse would continue. He could not make himself eat, and did not want to try.
He had the sudden, horrifying thought, when they turned in the CD player again, that they could be having these conversations quietly, using it for cover. He listened, hard. Nothing emerged, though his ears were good.
That helped. He wished it helped enough.

“Hey. What’s up your ass?” Veld asked, turning a magazine page. He was back after work-- it was morning. But that was alright. Reeve was in the kitchen, they were up to something.
He felt naked and on display with the heart rate monitor. Even mostly quieted it was...He’d rather be naked than have information about his innermost workings carefully charted out.
“You curl up like a hedgehoglet pie when you get upset and are stopping yourself from running off. It’s a little more noticeable now than when you have a cape on, but only a little. You have always done it, but it was usually just hunching your shoulders-- you weren’t usually this easy to alarm.” He looked up. “Talk to me?”
Vincent opened his mouth and shut it again.

What could he even say? ‘I’m suspicious that you’ll do whatever you feel you have to, not what I’d give permission for?’ If he’d been given much more time to think, he wouldn’t be in here let alone give permission for anything. And at the same time, the thought made him want to choke and claw the walls of this place until it fell in on itself.
And besides, telling his partner he couldn’t trust them enough not to treat him like… like…
He couldn’t breathe.
“Vincent?” Veld set the magazine to one side, and came to sit on the table. Bed. It was a bed. It wasn’t… “Vincent, breathe with me.”
He tried. He mostly managed. The world got a few colors back he hadn’t noticed going awol.
“Good. Okay. You can’t say it, whatever it is?”
He shook his head. Evidently he couldn’t even think it.
“Okay. Let me try guessing, then. The… treatment is going good. They should be able to take that out in a day or two. It’s not determined by your healing, but rather by the quantity of fluid and air where it isn’t supposed to be. So that should come out soon, and we can leave.”
…. If Veld was… trying to keep him calm for… for a later procedure, he wouldn’t have told him how good it was going. He wouldn’t play with him like that.
“So you won’t be stuck with that much longer. Gauze and Reeve have been trying to figure out the least painful way to extract it before they bring it up-- they don’t want to tell you it’ll be one way when it’s still up in the air.”That… was reasonable, though his insides crawled with it.
“So. This won’t go on too long,” Veld said. “After that, Reeve said you could crash at his place for a few days, so you can eat, rest and make sure you’re properly healed. Which, I warned him it meant we would all be crashing there, and he snorted and said he figured. So that’s good.”
Vincent breathed, slowly, as if to do so suddenly would jar something.
“Does that help any?”
“A little,” he whispered, to the horrifying carpet. It looked like a horrifying mutant dorm room. That helped.
“If you eat, it may help you think clearer.” Veld said, simply. “I’m less of a dick when I eat. Tseng has taken to showing up with takeout as commentary. Or I think it’s commentary. He keeps his face straight and it’s hard to tell.”
Vincent snorted at that.
“Does it hurt?”
“… the pain is not the problem.” It did twinge now and then. He did not want to be wool—witted and confused again. Not now. But… it was so… wrong.
“… Okay,” Veld said, quietly. “I guess I get that. But… Hell. I’m not saying you need to force down a meal. But if I get a plate with a few cookies, help me out and finish one or two?”

He didn’t want to. He did want to. He… wasn’t sure what he wanted. Except… that being here made it harder.

He did not want anything else inside him.

It was food. He didn’t mind the idea of food. He knew that.

But it felt.. it felt like he was bending to the will of this place. Like he was submitting to it.

Like he was cooperating.

He barely understood it himself. How in any parallel hell could he explain?

He was hungry. But the idea of chewing, eating, swallowing, smelling antiseptic all the while, as the thing inside him tugged against his every movement, breath or swallow.

“How about I get some food. And if you want some, I hand over some of mine?”

Then at least it probably wouldn’t be drugged.

… If they were going to drug him, they’d use the damned IV, not food. If anything they’d… they’d probably force him to fast in advance of a procedure.

Maybe eating was a good idea.
“If,” Vincent said, quiet. And Veld nodded, like that made sense.

