The apartment door had been busted open, torn from its hinges, the wood splintering in the middle where it had caved in half with the impact it had received. Elira stepped hesitantly into the hallway, listening for any signs of occuring destruction. But there was only silence. Despite her self-assurances that it was only the effects of the sleeping pills keeping Vincent subdued, she was a little apprehensive. She crept toward the corner leading to the livingroom, seeing images of both a massive monster lunging at her for the kill, and of a bloodied Vincent sprawled on the floor, dead by his own hand. She didn't know which would've been the worse. Each would be agonizing in its own way.
The livingroom was in an even more wretched state than the last time. Though Vincent was nowhere to be seen, evidence of his arrival was more than apparent. Two of the bookshelves had been tipped over, one on its side and the other on its front. The third had had its shelves broken into halves as if a massive fist had been driven down through the wood, snapping each shelf like so much dry straw. Books, again, had been thrown from their perches, some with scars scored across their covers. They lay on the carpet in the dull light of early afternoon like the injured of a battlefield. But Elira didn't take more than a moment to digest the sight before heading for the bedroom.
This room was still intact, at least. The bed lay untouched, the blankets pulled neatly over the mattress and the pillow as if Vincent had not slept in it the night before. Elira wondered idly if he had lain in it at all since that night now almost three weeks ago. She knew if it had been her apartment, her bed, she would've had to have slept on the couch until the memories had faded. For, even if a quick wash could remove a scent from the sheets, it would take more, much more, to wash away a recollection that didn't want to be forgotten.
It took much more...
He was lying beside the bed on the floor, trembling under the strength of the drugs as they began to take effect. His one twitching gloved hand was wrapped tightly around the empty pill bottle, squeezing it mercilessly as if penalizing it for this uncomfortable aftermath. Elira dropped to her knees beside him, wondering if this fit of shivering had happened the last time he had taken the depressents. His eyebrows jerked as he frowned erratically, squinting against the anguish caused by the overdose, his lips open as he gasped slightly for breath. She found herself worried, even though she had seen him pull through this once before. Compelled by concern, she hesitantly reached out a hand and cupped his cheek.
His skin was warm and sweating. At her touch, Vincent opened his eyes suddenly, his pupils no more than pinpoints of black. Elira thought at first that he was having an episode, but then his gaze focused on her and he gave a small noise of dissatisfaction. "Leave, Elira," he breathed raggedly, unsteadily, as if it was taking all of his remaining strength to form the words.
Elira shook her head gently. "No, Vincent."
He frowned, but the frown quickly dissolved into an expression of discomfort as he arched his back suddenly, inhaling deeply. Elira leaned in closer to him, feeling rather useless as she watched him endure the physical affliction of the dosage. How could he expect her to leave when he was suffering this way? She pushed a stray lock of his hair from his face. If she left now, it would be like rejecting him, not wanting to be with him after seeing his darker, uglier side; rejecting him when, now more than ever, acceptance and understanding were needed. And she wasn't going to reject him. He didn't deserve it, especially not on top of everything else he had to deal with now. Although it would be more than easy for her to respect his wishes and depart, she hadn't taken on the job of befriending him because it was easy; she'd done it because he'd needed, and she'd needed. And that need had been worth, was worth any trouble. He needed someone to accept him, to show him that he was still worthwhile, despite everything. Elira wanted to be that someone to him, no matter what he was; she accepted him, the him she saw beneath all of the coldness, all of the freakishness. She wanted to help the needy, hurting human soul she'd seen now and again in his eyes. The beautiful human soul that almost mirrored her own...
Elira stood, finally sick of just sitting purposelessly on the floor, and pulled the blanket from his bed. She then draped it over his shuddering form, tucking it in around him so he couldn't throw it off readily. He forced his eyes open every once in a while to watch her, but the light from the window seemed to irritate them. He tried to speak a couple of times, but before he'd gotten past the first two or three words, he would choke, gasping. Elira finally put two fingers to his lips.
"Shh," she told him, staring into his momentarily-opened eyes determinedly. "I'm staying no matter what you say, Vincent, so you might as well save your strength." She then stood and left the bedroom, not leaving the topic open for discussion.
