A/N: So, uh, this is Vulp. I just want to take a moment here to speak some truths.

I haven't looked at this story for seven years. Seven years! The better part of a decade. I can't begin to express how long that is, in terms of things happening and experiences accrued. I've gone through depression, stopped writing, tried to start again more times than I can count, had relationships, been in love, had my heart broken, travelled continents, climbed mountains. The me of today is an entirely different person to the one who wrote these first four chapters.

Why am I here? Well, I got an email telling me about a review from a person called Kyaval, who – upon seeing a story seven years old, from an inactive author who never finished much of anything – still hoped that one day it would continue. There's something beautiful and tragic about that. As I was reading those couple of lines, I thought to myself: the me of five or seven years ago would do it. The whimsical, impetuous me that exists in my memory, and nowhere else.

So, listen. I am not the me of seven years ago. In terms of writing I'm well out of practice, diminished and regressed. I don't think I can fill the shoes that I used to wear, and honestly, very little scares me as much as trying and failing to do just that. But here I am. I'm doing it, and I'm doing it on a whim. For the joy of it. For the love. No promises. No guarantees. I never needed any, back then. I don't now, either.

White

I looked at my wardrobe. Well, actually, I looked at the contents of my wardrobe, strewn artistically about the floor. I was proud of it; I had always had a postmodernist streak. The theme was 'rafflesia', and between the lingering odour of stale booze and a pair of olive green board shorts that I had thrown behind the headboard without introducing to a washing machine, I was making a pretty good recreation.

Of course, that didn't solve my main problem, which was: what do you wear when you're going clothes shopping with a goth dork bereft of taste and decency, who you may or may not have sexually propositioned while totally blasted and then had awkward emotional phone arguments with about it?

Whatever it was, I didn't seem to own a pair. I didn't even own half a pair, which according to my maths is one. Unless you're talking about a pair of pants, in which case half a pair of pants is not equal to one pant, in defiance of all laws of grammar and physics. Clothes are weird. Vinnie's weird. I like clothes. Don't read anything into that.

Flummoxed by the sudden realisation that sartorial elegance is not a ninja art, I did something very foolish. I rang Tifa.

"Oh, Yuffie. How nice to hear from you," Tifa said over the phone. She said the word 'nice' as if she was cracking a walnut with her teeth. "Reeve tells me you were spying on me."

Quick thinking has always been my strong suit. I pinched my nose and initiated plan Ninja Obfuscation Station. "Hello? Hello, this is is your network provider, I am calling you today to ask you about your data plan–"

"Yuffie."

Have you ever seen something absolutely flat? Like, a complete vertical plane? It doesn't exist in nature. You get weirded out just looking at it. That was how flat Tifa's tone was. Having been rumbled, I fell back on the old politician's trick of telling her an alternative version of the truth that didn't involve obvious blackmail attempts. "Oh, alright, alright. Listen, Teef, I might have snapped a candid photo of you and Cloud kissing. But it's only because I think you guys being an actual, like, thing is super cute. Like, when I think about it, it's like hugging a puppy. Have you ever had a puppy? They're adorable, and totally photogenic. It's natural to want a picture of that, right?"

There was a moment where Tifa tried, and failed, to digest what I had said. "Yuffie, I… hah. Why did you call me?"

"So, listen," I began, leaning against the wall, prodding an old pair of jeans with my toe. "The dork lord of fashion sense asked me to go out shopping with him so we could buy him a single article of clothing not made of cow ass, and I don't know what to wear. If I go with my normal super stylish clothes he might get intimidated, you know? But if I dress down and end up looking as much of a weirdo as him, people will think we're a couple, which is not acceptable, mission failed, et cetera et cetera. What does the wise and powerful Teef suggest?"

There was a moment of silence as the words crackled down the phone line and into the pendulous inner machinery of Tifa's mind. Idly, I picked up the jeans with my foot.

"Is it a date?"

By absolute coincidence, I experienced an involuntary muscle spasm that sent my jeans flying behind my headboard. I was sure I'd find them again, just like I had found the olive shorts. Come to think of it, had those shorts always been olive? Some questions are simply too great to be answered by one ninja. Thankfully, Tifa's question was nowhere near as hard, although it took me a moment to phrase an answer in a way that didn't involve spluttering.