***

“Alright, Jackasses, you get one platter of food. Use it wisely. And don’t be a dick about it, I’m going to have to eat at least a bit of it, probably more,” Veld said without preamble. Reeve cocked his head, but evidently this was something Brick understood-- he flew into action.

“I don’t follow,” he finally said.

“Vincent has agreed to eat off my plate, if he feels like it, he guesses, maybe,” Veld said, with a shrug. “Sometimes captured Turks get weird about food, so sometimes I just… eat in front of them and offer to let them pick off my plate.”

“…. And Vincent wouldn’t… know this?”

“He knows. But… sometimes permission to pretend things are different helps.” Veld said, then frowned. “And sometimes what helps is seeing someone else eat from that plate. And maybe neither will help… but not being forced and sharing a meal will. Or not. Shit is like that sometimes.”

Brick was filling a bowl with some kind of fragrant rice dish that he had been making with the chicken stock. It… did smell delicious. And he’d put an absurd amount of herbs, mushrooms, chunks of chicken and onion, cheese and butter into it.

Looked a little overboiled to Reeve, but he had survived for a significant span of his adulthood with instant meals, and… also he wasn’t sure what the dish was. It smelled good. Maybe that was enough.

“Brick is something of a deeply unofficial Turk cook,” Veld said, in the tones of one conferring a secret. Brick gave him a hurt look, and he smiled. “A deeply unofficial open secret cook.”

“I struggle to parse what the heck that means.”

Sometimes, if someone isn’t eating, I make them food. Or if we’re celebrating, or if the mood takes me. It… wouldn’t work the same if it was only ever available out of pity, Brick said, after a moment. He considered, and then started assembling a plate of cookies and a bowl of fruit. Then, hot, steaming bread and a little bowl of oil and herbs. And… since I had the good sense to become a very good cook first, in part thanks to Vincent, my meals are sought after, desired.

“So, rarely ignored or turned aside,” Reeve said, and nodded. Brick nodded, and made tall glasses of tea, rich with honey and butter. He supposed Vincent was skinny.

It probably won’t be enough, Reeve considered telling them. It wasn’t really the food that Vincent didn’t want. But.

Well. One had to try, yes?

***

Vincent knew what they were doing, the bastards.

He’d taught Brick how to make a risotto. He’d been the one to explain the process of making broth. The man might be subtle, but he wasn’t trying to hide in the fucking least.

Bread and oil had also been something he’d introduced the little shit to, though he hadn’t mastered the art of a good loaf of bread when he’d left.

Of course, that was a huge part of the temptation. Most of it, even. Don’t you want to see how I’ve grown? Don’t you want to see what I did with what you gave me?

And Vincent did, of course. He did.

The whole of a war was fought and lost in the span of about two minutes. Veld blinked when he reached out and grabbed the bread, evidently not expecting him to move so soon.

It made the whole thing feel more like a defeat. A surrender.

It was stupid. Irrational. But it felt like a betrayal, somehow, biting into the hot, crusty slice, dripping with oil flavored with garlic and basil. Not the most complicated blend… but it didn’t have to be.

Brick had gotten good at this. It should feel like a victory. It should be a victory. When had he gotten so good at stealing defeat from the jaws of victory?

Veld had stopped eating altogether, and was watching his face with an odd, complicated little expression that he wasn’t going to try to parse, for now. It was…. He didn’t like it. He looked away.

“Vincent?”

He was safe, and he was eating Brick’s food again, and that shouldn’t feel like a shitty consolation prize or a trap--

“Vincent. Take a deep breath.”

He obeyed, since he was useless he might as well take orders. The smells assaulted him again. Warm, and rich, and so damn good. Salty and fatty.

“Brick kind of took up your role as chef and Fiona-tamer, when you disappeared,” Veld said, almost absently. Vincent flinched. “I… they couldn’t talk about it, with me. So… I think it was his way of… remembering.”

The guilt rose in him like a wave. Veld saw it, in his eyes, and shook his head, slowly.

