Warnings: Contains slash and het. If you don't like that, you're in the wrong place.

A/N: Why first-person, present-tense? Because it's harder to write, I don't see it used much (yes, I realize there's a good reason for that), and I have come to loathe the omniscient feeling that I get while reading fiction where every single little detail, thought, and emotion of all the characters is spelled out… Where's the mystery?

Chapter One

I stare out at the sea of happy people that surround me. A friendly smile is plastered on my face, and I nod politely at the right times as the youthful, gregarious woman beside me chatters away. I have not met her before tonight, I do not even remember her name, but she has seen fit to attach herself to my general whereabouts.

It hardly matters.

I feel out of place, lost in this cloying atmosphere of cheer and hope, and despite my best attempts I cannot shake the encroaching onset of desolation that claws at my chest, tightens my throat, and threatens to send me running from the room.

My gaze falls on a specific couple swaying together out on the dance floor and my mood lifts for the moment, my lips curving upwards in a genuine smile.

They are married, finally.

Cloud has a look of surprised bemusement on his face, as if he cannot believe he is really here, his new bride held firmly in his arms and staring up at him with open adoration in her eyes. It may sound cliché, but Tifa is almost literally glowing with her happiness, radiating it outwards so it seems to have a tangible property; she is stunningly beautiful and still would be even dressed in rags instead of the lovely wedding gown she is wearing now.

A pang strikes through my heart as I think of how I will never have what they do, that I seem destined to be alone.

As soon as that thought crosses my mind, I feel shame and something akin to hatred for myself, at my pathetic self-pitying and inability to just be happy for them. I should be; they deserve it. In fact, I can think of almost no one who deserves love and for life to go their way more than those two.

Inexorably, my eyes begin scanning the shadowy corners and nooks of the cavernous room, and I wonder, not for the first time, why the newlywed Strifes have thrown such a large wedding and reception. A small, private ceremony in the Sector 5 Church is more along the lines of what I had expected. I would be willing to bet, though, that guilt, on Cloud's part, is one of the main reasons for the elaborate affair.

I shake my head at the silliness of that notion; Tifa would have been just as ecstatic with Cloud merely saying "I do."

"You don't think the water lilies compliment the tablecloths? Well, maybe birds of paradise would have…"

I mentally jolt as I realize that I have not been even half-listening to my companion for the evening, before allowing her words and pleasant voice to fade into background noise once more.

I finally spot the person I am looking for, who is, predictably, standing in the least populated dark section of the room, and I fight back a smirk at how uncomfortable he appears even while leaning casually against the wall.

"Excuse me," I interrupt the prattling woman currently delivering a monologue to no one, who seems surprised that I have spoken, "I need to discuss something with one of my employees."

I flash my charming, and usually fake, politician's smile at her and then stride away before she has a chance to respond.

After carefully moving through and around the crowd with some of the skillful maneuvers I have perfected for such occasions, I lean against an empty space of wall next to him in conscious mimicry.

He ignores me, but I am not bothered, not deterred. I simply use the fact that he is staring out and away from my direction to study his appearance.

It is something I have begun to do quite frequently.

There is no intent in my gaze, though. I am not delusional, and I admire him with the detached partiality of a lapsed art aficionado.

Mostly detached; he is certainly a very beautiful man and the rare occurrence of him being without his usual attire is fascinating, causing my sight to sharpen as I run my eyes over him.

Just how tall and slender he is is made more prominent by the charcoal colored suit. He possesses a dancer's body, an assassin's body; his movements graceful and deadly. The most distinct difference is to his long, glossy, black hair, which is, for the only time I have ever witnessed, neatly combed and falling in jagged lines to the middle of his back.

I allow myself to briefly imagine touching him, but the concept is purposely vague and I dismiss the idea before it can fully form. I slowly slide my gaze from the shiny, uncomfortable-looking, dress shoes, up his figure, lingering on his thighs and chest, to his face.

I almost expect him to be staring back at me, my hand caught in the cookie jar, so to speak, but his attention is still focused on the delighted people, many obviously intoxicated, in front of us.

I begin my perusal of his profile before he does finally turn his head to acknowledge my presence.

Of course, there is no doubt that he has been aware of my scrutiny from the moment I entered his peripheral vision; perhaps ever since I discovered his hiding place and looked his way.

I often speculate as to what he thinks, as to whether his mind is overflowing with thoughts and contemplations, or silent and watchful with little coherence. I mentally kick myself. Or maybe just a normal mind with normal thoughts.

The implausibility of the last causes my lips to tilt up slightly at the corners even while my eyes narrow at the reason behind his inability for normalcy.

My transition from self-pity to pity is not welcome and I shove the feeling away with a viciousness I never show externally.

He is looking at me, his face expressionless, as usual, waiting for me to speak first, as usual. I feel a mild and rather immature desire to outwait him, so I merely return his stare, and then allow my sight to trace the minor flaws on his countenance.

They have captivated me from the first time I noticed them; a nose that would otherwise be perfectly proportioned, too long; a mouth, too wide; the lips, nicely shaped, but too thin.