The bathtub curtain was still shredded; Elira guessed that Vincent just hadn't bothered to get a new one. He'd never struck her as the kind of guy who worried much about appearances. If the curtain, although hanging in pieces, still served its purpose, who was he to change it? She shook her head before commencing a search of the bathroom for a washcloth. When she was unable to come up with one, she sighed. And then she had an idea.
Vincent was still trembling miserably on the thin carpet. As Elira approached, he opened his eyes; his gaze seemed a little less focused than before. She knelt down at his side and hesitantly reached up to his forehead. At first, she found herself a little confused by his bandana as she attempted to find an end she could begin unwinding at, but then she discovered a knot at the back of his neck where he tied the two end pieces together. With nimble fingers, she worked at the knot until it came undone in her hands. Then, lifting his head gently from the floor, she unwound the red strip of material. It was longer than she'd expected, but after she'd folded it into a useable size, she stood and returned to the bathroom. Turning the cold water tap, she immersed the bandana in the flow and then, after wringing it out, headed back to the bedroom.
Vincent's shaking had ceased to be so violent. Elira lowered herself down at his shoulder, a little relieved to see that the initial agony was coming to an end. Vincent started, his eyes opening automatically, as Elira touched the wet material to his sweat-dampened face. With a slow breath, he spoke, his voice sluggish and soft. "Go...Elira. Please...go."
Elira wiped his brow and temples delicately, almost tenderly. She smiled. "Go? And let you slip out of the sector when these drugs wear off, never to be seen again? I don't think so."
The shivering fit was quickly concluding; in fact, remaining conscious was fast becoming difficult for him. Vincent was opening his mouth to protest Elira's statement when his eyes suddenly rolled back into his head and he became very still. Out of habit, Elira checked his heart and breathing rate. Sleeping like a log. She smiled, glad to have finally won out over his stubbornness even if she'd earned the victory by default. She was just pulling the blanket off of him to prepare for the move to the bed when her fingers touched something warm and wet. A small portion of the comforter had been stained red. His injured shoulder.
After a moment of uncertainty, Elira decided that she'd better deal with the wound now rather than let it remain untended until Vincent awoke and tended to it himself. She moved to Vincent's left side and carefully hoisted him into a sitting position. While holding him up with one hand, she cautiously pulled his coat off over his shoulders.
The arm of his shirt, as well as the inside of his coat sleeve, was soaked in blood. Elira was uncomfortable with the thought of undressing him, but, since she couldn't think of any other way of getting at the wound except for cutting up his shirt sleeve, she determined that it was the easiest course of action. Setting her teeth, she lay him back onto the floor and began to unbutton his dress shirt.
Svelte. That was the word that came to her mind as she looked at his chest. But, although skinny, he didn't look as if he starved himself. His frame was just thin. Very thin and very pale. As she gently coerced his left shoulder and the prosthetic piece of his arm out of his shirt, she noticed the wiry sinew of muscle under her fingers, beneath still sweat-moistened skin. His scent, musty like an ancient library yet not unpleasant, floated up to her nostrils. A swirl of remembered images, sensations, and emotions assaulted her suddenly, leaving her somewhat disconcerted. After a moment, though, she shook her head against the recollection, forcing herself to bend to the task at hand. To delve into those memories right now was a bad idea, she told herself. His mere presense had distracted her more than she'd wanted to admit in the park; to have him close now, with those memories floating around...she didn't know how long it would take then for the distraction to turn into a preoccupation.
And she didn't want that. She couldn't have that. Right now, she would help him. And later, he would have to know that he could trust her. That trust wouldn't be earned if she ended up being unable to control herself. She forced the memories to the back of her mind; she would strive for no more than a trusting friendship. Neither of them were ready for anything else. She still had to get used to intimacy again; he had a lot to deal with right now. Elira finished pulling Vincent's shirt off. And she had a lot to deal with now, too, she realized. It wasn't everyday a person discovered that one of their employees was a big, flying bat-thing. She winced at her terminology, angry at herself; she'd promised not to judge. And besides, it was unfair to judge him, especially when she didn't know the whole story. She hoped to God that Vincent would be willing to explain this one to her...
