He closed his apartment door slowly behind him, not leaning wearily against it until he heard the soft click that had become so familiar. What was he doing? He sighed through his teeth, a frustrated sound, and walked silently to the bathroom. As he undressed, he berated himself internally. What did he think he was doing? He didn't want to get involved with anyone beyond mild aquaintance! And yet, he was smiling at her now? He frowned slightly as he unwound the red bandana from his forehead. Things had changed somehow, and he wasn't sure he liked the change. It was unsettling to say the least.
He dropped the bandana into the sink and moved to the bathtub where he drew the shower curtain across and turned on the water. What had changed? He wasn't quite sure, but he knew that he now looked at her differently. She was more than the face of someone he didn't know. It was as if he did know her now, though he couldn't say he knew very much. It was just a feeling, as if the two of them were somehow the same, cut from the same cloth.
She had touched him.
He frowned again. She had put out her fingers and touched his sickly pale skin, unafraid. Her fingers hadn't been trembling or cold. They had been warm, and strangely soft for someone who made guns for a living. And the look in her eyes had been one of understanding. But it had also been almost imploring as if she'd been asking him a silent question. And he'd known. He known it as if she'd said it aloud.
Are you the one?
But he wasn't. He couldn't be what she needed. He couldn't befriend her, get close to her, even though he'd seen the want, the need of it in her eyes. And he couldn't blame her for wanting it. It was obvious she didn't have it with anyone else. Even before, when her friend Terry hadn't been angry with her, he hadn't been the 'friend' she was looking for.
The soulmate she was searching for.
Are you the one?
No, it wasn't him. It couldn't be him. Fate wouldn't be that cruel, to make the soulmate of a hurting girl someone who killed those who became too close to him. But fate could be cruel sometimes, he recalled. He'd once been innocent, as innocent as she. But fate had not overlooked him because of it.
So perhaps he was the one.
But there wasn't a thing he could do about it. He didn't want another death added to his tally.
Though, wouldn't it be nice if...
No! He stepped into the shower, dousing the thought in hot water. It was better not to think of the 'what if's. They were only futile hopes that would raise him up to dash him against the rocky shore of reality. As they had so many times before.
It was better not to think that fate perhaps had changed after all of this time. That maybe it would allow a light in, banishing the dark curse that seemed to have been placed on him since birth. That perhaps fate had changed its tune, moving on to torment someone else...
Or that God had finally stepped in and saved him...
Vincent examined his prosthetic arm as the water ran down it, trickling from the fingertips in quick droplets. How easy it would be for him to grab something sharp and plunge it into the metal casing, revealing the wiring, exposing it to the water.
Electrocution couldn't be any more painful than anything else he'd endured.
But no. He looked away, up to the water stained celing of his bathroom. He would stick it out until the day he died. And then, standing on hell's threshold, he would throw it all back in fate's face. He had endured.
The funny thing was, Vincent hadn't believed in fate as a young man. He'd thought, in all of his naivite, that his chance with her had been his own doing. But it had all been fate.
Actually, he hadn't believed in fate until only a few weeks ago. When Elira had touched him. Because only fate could've found another woman like her to bring into his life.
Another woman who wasn't afraid. Who understood. Who accepted.
Another beautiful woman...
But maybe this was his second chance. Does fate allow a second chance? he wondered as he leaned his head back into the spray from the shower nozzle, shutting his eyes tightly as the water ran over his face. Would fate seriously give him another chance without the intention of hurting him again? Was it possible?
Improbable.
And so getting closer to the girl was not an option.
No matter how much she needed...
Or he needed...
"Good morning, Vincent."
He nodded at her, but forced his lips to stay in a firm straight line. He would not smile. Not today. To protect himself, and her, he would have to stop this. Because it might give her ideas, ideas that he himself had already had. And if she tried to put her ideas into action, he wasn't sure if his resolve would hold out. Her touch had rendered him almost defenseless in her apartment, made his walls shake. He was afraid of it, even as he craved it. Human touch. To make him human again.
But it would draw them closer together. It was inevitable. And that would kill her; she didn't deserve to die. He didn't want another innocent on his conscience.
So, really, it was better this way. He disliked the way her expression fell when she realized he wasn't going to return her smile. He brushed passed her and entered the forge.
