Elira yawned as she entered the small apartment she had above her shop, not even bothering to remove her sneakers. She was starving. The mocha coffee Terry had bought her at lunch had been the only thing she'd had all day. And it had gone right through her. Coffee always did. She opened the fridge, squinting at the glow the lightbulb shed in the darkness of her kitchen, and rummaged through half-heartedly. Nothing struck her as particularly appetizing. She hadn't been shopping yet this week; making a mental note to go to the market tomorrow on her lunch hour, she closed the refridgerator door with a foot.
The living room was dark, the only illumination coming from a streetlight in front of the shop as its gentle radiance filtered through her curtains. Stepping carefully around an armchair, and then an end table, she came to a standing lamp. Pulling the small chain attached to the bulb beneath the shade, she turned it on. The room was small, stuffed with a couch, a fair-sized wall unit, and other various pieces of furniture. Elira surveyed it contentedly, sighing. Home. Even though her livingroom was just about as tidy as such a cramped room could get, Elira began to straighten the cushions and smooth down the afghan that hung over the back of her sofa, wasting time until she could decide if she felt like going to bed. As she stood up, looking over her handiwork, her stomach gave an irritated rumble.
And Elira decided to go out for supper.
It was after nine o'clock and a weeknight, so the streets were fairly deserted. Elira walked along the sidewalk with her coat collar pulled up almost to her nose, her breath filtering through her zipper in visible clouds. It was a chilly evening for spring, but Elira didn't mind it that much. The cold usually dissuaded a number of the muggers of Virna from plying their trade too vigorously. Still, she attempted to muffle her footsteps as she walked so as not to draw attention to herself.
Most of the stores near her shop were closed now, turning in fairly early so that the workers could get home before the criminal element started coming out of their greasy holes. Elira was starting to realize how futile it had been to come out so late. She was just about to turn around and go back home when she saw some lightened windows at the end of the block. So she kept walking. She was somewhat surprised when she found that the store still open for business was the new cafe. Either the owner here had more guts than the rest of them, or he didn't know how dangerous it was to be open so late. But, whatever the reason, their doors were accepting weary customers as they came off of their trains, wandering over from the station not even a street away.
Despite the number of people in the cafe, the atmosphere was quiet, subdued. Two young men who looked like punks sat on stools at the counter, but both were silent, as if waiting for something. A homeless beggar slept soundly on the padded bench by the pay phone. A few of the tables were taken up, but mostly by singles as they nursed cups of coffee in their weary hands, enjoying a moment of solitude before returning home.
Elira gave an audible gasp when she saw that one of these was Vincent.
He sat facing her, though his eyes lingered on the window. He had no coffee. Elira wondered what in the world would've brought him here. He did not seem the type of man who would waste time in a coffeeshop. Curious, she considered whether or not he would accept a little company. She still felt a little self-conscious about listening in on his conversation with Barret, but he hadn't seemed bitter about it. In fact, when he'd startled her while re-entering the forge, he'd caught her by the wrist to keep her from falling. If it had been Terry listening in on something she was saying, she would've let him fall on his butt. It would've served him right.
But Vincent seemed above all that. Above petty little squabbles. It was as if he had known grudges that went as deep as the soul, and therefore anything in comparison was worth less than nothing.
And besides, this was an opportunity to get to know him, if getting to know him was actually possible. After all, she'd wanted to take him here earlier; she'd have to be a fool to ignore this second chance.
If she'd have believed in such things, she might've believed that this was fate's doing.
Elira walked quickly to the table. Vincent must've expected her to just hurry by, since the restrooms were down a hallway behind him, for he didn't look up at her until she'd slipped into the seat opposite him. She might as well have been a complete stranger for the amount of recognition his expression registered.
"Hi, Vincent," she said, her voice appropriately low for the noise level in the cafe. He gave a nod of his head before glancing out the window again. No questions about what she was doing here. No mention of how dangerous it was for a young woman to be walking alone at this time of the evening. Not even the remotest effort at starting a conversation. Elira gave a sigh, realizing that it was wholly up to her. He had no interest in getting closer to anyone.
"So, what brings you here? I thought you always went straight home after work?" It was a valid question, she decided. She just wanted to know what had changed his routine. Maybe something was wrong, and if there was, maybe there was something she could do to help. She wasn't going beyond professional concern, as far as she could see, so he really had no reason not to answer.