The blood was drying against his skin, caking over the wound. Elira hurried to the kitchen to grab up a moderate-sized pot from a cupboard. After filling it part way with warm water, she carried it gingerly back into the bedroom. A towel from the bathroom, she decided, would serve better than his bandana as a wash cloth for this job. And in this way, she cleaned the injury. No bandages could be found afterward, so she used his headwrap as a makeshift dressing, winding it tightly around his upper arm. And then, satisfied with her handiwork, she reclothed him in a clean shirt from his closet, leaving his bloody shirt and coat on the floor beside him along with the discarded pill bottle she'd pried from his fingers.
The next step was to get him onto the mattress. Elira sighed and lowered herself into a crouching position facing the bed. She would let her knees do the labor, the way Terry's father had always told her to when she'd had to lift heavy auto parts while working for him, the way she'd done it a week ago. She slipped her arms under Vincent, one across his back just under his shoulder blades and the other supporting his knees. And, taking a deep breath, she prepared herself for some exercise.
Benita sighed and lay her chin in her hand, her elbow resting on Elira's desk top. It had been a very slow day, slower than most. And Benita didn't need to run the business to know this. Almost an hour had passed since a customer had come and gone, and, cooped up in the heat of the forge, she'd realized that she was falling asleep. But, although the front room was substantially cooler, Benita still found herself hard put to stay awake. She was beginning to think that she should've just stayed home the evening before...
But how could she pass up an invitation to the bar? Especially when the invitation came from a man so much like herself: similar interests, similar opinions, similar ways of dealing with people...
And with the kind of attitude she respected, the attitude she remembered in the men of the gangs. Benita wondered, not for the first time, if Barret Wallace had been part of a gang when he'd been younger.
The jangle of the telephone almost caused her to start off of the stool. Flustered, she fumbled for the receiver, finally getting it right side up against her ear and mouth. "Y-yes?" She cursed inwardly at the unprofessionalism. What had happened to 'Hello, Maddison's Weaponry Station, Benita speaking'? She didn't have time to reflect further on her mistake as the person on the other end of the line began to talk.
"Hi, Benita. This is Trodder. Is Elira around?"
Benita sighed, glad her faux pas hadn't been heard by a customer. "No, she's out right now, Trod. Wha's up?"
"Well, I was just calling to say that Terry's getting his bandages off today and that he wants to see Elira. He's really dead-set about it, too. He was saying that she's in some kind of danger that only he knows about."
Benita raised an eyebrow. "She's not in any trouble as far as I can see. Are you sure they didn't jus' give him too much drugs?"
Trodder gave a small laugh that was more of a grunt. "I don't know. I thought at first that maybe the surgery had left him kind of disoriented, but it's been a couple of weeks. And Terry seemed to be in his right mind when I talked to him. I'm not really sure what to make of it, but I promised him I'd call. Will you tell Elira that he wants to see her?"
Benita gave a small sigh. Why couldn't Terry just take defeat gracefully? "Yeah, I'll tell her when I talk to her next."
"Thanks, Benita. We'll talk later, all right?"
"Yep. See ya Trod. Stay well."
"You, too."
Benita hung up the receiver, not so sleepy now. It bothered her the way Terry was hanging on to Elira. He couldn't seem to accept the fact that she didn't want him the way he wanted her. She suspected now more than ever that it wasn't a love for her that made him so persistant, but his ego. He just couldn't believe that Elira wasn't infatuated with him; it was a blow to his self-confidence. And it was almost as if he believed he had to punish her for not seeing how magnificent he was, for not melting into putty in his hands.
But Benita knew that Elira wasn't that kind of a woman. She was wary around people in a way Benita couldn't fathom. There were only certain ones over the years that she'd allowed a peek into her life. Benita had learned to accept Elira for this, even if she couldn't understand her. They were two very different individuals with two very different ways of seeing the world. Terry had seemed to accept her this way, too, up until Elira had hired Vincent. Vincent, a man who reminded Benita more of Elira than anyone Benita had ever met. Maybe Terry had seen how alike the two had been. And maybe he'd felt that Vincent was tresspassing on land he'd already claimed, albeit claimed unlawfully.