Because if he was like her in the way she'd felt he was, his closeness would heal them both. But he had to want it, too. Relationships couldn't be forced; they involved the consent of two people. She realized that.
Even though there were those who didn't realize it, or just didn't want to. Like Terry.
She would just give it time. And if his eventual answer turned out to be no, then it was no. And she would have to deal with that when the time came. But right now, she had a shop to run. She smiled as Benita stepped in the door.
He'd been the last one in, and Elira hadn't made mention of his tardiness. In fact, she hardly talked to him at all anymore. His hurt, angry expression made him a stranger. Elira wanted to say she was sorry, to tell him that she would love him the way he wanted. But she knew it wasn't right. In her heart, it wasn't right. And Terry would just have to realize that she wasn't in love with him.
She just hoped it wouldn't take too much longer. This constant pain was more than she could bear.
Vincent hadn't smiled this morning.
And then Terry had finally spoken. But his words had been poison arrows aimed straight at her heart. And this time he hadn't thrown them first through Vincent. He'd said them to her face.
"Elira, you're really selfish, you know that? A selfish, heartless bitch!" And then he'd left the shop. And he was still gone, ever since a few hours before lunch. The words continued to hurt as if he were still spitting them at her.
Benita had tried to console her, but the soothing words, interrupted every once in a while by an insult to Terry or men in general, passed over her like water spiders over the surface of a lake. And she was drowning in the lake. At lunch, she'd wandered up to her apartment. She needed to be alone for a little while.
Elira took a deep breath to settle herself as she stirred her tea, standing in her kitchen with a hip leaning against the counter, looking distractedly at the patterns on her cupboard doors. She was a selfish, heartless...she couldn't even think the last word. Sure, she'd had people call her worse in school, but that had been when they were kids. It hadn't meant anything. But now, she was an adult, and so was Terry. And Terry had once been so close to her, her closest friend. Her most caring friend, she'd thought. His care had brought her through a lot. He'd taken her out places when she'd been in some of her darkest moods. He'd made her laugh, made her forget her pain. He'd never judged her.
He was judging her now. Wherever he was, he was probably judging her, thinking about her selfish and heartless ways. He had probably forgotten all about the good times they'd shared, blinded by rage and jealousy. She felt her throat constrict and she had to fight to keep the wave of tears from surfacing. She brought the hot tea to her lips and took a soothing sip, closing her eyes as the flavor awakened her tastebuds. She would be fine in a few moments, and then she could go back to the shop. She would be fine...
There was a knock at her door. She looked up, as if unfamiliar with the sound. It was a moment before she put her drink down and moved in the direction of the door. She wondered if it was Terry, though she doubted Benita would've let him past the front room. But what if Benita was gone for lunch? She frowned. It was probably only Benita come to see how she was. It was only Benita.
She almost opened the door, but, with her hand on the knob, she thought maybe she'd better make sure. She didn't want to see Terry right now. She didn't know what she would do if she saw him now.
"Who is it?" Her voice was quiet. She hoped the person on the other side of the door had been able to hear her.
There was a momentary silence. And then a subdued response. "Vincent."
Vincent? She almost threw the door open in surprise. What was he doing here? Of all the people it could be, she certainly hadn't thought he would come to her. He hadn't smiled at her today. He'd rebuilt a wall. Could something have broken it down again in so short a time? Had her distress so upset him that he'd made himself come to see if she was all right?
The emotionless expression on his face caused her to think different. He was probably up here to...ask her something about guns. Yeah. She frowned inwardly. He'd never asked her a question about them before; even when he'd been in training, he hadn't asked one single question. He'd just listened. Well then, maybe....maybe he was here...
"I once loved a woman who didn't love me back."
Elira closed her mouth tightly once she realized that she was gaping. What had he said? He'd loved a woman who hadn't loved him back? Where had that come from? In all of this time, he'd never said anything about his past, except that somewhere, somehow, he'd gained an extensive knowledge about guns. And now, out of the blue, he suddenly meets her at the door and tells her something she probably would've kept a secret from even her closest friends. But, then again, even her closest friends had been held at arm's length. Terry still didn't know that she had once been married. Neither did Benita. They just knew she'd gone through something traumatic, and both had been civil enough not to pry.
Elira wanted to say something to him, but what to say? How do you respond to a statement like that? She was just about to open her mouth and muddle through a reply when he continued.
"But, I never talked to her the way Terry was talking to you."