"I missed the train," Vincent replied quietly, not looking away from the window.
Elira nodded, silently cheering. Though it wasn't much information, it was still a start. And, it was more to add to what she'd recieved in her interview of him a month ago. I'm familiar with guns...my knowledge is extensive...I don't have a phone...I'm from MiraCletus...
...I know a man named Barret...I take a train home...
"That's too bad," Elira remarked. "If I had a car, I'd offer you a ride home."
Vincent said nothing. Elira followed his gaze to the train station.
"So, when's the next train due to arrive?"
Vincent continued to stare out into the darkness, his reflection dimly visible in the glass. "Ten minutes."
"Oh." Elira's gaze slipped to the table top as she wondered what to say next. She had pretty well beaten this train-thing within an inch of its life, so it was time to move onto a new topic. But what else was safe, professional? Maybe if she just talked shop for a few minutes it would get him talking. After all, it would just be two people discussing work; there would be nothing personally involving about it. "Well, Vincent, I have to admit that I am very impressed with your work."
Vincent lowered his head a little. Elira cringed upon remembering how uncomfortable compliments made him. Perhaps even they were too personal. Or maybe...Elira blinked as a realization of something she had already noticed suddenly came clear. He was a man who worked for himself. He owed nobody anything and nobody owed him anything. He had no ties with anyone; well, there might've been some with that group Barret had been talking about, but Vincent seemed to have severed contact with them long ago. He was a man alone. Maybe compliments from her made him feel that he was working for her instead of for himself. Because even if, in her eyes, he was working for her, in his eyes he was merely working for himself. And compliments from the customer, or even a glimpse of the customer, made him feel that he was making the weapon for them, had made it for them. Not for himself. It created an attachment in his mind. And, as was obvious from his attitude toward everything, he hated attachment. That was why he didn't try to get to know anyone he worked with.
But this raised another question in Elira's mind. What was so wrong with attachments? The ties one had with family and friends were the things that made life worthwhile. So why did he avoid them so fervently? Closing oneself off from the world wasn't healthy. She knew. No matter the reason, one couldn't just drop out of the human race. Life went on, and so one had to keep living. And that meant meeting people. If someone was to live without the company of other people, they were inviting the strongest type of misery.
But Elira had seen misery, known it, and it didn't look like Vincent. He looked...he looked...Elira found herself unable to pinpoint it. There was no emotional state that clearly defined him.
And then she recalled the look in his eyes as he had helped her to her feet. The look had been empty, as if he were devoid of feeling, emotionless. Maybe he felt nothing at all. Maybe he was incapable of feeling. Maybe more than his arm was mechanical...
Elira shook her head slightly. No, that wasn't possible. Technology still hadn't been able to fashion a mechanical soul. He just denied himself feelings for whatever reason, denied himself contact with others.
And Elira resolved inside herself that she would find out why. And she would help him discover how much he was missing.
With renewed purpose, Elira looked up and smiled in Vincent's direction, even though he had resumed his watch of the outside world. Undaunted, she began to speak.
"You should take notice when I give a compliment; I don't give them very often. Unless I really mean them. I mean, I've been making guns since I was nineteen, and even before then, I was working with machinery, so I've seen many people create things strange and fantastic out of metal using only their hands. But I have never seen anyone make anything the way you do. Even with the handicap your prosthetic must present sometimes, you're still the best craftsman I've ever run across." Elira was surprised that she could mention his arm at all, but she didn't give herself a moment to reflect on it, continuing to talk while her confidence lasted. "You know, I think that you and I are alike. The way you painstakingly check to make sure that the gun you've made is faultless shows your love for the craft; although my talent falls far short of yours, I'm the same way. And I think that if we got to know each other better, we'd find we have even more in common." She took a breath and waited.
Vincent had taken his eyes from the window and was looking at her, his red eyes revealing nothing. Elira hoped she hadn't offended him; the last bit of her speech had gone a little beyond merely professional. But she really did think they were a lot alike, and for an employer and their employee that was important, wasn't it? They both had a love for creating things out of metal, it seemed. But even more than that, he kept to himself, hiding away from everyone. There had been a point in her life that she had done that. Even her beloved father had been on the outside. She had vowed she would never let herself be hurt that way again. And she had closed every door for a time.