Benita was brought out of her thoughts as a loud laugh filtered out from the forge. The boys had quit working. Again. Sitting up, Benita stretched her arms over her head. Maybe she ought to go back in and get some work done...
The phone rang a second time. Benita gave a small exclamation of surprise. And then, with an irritated frown, she grabbed for the receiver. "Yeah," she answered, perhaps a little sourly, not even attempting to sound professional. The news about Terry had ruined her mood and she wasn't going to fake a cheerful dispostion. Besides, Elira wasn't around to hear her. She could get away with it this time, and next time...didn't matter because Elira would be back by then.
"Benita?"
Benita almost dropped the phone upon hearing Elira's voice. "Lir, is that you?"
"Um, yeah, it's me. Are you having a bad day today or do you always answer the phone this way when I'm not around?"
Benita tried to scowl, but a smile broke through at Elira's teasing tone. "Well, you know me. Blunt as a dull knife."
Elira chuckled. "Remind me never to hire you on as my secretary," she chided, though she sounded anything but reproachful.
"It's not that big of a deal. No one's been calling today 'cept you and Terry's brother."
"Trodder called?" She sounded almost anxious, but as if she were trying her best not to give that impression.
"Yeah," Benita answered, willing to play along and let Elira believe that she hadn't noticed her distress. "He told me that Terry wants to see ya at the hospital. He's gettin' the bandages off today."
There was silence on the other end. And then, "Okay. I guess I'll go...sometime soon. Vincent, um, got sick while we were at the museum, so I took him back to his apartment. Right now, I'm at a payphone at a convenience store. I had to buy him some soup. I don't know when I'll be back." Her voice trailed off.
Benita frowned in concern. "Are you all right, Lir?"
There was another pause. "Yeah. I'm just a little...I don't know." Elira heaved a sigh that betrayed a troubled mind. "I don't think I want to deal with this right now."
Benita shrugged, though Elira couldn't see the action. "Then don't. Wha's the problem?"
Elira sighed again. "I have to. Even if he was a jerk, I'd be the bigger jerk by not forgiving him."
Benita shook her head; she didn't have the heart to tell her that it hadn't sounded as if Terry was looking for forgiveness. "Well, if ya have to, then ya have to. Do ya want me to come along when you do go?"
"Maybe. I'd better get back to Vincent. I'll return to the shop as soon as possible, Beni."
Benita smiled. "Take yer time, Lir. I can take care a things here."
There was another pause. "Thanks. Thanks a lot, Benita. I know my saying it can never express my gratitude enough, but thank you anyway."
"Yeah, yeah. Go on now. We'll see ya when ya get back."
"Okay. Thanks, Beni."
"Stop it now, tha's enough a that."
Elira gave a giggle and Benita wondered if the young woman was as close to tears as she sounded. She hung up the receiver and ran a hand through her hair. Was she getting soft?
Another loud burst of laughter emerged from the forge. With a determined air, Benita stood from the stool. She found herself feeling a little restless.
Elira wouldn't have to worry about her shop while she was gone. Benita would make sure things were ahead of schedule by the time she returned.
And so, it was time to start cracking some heads.
