She thinks of a wedding.
A dark, dank, menacing aisle to which she cannot see the end, but where death waits indefinitely at the alter instead of happily-ever-after. A lonely, quiet reception where the only guests are the bride and groom. There is no orchestra and no wedding bells, only the eery sound of water dripping slowly from the underground pipelines. There is no carpet that has been rolled out for them, and no flower girls to carry the train of the white dress she is not wearing. There is no best man to hand her not-groom the ring when it's finally time to say 'I do'. And the man she stands next to certainly harbors no thoughts of marrying her, and happens to lack the proper attire to do so even if he did.
It is not really like a wedding at all.
She does think about asking his opinion on the matter, but she might give him the right idea, so she keeps quiet.
Staring down the corridor, she wishes it were a wedding. She'd much rather entertain thoughts of marrying Vincent Valentine than those of dying beside him. But, of course, he doesn't need to know that.
"Vincent?" she asks.
He grunts quietly in response.
"Are we going to die?"
He does not answer. Her question has caught him off-guard.
She waits patiently as he thinks of an answer, one that will not upset her.
After a moment, he grumbles "Would you like me to be honest with you? Or would it be more comforting for me to lie?"
She has no answer to this, because, quite frankly, neither option seems particularly appealing. But, she will not ask him to lie because that will only make it more difficult. They both know their chance of survival is slim at best.
"Vincent?"
He gives another grunt.
"Can I ask you something else?"
He looks down at her in annoyance, "That would depend on the question."
"...Will you promise me something?"
"That would depend on the promise."
"I mean, will you promise to do something for me, if we live?"
"That would depend on the request."
She stares at her feet and thinks of the wedding.
"You have to promise me, that if we live... you'll marry me."
He does not know how to respond. He thinks at first she is joking, or maybe her multitude of tumbles have finally gone to her head. Maybe it's just the trauma. He prays it's just the trauma.
"Yuffie–,"
"Oh please, please Vincent?" she begs, grabbing the hem of his cloak and holding on as though for dear life. "Please don't say no. It would the mean the whole world to me."
Those pleading eyes of hers make him sick, but he couldn't bear it if she started to cry.
"Please, please promise me you'll do it."
He wishes she were kidding, but the way she tugs at his cloak and looks at him with those watery eyes make it very clear she is not. He doesn't care for the thought of dying, but the idea of making a silly promise that he knows perfectly well he will not, and cannot, keep is equally repulsive. But there's no reasoning with her. She is desperate in every sense of the word, and he finds himself not knowing what he should do.
He gazes down at her calmly, a certain softness in his eyes that fills her with hope and doubt at the same time.
"Yuffie."
She buries her face in the piece of cloak she clutches.
"Please, Vincent. I won't care if you don't mean it, and we don't even have to go through with it if everything works out. But I can die happy, too, just knowing that you said yes."
Why is he doing this, he thinks.
Because he can't stand to see her so miserable. Because he wants to comfort her. Because he wants her to have some reason to make it through this. Because...
"... Yes."
She looks up from the scrap of cloak, eyes and nose running.
"Really?"
He is an idiot, he thinks.
"Yes."
"You mean it?"
He always had too soft a heart.
"... I promise."
But he doesn't want to let her down.
He is horribly dismayed when she begins to cry anyway. Had she not just said that this was she wanted? He frowns. He will never understand women.
But then she mumbles a quiet 'thank you' through her tears and it seems to make a little more sense.
He watches her sob quietly into the scrap of cloak and wonders if it will take much longer for her composure to return. He has a great deal of business to attend to and knowing that it waits unfinished at the end of the corridor makes him anxious.
When at last she releases the corner of his cloak that she has thoroughly drenched and rubs away the remnants of her tears with the backs of her hands, he is not sure whether to move forward or to stay put and let her take a moment. But then she looks up at him with eyes that are red and swollen from crying and he realizes that she expects something. Something he does not have.
"I apologize. Had I been expecting an engagement, I would have made a trip to the jeweler beforehand," he says.
He thinks she would have found this amusing under normal circumstances, because it is not often that he attempts to be humorous, and because she is regularly the only one who realizes when he does. But she does not smile. She cannot honestly expect him to have had a ring ready.
"I know, I know," she acknowledges nonchalantly. "It's not like I was planning on this either."
He quirks a brow, befuddled by her sudden lack of concern. She huffs a breath and plants her hands on her hips. How many times has he watched her take this same stance? The thought almost makes him smile, but he is more concerned with their unfortunate position.
"I know it's silly and unconventional," she continues practically, "but isn't there anything you could use for a ring? I mean, it's not even a real proposal and we're hardly in love with each other, but the ring still counts for something, doesn't it?"
He doesn't exactly understand how, but he keeps that to himself and simply nods instead.
"It's like the material form of the promise, you know? It, like, symbolizes the vow, you know? I don't know. I must sound ridiculous."
He thinks there is rarely a time when she doesn't sound ridiculous, but it's painfully endearing at the same time. And he supposes he can see her point, if only mildly.
He looks down at Cerberus, waiting readily in its holster and a familiar glimmer catches his eye. His Cerberus Relief sways gently from the silver chain that links it to the tail of the gun. Perhaps he can make it work. After all, she does have very small fingers.
She watches curiously as he gives the chain a firm tug and it breaks easily. A few of the broken links scatter across the steel floor, clinking softly. He carefully pulls a fresh one from the chain and in one hand molds it effortlessly into a perfect circle. Without looking, he reattaches the relief to Cerberus.
She, on the other hand, is down on her knees, scouring the floor for the little silver links he had dropped.
He smiles gently.
"Yuffie."
She looks up from her search and he can see several of the links cradled in her palm. Taking one last look around her to make sure she has recovered all of them, she stands without being asked and offers them back to him. He shakes his head.
"I have no need of them."
She shrugs and slips the little handful of silver into her pocket. As soon as she does, he delicately takes her left hand in his and slides the misshapen link onto her finger. He is pleased with himself to see that it fits.
"This will have to suffice until I can buy a proper ring," he says.
She smiles, admires the makeshift band, and thinks of a wedding.