Had he been hurt by someone? It wasn't hard to imagine. Almost everyone she'd ever met had been hurt by someone at least once in their life. But that was just a part of life, and she'd had to realize that. Her friends had made her realize that, bringing her out of herself and into the sunlight, warming her until she was ready to accept and move on, opening herself to people once more.
Vincent didn't say anything and Elira found, now that her confident words were out in the air, that her cheeks were becoming hot. Was he angry? Had she made him uncomfortable? She was sure uncomfortable now. Clearing her throat, she tried to find something to say that would get her back on a professional wavelength. And then she thought of it.
"I have a book that was passed down to me by the gunsmith who owned the shop before me. He'd had it passed down from his grandfather, who'd had it since he was a boy, so it's a very old book. It's a detailed history of forging, showing what kinds of guns were made for what in which time periods. It has pictures, and even some instructions on how to make some of the obsolete models. I'm still trying to perfect my technique on a couple of them." She smiled a little, remembering her poor first attempt at forging a very, very old gun. It had been so unlike anything she'd ever made before that she'd had a horrible time of it. "Everyone in the forge has seen it already, except for you. It's not mandatory that you see it, of course, but if I'm right and you and I are alike, you're probably interested. Now, I'd bring it down to the shop for you to see it, but, like I said, it's a very old book and I'm loathe to move it from my livingroom. You'll have to come up sometime on a lunch hour, or after work." She smiled at Vincent. Maybe that had gone a little beyond professional as well, but not too far beyond. If everyone else in the forge had seen this book, it was less of a big deal, and if he did love guns the way she did, he was probably itching to see it. When she'd first come to live with the gunsmith in his tiny apartment, she'd seen the book lying flat on a shelf, it's two covers sealed together with a small clasp that could only be opened with a key. The gunsmith had told her not to touch it because it was very old and very special. But she'd been unable to resist. Not two weeks after she'd moved in, she'd discovered a way to pick the lock.
Vincent was still looking at her, his expression unchanging. Elira was tempted to scream at him, demanding that he say something, but she held herself in check. Besides, she rationalized, it probably wouldn't do anything anyway. He'd just keep staring at her with those red, unreadable eyes.
Elira wondered what she could say next. She'd already jumped from topic to topic and undoubtedly made a fool of herself in his eyes, so maybe it was time to excuse herself and go home. But, just as she was about to stand and bid Vincent a safe trip, Vincent got to his feet. Elira watched him, and then turned her head to see that a number of the other patrons were getting up, ready to leave. She glanced out of the window. The train had arrived. Had it really been ten minutes?
"Goodnight, Vincent. See you in the shop tomorrow."
Vincent gave her an acknowledging nod and slipped into the recess between the tables and the bar. As he passed the two punks on stools, they began to snicker. Elira frowned, but realized that they were probably doing it because, really, they were afraid. People usually poked fun at things they didn't understand, laughing scornfully at people who were different. So, Vincent was the one with the edge. If he'd have turned suddenly, fixing them with his red eyes, they would've most likely wet themselves.
But Vincent ignored them, walking out of the cafe doors as if he hadn't heard.
Elira sighed and sank down in her seat, wondering if that had gone well. She was inclined to believe that it hadn't. In fact, she had probably given him more reason to shrink further from contact. With a deft finger, she flipped a curly wisp of her hair behind an ear and prepared to leave. But then her stomach rumbled. And she remembered why she'd come here in the first place.
Vincent wiped a spot on the window clear with the cuff of his sleeve. Right now, they were on one of the many bridges in Neo-Midgar, passing over the eastern side of sector five, heading for MiraCletus, sector four. Few lights dotted the darkness below them. The night life of G'nais consisted mainly of those affiliated with gangs, which urged anyone else to withdraw into the safety of their houses, into the ignorant bliss of sleep. After another moment of gazing down on the sector, Vincent withdrew from the window.
A book. A book of guns, passed down through the generations. A book detailing guns, showing pictures of guns, telling the history of guns. Vincent wondered how many of the guns he'd used in his life were in that book.
But no. He wasn't interested.
Perhaps if it had a similar picture, he could make another Death Penalty to make up for the one he'd lost.
No. He shouldn't be interested.
If only he hadn't lost it after the battle so many years ago. If only he had it now. It had been the most accurate, most powerful, most intriguing weapon he'd ever wielded. If only he still had it to hone his skills with. He could almost feel the perfect weight of it in his hands.