“I think he was hoping you could compare notes,” he said, and nudged the bowl toward him. “About this… rice stuff.”

“Risotto.”

“Yeah. He makes this rice soup too, it tastes good, but warmer and fresher—”

Vincent felt himself glare a little. “That narrows it down a lot less than you think. Does it have ginger in it?”

“I think so? He makes it when someone is really hurt—”

“Again, doesn’t really narrow it down. But maybe it’s congee, if it’s like a thin oatmeal…”

“That’s the word! Congee!”

Vincent scowled at him and took a mouthful of the risotto.

“…. not the best wine he could have chosen to add flavor.”

“He put wine in this shit? Why?”

“To add flavor, you filthy savage.” Vincent didn’t even care that Veld looked satisfied when he insulted him. The little shit knew, or should know, more about food than this. “The alcohol cooks off.”

“You cook off the fun, typical.”

“It’s a dry wine. Or it should be. You hate those anyway.”

“So why not just… use something fun?”

“I did see one made with a hard cider, gouda and bacon once.”

“…. Well, bacon is usually good.” Veld’s tone was… dubious.

Vincent resisted throwing the spoon at him. He needed a few more spoonfuls before he delivered the rest at a high speed. Though it would be a shame to waste it… the chicken was a bit dry. Presumably cooked separate and added at the end, which was normal enough, but the cheese only mostly covered how it was slightly overcooked.

Most people wouldn’t notice, he knew that.

… It was good.

The shit knew he was weak for garlic. And the onions were perfectly browned. The risotto itself was heavy and rich.

“Is this why he always wants different rices? I don’t get the difference,” Veld said, rolling his eyes. It was, again, a struggle, but Vincent did not nail him with the spoon. The spoon was heavy with risotto, chicken and cheese, and thus, had it’s destiny elsewhere.

Maybe if he finished the bowl, he could throw it at him after.

“Hey, what herbs are in this… is this just oil?”
… One empty dish might not be enough.

***

There was a crash. Reeve was on his feet immediately-- Brick shook his head at him. No yelling. We leave that alone.
“But—”
Nope. Not unless they call us in.
They were not called in. In fact, after a moment, a very self satisfied looking Veld, who seemed to be wearing a disproportionate amount of olive oil, streaking from his face and down his front, came out, holding a few empty dishes and a smirk steady.
“Thank you. That’s something at least.” Veld said.
Vincent was yelling. Not in fear-- in anger.
Something about rice.
“I gotta go back. Good work,” Veld said.

“What?” Reeve asked, as his footsteps retreated.
Brick started laughing, soundless and bent over his cutting board.

***

Tseng considered his options.

Strangling Veld, was, of course, first on the list. Satisfying, in a visceral way, but it left evidence all over everyone involved. Sloppy. Tseng did not allow himself sloppiness.

Two: shooting him. Better, and it was less tests to fake, but still messy. And would likely leave Tseng dealing with the board in his place which the bastard doubtless knew.

Third, and the first option he was ever going to take seriously, was barging in and finding out whatever else was going on, will they or will they not. Frustrating, painful, likely dangerous, but Veld would be as loath to do all his own paperwork as Tseng was to deal with the board full time

He sighed and dropped his head into his hands. It would be so simple, if he just allowed himself to act.

Which… he wouldn’t. He had promised Vincent he would look out for his partner. His mentor was usually a reasonable man. There was an explanation for this, even if he did not yet know it.

But by heaven, he wanted to.

***

Getting the damn tube out was, of course, an ordeal. Vincent had to be drugged to hell, and in order to do that, he’d needed to be reassured to hell and back that they’d be here while he couldn’t make himself safe.

Useless, to tell him that he was safe. They all knew that. He knew that. It was only that he knew, more firmly, that this was hell, and there was no safety within, more.

Veld was.. so tired. So tired and so very, very angry. But, anger wouldn’t fix this.

He just knew he was going to have to figure out how to kill Hojo. The slower the death, the better.

… About twenty years of slow death might be enough to satisfy him, but he doubted it.