Elira nodded vacantly a couple of times before what he was saying sank in. In his solemn statement, done in a voice flatter than paper, he'd expressed an objection to Terry's treatment of her and let her know that he believed Terry was in the wrong. And, for some reason, it made her feel better; she'd been unable to take in Benita's words, though they had basically involved the same thing, but his words went straight to her heart.
Because he'd said it to her. He'd trusted her enough to say it to her. And she could imagine the difficulty he'd overcome in arriving at her door to say it.
Vincent turned away abruptly and started back down the stairs. Caught off guard by his sudden departure, Elira wasn't able to find her voice until he was half-way down.
"Vincent, wait. Come inside."
He stopped, his feet on different steps. And then, after a moment where Elira was almost sure he was going to continue, he turned and walked slowly back up toward her. She smiled and moved out of the doorway to let him enter.
He stood inside the door like a lost coat rack for a second as she stepped back into the kitchen to retrieve her tea. As she walked past him, headed for the livingroom, she noticed his hesitation.
"C'mon Vincent. It's the lunch break. The shop'll be able to survive without you for a few minutes. Take your boots off and stay awhile."
Vincent stood unmoving another moment before he removed his boots and followed her into the livingroom.
It was the middle of the day. The curtains of her balcony window were wide open, letting the sunshine of a beautiful day radiate into her small apartment, glinting off the glass covers on her pictures and creating colorful prisms on her wall from a gaudy window ornament Benita had given her one year for her birthday. Elira sat on the couch, curling her legs up under her as she sipped at her tea. Vincent stood by the arm of the couch, looking around the room as if thoroughly facinated.
"You can sit down, Vincent," she told him, adding a belated, "if you want," when he just looked at her. An uncomfortable pause ensued until Vincent stepped around the arm and sat down. At the other end of the sofa. Elira pretended not to notice, raising the mug to her lips again. Once she'd swallowed the warm liquid, she smiled at Vincent.
"Thank you for saying what you did. What Terry said hurt me a lot."
Vincent just looked at her.
Elira cleared her throat, feeling a little self-conscious. She'd asked him into her apartment on a whim and, now that he was here, she didn't know what to say. She was a little reluctant to speak of anything personal, considering that the last time things had gotten personal in her apartment he had left. But, because Vincent had come up here to offer his own type of comfort in light of her present situation, professional topics didn't seem appropriate. Maybe she would just close her eyes and jump in, she thought, and see where it took her. The worst that could happen was he would leave again, and even that might not be as bad as she thought. After all, the contact she had made with him before he'd gone that night had left him willing to come back. And the best that could happen was that he would speak of himself and his pain...
And the absolute dream that could happen would be the revelation that their pain was the same...
...and that he was willing to cure her loneliness, both of their loneliness, by befriending her.
Elira thought about asking who this woman had been who he'd loved and lost, but then thought better of it. When Barret had finally gotten through to her after two and a half years of self-inflicted isolation, he hadn't done it by asking her about her past. He'd done it by introducing her to his own painful past. Realizing what she had to do, Elira took a long drink of her tea before setting it down on the endtable at her elbow. She then took a breath.
"Terry doesn't understand how it is with me. He never really understood, I guess. He's never been very much of a listener." Elira chuckled. "Neither has Benita, actually. But maybe I kind of like it that way. If I'm the listener, then they aren't listening to me." She cleared her throat and shifted in her seat, training her eyes on the surface of the coffee table a few feet away.
"About five years ago, when I was eighteen, I met the man of my dreams." She felt an unbidden smile caress her lips. "He was twenty and had a lot of plans for his life. His name was..." She stopped and the smile flickered. "Eagan. I met him while working part-time at the auto-body shop his father owned. His father wanted him to take over the shop when he retired, but Eagan, he was a free-spirit. He had his own goals. It was a few months before I realized that I was one of his goals.
"He had plans to become one of the representatives for Neo-Midgar. He had a few connections from friends and there was a good chance that he would make it onto the board. He had been so happy, he'd come to my house to celebrate. My father had been out and we'd made the best of it. And then he'd asked me to marry him." She shrugged. "I said yes.
"Before the actually ceremony, he had us moved into Penora, sector eight. He was so certain he would get the job, and then we'd have our future made. We were married in a small church, with a small ceremony, but it was still the happiest day of my life." Elira swallowed more noisily than she would've liked, feeling her chest tighten with what she knew came next. "But, there were some older men who didn't like Eagan's new 'youthful, idealist fantasies', and they had enough sway to change the vote. He didn't make it onto the board."
