Final Fantasy VII, any/Vincent, "and yea, the devils were numbered and counted, and there were none
Turks didn't forget. They didn't forgive. Turks were a breed that called themselves family, strange family from all walks of life perhaps, but a dangerous, utterly loyal family. At least, Tseng thought of them this way.
But Vincent Valentine had been a Turk, and he'd been taken by Hojo and when the time came for an investigation there was none to be had. All efforts to locate and extract the agent were halted from above. Another sin laid at the feet of power and greed. He understood why valentine wouldn't want to return to the people who had left him in hell. The family that had failed him.
'Show me why you serve. Why you believe.' the man husked, claw gleaming in the twilight, hard edges of metal and the soft give of crimson and shadow.
They couldn't wake Elena, she was still recovering from the dislocation of both hips. So he moved carefully and quietly outside their little bolt hole and hoped his own knee wouldn't give out. He wasn't a youngster or SOLDIER to be easily fixed with potions and a prayer these days.
Valentine's body was a road map of scar tissue and satiny smooth skin, and he kept the glove on. In the dirt, rough ground their sheets, he ran his lips and tongue over every mark. He let hard fingers guide him to the reddened length and he tried to explain. With hard sucks and soft touches, bruised lips and warning teeth, he told the man what it was like to have a place to stay.
And when Valentine came, salty bitter down the back of his throat and balls wrinkled up tight, he thought the man might understand.
Turks were family. Even the ones who weren't Turks anymore.