Auctorial caveat: this fic was orginally planned out before Advent Children et al (which left me with brain-freeze when everything got Jossed), but I think I now have enough distance that I can continue with it as a post-game AU.

If that doesn't put you off, then by all means - read on.

~Gyre

Disclaimer: Square Enix owns FFVII, story, history, world, characters and all appurtenances thereof. I have borrowed Vincent, Tifa, Cloud and everyone else to tell a story of my own, but I have no claim on them and make no money from my muses' efforts. I promise that all characters will be returned to Square thereafter with all traumatic memories excised (game characters coming as they do with that handy reset button :-).

- Hope's Rest -

By

Gyreflight

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,

And love itself have rest.

- Lord Byron -

~We'll Go No More a Roving~

Prologue: Safe Haven

"Vincent…"

Relief, gratitude and absolute trust. So much weighting to put in one word, and all of it strange to him. Particularly in that word.

He had no need to question. Not her. Wordless, he stood aside from the part opened door - just far enough to let her slip through the gap and into the darkened room while he looked outward and past her. And if silence was natural to him as trust was not, still he spared not the slightest attention to watch his back when she ducked around the door edge and past the guarding arm with its long-muzzled weapon raised ready against whatever might come.

Something was wrong. He had known it even before he had picked up the footsteps on the stairs, the betraying intensity of desperation undermining her attempt at stealth. That it was this woman…

He watched the corridor. Looking out of the darkness into the light. The phrasing of a man who spent too much time thinking alone. The practicality of a bodyguard. Or an assassin.

No one seemed to be following her. No one seemed to have noticed her arrival. This was not a place where it was wise to express interest in the comings and goings of one's neighbours.

Nevertheless, he waited. Poised. Deadly still. Patient as a tripwire. All his senses were focused outward, ready to react to the faintest betrayal of intent. He was a survivor of more and worse than most would care to imagine, and he had lived because he knew that sooner or later an enemy would always give themselves away – and because Vincent Valentine never did.

Except once.

Time passed. It was irrelevant to him. All that mattered was his concentration, the almost preternatural awareness that would form itself into certainty only when its elusive conditions were met. Certainty that there was an enemy trying to wait him out…or certainty that there was not.

The moment came and went, slipping away as soft and unremarked as mist beneath the moon. The door swung closed and the tiny noise of a well-oiled lock snuggling into place was loud and final in the silence.

Vincent said nothing as he turned back into the room. Offered no obvious threat – but he didn't need to. Tall man in darkness, a killer's readiness gathered around him, the brutal weight of the gun settled unregarded in his hand…it would be a rare intruder who could face him down with equanimity.

Neither silence nor darkness nor waiting weapon seemed to bother her. Fearless, she turned towards him, though anyone with the tiniest shred of survival instinct should surely have backed away from the aura of menace that clung to his shadowy form.

He had not relaxed the vigilance that a moment earlier had been directed outward and held ready for action. The implicit promise of sudden death was a palpable force expanding to fill the suddenly claustrophobic space. The only light was the fragile shiver of moonlight from the window behind her, the only colour the demon-gleam of red eyes.

None of it caused her a moment's hesitation. This was Vincent. Upswelling relief briefly caught the words out of her throat. Familiar presence. Mystery as predictable as midnight. Solid ground beneath her feet in a world where nothing seemed quite real.

"Vincent…I need…I really need a friend." Her voice caught on the last word, raspy with pain. "It's safe, there's no danger, nobody-" a hitch of breath, "…nobody following me." Careful, keep control…Just a little longer now, she promised herself. She had nothing left. Last ditch effort. Last chance.

She was here. Finally, she was here. The realisation sank in, and her thoughts juddered to a halt, suddenly bereft of momentum. She had found him. But now what? Unexpected panic started to rise up her throat as she scrabbled after the words she had forgotten she would need.

Another breath. More waiting silence, and she relaxed, slowly. She knew that silence, familiar from long nights of quiet companionship and desultory conversation, an inherent quality of watchful attention as distinctive and recognisable as another man's unseen sigh. Vincent… She found his eyes in the dark and held them, careless of what her own gaze might reveal.

"Can I stay here? Please…I need-"

"Yes."

One word. Empty of emotion, meaning only what it said. Meaning everything. The brief answer overrode the throbbing tangle of pain that she was trying to drag out of her jumbled mind, lancing cleanly through to the other side.

She was here. She could stay. The breath left her in utter relief as at last she let exhaustion overtake her, let herself just…stop. No need to fight any longer, to force herself to think through the pain, to keep feeling more than she was strong enough to bear. Finally, she could rest.

Her vision had adjusted to the minimal light, and now she could just about make out the end of a couch-shape against the wall by the window. She fixed on it. One more effort, just one…

She was beyond self-consciousness, beyond weariness, working very close to the edge of purely autonomic response. Drunk with tiredness, her balance wavered, every step a barely averted fall, unsteady legs barely able to keep her upright as her eyes refused to focus properly on her goal. Swaying, she stumbled forward, unable to see the surface beneath her feet, unable to care.

She didn't trip. Vincent was not the sort of man to leave things lying loose on the floor.

At last… The old leather was shiny and solid under her groping hand, and she let herself fall into its support. With the thoughtless trust of a child she curled herself up against the chill of the worn padding – and was asleep.

xXx

Vincent looked down at the sleeping woman for a long slow moment. The darkness was no object to eyes such as his, so he could read the exhaustion on her face, and the anguish - and something else, something he had never thought to see there.

Defeat.

[-end prologue-]

Author's Note:

Very brief I'm afraid, but then this is only the prologue.

…and feedback is still lovely.

~Gyre