Elira took a deep breath and dared a glance in Vincent's direction. He hadn't moved from the position she'd last seen him in, his eyes focused on her penetratingly, though from his gaze she couldn't guess what he was feeling. He was listening, though. He was listening to her with more attention than she'd ever been listened to with before. Even Barret was more a talker than a listener; though he'd been through the same pain as she, they were two very different people, and he hadn't been able to take the time to become as close as she needed, to support her through it.
But Vincent seemed to have the time. It was as if he had no life beyond work; perhaps that was true. And he was a listener. Elira looked up at the celing. Please, God! Let him be the one! She picked her tea up from the endtable and took a drink before continuing.
"I told Eagan that it didn't matter. I loved him and he loved me. We could make it together. We could take over his father's auto-body shop to make a living until the elections came around again. But he wasn't satisfied with that. We got into a big fight about it one night. And then, the next day, his..." She stopped talking to compose herself, closing her eyes on the tears that were threatening. "...his body was found mangled beneath a train. He'd thrown himself onto the track. The only way..." She choked suddenly on her words and reached blindly for her tea. Her hands were shaking. The tea would've sloshed all over her had Vincent not reached out his right hand and steadied the mug for her as she raised it to her mouth. Once she'd taken a few shaky gulps, he backed off again, listening.
Elira put the mug down. "Thank you."
Vincent nodded, and then looked at her expectantly.
Elira took a breath. Yes, she would finish. "The only way I could recognize the body was the ring on his finger, an exact replica of mine." She rubbed her finger absently where she'd worn the ring for two and a half years after he had gone.
"You feel responsible for his death."
It wasn't a question, it was a statement. Elira looked up from her hands to find herself staring into his intense red eyes, his expression as still as if he hadn't spoken.
She lowered her gaze. "Yes." It hadn't been a question, but she'd felt compelled to answer. Yes, she did feel responsible for his death. Yes, she did feel that she had killed him. If only she'd been a little more understanding instead of letting her temper get the better of her. If only they hadn't gotten into that fight...
When Elira returned her gaze to Vincent, she found him leaning against the back of the couch, his eyes looking distantly across the room, his metal prosthetic lying stretched out toward her on the cushions they were seated on. She fought the urge to put out her hands and touch it.
"I was twenty-five when I fell in love."
Elira's eyes started up to Vincent's face as if she couldn't believe what he she had just heard. "You were in love?"
Vincent glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "You sound surprised."
Elira glanced down at the cushions. "Sorry. I guess I...I mean, you're kind of...reserved. I...I guess it's just hard for me to imagine..."
Vincent was nodding. Elira stopped stuttering to let him continue, hoping he would continue. "Yes, I suppose it might be." He took a breath, his chest visibly rising and falling slowly beneath his coat. "She didn't love me, though. Not the way I wanted her to. She was in love with another man who abused her. I tried to convince her a number of times to leave him and come with me, but she refused. She loved him. Eventually, I stopped asking. And, one day, he killed her."
Elira was surprised to find that her cheeks were wet. "He...he killed her?" she asked in a strangled voice.
Vincent nodded and looked toward her. Elira felt in that moment as if she were staring into a mirror. They were the same. The connection she'd felt had been real. Elira felt tears of relief and joy begin to rise in her. She wasn't alone. Not anymore. This man across from her understood, and he would listen. And she would listen to him. She had a feeling that he hadn't given her the whole story, but it had been a piece to the puzzle, maybe the most important piece. The rest could come at its own pace. Right now, all she wanted to do was look at this man...
...this beautiful man seated across from her, his red eyes deep and mysterious, his hair black and long, his face thin and, if not handsome, possessing a kind of startling attractiveness. The urge to touch him flared up suddenly, her fingertips nearly tingling with the desire to caress his face, his ears, his neck, his hair. And his lips. She remembered tracing them with her fingers. But, no. No! It wasn't to be like that. They didn't need to touch to make a connection. They were different, she and Vincent, different than other people. Maybe she just needed a little air. Maybe if she just went out on the balcony for a minute, she would settle down.
