ヴィンセント・ヴァレンタイン (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cloakandclaw) wrote2009-06-06 11:02 am
cloakandclaw) wrote2009-06-06 11:02 am
[Outpost 12] A Gift
Rarely, if ever, does he wake up hungry. Sometimes he can go weeks without eating. Thirty years in a coffin taught him that the usual forms of sustenance are, for him, unnecessary, although he will eat and sleep and shower and launder clothing and drink and dream and wish just like anybody else.
He... is not like anybody else, though. As much as he would like to be, he isn't. When he looks in the mirror, what he sees isn't human. It's a walking disaster, a monster, a monstrosity who doesn't deserve to live and breathe. He should have died.
He should have died more than thirty years ago.
He should have had the common decency to stay dead. A life without Lucrecia would be no life at all. A life as this... thing they turned him into?
The pain and shame of it are unspeakable. He can't bear to look at himself most days; it's why the blanket stays over the mirror in his room. It's why he rarely frequents his room. It's why he... despises himself so much. There are bad days and worse days and the very rare day that's less bad, but today... today is a terrible day; he can tell the moment he wakes up. It's the kind of day he's likely to spend curled up in the corner of his room, knees hugged to his chest, shutting out everyone and everything.
As his eyes open and adjust to the room's dim light, he finds that the cloak -- which had been hanging in his closet -- has settled onto him during the night.
Again. That's no comfort; he throws it off and begins the ritualistic and serious business of covering his body so completely that the only skin visible is the skin on his face. As he reaches for the thin layer he wears beneath the leather, he stops, tilts his head: what is this... this thing on his bureau? One hesitant step follows another until he's standing before it. He reaches forward, ignoring the series of scars crossing the skin on the backs of both hands for the moment and picks up the radio.
He can feel his stomach drop.
Vincent.
Yes?
Dance with me.
How did this get here? Why is it here? His hands, scarred but steady, reach for the knob and turn it but no song comes out. There's only the sound of static. Of course: why would it work here? It couldn't. It should never have worked in the first place.
What? No… no, I can't dance.
So you don't like me.
No, that's not what I--
Then dance with me.
He was young, and he was human, and he was alive. Just... just Vincent Valentine from Administrative Research, assigned to her protection. He didn't know how to dance. That wasn't part of his training. Static from the radio fills his ears and he has to shut his eyes against it, but the memory won't leave him alone. He can feel Lucrecia's hands on his shoulder and hand, he can feel his own hand on her waist, he remembers the hesitant stumbling steps she somehow managed to turn into a graceful and beautiful dance and in that moment -- in that one shining moment -- he leaned closer, almost held her to his body, closed his eyes, and smiled.
See, it isn't that bad, is it.
(Oh, Lucrecia, you had no idea.)
Turning off the radio with a snap, he finishes dressing as meticulously and carefully as ever. When that's done to his satisfaction, he gives the old radio one more glance, makes sure the window curtains are closed all the way and that the door is locked and bolted, then finds himself a likely corner.
It's going to be a long day.
He... is not like anybody else, though. As much as he would like to be, he isn't. When he looks in the mirror, what he sees isn't human. It's a walking disaster, a monster, a monstrosity who doesn't deserve to live and breathe. He should have died.
He should have died more than thirty years ago.
He should have had the common decency to stay dead. A life without Lucrecia would be no life at all. A life as this... thing they turned him into?
The pain and shame of it are unspeakable. He can't bear to look at himself most days; it's why the blanket stays over the mirror in his room. It's why he rarely frequents his room. It's why he... despises himself so much. There are bad days and worse days and the very rare day that's less bad, but today... today is a terrible day; he can tell the moment he wakes up. It's the kind of day he's likely to spend curled up in the corner of his room, knees hugged to his chest, shutting out everyone and everything.
As his eyes open and adjust to the room's dim light, he finds that the cloak -- which had been hanging in his closet -- has settled onto him during the night.
Again. That's no comfort; he throws it off and begins the ritualistic and serious business of covering his body so completely that the only skin visible is the skin on his face. As he reaches for the thin layer he wears beneath the leather, he stops, tilts his head: what is this... this thing on his bureau? One hesitant step follows another until he's standing before it. He reaches forward, ignoring the series of scars crossing the skin on the backs of both hands for the moment and picks up the radio.
He can feel his stomach drop.
Vincent.
Yes?
Dance with me.
How did this get here? Why is it here? His hands, scarred but steady, reach for the knob and turn it but no song comes out. There's only the sound of static. Of course: why would it work here? It couldn't. It should never have worked in the first place.
What? No… no, I can't dance.
So you don't like me.
No, that's not what I--
Then dance with me.
He was young, and he was human, and he was alive. Just... just Vincent Valentine from Administrative Research, assigned to her protection. He didn't know how to dance. That wasn't part of his training. Static from the radio fills his ears and he has to shut his eyes against it, but the memory won't leave him alone. He can feel Lucrecia's hands on his shoulder and hand, he can feel his own hand on her waist, he remembers the hesitant stumbling steps she somehow managed to turn into a graceful and beautiful dance and in that moment -- in that one shining moment -- he leaned closer, almost held her to his body, closed his eyes, and smiled.
See, it isn't that bad, is it.
(Oh, Lucrecia, you had no idea.)
Turning off the radio with a snap, he finishes dressing as meticulously and carefully as ever. When that's done to his satisfaction, he gives the old radio one more glance, makes sure the window curtains are closed all the way and that the door is locked and bolted, then finds himself a likely corner.
It's going to be a long day.