Vincent opened his eyes. The room was dark with night; to his red eyes, though, it might as well have been daylight. He sat up and felt a stiffness in his left shoulder. Remembering the knife wound, he sent exploring fingers and discovered a gauze bandage under the sleeve. Frowning a little, he ran his hand over the arm of his shirt and then sniffed it. There was no feel, no smell of blood. Had Elira...undressed him? His coat and bandana, too, were missing, and he was on his mattress under a blanket. Had Elira tended him, and then carried him to his bed? He thought back to when he'd found her looking over him upon awakening the previous time. He'd been on his bed then, also. And, later, when he'd finally got around to cleaning up his apartment, he'd found a used bowl and spoon in his bedroom, dirtied by tomato soup. He glanced around and eventually found what he was looking for: a bowl and spoon to his left on the floor beside the bed. He'd assumed before that Elira had eaten the soup, but was it possible instead that she'd fed him, this time and last? He sighed quietly. She was still trying, hoping to get him to open up to her, even after she'd seen...it. Part of him reveled in the knowledge that she'd stayed while another part was not pleased. She hadn't rejected him, is that what this meant? Even after she'd seen the secret that had become his greatest shame, was she still wanting to befriend him without judgement? He felt a lifting inside of him at this thought. In Avalanche, they had been civil and maybe even friendly, but he'd still felt on the outside. Perhaps that had partially been his own doing, but he hadn't felt he could trust them. At that time, he hadn't been able to trust anyone after her. Lucrecia.
He'd trusted her with his entire soul. But then, she'd suddenly said that she didn't want to see him anymore. No explanation. She'd married...Hojo. Despite his efforts to tell himself it hadn't been because of anything he had done, he'd ended up blaming himself. He'd been suddenly ashamed of all of the things he'd shared with her, all of the things he'd forced on her about himself, so sure of her faithfulness. And then, she'd died in childbirth before he'd had a chance to ask, before he'd had a chance to apologize, or forgive. Hojo had said she'd known the risks. She'd known death was an accountable factor. She'd just chosen the risk of death over Vincent. He'd wondered endlessly which horrible thing about him had driven her to such an extremity...
Could he truly trust Elira? He'd told her he trusted she wouldn't hurt him willingly. Did he believe that?
Yes. She knew the pain already. And she wouldn't wish it on her worst enemy. Even if her worst enemy was a demon from the depths of Hades. He could trust a closeness with her that caused no pain...for once...
But, no. That wasn't entirely true. The curse. Fate. She would die and he would be left alone with the knowledge that he'd killed her. Fate was punishing him for all of his sins. And now taunting him. Elira...so close, and yet so far...a person to trust, a person to finally let into his world without fear...but at what cost?
The cost of her life. And his unendurable agony.
He should've known there was no second chance for the damned. He should've left well enough alone.
There was a small sigh from an unnoticed lump beside him, under the blanket. Guessing already at the identity of the lump, he gently pulled the covering back. It was Elira, sleeping on her side, curled up carefully with one hand tucked under her cheek.
He realized, as if for the first time, how beautiful she was.
A memory surfaced and, without really thinking, Vincent let it run its course.
A pen dangling from two fingers, a notepad flopped over onto her stomach, Lucrecia slept in the chair of the library. Vincent had been searching for her for no reason but to find her for the Professor. Her glasses had slipped down her nose, her head bowed by conquering exhaustion, and tendrils from a disordered ponytail had fallen around her face. She'd been so lovely, as lovely as when he'd first seen her, if not lovelier since his being introduced to her. He'd been so tempted to touch her face, her hair, as if to test her reality. But he'd held back, unwilling to put himself into a position where it was possible he could get hurt.
But she'd been so accepting, so understanding. So filled with trusting interest. She'd wanted to befriend him, to learn more about him. His reputation as a Turk hadn't caused her to prejudge him. She hadn't been afraid. And they'd ended up being so alike, coming from familiar sounding homes, familiar sounding pain. He'd been caught off guard. And then, despite his best efforts, he'd found himself in love. In love with everything about her...
So vulnerable...
Vincent almost touched Elira's cheek with a gloved finger. Almost. But he caught himself at the last moment. He would not make the same mistake. He would not put himself in a position where getting hurt was a possibility, where her death was a possibility. Fate would not have the last laugh. He would hold out until fate released him or until the day of his death.
But to hold out, he would have to leave.
He slipped his legs over the side of the mattress slowly, not wanting to wake Elira. It would be better if he was just gone when she awoke. He sat at the edge of the bed for a few seconds, his eyes lingering on the sky outside; no moon or stars were visible. His departure would be invisible. No one would be able to say where he had gone. No one would be able to follow. And if he had to live the rest of his life in solitude to ensure that fate couldn't harm another soul through him, then so be it.