Vincent stood suddenly, making Elira's dilemma academic. The conversation was over and, using true Vincent logic, he decided that so was the visit. Giving her a nod, he walked around the couch and out of sight. A few moments later, Elira heard the door to her apartment open and close.
She drank the rest of her tea slowly, her feelings swirling inside of her like water under a bridge. And then, finished her tea, she wandered into the kitchen to put the mug in the sink for washing. She smiled as she stepped back into her livingroom. She came to her sofa. She turned her back to it and, smiling, spread her arms. And then she toppled backward, falling onto the cushions, the springs under her squealing. She laughed, her red curls bouncing gaily around her face.
It was going to be all right.
Benita gave a grin and pulled Elira into a hug. "There's nothin' to worry about, honey," she whispered. "Everythin'll turn out."
Elira nodded. Benita gave her one more squeeze before releasing her. She then gave a wink and walked out of the door. Elira chuckled slightly and shook her head. There hadn't been a day gone by that she'd not been grateful for hiring Benita instead of another man.
Elira was just putting the papers away in a drawer of her desk when Vincent stepped out of the forge. But then, instead of nodding, perhaps with a smile, and heading quickly for the door, he stood beside her desk where Benita had been only moments before. Elira glanced up at him.
"Yes, Vincent?"
He stood looking at her a few seconds longer in silence. "Would you like me to teach you how to use a gun?"
Elira shut the drawer and stood. "To use a gun? Why?"
Vincent gave a small shrug. "A few weeks ago you told me I should teach you to use one so that you would feel safer walking alone at night."
Elira raised an eyebrow, and then laughed, remembering. "I did say that, didn't I?" She'd forgotten about it completely, meaning it only as a joke. From the expression on Vincent's face, though, it looked as if he'd taken it seriously enough. This time, she was the one to shrug. "Sure. It'll give me a new perspective on guns, even if I never shoot anyone. We'll just have to schedule some time."
Vincent stared at her a moment longer. "Do you have previous engagements tonight?"
It was Elira's turn to stare. Was he asking her out? "No, actually. Well, just my laundry, but that can be done anytime." She felt her heartbeat become stronger, louder. Breathing was suddenly a little difficult.
"There is a small unused park in MiraCletus that I often use to practise in. If you want, I can take you with me and teach you."
Elira almost jumped and whooped for joy. He was asking her out! He had decided to befriend her! His distance from that morning was gone without a trace. She wondered what had changed his mind? "Yeah, of course! I mean, that would be great. I...I'd really like to learn if you don't mind taking the time to teach me."
Vincent nodded and then waited while Elira slipped into her coat, and then again while she locked the door before they left. Stuffing the keys into a pocket, she walked with him up to the train station, glad that he had slowed from his normal pace to allow her to keep up. As they went along, Elira saw some unwholesome-looking people glance her way, but less than a glimpse of Vincent detered them from trying anything. Vincent, however, didn't seem to notice anyone around him, facing straight ahead. Smiling, Elira walked closer to him, feeling safe.
The train, as usual, was almost empty. Two men, one near the rear of the car and one at the front, were the only other ones occupying this section of the train. As they passed the one at the back, a scruffy, unshaven man who smelled as if he didn't do enough bathing, but too much drinking, a calloused hand reached out and pinched Elira's bottom. She gasped and turned, smacking his hand angrily.
His eyes were glazed over, his mouth open in a sly, drunken grin. "Sorry there, miss. Just testin' the fruit."
Elira wanted to yell at him, to drag him out by going over everything Benita had ever said to her about the baseness of men, but Vincent took her arm and led her past him, giving the man a piercing stare. The man's grin faded and he sat up in his seat, swallowing nervously, not meeting Vincent's eyes. "Didn't mean nothin' by it," he mumbled as if to himself.
Vincent ushered her forward until she slid into a seat beside a window, allowing Vincent the seat beside her. As he lowered himself down, he murmured, "I am sorry, Elira."
Elira felt her lips twitch as he said her name for the first time. It sounded good in his voice. And then she gave a chuckle. "You shouldn't apologize for another's mistakes, Vincent. Every man's sin is his own, after all."
Vincent turned to look at her for a moment. And then the corners of his mouth turned up slightly as he shook his head in...amusement? Elira couldn't be sure; she'd never seen him amused before. She hoped she get another chance; every little thing he did seemed to reveal something new.