No! He couldn't let himself be interested. He couldn't go to her apartment. It would be too much of a strain to stay apart.
It had been too much of a strain before. And he'd ended up giving parts of himself away, becoming closer. And now that Barret knew, the others would come. He cringed inwardly. He couldn't let himself become involved. It was too dangerous, too frightening, too risky.
He had to stay apart. It was the only way to protect himself, to protect them.
And so, he wasn't interested.
His apartment was dark. He liked it that way. Without removing his coat or his boots, he went to one of his bookshelves, selecting a maroon, hard-cover book. Opening it to where a bookmark lay, he began to read, his red eyes able to see the words without aid in the dark. He wandered into the bedroom, still reading. A moment later, he exited and put the book back where he found it.
He wasn't interested.
He selected another book. Opening it to a random page, he began to read. A moment later, he shut it with a snap, placing it back on the shelf.
He wasn't interested.
Another book. He glanced at the title written on the spine. And then put it back. With a sigh, he ran his gloved hand up under the bandana, massaging his forehead.
He was more than interested.
As Terry and a couple of the others worked on guns for stock, Elira assigned herself, Benita, and Vincent to filling the orders for guns. The number of orders for Vincent was almost as many as for the rest of them, but that wasn't a problem for him. Elira was thankful for his adroitness in making such beautiful weapons; if not for his speed, he would've been far behind. By the end of the day, the orders were coming along at a better pace than expected; the customers would be pleased. And that made Elira pleased.
The only thing that didn't please her about the best day she'd ever had at work had to do with Vincent.
She'd woken up that morning feeling foolish about what she'd done last night. Talking to Vincent the way she had had been a mistake, she was sure of it. Her misgivings had only increased when she'd seen him at work. At first, he'd only given her his usual nod of courtesy as he'd passed her desk to enter the forge, beyond that, saying nothing. No smile, no verbal greeting, nothing to indicate that he even remembered having had seen her the evening before. That made it plausible that she had done no damage with her words, but, then, that meant there had been no improvement either. Oh well, she would try again, right?
Wrong. During the afternoon, she'd stepped up to check on her molds. And then, turning, she'd found Vincent staring at her, a strange look in those unreadable red eyes. She'd fled the room to hide her blush of embarrassment. He did remember. That made it more than probable, in her mind, that he'd enforced his walls, increasing his resolve to keep people out, especially her. And despite her assurances to herself that he wasn't her responsibilty, she still felt miserable.
As she straightened up the order forms on her desk, sorting them by priority, getting ready to leave, she heard Benita's booted feet carry her out of the forge. Benita stopped beside the desk. Elira glanced up, but then lowered her eyes. She really didn't feel like talking right now.
"Hey, Lir," Benita began in her usual scratchy voice, though it wasn't as loud as she ususally had it. "How's everything?"
Elira shrugged, banging the edges of the order forms on her desk again to get them to fall into place. "Fine."
"Of course everything's fine, darlin'."
Terry's unmistakable steps were heard as he tromped out of the forge. "Hey, Elira. I'd stick around tonight, but my brother roped me into watching his kids. I'll call you this evening, all right?" With that, he leaned over her desk and gave her a swift, rough kiss on the cheek. "See ya tomorrow." His heavy footsteps continued until he was out of the shop and down the street a few paces. The other men of her forge, excluding Vincent, then left for the night, saying their farewells. Elira tried to make her friendly smile convincing for them.
But Benita was still standing there. Elira tried to ignore her, attempting to look busy.
"Okay, what's wrong?" she asked suddenly after a minute of waiting. "You look like yer cat just got run over by a gang o' bikers."
Elira couldn't help but chuckle at the image that created. "No, it's nothing."
Benita sighed. "Oh boy," she said knowingly. "Man trouble. I recognize that tone when I hear it. Okay, who's the fella and what'd he do?"
Elira chuckled again and looked up, shaking her head a little. "Do you always think every trouble a woman has is because of men?"
"Isn't it true?"
Elira laughed quietly, putting the order forms down before she ruined them and sitting herself on her stool. "I don't know what my problem is, Beni. I just...I don't know."
Benita huffed and crossed her short, pudgy arms over her chest. "I know what yer problem is. You've got a guy like Terry bugging the crap outta you when it's obvious that yer not interested!"
