"What? What?" Cid complained at the knock at the door. "I thought I told everybody I don't officially get up until noon. This had better not be about religion—" He opened the door and stood there, disheveled, unshaven, and stunned. The first two were hardly unusual for him. The third, however, was very hard to manage, especially before Cid's third cigarette. "VINCE!"

"Hi," Vincent managed. "I told you I'd come back."

"I thought you just meant for birthdays and—what's behind your back?"

"Um, my arm."

"Don't get smart with me." Cid grumbled, throwing the door wide open for Vincent to come in. "Since when did you turn sarcastic?"

"No, I mean… my arm…" Vincent said, wincing in anticipation for Cid's reaction as he took his arms from behind his back and stepped in the house. Half of his metal prosthetic was connected to his arm, where it belonged. The other half was in his right hand, where, as anyone could surmise, it didn't belong. "I was kinda hoping you could fix it."

Cid sighed. "Well, it's a good thing you came to me right away."


"You didn't. Vince, how the fuck long have you--? Never mind, forget it, I don't want to know. It's too early for this."

"I… really wanted to finish what I was doing," Vincent said, setting the mechanical hand on the table.

"Ah, I've done that," Cid said, sitting down, as did Vincent. He's spent way too much energy and effort and time just to keep Vince from destroying a bed every night because of his nightmares, let alone proving that he really did like him. He was not going to ruin things with a stupid fight. Especially now that Vincent had finally come back to him. "Spent an entire day fixing an engine on a sprained ankle. So, what happened?" he asked, glad Vincent was back.

"There was an explosion."

"What exploded?"

"I'm not sure."

"Why'd it explode?"

"I'm not sure about that either."

"Where the fuck were you?"

"Vincent!" The two looked at the doorway, to see Shera, struggling with a bunch of groceries, even though she'd dropped half on the floor half a second ago. "Your—your—your… back."

"'Course he's back," Cid said proudly, getting up and taking most of the grocery bags from her. "He'd better not be leaving anytime soon, though."

"I'm not. Don't worry. Can I help?"

"Sure. I have no clue where half this stuff goes," Cid said.