His apartment was dark, but he didn't bother turning on a light as he strode out of sight only to return with a small handgun and a clip. Putting them both into a pocket, he led her out of the building.
The night was cool, though not uncomfortable. Elira nestled her chin into her collar and pushed her hands further into her pockets, letting her eyes roam the deserted streets of MiraCletus. It was so quiet here. The only thing she could hear were footsteps, but not just her own; even the almost unnoticable clop of Vincent's boots was audible in the silence. Eventually as they walked, a cluster of barren trees, prickled here and there with small, green buds, came into view. Between two of the trees stood a very old and rusty looking gate, partly opened, its bottom rungs draped in ivy and weeds. The park.
Inside, the park was filled with the twisted, reaching shadows of the trees in the moonlight, its grassy floor littered with cigarrette butts and abandoned beer bottles. Elira felt a little uneasy as she glanced around at all of the places a mugger or a rapist could be hiding, but Vincent didn't seem uncomfortable in these surroundings. In fact, he seemed to walk a little more leisurely now, as if relaxed in the company of shadows.
There was a rotting stump in almost the exact middle of the small grove, its top fairly level, if a little roughened by the passing of the years. Vincent walked up to it and set a beer bottle he had plucked from the grass upon it. He then walked back to Elira, pulling the gun out of his pocket and inserting the clip.
"Using a gun takes almost no skill whatsoever," he began, stretching out his arm and looking at the bottle down the nose of the handgun. "It is the aiming and the timing that take so much practise." Elira jumped as the sound of the shot rang through the emptiness of the park, followed closely by the dischord of shattering glass. She looked to the stump. The bottle was gone, its only remains a few lone shards. She raised her eyebrows, duly impressed.
Vincent lowered the gun and surveyed his handiwork for only a moment before heading out to set up another bottle. Upon returning to Elira's side, he held out the gun for her to take. She looked at it blankly for a moment before picking it up in her hands.
The weight was so familiar. She'd forged many of these guns before. Glancing at it quickly as she turned it over in her hands, she could see that it was old and unadorned by designs, as if they had been worn off by use. The surface was cool and smooth. She slipped her fingers into the positions she'd seen Vincent's occupy. It felt good in her hand. And then she raised her arm, imitating what she had seen Vincent do. And she began to tighten her finger.
"Wait!" she heard Vincent shout suddenly from beside her, but it was too late. His voice startled her and her finger clenched spasmodically. The sound of the shot was deafening, but she had little to no time to reflect on that as she was unexpectedly thrown backward. Without time for a gasp, she found herself falling.
Only to land on something warm that grunted underneath her. She opened her eyes and sat up, glancing down at Vincent whose abdomen had broken her fall. With a cry, she swiveled off of him and helped him to sit up.
"Are you all right, Vincent?"
He nodded, his expression a little smug, as if he were laughing at some inside joke. "I'm sorry. I forgot to warn you about the kick."
Elira frowned as she got to her feet. "The...kick?"
"Yes," Vincent answered as he stood, brushing himself off. "The tendency for the gun to throw a person backward as the bullet leaves the barrel. You have to shift your stance to allow for it. Like this." He moved his feet until one was slightly ahead of him and the other placed behind him, ready to catch his weight when the 'kick' occured. Elira copied his pose. She then raised the gun up again to the bottle she'd missed last time and let her finger tighten on the trigger. The shot was very loud in her ears and she started, feeling the jolt backward though this time she kept her feet, closing her eyes involentarily. There was no shattering glass. This would take some getting used to.
Vincent looked at her a moment before holding out his right hand. Elira placed the gun in his palm. Turning to the bottle, he affected his stance until he was satisfied with it, and then glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "You have to be able to keep your hand and arm steady as you shoot so that the bullet goes where you want it to go. Don't expect too much tonight, though. This is, after all, only your first attempt."
Elira nodded, watching Vincent train his eye on the bottle over the barrel of the gun. She wondered how willing he would be to talk right now, now that he seemed in a comfortable state of mind. "Where did you learn to use guns like this, Vincent? From Barret?"
Vincent continued to peer down the barrel for a moment before lowering his arm. "No." He didn't look at her, staring at the bottle as if expecting it to come to life.
Elira waited a few moments longer than necessary for the rest of his answer. And then she sighed. "Well, where did you learn then?"
