By: Caz [theinfamouscaz@aol.com]

Rating/Summary: PG-13 (could end up R)/Nothing more than a random what-if.

Notes: Third chapter. Could be titled "OH, DEAR LORD, THE ANGST!" Actually, I don't think it's that bad.

BIG, SQUISHY, LOVING THANKS TO ZAR. For hosting. Muah.

Finally, activity aboard the bustling ship drew to a slow. Never a stop--not on the Highwind, no!--but a relative quiet. The chocobos slept in the stables, the crew had returned to their barracks, and the captain retired to his quarters to spend another night awake.

Cid never had slept much at night; he functioned fine on three to four hours. Night was just more time for the day's duties, and he used it accordingly. (Perhaps this behavior explained his distaste for mornings and his general tendency to doze…)

Clad in his favorite bathrobe, he sat cross-legged upon the room's bed and stared blankly down at the notebook in his lap. Captain's log, the thing was. He wasn't the writing type, but he kept one to be true to form. Only the pages weren't filled with stats and coordinates and charts and other ship's happenings (God, no! That was the first mate's job). His were slightly nostalgic, more personal. And for the moment, the page remained completely undecorated due to the fact that his mind was on other matters entirely.

Namely one spontaneous encounter earlier that night.

There had been no thought behind the action as it had happened (he rarely thought before he spoke). It was a golden, unexpected moment of sporadity he'd hardly estimated the importance of. He'd succeeded at what he'd planned--Vincent was smiling when he'd left. Even it if was a dazed, scattered one…

And halfway to his cabin, the realization had hit him: He'd fucking kissed Vincent. Vin was an… acquaintance. Perhaps a friend. But Hell, Vin was a man! Cid found himself not the slightest bit attracted to men. So why the Hell had he done it?

That was a good question, indeed.

He mulled over the matter for a while, then mentally shrugged it off. He sometimes did things he didn't understand. This had been one of those things. End of story.

Satisfied with his reasoning, he slid the notebook (that day's page was still pristine) onto the floor and yawned, stretching his arms. Tonight, sleep welcomed him. He curled into the blankets, smiling minutely as consciousness faded into the warmth of coverlets and dreams.

Crouched on the sill of an open window, Vincent stared into the quiet cabin, watching the huddled body beneath the sheets cease to be self-aware as sleep descended. He clutched his gnarled hand to his chest, alarmed at the feeling he'd been completely occupied with since… since Captain Ciddo went completely nuts. He smirked, but it didn't last.

"Highwind," he muttered, and mirrored Cid's earlier query: "What makes you tick?"

Unable to focus his attention on anything else, he stared at the huddled body on the bed.

Unbeknownst to Vincent, something within him stirred. A drop of blood traveled down the smooth metal of his arm to join another that seeped from his wrist. The dropped into the room, spattering upon the unmarked pages of the Captain's log.