All in all, he is an attractive man that is enhanced by his imperfections, both mentally and physically.

I raise my eyes back to the deep crimson of his own, noting his confusion, which is barely detectable, and curse myself for my forwardness, my flirtatiousness, and for consuming several more drinks past that of my usual limit.

"It is odd to see you without your cape on," I say, putting on my best guileless expression, which promptly turns to alarm as I realize how insensitive my words are. "Good! I mean you look very good, Vincent," I adjust quickly, and just as quickly regret how suggestive it sounds.

Fighting back a groan, I try my hardest to appear natural and unassuming while I pretend to watch the people before us, when my focus is on the man beside me and the silence stretching uncomfortably, for myself at least, between us.

The seconds tick off into minutes, and I debate whether to risk sticking my foot back in my mouth once more or to make a silent retreat. Apparently, being inebriated around Vincent is not a good idea, and I make a mental note to myself to avoid such a situation in the future.

"Thank you."

I jerk my head towards him, startled at the unexpected reply, my eyes wide.

"You're welcome," I respond automatically and search his face, which is blank and unreadable once more.

Feeling awkward, I riffle through my thoughts to try to find a suitable conversation topic; he is the only one I am ever at a loss for words around.

"Were you surprised that Cloud chose you for his best man?" I finally ask with genuine curiosity.

It had been a novel and amusing sight to watch him walk down the aisle with Yuffie, Tifa's maid of honor, on his arm. Vincent had presented himself as a stoical, elegant individual with flawless etiquette, while the young ninja was practically bouncing in her excitement, chattering animatedly at him until they were forced to part in order to observe the rest of the ceremony.

"Yes," Vincent pauses and glances at the floor, then back up to make eye contact as he continues, "I thought you were the more logical choice."

I chuckle softly and shake my head. "No, I… I'm fairly sure that Cloud is not very fond of me, and he identifies with you, with the experiences that you both have endured," I state casually and shrug, watching as two giggling women who are clutching on to each other collide with a table and nearly send themselves sprawling.

"Why do you think he does not like you?"

I shrug once more, a gesture I normally avoid, and tilt my head back to rest on the wall, before replying. "He believes that I use him. For the WRO, that is," I amend, "and he is not incorrect on that matter. I do. In fact, I use my connections to all the members of AVALANCHE to garner influence and positive regard from the public."

This has the feel of a drunken, but reasonably well-worded, confession and I wonder why I am telling this to the ex-Turk, when he is the least likely to care.

Perhaps that is exactly why he is the one I am speaking to about this.

I continue. "If something goes wrong, some catastrophe strikes, and the Planet is in danger, I call on all of you to fix it." I pause for a moment and close my eyes, uttering the next words nearly inaudibly, "Because I lack the strength to do so myself."

I open my eyes, turn my head, and fix my gaze on Vincent, who is watching me in that intense and unnerving manner with which he seems to treat everything, no matter how mundane. I fight the urge to fidget and take a deep breath.

"I'm so sorry, Vincent. I-" I break off immediately when I see him flinch; the response catching me off guard and derailing my train of thought. "Are you al-"

"Don't say that," he interrupts me, his voice harsh.

"Don't say what? I don't understand."

"Don't apologize."

"But you don't even know what I am apologizing for!" I exclaim, baffled by the exchange.

"It doesn't matter."

With that, and a parting glare, he pushes away from the wall and walks into the crowd, quickly blending in and then disappearing from sight.

Stunned and thoroughly confused by the abrupt departure, I stand motionless for several moments, and then bring a hand up to my forehead, rubbing at the hint of a headache in my temples.

"What in Gaia's name was that about?" I mutter to myself.

"What was what about?"

I jerk my hand away, revealing a grinning, flushed to the tips of her ears, shiny-eyed Yuffie.

A very intoxicated, and therefore, slightly more dangerous Yuffie; only slightly, because even sober she often misjudges her own strength. I have had numerous bruises in the past to prove it.

The "White Rose of Wutai" resembles her namesake more closely in her current apparel, a pearly kimono with delicate silver inlays, but with modifications to suit her personality; most notably, a slit on one side exposing the long, pale length of her leg from ankle to hip. Ostensibly, I keep my eyes safely above neck-level.

Although she has matured greatly since Meteor Fall, her emotions and objectives are still as transparent as glass, and I have begun to fear that she harbors some attraction for me. Normally, I would be flattered by such attention; perhaps even open to an attempt at a relationship, but with Yuffie there are many reasons why that would not be a good idea, aside from the physical danger.

The main one being the gunman that has just walked away; I refuse to be someone's second best, the person they settle for because they are unable to obtain who they really want, or as I think would be the case with Yuffie, the person to tide her over until she does finally catch Vincent.

I rather be single than cast away, discarded.

"Nothing of any importance, Yuffie," I reply. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

She issues that maniacal laughter of hers that suggests nefarious intentions and slips a hand into her dress, pulling out a liquor bottle and brandishing it at me.