Vincent stood perfectly still for almost a full minute before heaving a silent sigh. And then he turned his head, meeting her questioning eyes with his red, unresponsive ones. "It's a long and complicated story."
Elira raised her eyebrows before giving a shrug. "So? What, do you have some 'previous engagements' I don't know about?"
Vincent looked away, glancing down at the ground in front of him. And then he looked back to the bottle, almost forgotton on the stump, shaking his head slowly. "I don't want to talk about it right now." His voice was strained, as if he were inexplicably tired.
Elira pursed her lips. That was obviously a dead end for now. Well, maybe she would try something else. There had to be something he was willing to talk about. As he raised his arm, aiming again at the bottle, she asked him, "Who was the woman you loved and lost?"
Vincent didn't answer. He pulled the trigger quickly, without warning, making Elira jump at the sound. The bottle didn't break.
"Damn."
"Vincent?"
He lowered his arm and looked over at her, his eyes filled with a strange weariness she had never before seen in him. With a helpless gesture that might've been a shrug, he shook his head, saying, "I'm sorry, Elira. My past is...something I haven't thought about in a long time." He turned his eyes away quickly, as if this admission had already given away too much.
Elira nodded, wanting to go and touch his arm, or to look up into his face with a reassuring smile; she wanted to apologize. She, of all people, should understand his reluctance to talk. After all, she'd had more than a hard time telling Barret and the gunsmith about her past pain, and it hadn't all come in a rush at first. It had been revealed in spurts, like the hiccuping of a volcano before the lava flows out of the top. She would give it some time, and maybe later she would be able to weasel the origin of his skill with a gun out of him. Unless, of course, it had something to do with the woman. That would make it harder for him to talk about. That would take a longer time before he could talk about it. Elira stopped the frown that was threatening to cross her face. She wondered how long this was actually going to take.
No. That was unfair. Barret and the gunsmith had been very patient with her, never forcing her to go faster than her pace, and so she would be patient with Vincent. No matter how long it took, she would never express her restlessness or try to force him to go faster than he wanted to. After all, if she did that, it might procure the very thing she was trying to avoid, causing him to want to withdraw from their shaky friendship, leaving her completely alone. Again, with no end to her loneliness in sight. And he, with no respite from his guilt. All because she couldn't wait...
Elira held out her hand with a hardened resolve and Vincent passed her the gun. She looked over it again, idly, her mind turning even as she turned the weapon around in her grip. "I used to be like you, Vincent, holed up inside myself, unwilling to talk to anyone about anything personal. Because it would bring people closer, allowing them see what had happend, what I had done." She gave a sad little smirk and raised the gun up the way Vincent had, aiming for the bottle once more. "I was afraid, Vincent. Afraid that they would condemn me, the way I'd already condemned myself." She pulled the trigger, letting the jolt of the shot run angrily through her body. No breaking glass. Just silence. She swore, feeling frustrated and angry.
Staring moodily at the ground, Elira wasn't even aware that Vincent had moved until long, black-clad arms reached hesitantly around her shoulders. She gave a start, but then stood, fidgeting, as he took her right wrist in his hand and lifted her arm up until the gun was level again with the bottle. He then curled his right fingers around her hand on the gun, and then clutched the other side of the butt with his prosthetic. Stooping a little, his right collarbone pressed against her left shoulder blade, he put his mouth next to her ear. He cleared his throat quietly.
"Don't become agitated," he began softly. "I gained what skill I have through years of practise."
Elira nodded distractedly and sniffed, her nose running a little in the chill of the air. And she noticed his scent, mixed with that of the forge. It was kind of musky, almost like the smell on the pages of an old book, or of the dying leaves that fall from the trees before the first snowfall. It was an intoxicating smell. Elira noticed after a moment how her breathing had quickened, how her heart was pounding at his closeness. She wondered if he could hear it. She swallowed and frowned; she didn't want this reaction to him. After all, she wasn't ready for anything beyond friendship. His fingers twitched as they touched hers, thin and strong beneath his glove. She wasn't ready. Was she? She took a breath to calm herself, but it was unsteady and she cursed inwardly. She was beginning to wonder what she was ready for. But, he had invited her out as a friend. He wasn't ready for anything beyond friendship right now. So she would just have to put these thoughts, these reactions, out of her mind. For now, her mind added involentarily and she clenched her teeth; she and Vincent were different, she told herself. Different from other people. So things would obviously be different between them. She nodded once to herself before raising her chin, waiting for instruction.