Elira shook her head again. "No, that's not it. I can deal with that. This is...something different."
Benita's eyes lit up mischeviously and she leaned in toward Elira. Out of curiousity, Elira leaned forward as well, wondering what Benita had to say that required it to be said quietly.
"Do ya have a crush on the new guy?"
Elira shot backward with a laugh, the stool rocking underneath her. "What? No!"
"Shh!" Benita shushed her furiously. "He's still in the forge!"
Elira controlled herself and leaned in again.
"C'mon, I'm bein' serious. Do ya? I'm kinda attracted to him."
Elira's eyebrows flew upward. "No way. I thought you hated men."
Benita scowled. "I don't hate 'em. I just hate it when they do some'n annoying. Which is almost always." She gave a sigh and flipped a strand of graying hair out of her eyes. "There's just some'n about a dangerous man. I dunno. That's what made me join those bikers when I was a kid. The mystery of 'em." She gave a secretive smile as she added, "Besides, I always liked 'em tall and skinny."
Elira couldn't help giving another laugh. Benita's way of thinking was so foriegn to her; she'd probably never understand the older woman.
"Well," Benita said, her voice at its normal volume again, "if you don't feel like tellin' me, that's yer decision. I guess I'll be goin' now. You take care o' yerself."
"I will. You, too."
Benita smiled and took a peek into the forge before heading out the door.
Elira picked up the order forms and straightened them again, though they didn't need it. In fact, she realized that she was bending the ends of the pages with the banging she was giving them on her desk. With a determined air, she set the papers down and resolved to stop fidgeting. Vincent usually gave her less than a nod before leaving after work. And then, once he was gone, she could lock the door, go upstairs into her apartment, eat, take a bath, go to bed, and stop thinking about that stupid, stupid conversation in the cafe. After all, it wasn't her responsibility. She had done more than her share by trying to help him. If he'd taken it the wrong way, it wasn't her fault. It wasn't her fault if she'd gone too fast. It wasn't her fault if she'd pushed him further into himself, though she should've known better, remembering her own seclusion not that long ago. It wasn't her fault if they found his body under a train...
...the body of a man...almost unrecognizable...almost...except for the ring on his finger...
Elira shook her head violently. She wouldn't get into those memories. Not tonight. Not when she was already feeling horrible. She wouldn't be able to handle them. She wouldn't...couldn't handle the guilt...
...the guilt of having killed him.
No! She shook her head again in frustrated desperation. No, she wouldn't remember tonight. It...it hurt too much...
It still hurt too much. After five years.
Elira realized her hands were shaking. She clasped them together to keep them from trembling, but it didn't really work. Inside, she felt empty, though her stomach was bloated as if with tears that were just waiting for the right moment to surface. She wished she had Barret with her right now.
Vincent stepped out of the forge soundlessly, and Elira looked up, somewhat startled by his appearance, even though she probably should've been used to the way he made barely any sound as he walked.
He didn't look at her as he made his way to the door. At the door, though, with one hand out to open it, he stopped. The digits of his prosthetic clenched and then unclenched, but that was the only movement he made for a few seconds. Elira was beginning to wonder what was wrong. Why was he just standing there? He almost looked...indecisive. No, that couldn't be. He'd always been so purposeful and efficient in everything he did, never wavering; even when he hesitated to answer questions, it was almost as if he did it only for effect, the answer already on the tip of his tongue even before the question was asked. But now...it looked as if he was having trouble making up his mind about something.
Slowly, he reached out his metal hand and gripped the handle of the door. Before he could open it, though, he turned around abruptly, fixing her with a pointed stare. Startled, Elira almost toppled from her stool.
"Yes?" she asked tentatively, a little disturbed by his behavior. What was wrong?
Vincent opened his mouth, but then faltered before he could say anything. Shaking his head, he turned back around and opened the door, the bell over it chiming softly. He'd taken half a step out when he pivoted again, the door shutting with another ring of the bell. "I would like to see the book," he said quickly, as if saying it faster would change its meaning.
Elira blinked, confused. "B-book?"
"The book you mentioned last night."
Elira couldn't help the look of surprise that crossed her face. He wanted to see the book? The book of guns she'd told him about? Was it possible that, instead of pushing him away as she had first assumed, she had actually struck a chord inside him? Elira jumped from the stool. "You want to see the book? You don't mind coming up to my apartment? I mean, since I can't bring it down...it's so old. Did you...want to go now?"