"Nah, nah, nah. You don't understand. We're going shopping, Teef. This is a mission, and our mission is to exchange money for goods and services. The only altar we'll be walking to is the altar of capitalism, on which we're going to ritually burn one pair of leather trousers and replace them with new, shiny, beautiful cladding for Vincent's wrinkly behind. We're doing this as a favour to the rest of mankind."

"Really, now… Well, if that's your story, I guess. Things are never simple with you two, are they?"

"Don't look at me. I'm like the most straightforward person I know. Well, apart from Barret. And old man Cid. Hey, has Barret stopped talking about trains yet? I sent him a picture of one the other day and he just text me back and said 'Damn'. What's that even supposed to mean? Anyway, I need clothing advice. I know there is wisdom hidden deep within that bosom of yours, Teef, and I need it."

"Well… it's going to be cold today."

Oh gawd, I thought. It's finally happened. Cloud's split personality thing has spread to Tifa, and now she thinks she's a weather lady. Cloud's crazy is an actual STI. Of course, I didn't say that, because despite rumours to the contrary, I enjoy having a full set of limbs.

"Knowing Vincent, I think he'll appreciate something practical more than he would something fancy. So wrap up warm and I'm sure it'll be fine."

Practical. Practical was good advice. I imagined Vincent, cleaning his gun meticulously in camp, as quiet as death, an almost meditative crease forming in his pale brow. There was definitely an appreciation for practicality there. You didn't get to be a whirling death machine without a certain eye for efficiency.

Then I imagined his doofy clown shoes, his cape that kept getting trapped in doors, his poofy hair that he never combed, his weird habit of doing elaborate backflips that defied gravity, his way of extending a simple sentence into a twelve hour long theatrical sequence via the application of dramatic pauses and 'hmph'-ing, and I realised that, deep down, he was a giant poetry loving dork who was about as practical as filling your acoustic guitar with milk and trying to eat chocolatey cereal from it.

"Uh, yeah. Practical. Thanks for the advice, Teef. I owe you one. Maybe a couple if they're small enough."

"Yes, well, I'll be sure to collect," she said, in a tone that implied that if, in some unimaginable alternative world Vince and I started dating, she was going to mock me like a turtle and take pictures of us snogging to distribute through underworld channels.

I said my goodbyes and folded the phone shut on Teef and her moral dubiousness. It's weird. Sometimes I need to get advice so I can completely ignore it and do whatever I was going to do anyway safe in the knowledge that I'm disappointing somebody. I think a lot of people do.

Besides, going with something Vincent likes… well, don't get me wrong. It's the obvious solution. But one, that guy's tastes are not the kind of thing you should be wearing in public for any reason. Two… I think he's the kind of guy who, every once in a while, just needs you to poke him so he gets off his lazy, leather-beclad ass and starts to actually interact with the world on an emotional level. I mean, yeah, sure, he buzzes like a nest of wasps when you do it, but it's healthy. Like putting rubbing alcohol on a wound. Safe in the knowledge that I was being a paragon of virtue, I started rooting around for a set of clothes that would piss Vinnie off.

Unfortunately, my plan to get Vinnie hot under the collar (not that way, pervs) didn't go according to plan. Following a spate of moth attacks, my prized set of booty shorts had an unfortunate ratio of booty to shorts, and it was too cold to wear the holey, punk rock t-shirts that had worked so well at upsetting my idiot dad. Bowing to the wisdom of Tifa the Weather Girl, I went for a turtleneck sweater she'd given me as a birthday present, and which I'd accepted because that it wasn't toiletries or socks. To that I added a set of black jeans that had somehow fallen into my closet one day and remained there ever since without my knowledge.

So overall, C+, but only because the temperature was in C minus. My teeth were chattering as I huddled in the train station, waiting for my very own special gloomy snowflake to make his grand appearance.

I dig trains, by the way. Wutai used to have some, secreted away behind thickets and mountains, but those got destroyed by the Shinra army when I was a kid. Ever since then, they've been a kinda nostalgic thing for me. I was pretty jazzed when the WRO started restoring the old lines in some cities to promote infrastructure and other, similar words that are too long to care about. Riding the train also absolves me of having to drive, which also absolves me from not getting blitzed with Uncle Cid. All in all, trains are Yuffie tested and approved. They still make me hurl chunks, but they're the least of all possible evils.

