A/N: Well, welcome to the fiftieth prompt in Of Pyjamas And Ironic Harmonies! I'll elaborate a little after the chapter, but for now, enjoy!
Disclaimer: The average lifespan of a human in the UK and the U.S.A is approximately two and a half million seconds. How much of that are you prepared to waste suing my ass?
Beautiful. That was the first though to enter his mind. A thousand toothless metaphors flowered in his brain and wilted. Eve, Aphrodite, Helen of Troy; every classic analogue of desire shot through his mind and fell, discarded, like bullet casings from a machine-gun.
He hated every minute of it.
Lucrecia, her name was. The sound always lingered in the air, smoky and dissolute, like it was unfinished. Hair, eyes, legs. They all appealed to him in ways he hadn't even known existed, hadn't even considered.
She seemed to hate him too.
The first evening was strained. There was something about her, some oddity of behaviour or character, that made it hard for him to work. It always felt as if she were on edge, ready to fight or flee, more a cornered animal than the cold, calculating scientist he'd envisioned.
"Your name...Valentine, was it?" she asked, breaking the silence. He nodded, and the quiet soon repaired the damage. She turned away, gaze drifting dreamily through the window.
It wasn't like he didn't have experience with women. How many had he seduced in search of information? No one could let secrets slip like a barmaid post-coitus. He saw flashes of his mechanical embraces, jerky like old film reel, divorced from the reality of the sweat and the pressure and the constant, constant coldness. But for some reason, those skills (if they could be called skills, and weren't the collective benefit of Shinra's money and Shinra's suit) deserted him in her presence.
He busied his hands with his gun, stripping away the components with robotic efficiency, cleaning, twisting, examining. As soon as he was done, he started again, timing himself, getting it down to seconds and microseconds- anything to feel like he was capable, like this woman hadn't stripped him toothless at a glance.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Valentine. My mind was elsewhere," she said, her voice soft near his ear.
"Vincent," he replied. "Call me Vincent."
"Of course. I'm sorry," she said, leaving the question of 'why' unanswered and walking away.
Something was disquieting about the way she said his name. It was familiar on her tongue, as if she'd said it many times before. It came out like a lament, a sigh. Strange.
The next day, she came down from the inn with bloodshot eyes and a face with the tell-tale blanche of computer exposure. Dutifully, he said nothing, but noted the change. He wondered, later, how she could have possibly captured his attention so quickly, and so completely.
In time, the barriers between them began to lower. They never completely disappeared, but he was fool enough to ignore them, missing signs he should have seen. The way she always lowered her eyes when he tried to catch them. The way she stared at his hair when she thought he wasn't looking, and sighed, as if looking back on a fond memory. And the way that she seemed to try to get closer and hold him at arm's length at the same time.
Somehow, the way he thought (the very fibre of his being) began to wind away like the threads in a cheap suit. The man, the monster, the Turk- all of him was trying to get closer to her, to analyse, to understand. But his mind just wouldn't do it. It didn't have the strength. So, for the first time in years, he did something dangerous. He consulted his heart.
-Pyjamas-
There, his memories faded. What was left were mere moments, snapshots in time. His confession, her reaction, the awkwardness between them. Hojo's arrival. His memories became more phantasm than fact, dropping away into what he thought might have happened. Flashes passed through his mind again, of bare skin on bare skin, desperate emptiness, an all consuming warmth. He shook them away. It might have happened, it might not. It didn't matter any more.
"Vince? You okay?"
She touched his arm, still warm and soft and honey-throated in the afterglow. Goosebumps seemed to spread like fire from her touch. Before he could move to stop her, she was sitting up in the bed, shadows falling gracefully across her legs, hiding nothing.
"Stop thinking so much," she said. Her eyes were still dewy and glazed.
"I'd forgotten what it felt like. To be full."
She snaked her hand across his chest, holding it under his heartbeat- on the scar, where he'd had his past ripped out, from the time she'd saved his life.
"Mine," she murmured. "I'm stealing it. And I don't care who had it before."
"Do I not get a say in this, Yuffie?" Now that he thought about it, his throat was full of honey, too.
"Nope. Tough luck for you, huh?"
"For me? Not particularly."
A/N: Hoorah! A romantic little epilogue for the Bad Luck series. Now, for my spiel. For the last fifty chapters, this collection has had at least some content (whether that be filler that was later taken down, or failed attempts) posted every two days. If I've ever missed one, I've conveniently forgotten it. Just like the twenty-fifth landmark, next update will be a special, off schedule chapter, so to whoever had prompt number fifty-one (TornAngelWings, as I remember it), yours will be the update after that.
Thanks, as always, to everyone who reads, massive thanks to everyone who reviews and has reviewed, and I extend my very utmost gratitude to all the people who've submitted prompts. Because it's been based on your requests, you can consider a good portion of the credit for this collection yours. 2
As to where this fic is going in the future? Well, I have around 75 prompts scheduled (a few less, because I'm leaving room in between a triple prompt), so I shan't be ending it any time soon. I'd actually quite like to get to 100 chapters, partially to show all those people who abandon their 100 theme challenges how I do things, and partially because it's a very nice number. But, for the moment, thanks to everyone for helping me to get this far.