"Can you see the bottle at the exact end of the barrel?" Vincent asked her. Elira could feel his breath on her cheek. She blinked a time or two, focusing her mind on the bottle before shifting her aim until she could see the brown neck just above the end of the gun. "Yes," she murmured. Vincent gave a small nod and cleared his throat again.
"I'll hold your hands steady as you shoot to keep your aim from wavering. Fire when you feel you're ready."
When I'm ready...Taking a breath as silently as she could, she closed her eyes and pulled the trigger. The kick thrust her back into Vincent and she jerked automatically at the retort from the gun. The sound of shattering glass was omnipresent.
Elira opened her eyes and lowered the gun to see the last few spinning shards from the bottle fall to the ground. She gasped, grinning with pleasure. She'd done it. The bullet she'd fired had broken the bottle. With a whoop, she turned around and embraced Vincent fiercely, barely conscious of anything save the sudden rush of victory.
"I did it! I shot the bottle!" She withdrew and smiled broadly at her instructor of about fifteen minutes. But he wasn't smiling. His mouth was open, his face frozen in overwhelmed shock. Elira's expression fell as she realized slowly what she had done. She'd crossed the line again, tresspassed again, into unexplored physical territory. And she wasn't sure if it was going to be okay this time. She could feel him trembling in her arms, his eyes darting around her face as if expecting her to attack.
She lowered her eyes and took a shallow breath; maybe there was still time. Maybe an apology would still have some effect. "I-I'm sorry, Vincent." Her hands slowly sliding back toward her from around his waist, she looked up at him to see his reaction to her repentant words.
He said nothing. He just lowered his face and let his lips brush hers. Elira inhaled, surprised, as a jolt like a stroke of lightning charged through her body. The bigger surprise came, though, when she was unable to keep herself from returning the kiss with more passion than she'd thought possible after all of this time. She dropped the gun. It thumped dully to the ground.
Vincent drew breath sharply through his nose, stiffening, his muscles tightening at her touch as she ran her hands up to his shoulders, gripping them firmly. In one swift motion, he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her to him. He was thin, thinner than he looked. Elira pulled her hands into his coat and caressed him, feeling his ribs under her fingers, feeling muscles constrict in his chest. Slowly, he pulled his mouth from hers, lifting his chin and gasping as if breaking the surface of a pool. Elira began to trace a line of kisses down his neck, feeling his pulse jump beneath her lips. This is the wrong thing to be doing...this is the wrong thing to be doing...her mind kept repeating to her in a continuous warning, but she ignored it, wholly caught up in the feel of him, the scent of him.
"No, please," Vincent whispered hoarsely, releasing his hold on her. "Please, Elira. Stop."
It was the hardest thing she'd ever done to let go of him, but she had promised to be patient, to go slowly, not to make a move unless he approved. Her breathing a little less than regular, she dropped her arms to her sides, backing away from him a step. Her body tingled in the chill of the air.
"I'm sorry," Vincent started, his breathing also somewhat belaboured. "I'm very sorry, Elira. I thought that maybe...maybe I could stay apart enough...but...but, I couldn't...and it's dangerous, Elira, you don't know how..."
Elira's heart swelled with pity. His fears were the same as hers. The danger. The danger of falling in love. It could kill her. It could kill him. The curse was unmerciful. She raised a hand and placed two fingers on his lips. He stopped talking.
"I'm willing to take the risk if you are."
Vincent seemed to take a moment digesting her words. And then, suddenly, he took her in his arms and held her to him in a powerful embrace. Elira slipped her hands around his waist again, holding onto him with all of the strength she had. All of the strength they would need. After a moment, she raised her head from his chest and his lips found hers, his kiss filled with a starving intensity she had never known. And then the intensity became her own, muffling her senses, muffling all but him.
Somehow, they made it back to his apartment, running through the deserted streets as if being pursued by death. The rooms were dark, but Vincent led her to the bedroom without a hitch. The sheets of his bed were cold against her nakedness, but Vincent was warm. And soon, she was burning like a coal in the forge's furnace. Burning and burning...
Until all of the fear was reduced to ashes, and all of the cares of the world melted into nothing. Until fate and curses became nothing but a weary lover's dream, and anxiety gave way to peace...
And peace gave way to sleep.