When she wakes the next morning with a head full of dark hair in her face, her initial reaction is a mixture of startled snorting and sputtering as she hastily attempts to scrape aforementioned hair from her tongue with fingers that are weak and clumsy from sleep. But, as she gags and spits in a less-than-feminine manner, she supposes this is what she gets for her less-than-feminine habit of sleeping with her mouth open.
She is thoroughly disgusted with herself – because having hair in one's mouth is quite honestly the foulest of foul feelings on the planet – until she realizes that the hair she is spitting out is the entirely wrong color and not connected to her own head. The hair she is spitting out is not hers.
It is only in that belated moment that her sleep-heavy eyes come to terms with the fact that someone – and not just anyone – has fallen asleep at the foot of the sofa and their head has lolled back onto the cushion.
Holy planet, she thinks. The dark hair that she has spent the latter half of the night chewing on is his. For a brief moment, she thinks to be angry with herself, but then she remembers that he was the doofus who decided it would be a good idea to sleep at the foot of the sofa.
Seriously, she thinks. Who does that? Especially when there's a perfectly comfortable bed not ten feet away.
She looks down at the drool-soaked ends of his hair, and then to his sleeping face, which strangely does not look quite as angelic as usual. She almost thinks that it makes sense though, because only Vincent Valentine would grimace in his sleep, until she realizes that having one's neck bent at a forty-five degree angle over the edge of a sofa can't be terribly comfortable.
"What an idiot," she murmurs, smiling in spite of herself.
But then she wonders what in the name of the planet he is doing sleeping at the foot of her makeshift bed anyway. They were supposed to be mad at each other.
"You're not very good at this game, are you, Vince?"
She half expects him to respond – because it would be so like him to sit here and listen to her make a fool of herself while she thinks he's asleep – and is mildly surprised when he doesn't, which makes her wonder how late he stayed up last night. After all, she'd never heard him come back upstairs.
She studies the creases in his perfect face, and wonders if maybe he hasn't been sleeping at all these last few nights, because you certainly don't get lines like that beneath your eyes from stress. Besides, since when does Vincent Valentine stress out about anything?
She is just waiting for his eyes to fly open and find her close enough to his face for their noses to touch, because he has always had the most impeccable timing when it comes to making a situation awkward. But he throws her for yet another loop when his eyes remain closed.
What is wrong with him, she thinks. It was very unlike Vincent to be this tired. But, before she can mull it over further, she finds herself distracted by his hand lying palm-up and open on the floor and the way the sunlight leaking through the blinds glints off of it.
"What in the name of Leviathan does he have?"'
As she cranes her torso for closer inspection, she realizes belatedly that this was a very poor idea, because her balance faithfully abandons her and she tumbles off the sofa and into his lap with a profound thud. Whatever was in his hand clatters to the floor, and the moment she had been so eagerly anticipating arrives as his neck snaps forward and his eyes shoot open to find her upside down in his lap staring back up at him.
They gaze at each other for a long moment, not quite knowing what to make of their current predicament. After all, it's not often Vincent Valentine awakes to a half naked little girl toppling into his lap. Yuffie does not even bother attempting to right herself. She knows she'll only embarrass herself further. Besides, she thinks, this is actually quite comfortable.
Finally, after what feels like ages of basking in the awkwardness, Vincent finally clears his throat and speaks.
"Good morning."
How typically Vincent, she thinks.
"... I fell."
Her reply is so pathetic that it astounds even her. Surely she could have come up with something better. But, then she remembers who she is talking to, and changes her mind.
"So I noticed," he informs her. "And how exactly did you manage that?"
She bites her lip and thinks about her answer. She's stuck between a rock and hard place. She's tired of lying and she's tired of being angry because lying deprives her of sleep and telling the truth has a habit of making him angry. It's a lose-lose situation, but she decides that lying is out because she'd rather sleep well at night and an angry Vincent had never hindered that before.
"I wanted to see what was in your hand," she admits quietly.
She is caught off guard when for a brief moment he looks almost frightened and his eyes flit back and forth frantically. Vincent Valentine? Worried? Sweet Leviathan, she thinks, the universe has surely imploded.
"Vince?" she asks apprehensively, tilting her head to one side. "Are you okay?"
His expression twists into anger and she braces herself for the backlash. At least she'll get to sleep tonight, she thinks.
"Damn," he curses under his breath, grinding his teeth in a frustrated grimace.
He sits forward grudgingly, ignoring the way she falls back against him, and reaches out to pick up off the floor whatever it was she had knocked from his hand. He can't believe he had fallen asleep. Now what is he supposed to do?
"Vincent?"
He glances down at her briefly, and thinks she looks almost as worried and motherly as Tifa at her finest. And as he grasps her lithe little arms gently, he can feel her skin turn to goose flesh beneath his fingers. He wonders why in the name of all that is holy she wouldn't have gone to bed with more clothing. At this rate, he thinks Cloud is liable to freeze her to death. But, maybe she wouldn't be so poorly off if he had just let her have the bed in the first place.