He only knew, as they finally, finally bundled Vincent into a van to transport to Reeve’s house, that they needed to get him the hell out of Midgar.

And kill Hojo. Slow.

***

“I have a plan,” Reeve told him, quiet and calm. “It’s a dumb plan, but it will work.”

“I’m getting mixed signals,” Veld told him, bland and tired.

“I have an assload of vacation days saved up,” Reeve said. He was setting up a makeshift bed on the first floor of his townhouse-- a yoga mat layered on couch cushions, with blankets on top. It would be… soft. Vincent would probably prefer to climb the stairs to the bedrooms and damn the consequences.

They would all prefer Vincent not do anything, damn the consequences.

Vincent was staying here for a few days at least. Alright, normally they would ask Vincent about their plans, but Vincent was high as hell for the next ten minutes at least, and frankly, they wanted him to be near the one medic that they knew well enough to trust if something did go wrong. Not that they really wanted to bring that up again, because he was finally, finally relaxed.

High, but relaxed.

They… might have overdone it on the painkillers and the calming drugs. It hadn’t seemed like enough when they were getting the damned tube out.

“And….?”

“And if I take a vacation out of Midgar, it’ll be pretty unremarkable given the current situation with attacks on my person. But, I have two turks with me wherever I go-- which should also be more than enough to escort Vincent back to his current home address safely. It’s safe enough if I don’t log a travel itinerary, and very frankly, any random problems we run into will find themselves… outmatched.”

“… How would you even plan a trip to Nibelheim, city boy? If you book a direct flight you may as well just announce to everyone where you’re going—”

“Which is why I’d book a train cabin, direct to the coast, last minute, with physical gil. Then, I’d get a cabin on a passenger ship, also last minute, also cash gil. We don’t need to spare expenses, but there’s also no need to get the kind of first class that gets attention-- just privacy, last minute plans, and lots and lots of food.”

“That takes money. And connections. I can withdraw—”

“I actually have five different routes mapped out, on a notebook. At least to the coast. Once we get to the correct landmass, we get a few more options on how to proceed. I like chocobos, but we could rent a vehicle-- vehicular maintenance is not my specialty, but I know enough to know a bug from a proper part of the chassis. If it’s just something the organization we rent from does to keep their property, we apologze and claim we lost it on a difficult stretch of road when we return it, and invite them to keep the deposit. No harm, no investigation, and we all get what we want.”

“…. You put a lot of thought into this.”

Reeve shrugged. “Thought I might need it.”

Veld considered that a long few moments. “… I talked with Vincent. A little. About… whatever organization you two were in.” Reeve’s face closed like a vault door, and Veld held up his hands, in the hopes it would help. “Hey. We’re on the same side here.”

“Sore subject,” Reeve said. His face was still closed, but… less closed? Or closed, but not locked. It was also neither agreement nor disagreement.

“You’re good at plans, backup plans. More.”

“Yes.” Reeve said the word without pride or false modesty. He knew he was good at plans. “I do not like to plan attacks. That goes poorly.”

Oh. Was that why he was now on edge? “Good. If you take my job I’m going to get grumpy. I want to be in position when I get the go ahead to start shooting the fucks who did this.”

Finally, finally the kid laughed and relaxed, just a little.

“Look. You have secrets. Okay. I have secrets too. Things that aren’t mine to tell. Things that are safer not said. It’s fine.”

Reeve considered him, openly, and then nodded.

“But. I am your ally.”

Reeve considered him again, with the cool assessment of a general considering a fortification. “That depends, I suspect,on my goal. We are allies, in that we want Vincent comfortable and we want the parties responsible to pay.”

“…. Shinra did not tell the Turks that the building had a basement. I haven’t told the others yet.”

Reeve must have been there when… whoever pried Vincent out of his coffin did it. His eyes widened incrementally.

“So. Please understand. There is almost nothing you could do that would make me consider for a moment, not being your friend and ally in this and other things.”

Reeve considered. Slowly. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

Not agreement or disagreement, but awareness.

Reeve went still, head cocking as if he listened to some distant voice. “We need to get into the other room.”

