Work Text:
Rest
The Gold Saucer is all bright lights, loud noise, and spectacle, even in the hotel guestrooms, so Cloud isn't surprised that not only does he have yet another migraine, but he can't sleep it off. Not with the robot tonberry chugging around the room, the creepy lighting, and the atmospheric distant thunder cracks and malevolent cackling. He lies awake, his head throbbing, his stomach churning with nausea, thin blades of agony slicing into the backs of his eyeballs, his body flashing hot and cold without reason, basting in his own sweat, his eyelids squeezing shut but unable to block out the faint purple lighting, his sinuses aching from the scented smoke.
Cure, potions, and elixir can't even touch a migraine like this. He needs something else.
Darkness. Quiet.
But where in the Gold Saucer would Dio allow so much as a speck of peace?
An answer occurs, unbidden, in the depths of Cloud's misery.
The chocobo stables.
The chocobos are one of Dio's biggest draws, so he has to ensure their comfort so they can perform. When the chocobos rest, they're given soft bedding, quiet, and darkness.
Before the thought finishes, Cloud rolls up onto his feet, staggers, throws up in the back of his mouth, swallows it down, and stumbles across the room to the door, tripping over the robot tonberry on the way. Squinting, he fumbles for the door latch, pries it open, and bursts out into the hotel corridor. With the fingers of one hand pressed to his eyelids and the other trailing along the wall, he reels and bumps down the corridor to the elevator.
At least everyone else is asleep. He doesn't have to explain himself or pretend to be fine so that he doesn't worry them. He doesn't have to hide his grimace or force himself to straighten when his stomach is curdling with nausea.
Through a blur of eyelashes and moisture, he accesses the Guide Moogle and requests the Chocobo Square. As he materializes in the excruciatingly bright and noisy lobby, he forces himself to straighten and schools his face into a cool, calm mask so as not to betray how close he is to throwing up, crumpling into a corner, and weeping. He ignores the shouts of "Great race, Cloud!" and "Thanks for winning for us, Cloud!" as he passes the excited crowds, his brisk steps bringing him to a side door.
"Welcome back, Mr Strife," greets the attendant standing at the door. "Which race are you joining?"
"None," he responds shortly, his dry mouth making his voice raw. "I just want to check on my birds."
"Oh." She blinks, clearly startled, and then catches herself with a warm smile. "Yes, of course, please go ahead." She pulls the door open for him, allowing him into the much quieter corridor beyond.
Just breathing in the dusty scent of wood dust, sweet gysahl greens, straw, and chocobo helps to ease the ache in his head. He follows the familiar path to his own section of the stables, and he hasn't even rounded the corner before he can hear the familiar wark and kweh-kweh of his chocobos greeting him.
He doesn't have the energy to speak, but he doesn't have to. He shambles to Belle's stall, knowing that she is the least jumpy of the chocobos. When he enters, she butts her head into his chest, cooing softly. He gives her an absent pat and shuts the stall door behind himself, throwing the stall into darkness lit only by narrow slits near the ceiling. Sighing in relief, he feels his way to the side of the stall, sinks to his knees, and curls up in the hay.
Belle nudges him and, when he only hugs her beak, she warks under her breath and crouches beside him.
The blessed darkness and quiet helps, but even then, he's shivering and sweating and wondering where to throw up if it comes to it.
And then the stall door creaks open, slanting light across the room. Cloud winces and curls tighter, covering his eyes. Briefly, he wonders if he should force himself up to send whoever it was packing, but Belle's murmured kweh tells him it's someone she knows. So he braces himself, expecting Tifa's worried voice or Barret's gruff—and loud—concern, knowing that he needs to get up and go back to being okay. He needs to lead.
But no one speaks.
The straw crackles with slow, careful footsteps. Belle shuffles over. Something brushes over Cloud's leg, and fabric drapes over his shivering body. A blanket? A scent of warm leather joins the milieu of the stable, and someone sits next to his head, surprisingly graceful as they somehow keep the crackle to a minimum.
Only as cool claws stroke his head does he recognize who had joined him.
Cloud's breath catches on a relieved little sob as the gentle scratch across his scalp immediately alleviates the throbbing pressure. Vincent holds his silence, but he continues, the tips of his claws slowly trailing from Cloud's temple to the base of his skull, up to his crown, around his ear, following his hairline, dipping down the back of his neck, going everywhere, endlessly circling, guarding against the pain.
He falls asleep so suddenly that he doesn't notice it until he wakes and the migraine is gone. He can breathe again, swallow again, move again. He isn't shivering or sweating or on the verge of vomiting. Vincent's hand is still moving on his head—the man is tireless. Belle is snoring. When Cloud dares to open his crusty eyes and adjust to the minimal light, he sees her broad head on Vincent's lap, completely out of it as he caresses her as well. Vincent sits against the wall, his legs outstretched and crossed at the ankle, his head resting back, his face tilted up and eyes closed. His cloak, Cloud is shocked to see, is missing, and he's even more shocked when he realizes that the "blanket" had been the very same tattered red cloak.
Cloud can't stop himself from staring. He holds his breath, captivated by this rare glimpse of Vincent exposed, drinking in the sight of his bare throat, his chin, his lips, the fan of his lashes.
Caught in this pose of relaxation, he's …
Cloud quickly shuts his eyes and pushes the thought away. Vincent would not appreciate those kinds of ideas, Cloud is sure of it.
… He needs to get out of there before he can't avoid them anymore.
When Cloud shifts, gathering himself to sit, Vincent immediately pulls his clawed hand back to himself. His eyes slit open, the fiery irises bright in the darkness of the stall. He doesn't speak, doesn't move, just watches as Cloud pushes himself up in the dry straw. Cloud takes a few breaths, leaning against the wall, taking stock of himself, before rising to his feet.
As he moves, Belle startles awake, snorting. She shakes her head, butting against Vincent’s shoulder, before curling her long neck to rest her head over her own wing, freeing her pillow to stand. He stretches and climbs to his golden sabatons, graceful and nearly silent, glances at Cloud, and sweeps past him out of the stall.
Swallowing to wet his scratchy throat, Cloud follows.
Out in the brighter light of the stable passageway, he is pleased that his eyes don't water and his head doesn't throb. He shuts the stall door and then joins Vincent, unsure of what to say when Vincent’s burning gaze falls on him. At a loss, he busies himself shaking out Vincent’s cloak and passing it back. Vincent swings it over his shoulders, fastens the buckles, and then sets his eerie stare on Cloud.
Cloud flinches, expecting questions, recriminations, demands.
The corners of Vincent’s eyes crinkle. He reaches out to pluck something from Cloud’s hair and holds up a downy grey feather between two claws. Holding Cloud’s gaze, he tucks it under his cloak, turns on his heel, and strides away.
Cloud stares after him, blinking in confusion, before shaking himself back to life and trotting to catch up.