He's honestly not sure what to think, but he knows he cannot sit here with her half-naked in his lap, staring up at him like a frightened child for much longer.
"You really ought to wear something warmer at night," he tells her firmly as he shifts her off of him. "You'll fall ill sleeping in so little."
As he gets to his feet, she clambers for the corner of his cloak hanging off the bed, her cheeks so impossibly red they put the garment to shame. As she hurriedly wraps it about herself, he turns to go, but a small voice echoing his name stops him in the doorway. When he glances back at her, she is holding the cloak against her, knees turned inward, looking as though she is about to cry.
"Vincent," she repeats herself, "what was it?"
He looks down at his fisted hand, contemplating an answer he knows he will not come to. Slowly, he turns his hand over and uncurls his fingers, gazing forlornly at his palm. She is startled when, without bothering to look back up, he flicks something across the room and into her unprepared hand with one swift movement of his fingers. However, she is equally unprepared for what she looks down and finds resting in her palm.
The band is wonderfully plain; forged from some unknown metal that reminds her of blackened silver, with an intricate little engraved Cerberus winding about it. There is no gold detailing, and no massive gemstones, but she thinks, in its simplicity, it is the prettiest little piece of jewelry she's even seen. She turns it over in her fingers, examining the metal, wondering what it could possibly be made of, because it certainly isn't silver.
"I hope that one is more acceptable," he says, turning back toward the door.
"You had it made, didn't you?" she asks, stopping him yet again.
"Yes."
"Out of what?"
He hesitates this time, eyeing her carefully as if he could actually anticipate her reaction.
"I lost a bit of length off my long barrel," he answers flatly, "but nothing to my detriment."
She quirks a brow and glances back down at the ring as if she isn't quite sure she believes him.
"You used Cerberus?"
He thinks perhaps it wasn't such a clever notion after all. He can't exactly blame her for being disappointed by a wedding ring made of gunmetal.
"If you would prefer a different material, I can have another forged. In silver, if you wish," he offers.
It is silent for a long moment and he finds himself becoming increasingly uncomfortable standing in the doorway, awaiting a response. He wonders why now of all times she chooses to keep her mouth shut. Never has he found himself wishing for her endearing chatter as he does now. Silence did not suit her well.
He watches as her eyes flit back and forth between his face and what rests in her palm, lingering on one before flicking back to the other. Her lips are parted in a loss for words, coming together in a thin line only when she forces herself to swallow. Why, he thinks. Why won't she speak?
It is several more minutes of nothingness before he decides he can take no more and turns to leave for a third time, still anticipating her answer but garnering nothing even as he steps from the room and begins to make his way down the hall.
However, he is not at all prepared for the swift approach of footsteps from behind and the sudden weight of another body being thrown against his back as she tackles him to the floor. He growls at the sharp pain in his nose and jaw when his face strikes the unforgiving hardwood, while she only gives a half-frightened 'oomph' upon landing safely on top of him. He immediately turns his head to the side, glaring at her over his shoulder, disdainfully noting that she has abandoned his cloak and is now sitting atop him in nothing but her skinnies. And before he can utter a word, she has shoved the ring in his face, looking immensely skeptical.
"Why?" she hisses.
Despite being pinned, he knows he could easily throw her off if he wished, but something in her eyes warns him against the idea. The way she glowers at him with such distrust not only stings his pride, but also makes it clear that she entirely serious, and that shrugging her off yet again would only make the situation worse; something he does not care to chance. Unfortunately, she does not take it well either when he relaxes beneath her.
"Why?" she spits again, stilling holding the ring before him. "Is this your way of saying sorry?"
It's obvious to her from the way he quirks an eyebrow and gazes up at her doubtfully that he doesn't understand, which only frustrates her further.
"If giving me this is your way of apologizing for being such a jerk last night, then you can take it back!"
So that's what she had been getting at. And he thought his pride had suffered before.
"Yuffie."
She shakes her head violently and thumps her free hand against his back, "No! I won't take it because you feel bad about being mean!"
"Yuffie."
"And the only way I will take it is if you're really serious about going through with this, and if you come up with a better proposal, because that one sucked!"
He sighs quietly in amusement before rolling onto his back beneath her, taking care not to unseat her in the process, and wondering why she always does the exact opposite of what he wants. But, then he remembers that this is Yuffie and can't help but smile.
"Yuffie."
"WHAT?"
He gently pries the band from her fingers, taking her hand carefully in his before glancing up to gauge her expression. She is still glaring at him, eyes narrow and and lips pursed as if she doesn't really believe him. He chuckles as he removes the little silver link from her finger and slides the new band on in its place.
"Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"
Strangely, the phrase does not feel foreign in the slightest, as though he'd said it a million times before, even if only in his head and to a different woman. The cynic in him wonders briefly if that shouldn't be a signal to run the other way. And yet, he stays, feeling entirely sincere.
When he turns his gaze back to the girl sitting on top of him, her eyes have gone wide and her mouth has fallen open again.
"Oh my gawd," she starts, glancing down at her hand, then back to him. "You're totally serious, aren't you?"