“Why?”

“Because the drugs are finally really kicking in, and if they start to freak him out I want both of us on hand.”

“What, now they are?”

Reeve just snorted.

***

Brick had been stirring cookie dough in a mixer he had bought for the purpose, hoping that the familiar activity would soothe the not-altogether-lucid Vincent. He’d managed to half prop him up, half pour him into a kitchen chair, and was, with Fiona’s help, maintaining a conversation as he darted through the kitchen.

He hadn’t had much time to talk to Vincent, yet. Every time he did, Vincent curled up, radiating shame and for some reason, guilt. The shame was stupid, but he understood it-- Fiona had been like that both when she had been captured, and when he had been. But guilt? That was… more concerning.

So while Veld and Reeve were discussing whatever common ground they had found in the seismic shifts the last few days had thrown at them, he had taken Vincent to the kitchen, hoping that being out of the medical safehouse and cooking would relax him enough that they could talk. Figure out how to talk, around the raw places he didn’t know if he still had the right to prod.

Also, Vincent needed feeding up, and passing him spoon after spoon of cookie dough was satisfying in a deeply visceral way. Almost as satisfying as it would be if they cooked together again.

…. He didn’t know if his hands, as they were now, could crack eggs cleanly into a little bowl. Maybe he’d have to do that for him.

For now, Vincent didn’t get up, and that was okay. He didn’t want to see if he could reach his hand into the beater and not get it torn off, and this was the sort of thing you did have to wonder about when someone was as loopy as Vincent apparently was.

He talked for a while without much response, using Fiona as a go between when he had to turn his back-- talking about the Turks, about Shinra, about the city, about anything that came to his mind. He didn’t talk about his boy, though now and then he thought he saw Vincent wonder. Vincent didn’t ask. Vincent mostly grunted and made other noises in response. That was fine too. He was probably still behind on events as they stood, though he was sure Veld had done his best to fill him in.

He had mentioned some minor scientist in the company getting an award in a ceremony that had gone badly sideways when he heard Vincent giggle.

He turned to look at him-- Vincent was staring at his dough spoon, but transferred his eyes to him easily enough. “Science doesn’t do science,” he said, much more clearly than Brick had anticipated, though clearly still unable to pass as sobered up. “I know science. M’father was a scientist, an they’re stupid.”

Okay, Brick said, wondering why that was the thing to get a response.

“Thy jist suck at it so much,” Vincent said earnestly, like a child persuading his parent he was telling the truth. “There’s variables n’stuff, and you’re supposed to make less of ‘em, but they keep fucking up.”

How do they fuck up? Brick asked. It was a silly little side tangent, but that was okay-- Vincent could probably get a lot of tension out of his system with some loopy rants, and hell, he’d never been one to much like science but--

“Well, they’s supposed to make stuff, and test it, and them… them… then they can make more cmplx stuffs. You start simple, an make cells work in a petri dish, and then in a mouse, and then in some human stuff in a dish, and you do it loss, cause then you can prove it wassnt magic or your hair in the dish or dumb shit. But they don’t do it, cause they’re stupid. And horny.”

Brick blinked. Fiona nearly spat out her drink.

Horny?

Vincent contemplated his dough again, and as if making a solemn decree, took a bite, taking a moment to savor dough and crunch little chocolate chips between his teeth. “s’s not normal, right?” he finally said, almost pleadingly. “People shouldn’t look at tst tubes an alien corpsis an go ‘that one!! That one shall carry my seed!!”
Fiona had, stupidly, taken another sip while he paused, and was now hacking and coughing it up into the sink.

“But they allllls do it.” Vincent said in quietly horrified tones. “Alls of em. And that’s jist wrong. ‘Cept my dad.” he stared at his spoon again. “I think.”

Okay… okay buddy. Brick made eye contact with Fiona as soon as she looked up, and she cleaned herself off, washed off her hands, and poured two glasses of water. Three easy steps took her to the chair, and the slumped figure enthroned on it, and she bent over to get to eye level with him.

“Hey, drink this okay? Do you need help?”