Vincent gave a shrug. Elira nodded, trying to appear as nonchalant as he looked, though inside she was bubbling up with excitement. Here was her chance to get to know him. Well, get to know him enough to help him. It obviously wouldn't go beyond that. She stepped out from behind her desk and entered the forge, glancing over her shoulder to indicate that Vincent should follow. And follow he did.
Elira opened the door at the back of the forge and, after deftly flicking a lightswitch, made her way up the staircase. At the top of the stairs was another door, which Elira unlocked quickly with a key and opened. Inside lay her cramped apartment in all of its unashamed glory. She entered and, after pulling off her sneakers, walked around the rooms, turning on a couple of lamps. She came back to the door and waited for Vincent to remove his boots before leading him into her crowded livingroom.
It was not long after nine. Supper time. Elira let her mind wander over all of the groceries she'd bought on her lunch break, trying to think of what she felt like eating. As Vincent wandered over to her bookshelf to inspect the titles there, Elira walked into the kitchen. While pulling some sandwich stuff out of the fridge, she called out, "The book's in the top cupboard of the wall unit."
The squeaky sound of the cupboard was heard moments later. And then the soft protests of the old springs in her sofa. Her mother's sofa, actually. It was the only piece of furniture she'd brought up with her, the last remnant of her old life. The sound the springs made stirred an old memory and she paused in laying out the bread. It was a memory of him. She shook her head and tried to concentrate on making the sandwiches, but the thoughts would not be supressed again. Steeling herself against the onslaught of grief, anger, and guilt that always oppressed her at any thought of him, she let herself remember, knowing it would be less painful if she just gave in.
She had been sitting on his lap on the old sofa. He'd been nuzzling playfully at her neck with his lips and nose, sending thrills through her that only he had ever caused. Her father had been out for the evening with his current girlfriend.
And after everything, he'd asked her to marry him on that very sofa.
Two weeks after the marriage, he was gone.
Some bystanders said he'd done it purposefully, that he'd known the train was coming. He'd just let himself fall...
...and the gunsmith had taken her in without her story. When she'd cried herself to sleep everynight, he hadn't say anything. When she'd neglected again and again to visit her hometown, he'd never asked any questions. Sometimes, she'd thought she'd seen something like a knowing pity in his gaze, as if he'd seen it before, or he, too, had experienced a guilty parting in his life. And when the time had been right, he'd known what to say, what to do. Barret, a friend of the gunsmith, had talked of Myrna, his wife who had died in a fire. And she had listened sullenly. Until she'd realized that she wasn't the only one, and that people still cared; love still existed. So she could continue existing. It had taken almost two and a half years, but she had finally opened back up to society.
Though she still wasn't ready for a relationship. She wondered if she would ever be ready. She sometimes thought her heart was still twisted, squeezed dry by the constant questioning: why? Why had he done it? What had she done wrong? What had she done to cause his death?
Was it safe for her to love?
It was a few moments before Elira could compose herself and stop her hands from trembling. She finished making the sandwiches and, putting them on two plates, carried them into the livingroom. Vincent sat on the sofa with the book in his lap, thoroughly engrossed. Elira set the plate on the endtable beside him and he gave a nod, not looking up. Crossing in front of him, she sat down beside him on the couch. Grabbing one half of a sandwich before setting the plate down on the arm of the couch, she curled her legs under her to keep her socked feet warm. Once settled, she took a bite of her supper and watched as Vincent flipped slowly through the book.
His expression was so serious, she realized, as if for the first time. His mouth never formed more than a straight line and his eyebrows never twitched to show anger or sadness or amusement. Maybe he felt that showing emotion was revealing too much, becoming too close. It was possible. After all, in her own seclusion she had kept a stone face in front of everyone, only breaking down when she was alone. It kept people from asking questions, from learning too much. And if they didn't know much, they couldn't get very close. It created a wall; a safe, cold wall of isolation. It prevented pain at the cost of a soul.
Vincent turned the page carefully, smoothing it down with the palm of his gloved hand. At the picture of a revolver that was more than forty years old, he let his fingertips linger, as if he was familiar with it. Elira frowned slightly, wondering just how "familiar" he was with guns. She wanted to ask him how he knew Barret, but stopped herself again. She didn't want to make him feel uncomfortable, and interrogating him about a past he seemed to want no part of now was not the best example of being a good hostess. She wondered if he had ever killed anyone.