He can feel his expression twist into an irritated scowl as he narrows his eyes and tightens his grip on her hand. Trust Yuffie to ruin the moment.
"I am, Yuffie," he assures her sternly.
Her cheeks flush pink and she immediately looks away, fisting her free hand in the fabric of his shirt.
"Oh, wow," she sighs. "I wasn't expecting that at all."
She glances back down at him, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.
"You mean it?"
"You insult me," he replies darkly without missing a beat.
His mildly surprised when, rather than huffing a breath and crossing her arms over her chest, she smiles and sticks her tongue out.
"Then, yes," she chirps. "... But, only if you really mean it."
His only response is to roll his eyes and groan in frustration, which she quickly amends for with an embarrassed "Sorry" before hunching over and hiding her face in his chest.
"You are truly infuriating," he murmurs, raising a hand to thread his fingers through her hair.
She lifts her head just enough to settle her chin on his sternum and meet his gaze with a wide smile.
"Yeah, but I'm cute."
"Yes," he agrees hesitantly, one corner of his lips pulling up in a crooked smirk. "But, you are also spoiled."
She closes her eyes and blows him a small raspberry before folding her arms atop his chest in front of her.
"Nah, not really," she admits modestly. "In fact, I can't even remember the last time I actually got something I really wanted."
But when she glances back down at him, his brow is raised in skepticism and he looks incredibly unconvinced.
"Really? I could have sworn Cloud allotted you full ownership of our old materia collection after the defeat of the remnants this past year," he reminds her cynically.
Her answering frown is both irritated and disappointed as she looks away and purses her lips before hesitantly responding: "That doesn't count."
"What about convincing Tifa that it is acceptable to serve you alcohol despite being underage? Does that count?"
"No."
"Then perhaps the time you decided to take the Fenrir for a joyride without Cloud's permission and then proceeded to cry when he found out later that evening to keep him from being angry with you."
"That doesn't count either."
"Or conning Marlene out of her candy by telling her you were dying and needed her gummy worms in order to survive?"
"... Neither does that."
He chuckles quietly, reaching up to cradle her cheek in his palm and gently turn her face to look at him.
"It seems I am incorrect then," he amends, watching with great interest how content she seems, laying atop him with her cheek resting against his palm and smiling mischievously. "So, tell me, Yuffie, what is it that you want so badly but are being refused?"
He should have known better than to trust the grin she wears, or else he might have been prepared for her to lean down and tentatively press her lips to his. His eyes fall closed at the soft feeling of her mouth against his, but it quickly becomes apparent that she lacks her usual gusto because the kiss is so chaste that the warmth of her mouth is gone and she has pulled away before he can even think to respond.
She is still smiling when he opens his eyes and meets her gaze, albeit looking a little embarrassed with her bottom lip back between her teeth.
"Um, that," she replies sheepishly, pointing in the direction of his mouth.
He cannot help but give a small grin, "And did I deny you?"
"Well, no," she decides reluctantly, a blush rising in her cheeks.
"So it counts, then."
She hesitates a short moment, still gnawing on her lower lip and casting him a sideways glance.
"Only kind of," she corrects him quietly. "You didn't do anything."
It does not take him long to understand her complaint, and gently strokes his thumb across her cheekbone when he does, smiling subtly.
"You truly are spoiled."
Without a sound, he pulls her toward him, closing his eyes and kissing her as gently as she had him. He is exceptionally careful, gauging her startled response and refraining from pushing her further. Instead, he settles for simply holding her face in his hands and keeping his lips pressed tenderly against hers. He can feel her wind a lithe hand into his hair and draw herself closer, sinking into him and prolonging the embrace. But he is insistent and this becomes clear to her as he kisses her more firmly, demanding closer contact. She consents without hesitance, clinging to him as if the floor were falling out beneath them and he is the only thing keeping her airborne.
She can still the smell the scent of pine trees in his hair, and the fresh desert air on his skin. The feel of his callused fingers against her cheeks is strange and rough, but he is so gentle with her that she thinks she doesn't mind too much. Even through his clothes, his body is surprisingly warm against her bare skin. He is unlike anything she has ever experienced.
She is vaguely disappointed when he carefully pulls away, but realizes as he takes a heavy breath how badly she too needs the oxygen. The gulps of air are a relief to her suffering lungs, but she thinks she still likes how he feels better.
She can see the pleasure in his expression when, after a few more breaths, he leans back in and kisses her once more, briefly and featherlight, before releasing her to lay back against the floorboards and close his eyes.
After a long moment, he can feel a soft breath ghost across his neck as she resettles herself atop his chest, resting her chin on his sternum once again. He opens his eyes to find her wearing that same wicked grin, and he knows exactly what she is about to say.
"Does that one count?" he asks in a low murmur, beating her to the punch.
But, she only smiles a little wider before turning her head to lay it against his chest and closing her eyes without a care in the world for the fact that they are still lying together on the floor in the middle of the hallway half-clothed.
"Yeah, that one counts."