Vincent shrugged and let her guide him through the glass, then wobbled for a moment blinking at them. Fiona took a very hurried sip of her glass, and choked it down at top speed.

Veld knocked on the door and let himself in. “We’re about done out there-- ooooh, dough.”

“ss good,” Vincent told him, and in spite of everything, Brick felt a surge of pride. Reeve, for his part, wasn’t pretending to act casual, but went straight to him. Vincent looked up at him. “You know. Even Gast fucked the science. He just got… he got consen… consent. And took her to dinner fist.”

Reeve blinked, a lot. Then dropped his head into one palm.

“Okay… I guess that’s true,” he said though the meat of his hand.

“And ‘Falna’s scrry, so thats smart ss well as being not evil. So maybe they aren’t all dumb. But they’re still all horny.”

“Let’s have some more dough, okay buddy?” Fiona put in, gently. Even Brick had to admit it was disturbing, overall, and the look Vincent gave her actually made her smirk. Which helped. “Have some more dough, you’re not running on much.”

“’M not absorbing al’c’hol. It’s in my veins wit the other… the other crap.”

“That’s true, but even so. Have a few more bites, okay.”

“’kay. Isss really nice dough.”

Brick smiled at him, and started parceling out dough on the baking sheet. Though he waved at Fiona to wash the spoons, and she complied-- they were going to need fresh clean ones if Vincent kept having spoonfuls.

He turned around to observe, and saw Vincent having another slow, deliberate bite, and Veld and Reeve having an entire debate with their eyes and faces alone. He wasn’t entirely sure about what, but Reeve looked to him, and Fiona, and the door, and Veld gritted his teeth and shook his head--

“Where do they ev’n find scientists this horny?” Vincent said. Brick caught a quiet ‘damnit’ that he thought was Reeve, but he couldn’t be sure. “D’they take out… out ads? ‘Wanted: Scientist with loose morals and hard cock. Wet pussy acceptable but not preferred. Job experience in a working lab is considered a detriment on this team!’” He wobbled for a moment. “An’ then Hojo an the others rush in with no pants and slam their dicks on the desk to prove they’s qualified?”

He giggled. No one else did. Fiona was slowly straightening with a look on her face that would make a fleet of demons think better and leave. He waved at her not to turn around. She wanted to. They waged a war with their eyes alone. But if she didn’t, maybe he would keep talking.

She stayed, hands braced against the sink, wet to her elbows and dripping soap suds onto the counter and floor.

“An then they finds the alien corpse lady and Hojo goes “I must make babies with her. I musssst. But sh’doesnt have the eggs, so Lu thinks to herself ‘this sounds like a job for what you planted between my legs! It was wrong. It was so wrong.”

Confusion took the place of wrath, which was probably good. Still sounded like a crime against humanity but… hopefully there was an explanation a sober mind would appreciate. He wasn’t sure how any could be possible but--

Well. He was clearly high as a dragon right now.

“Th’rss sup’osed to be trials!” Vincent said in sudden indignation. “Supposed to be dishes and rats and shit and lots an’lss more shit, so’s this doesn’t happen!! You’re not supposed to stick your dick in the science!”

“I know,” Reeve said, unexpected, and crouched down in front of Vincent. “I know. It was wrong.”

He didn’t look happy in the least, but he did seem calm. Worse, he seemed to understand.

“I had to come back,” Vincent said suddenly, face crumpling. “I had to! It wasn’t fair. He didn’t a’ksss to be born. Was’n his fault!”

“Back to Migar? Okay… yeah, we can probably do that, but you’re looking a little rough yet for that kind of work. We’ll take care of it. Just won’t be this trip. It’s going to be okay.”

“Noooooo,” Vincent whined, slumping forward to drop the crown of his head against Reeve’s shoulder. “It was my fault.”

“No. No it wasn’t. You tried to stop it,” Reeve said. His back was fully to Brick now. Fiona stole a look, more confused now than enraged, and found Veld looking at the pair of them, like he was arranging puzzle pieces in his head. He shook his head at them, then put a hand on Vincent’s shoulder.