"I'm having a wonderful time, Reevie! Wonderful!" she emphasizes and brings the bottle to her lips, taking several gulps from it that leave her gasping for air. "Your turn!"

I jerk my head to the side, narrowly avoiding being hit as she thrusts the container at my jaw. "Yuffie!"

"Drink!" she insists, wagging it in front of my face, the dark liquid sloshing around inside.

With a half-hearted sigh, I reach for and take the proffered alcohol out from within her tightly curled fingers. I mime drinking and watch her from the corner of my eye. The deception works and she relaxes, glancing away momentarily. Lowering the bottle, I almost choke when she allows her body to fall forcibly against my side, the motion dislodging my arm and sending a portion of the potent liquid down my throat, the fumes burning up my nasal passages.

I sputter for a moment, clear my throat, and then glare down at the young woman who appears oblivious to my plight, merely snuggling in closer to my chest. Giving any reprimand up as a lost cause, I shift the bottle in my hand around until I can read the label and my eyebrows rise towards my hairline.

"Where did you get this?" I demand. "Cid?"

She giggles, the movement transferring due to her proximity, rattling my entire body, and shakes her head.

"Yuffie, this is not legal in Edge, or anywhere on the continent. Where did you get it?"

"Special occasion! I've had it for years, and I was saving it for something special." She tilts her head and stares up at me with a beguiling and deceptively innocent expression. "You'll drink it with me, right Reeve? Please? Say yes!"

I can feel my already weak defenses crumbling, but I wait for several seconds while directing a mock stern glare at her, which causes her to widen her flint tinted eyes to almost comical proportions. Eventually, I incline my head to show my acquiescence.

"Yes!" She draws back far enough from me to punch the air, right in front of my face, and I press myself closer to the wall behind us. "You are the greatest boss ever! I take back all those rumors I started about you!"

"Rumors?"

"That you're gay, and use Cait for- never mind," she pauses and gestures to the bottle. "C'mon, alcohol drinking time!"

I ignore the alcohol in my hand and focus on what she has just said.

"Yuffie," I begin slowly, "I am not gay, and Cait Sith's programming and abilities are strictly for reconnaissance purposes only. What did you tell everyone?"

"It was just a joke. I swear! Nobody really believed any of it." She huffs angrily at a few stray bangs that have fallen onto her forehead. "Gawd! All I said was that you have it do creepy, stalkerish, kinky spying on people. That's it!"

"That's it," I echo and gaze out at the crowd. "You, my lead intelligence agent, told my staff that I am a sexual deviant, a voyeur."

"Well, when you put it that way, it does sound kind of bad."

My headache is now pounding at full strength, and I absently raise the liquor to my mouth and ingest a large enough amount to make me cough, my eyes water.

"Reeve?" Yuffie's voice is tentative and she reaches up to take a hold of my suit jacket, one hand above my heart, the other at my waist.

The sudden intimacy of the position startles me out of my scattered musings and I look down at her, thankful that she is as short as she is or I would be even more uncomfortable at this moment than I already am. "Yes?"

"I'm sorry," she says, and her face is earnest.

I experience a strange sense of duality from recalling the stilted conversion I had had with Vincent just a few short minutes ago, and the role reversal that seems to be playing out now.

What an unusual evening this is turning out to be.

"It hardly matters," I repeat verbally the same sentiment I had been thinking earlier, and indeed, I feel as though I have come round full circle.

Yuffie's expression falters and changes to hurt, she is clearly misunderstanding the context of my words; that her apology does not matter.

"Rumors," I clarify, "do not matter. I have been considered a joke to everyone for as long as I care to remember; the gifted, but absent-minded engineer and the eccentric leader put into place by chance and luck."

"You're not a joke, Reeve!" she cries out, her tone high and dramatic, the pitch threatening to damage my hearing. "You're the best commissioner of all time!"

"I am the only commissioner of all time," I respond dryly, in direct contrast to her frantic words.

Her nails dig into the grip she has on my chest and back hard enough to cause me to wince, and her eyes are frustrated and intense as they bore into my own.

"You know what I'm talking about, Tuesti," she nearly growls. "You are a good leader. For Leviathan's sake, stop playing dumb."

The rapid shift in both dynamics and mood is disturbing but unmistakably charged, and I attempt to remove myself from her embrace; conscious of all of the numerous strangers around us, as well as the impairment of my mind from the alcohol.

But I am no match for her strength, not even close, and my struggles prove useless as she slides one hand up my shoulder to the back of my neck, while the other is still firmly on my waist, effectively trapping me.

"Yuffie," I say in warning, of what I am not sure, as she rises up onto her toes and pulls me closer. "Stop."

"No," she murmurs against my mouth, and then seals off the thin gap left between us, to press her lips to mine.

E/N: Alright, not sure if I'll continue the fic, but I'll probably keep writing it. This is basically just a practice exercise for me; to see if I could get the characters down somewhat, and to try to improve on my description of actions and dialogue so they're smoother and more natural.

The entire process still feels like I am attempting to pull all of my teeth out, one by one, with a pair of pliers.