And if he had, did the memory of the killing haunt him?
Elira halted in mid-chew, suddenly struck with a thought. Was it possible that he was more like her than she had first imagined? Was it possible that he had killed a loved one and now, overwhelmed with guilt and fear, he had retreated into himself like she once had? Was he afraid the way she was, that there was something wrong with her love, that it could kill people? She quivered slightly. No. What were the chances that their pasts were so similar? How many people caused the death of someone they loved?
And how many of these people had similar interests and worked at the same job?
No, his seclusion had been caused by something else, undoubtedly. She was just desperate for someone to connect with, someone she could talk to without the fear of harsh judgement, and that's why she was imagining that they were so alike.
No, not desperate. She had her friends who tried to understand. That was enough. And that would be what she'd be for Vincent. She would show him that love and friendship still existed. She didn't even need to know his past to help him with that, even if she was curious.
And then Elira felt a twinge inside of her, something that might've been there for five years, undetected.
She was still holding people at arm's length, even Terry and Benita, the closest ones to her. No one was in her head, in her heart, like he had been. That door was still closed.
And if Vincent was like her in that he had killed someone he had loved, he could help her open the door.
And she could help open the door in him.
Because she understood. She understood his pain, his gnawing guilt. She had been there, too. And although she wasn't completely whole now, because a shattered heart takes a while to mend, she seemed further along than he. And if she opened herself to him, sharing her pain with him, maybe it would finish her healing process put into motion by the gunsmith and Barret who had also understood, but hadn't had the time to help. And Vincent could start his own healing, the healing he so desperately needed...
The way she needed...
Elira didn't even realize what she was doing until her fingers had touched his pale cheek. Absorbed in the book, Vincent hadn't even realized she'd been drawing closer until she'd touched him. And then he started, flinching away.
Elira dimly realized that she had overstepped the boundary. It had gone beyond employer and employee, beyond professional. She had touched him in a personal way, driven on by something she didn't quite understand. She needed...she needed to know if he was like her. She needed to know if he could help her, and if she could help him.
She needed to know if he was the one she could safely allow into her mind, her heart, without fear. He wouldn't hurt her that way. Because he already knew what it felt like.
She needed to know if he was her soulmate, the way she'd once believed he was.
She touched him, lightly caressing his cheek. He flinched away again, his expression unchanged, though there was something in the depths of his red eyes that she thought might've been fear. But there was nothing to fear from her.
She ran her fingers gently over his cheek again, and then let them travel up to his temple. This time, he didn't flinch away as drastically, though he did blink a few times as if in confusion. Encouraged, Elira drew her fingertips around his ear and then down his neck. He lolled his head back a little as she continued to touch him. She wondered how long it had been since someone had shown him physical affection.
"It's all right, Vincent." She traced the contours of his lips and he opened them, giving an unsteady breath. She cupped his cheek in her hand and he leaned into her touch, closing his eyes. Moved by pity, Elira got to her knees and put an arm around his back, drawing him slowly to her until his head rested on her shoulder. She then put her other arm around him and rested her cheek on his hair. She could feel him shaking and she began to rub his back.
"It's all right, Vincent. It's all right."
She felt him move and, in a moment, his arms had encircled her waist. He held her tightly, as if afraid that she would vanish if he let go. His touch felt strange, especially with the metal hand pressed against her back, but good. She hadn't had a man touch her like this in a long time, and she wondered how long it had been since a woman had gotten this close to him. But she didn't feel ashamed or self-conscious. This felt right in a way that gave her the courage to keep going. He needed this; she needed this. She had made the correct first step in the dark maze that was Vincent and had gained a piece of his hesitant trust. Now, if only she knew what to do next...
The shrill cry of the telephone made her jump. At the second ring, Vincent began to sit up, as if coming out of a dream. Elira tried not to notice how cold she felt without his arms around her. She backed away from him as the third ring echoed through the apartment and was disappointed to see that he wasn't willing to look at her, as if he was embarrassed by what they had shared. With a sigh, she stood from the couch and answered the phone on the fourth ring.
"Hello?" she asked, realizing her voice sounded as if she'd been asleep.