“Let’s drink some more water and have a nap.”

“Noooooo,” Vincent whined. “I had to travel back, it was my fault.”

“I think I told you what would happen if I had to listen to you apologize anymore,” Veld said. “Come on. Bed. We can get some more food later. You can save some dough, right Brick?”

Brick nodded.

“ss never the same when it’s not fresh. It changes. Time does that.” Vincent said, slowly allowing Veld to work an empty spoon from his hand.

Todd decided to throw them all a bone. It’s still good though, right? He tried to look sad, and it worked. Vincent bowed his head.

“Yeah. It’ll be good. Promise. Sorry.”

***

“That was…. Different. I don’t think I’d ever seen him in an altered mental state before. Well. An altered mental state that wasn’t the various shapes… berzerker rages.” Reeve said. He was looking at the tea Brick had put in his hands.

Vincent had settled mostly meekly, and Veld promised to coax him through a few glasses of water and sent him to get some tea and food. Reeve suspected that it was more for Fiona and Todd than for him, because they had… questions.

Questions he did not intend to answer.

“What the fuck was that?” Fiona hissed. She wasn’t as pissed as she could have been. It was just such a weird conversation. But… “Was he saying Hojo was…” Horny?

Reeve looked at her blankly before the synapses connected. “No! No, there was… an issue. Hojo went straight to human trials. With his own offspring, or so I heard.”

That was worse. Brick knew that was worse. But relief clawed it’s way up his spine. Vincent had obviously been through enough without…

Also, wrangling Fiona would be… easier if no one she knew personally was directly affected by that… horrible tirade.

“If you’re lying—”

“Fiona, at this point killing me would make Vincent sad.”

“Which is why I won’t even threaten it. No, there are other ways to punish you that are well within my rights.”

Reeve narrowed his eyes, then shut them and went back to enjoying the smell of his tea, and the warm weight of it in his hands.

And the questions kept coming.

***

Veld happened to be the one in easy sight when they were getting Vincent to bed down on the horrible, too soft bed thing Reeve had made in the dining room, so he was the one Vincent latched onto with might and main.

Which was fine. Which was ideal, actually.

Because Veld had seen Vincent drugged to hell and back before. And something… something about his tone was off. Something about the answers, and the way he spoke.

Drugged people were not a uniform set of behaviors. Quite the opposite. And one thing Vincent would not do, would not consider doing, was making sex jokes around someone he considered a child. And he would consider Reeve a child, and for some time, if he had last worked with him some time ago.

But Reeve hadn’t just known what he was talking about. He’d known how to soothe Vincent. While being obviously baffled at the behavior.

Which meant Vincent or someone around him had spoken about this, and his innmost thoughts about this mess, while sober.

And… ‘I had to come back’. Vincent had been fixated on that point. Guilty. Pleading, particularly for, if he was any judge, and in spite of everything, Veld still was, Reeve’s forgiveness.

Not coming to Midgar, then.

He waited until Reeve got around to really evading questions-- it would frustrate them, and keep them busy-- to go and get Vincent a fresh water bottle and sit with him.

“Vincent,” he asked, as casually as he could. “What year did you wake up? When you met Reeve?”

It was the sort of absentminded question they’d have asked each other while filling out paperwork after a mission. Asked and answered a thousand times without thought or fear.

So it didn’t really surprise him, that Vincent answered equally thoughtlessly, without hesitation. “Year seven, after the two millennia reset.”

They sat in that silence for a moment-- Vincent with his water bottle, and Veld, with his thoughts.

He was telling the truth.

He considered if he was mad. And… he thought… not in this respect. Vincent had been raised by a scientist. He was neat and precise about times and dates. Rarely mistaken, and often only by the smallest amount. He still was. If Vincent was so very mad that he could not do math, then he would not have been so functional. Would not have had a happy, well fed and properly sheltered an attired child when last he checked.

Simply mistaken? How?

Something dangerous, something massive was afoot. And he did not know how or why it came to pass.

But it brought Vincent back to him.

… That would be enough. That would need to be enough.