He began to stand, but there was a little resistance. He glanced to the bed to see two eyes looking back at him questioningly, two sets of fingers wrapped around his metal wrist.
"Vincent, where are you going?" Her voice was quiet and raspy.
Vincent couldn't answer her. He had no answer to that question, even for himself.
Elira released his arm as he pulled away and then she sat up, her clothing shifting against the covers noisily in the silence. "Vincent? Were you...are you just going to leave?"
He wouldn't be swayed. She was awake, but it didn't matter. He would still go. And he hoped somewhere inside that she would one day understand his reasons. At least some of them. There were so many...
Elira was following him out of the room, but it didn't matter. He had hidden himself well for ten years, away from fate's probing, tearing gaze. He could hide himself again. Fate would not have another chance to hurt him. He would not give it the chance.
If only it would leave him be...if only there were some way to satisfy it besides offering up his humanity...
Maybe one day he would find a way. One day, but not today. He would have to retreat for now. How did the old cliche go? Live to fight another day? Yes. Elira would live, and he would fight. He would fight, but that fight would have to wait for another day. Right now, he didn't feel much like fighting...
He was getting so tired of it all. So very tired of the fighting, of the running. Of the living. He frowned as he walked through his livingroom. No, he wouldn't kill himself. Not yet, at least. He would last until he couldn't stand it another moment. And, when that time came, he'd last a little longer. Fate's victory wouldn't be an easy one.
Not when its prey was Vincent Valentine. He'd always prided himself on being a hard target.
"Vincent?"
He wouldn't turn to look at her, he told himself. He would just open the door to his apartment and leave. And it wouldn't matter if she followed. When an opportunity presented itself, he would lose her easily. And that would be the end of that.
He would bid farewell to his dwindling humanity...
He'd actually been expecting resistance sooner. It didn't surprise him when Elira stepped in his path, her shadow falling over him as she stood in the light from the hallway coming in through the broken door. In her eyes he saw anger, compassion, and pain. And also a small ember of hope that was begging for mercy, begging not to be put out.
He severed eye contact.
"Vincent, answer me. Is that...that 'change' the curse you were talking about? Is it my 'sure death'?"
He wouldn't meet her eyes. He would wait for an opportunity. And then, he would catch her off guard and leave. He'd let the shadows of the building devour him until she'd given up the search. His departure would be silent and invisible.
"Vincent, look at me! Is that creature the thing you're so afraid is going to kill me?" She was angry, and desperate. But it didn't matter. Compared with the risk of her life and his agony, her feelings were trivial. "Vincent, I don't see what the problem is. It's still you, isn't it? And you wouldn't attack me. Vincent, look at me."
He met her eyes. They were tender now, though he could still see traces of the underlying iron-willed passion. "Vincent, I trust you. I'm willing to take the risk with you."
Vincent shook his head, unable to stand the sincerity in her gaze. "You can't trust me, Elira. I can't even trust myself. You say I wouldn't attack you...but I can't promise you that. The creature you saw is called Chaos, and for good reason. I can't control it." He gestured at the livingroom they'd left behind them. "Do you think I intentionally ruined my apartment?"
Elira dropped her eyes. "I'm willing to take the risk," she repeated softly. And then she caught his glance with a piercing look. "If anything happens to me, it will be my own fault."
Did she understand what she was saying? The brightness of her eyes said she did. But, she couldn't possibly understand. She was talking about her death. Maybe she still didn't believe in fate, didn't believe that her fate would be sealed if he shared himself with her. The way her fate had been sealed with the first conversation they'd had over a cup of coffee in the middle of the night. "Elira, it is no risk. It is a fact. Unless I go, you will die, and I..." He looked to the floor. "I will again be dropped into hell."
An expression of deep pity overtook the tenderness, undermined the anger. Vincent saw it coming, but was powerless to stop it. His entire being hungered for human contact; his longing outweighed the fear. He let her wrap her arms around his waist, let her bury her face in his chest. He closed his eyes and nearly stumbled back, trying with all of his strength to hold back the raging torrent of need that was waking at her touch.