"Elira? Is that you?" came Terry's voice from the other end of the receiver. "You sound tired. Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine."
"All right, good. I told you I'd call. Renard and Edwin are watching television; that gives me a little breather. Boy, those kids are like tumbleweeds. They don't sit still for a second unless some show they like comes on. I feel like a trampoline."
"Uh-huh." Elira watched as Vincent closed the book on his lap and stood to put it away where he'd found it.
"Elira?"
"Mmm?"
"Elira? Are you still listening?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah." Without a glance in Elira's direction, Vincent closed the cupboard door in the wall unit and left the livingroom.
"So, what's happening with you?"
Elira picked up the base of the phone from the coffee table that sat a few steps from the couch and carried it with her until the cord was stretched to its limit. Peering around the wall that separated her livingroom from her kitchen, she could see the door of her apartment. Vincent stood next to it, stepping into his boots. And then he opened the door.
"No, Vincent! Wait!" She put out a hand as if to stop him, dropping the base of the phone in the process. Vincent ignored her and left, shutting the door behind him.
There was silence for a moment on the other end of the phone. "Elira?" Terry began falteringly. "What...what's going on? Is Vincent with you in your apartment?"
Elira sank to her knees and then sat on the floor, carefully righting the telephone base.
"Elira! Answer me! Are you all right?"
"Yeah," she croaked. "I'm fine, Terry."
"What's wrong? Why's Vincent in your apartment with you? It's after nine o'clock!"
Elira scoffed, angry at Terry for calling, angry at Terry for asking so many questions. "What, is nine o'clock my curfew?"
"Elira, no. That's not what I meant. I'm just curious, that's all. And I worry about you. You know, none of us know Vincent very well. I just don't know if it's a good idea for you to be alone in your apartment with him."
"Why?" Elira stood and stalked across the livingroom, dragging the base of the telephone along the floor behind her. "Has he said anything to make you distrust him? Does he make lewd comments about me behind my back?"
"I just have a hard time trusting a guy who...well, you know...looks the way he does."
That did it. Elira had always thought that Terry was above that kind of thing. He'd never said anything bad about Barret and the colour of his skin. Then again, Barret hadn't been alone with her in her apartment. Elira had seen jealousy rear its ugly head a few times when regular customers had started making passes at her, but Terry had never said anything bad about the men, and so she had let it go. It was just Terry's way. But this was starting to get ridiculous. Terry didn't own her. She wasn't his to be jealous about. She had never been his the way he wanted her. And now, she doubted she ever would be.
"And how does he look, Terry? Like a freak? A monster?"
"No, Elira, I meant..."
"You know, Terry, I thought you were different. I really did. Now I see I was just ignoring the obvious because you were my closest friend." She sat down on the sofa. The springs groaned under her.
There was a small silence. "Elira. Don't get all defensive on me. You know I didn't mean it that way. I just...don't want anything to happen to you, all right? I care about you."
"If you care about me, stop telling me what to do!"
"I'm not telling you what to do! I'm..." There was a pause where Terry stopped talking to take a breath. "Look, Elira. You're obviously stressed right now. Why don't we talk about this when you've calmed down a little."
Elira felt like giving him a swift, incensed retort, but instead gathered her wits about her and controlled her anger. "Terry, I'm not stressed. I'm fine, okay?"
"All right, all right. So, you're fine. Good. Now, all I wanted to know is what you're doing? Is that such a horrible question?"
Elira felt like saying, I thought you wanted to know why Vincent was in my apartment? but decided against it. "I invited Vincent up to see that book yesterday, and after work this evening, he came up to see it. Then, he left when you called. There, that's what I've been doing. Do you want to know what I've eaten in the last twenty-four hours, too?"
"Of course not. Well, I'm sorry I ruined you're evening by calling."
Elira scoffed gently into the receiver. "Terry, you didn't..."
"Well, that TV show is done. I'd better go and take care of the boys. Good-bye, Elira."
"Terry, wait."
Only the dial tone answered back.
Elira got swiftly to her feet and, grabbing up the base of the phone, slammed the receiver down. She then banged the phone onto its spot on the coffee table and sank down onto the couch again. The spot where Vincent had been sitting only minutes before was still warm. Curling up in that corner of her sofa, she let it all out, crying until all of the pent of grief, guilt, and rage had faded, leaving only an empty, sick feeling, and finally sleep.