Disclaimer: I don't own FFVII. So stop chewing my feet, you big corporate dogs…

AN: This fic has been changed to romance, Yuffentine. This drabble today has been bouncing in my head forever…okay, since two weeks ago, in the shower. But it's cute for once!

.:Vicissitudes:.

Yuffie's head lolls with the motion of the train, but she is oblivious to it all as she sleeps beside Vincent peacefully, a bit of drool sliding out the corner of her mouth. He glances at the slumbering girl beside him, and thanks Chaos fervently for reminding him to dose her food with tranquilizers before the trip. She would never have stood for it; Yuffie prefers suffering through motion-sickness loudly (with a large amount of projectile vomit) to calming her stomach artificially with drugs. But he prefers to have a cloak free of stomach contents after a train ride.

Deeming it safe that she would not soon awake and rag him for drugging her, he pulls out a novel (My Bloody Valentine: A Story of Dark Love and Betrayal)to occupy his time. The passengers in the compartment are rowdy and malodorous, for the most part, and he finds that he can't concentrate, especially when a man spits a mere three inches from where his claw rested on the seat. Not for the first time, Vincent wishes that Cid could be less paranoid and actually use the Highwind for its purpose: a vehicle for transporting passengers, not a scenic tea room.

But he is jerked from his musings quickly enough, when the door suddenly bursts open to admit four strutting youths.

From behind the pages, Vincent sees them: young, affluent heirs, their clothes so new that their colors scream of cleanness and their style stinks of money. They walk with a swagger so reminiscent of Rufus's that he almost expects them to start running hands through their hair vainly and speaking about "ruling the people through fear." Their approach puts him on intangible alert that they never see.

The four's eyes are caught by Yuffie's prone form. "She's cute," one sneers.

"Yeah, if you're into the totally flat-chested, twelve-year-old type."

They laugh, and Vincent's disgust deepens.

"Look at her drool."

"I bet if we shoved a sock in her mouth, she wouldn't notice."

The inane idea catches like wildfire in their dim minds. One stoops and removes the noxious item from his foot, and they snigger as the boy extends his hand one foot—two feet—

Then the youth suddenly comes to a dead stop, because something cool and smooth is pressed to his cheek. Turning slightly, he is engulfed by a wave of icy fear as he finds himself staring down the barrel of a very large and very dangerous looking gun. And who's the owner of this magnificent pistol? Vincent, of course.

The gunman slowly slides his eyes from the page to stare directly into the boy's eyes—and he glares for a full twenty seconds. Now, if you remember Vincent's Level 1, No. 2 glare, that was nothing compared to this. This is tantamount to having Chaos use your mind for nail clipping (a.k.a. ripping and rending you to bits to wear down excess talon). Needless to say, it is extremely unpleasant to receive this look from point-blank range, especially when combined with the threat of Vincent's very merciless gun.

At this point, the boy is trying not to wet himself, and he hopes that perhaps pulling his rank would deter this mysterious, psychotic madman. But as he opens his mouth to utter his father's all-important name, Vincent cuts him off.

"If I shoot…" He chooses this moment to take the safety off. "The bullet should destroy approximately fifty-five percent of your brain…"

The boy's mouth opens and closes like a fish's as he begins to hyperventilate, and his companions are attempting to leave without attracting notice. Vincent scrutinizes the boys' cowardice for a minute, then sighs.

"But I would not want to trouble the proprietors of this train with cleaning your remains," he dead-pans. With a deft flip, the gun is back at his waist and his gloved hand is already turning another well-worn page. The boys take this as a sign to finally scream in high-pitched voices and leave noisily and hastily.

The rest of the passengers in their car stare at this whole ordeal, completely unmoving and silent. Beside him, the man who spat has his cigarette hanging loosely from mouth, the end already extinguished. Then in a shuffle of quick movement, the compartment empties as its occupants make excuses to stuff themselves into neighboring cars, remarking that "yes, cars with fifty people inside are more pleasant than any with tall, red-cloaked gunmen." Presently, Vincent finds that the air is finally clean and the space silent.

Well, silent except for Yuffie's slight groan as she shifts, overbalances, and sprawls in a heap across his lap. His reflexes scream at the sudden contact, but not to dispose of it, as he would have done to anybody else that dared to touch him in such a manner. Instead, an irrational part of his brain was (perhaps better known as Chaos) was informing him that intimacy was good—wait! No, his mind cannot go there…and some conventional part of his mind (that is purposely ignoring his rising heart rate) recognizes that this position is rather inappropriate between him and a teenager.

So, he tries to move her with a gentle push, but she only growls vaguely and fists her hands in his cloak. Raising an immaculate eyebrow, he sighs when he realizes that she is set on using him as a pillow for the remainder of the trip. But her warm weight is strangely comfortable, and he finds that he doesn't care anymore.

Flipping the book open again, he reads in the sunlit midmorning, and no one dares to enter the train car. But if anyone musters up the courage to peek in through the window, he would see a very uncharacteristic smile on Vincent's face as his free hand absently smoothes Yuffie's short brown locks.

AN: I hope you enjoyed it! Haha…I'm trying to write fluffier things as Valentine's Day approaches. Sigh…my piano competition is in two weeks. I think I'm going to play terribly and mortify myself, my parents, and my teacher.