"Vincent, I...I don't want to hurt you. I just...need you so badly..."
"Elira..." He swallowed and cleared his throat. "Please, let go of me." He was relieved when she obeyed him; he knew already that he never would've been able to make himself remove her. When he looked to her face next, he saw tears glinting in her eyes under the shadows created by her darkened curls, the light from hallway reflecting off of the moisture. "Elira, you have to trust me when I say that fate exists. You have to trust me when I tell you that it has no mercy for me because of...my past. And it has no mercy for those who throw their lot in with me. And so, either you must stop pursuing me, or I will have to leave. There is no other way if you value your life. And even if you don't, I value my sanity. There must be a parting."
Elira lowered her face and studied the colourless carpet at her feet. And then she nodded and stepped out of his way. "I won't ever be able to stop pursuing you, Vincent, as long as you're around me. So, if you really believe there is no other way, you'd better leave."
Vincent nodded after a moment, put somewhat at ease by her eventual acceptance of the facts. He pushed down within him the displeasure he felt at the thought of actually leaving until it was no more than a faint twinge. It confused him. It clouded what needed to be done. He took a step forward, the hallway lying before him like a strip of road.
"I want you to remember me, Vincent. And I want the last words you ever hear me say to stay with you for the rest of your life."
Vincent stopped, steeling himself against the emotional speech he was expecting.
"Vincent Valentine, you are a coward."
Vincent frowned and turned. "What?"
Elira's eyes were burning with the stubborn anger he'd thought had been doused with her final acknowledgment of the truth. He knew that the rational thing to do, considering how close he was to leaving, was to finish heading out the doorway. But...she'd called him a coward, even after she'd been witness to the danger, accepted the idea of fate, seen this situation from his point of view. Even after she'd seen his motives for his actions. It made him question which part of saving her life made her see him as a coward.
"You heard me." Elira raised her chin in what Vincent had come to recognize as defiance. "You are a coward. You're so afraid of fate that you've let the fear completely take over your life. You won't risk anything because of it. And so you'll stay holed up within yourself, letting fate control you as if you were some kind of a puppet. You think you're beating it by escaping it, but really you're just running in fear from it, unwilling to stand up against it. So, when you think you're winning, Vincent, you're really losing. You're losing yourself, and you're losing your chance at defeating the loneliness that you're probably denying you have right now. You're losing it without a fight." Her voice was trembling now, as raging tears welled up in her eyes. "Okay, maybe fate does exist, and maybe it will kill me if I get close to you, but I am willing to take the chance! I'm willing to risk pain and death to end the loneliness because I would almost rather die than go back to living without anyone to understand, without ever completely trusting anyone. I'm willing to risk it all for the healing you could bring me, Vincent." Vincent watched wordlessly as she flicked hastily at the tears that were getting too heavy to stay on her eyelids. "I wish you had the courage to take that chance with me, Vincent! And I wish you'd stop taking all of the responsibility for everything! I take care of myself; I don't let fate or anyone else do it for me. I choose my risks according to me and me alone. And if my risk ends up leaving me high and dry, then that's what I get for making that choice. It isn't anyone's fault but my own. Not your's, not fate's, but my own. Do you understand? I'm willing to risk it all for our redemption from our personal hells. I believe we both still have a chance at living normal lives." She bowed her head, as if suddenly drained by the outburst. And then, voice small and defeated, she added, "I wish you believed that, too, enough to risk it all with me. I wish you'd stand up against fate..." She shook her head and rubbed wearily at her eyes. "Go, if you want, Vincent. I'm sorry to have kept you with my lecture. What you do with your life is your own business."
Elira brushed past him abruptly and exited his apartment. Without a backward glance, she opened the door to the stairwell and left the floor.
Vincent stood in his doorway, looking after her for an inordinately long time before turning and walking slowly, dazedly, to his bedroom.
The mattress sank a little under his weight as he sat. He raised his gloved hand to his forehead with the intention of shoving it under his bandana to massage his head, his instinctive physical reaction to stress, but he discovered again that his bandana was missing. And so he just ran his fingers through his hair.
He suddenly had a lot to think about.