At about 2:41 (half an hour after the train I'd told him to get on arrived), Vinnie finally stepped onto the platform. To be honest, I didn't even notice him. Now, now, you might be wondering how I could not notice a six foot tall guy with a metal arm and a raincloud that follows him around at all times and makes him sad, but I had been looking a crimson, moth-eaten cloak, and said cloak was not in attendance. Instead, he was wearing a long, black duffel coat with the collar belted shut around his neck. (Vinnie and Cloud share one big fashion tip: if in doubt, add belts.)

"Ah, Yuffie," he rumbled, standing in the middle of the platform and forcing dozens of busy passengers to flow around him in order to go about their day. "Are you prepared?"

I looked at him, having recognised the burr of his voice. Then I looked at him again. "Vinnie? You own a coat?"

"It was a gift," he muttered, demonstrating that beneath his cold, robot exterior he too could feel the human emotion of sheepishness.

"No no no. You own a coat, and you've never considered wearing it before now instead of your stupid floaty cloak thing?"

His eyes flashed with annoyance, which I suppose must be very scary until you realise that he is secretly a big teddy bear wearing a grump suit. "I happen to enjoy wearing that cloak. There is a certain refined feeling in the weight of the cloth–"

"Vincent, you are a bad person. Like, a suboptimal human being. Anyway, if you like the thing so much, why did you ditch it?"

He looked to the side, suddenly super interested in the contents of the public ashtray. "I… thought it may constitute a source of embarrassment to you to be seen in public if I wore it, especially when the purpose of our excursion is to buy clothes of some degree of normality."

"Oh, Vinnie. You are a constant source of embarrassment to me in public, you know? Like, cloak, no cloak, it makes zero difference. I'm just such a charitable soul that no amount of shame would make me leave you all alone in your stupid spooky mansion brooding for the rest of forever."

"...hmph. The sentiment is appreciated, and returned," he grumbled. "Come. The vagaries of the public transport system have robbed us of time; let us shop. The sooner begun, the sooner done."

"Right you are, Dracula. I got a list of places to visit, and we got some walking to do. Let's mosey," I said, grabbing his hand – the human one, not the lump of metal and tetanus, thank you – and dragging him along.

Vincent learned something that day. He learned that actually, I don't shop that often. But when I shop, I shop. We hit the high street like a hurricane, dipping in and out of every shop in search of something to fit a man as tall as a moose but with the waist of a rattlesnake. We browsed shirts, sashes and saris, we scoured sabatons and serapes and shalwar. I even considered looking at spatulas since that would fit with Vinnie Boy's way of accessorising, but there's a limit to how far you can push a man when you're shopping.

Eventually, we came to suits.

"Yuffie," he said, with one of those dramatic pauses that always means trouble. "No suits. I refuse to wear them. Not for work. Not for Reeve. Not for you."

I looked at him, braced in the doorway of the tailor's, with that odd, lost look he sometimes gets when he's dragged out of his crypt and actually has to engage with the world. Like an animal seeing a car for the first time. I sighed just as he sighed.

"I have reasons," he said, furrowing his brow. My gut told me to say nothing, do nothing. I trusted it. "Have you ever… looked at yourself, in the mirror?"

I could sense him wobbling, thinking better of continuing on whatever gloomy path his brain was on. So I prodded. "...Is that a trick question?"

"Hn…I suppose you would not understand, but… when I wear a suit, I see myself. As I was. Younger. Bolder. Full of potential," he said. "Gone."

I breathed outwards, put my hand on my hips. The big goof. "Vinnie, listen. The 'you' right now… isn't so bad, you know? You can't let things keep dragging you down, after so long." I looked at his face, saw the eyebrows furrow. Too serious. Time to crack a joke. "Besides, how are you ever gonna get hitched if you can't wear a suit?"

"I should wonder how that's any of your concern, Yuffie," he said, and there was dark mirth underpinning the sound the of his voice.

"Wow. You roasted me. Cold-blooded, Vinnie. I think I'll cry myself to sleep tonight," I joked, and punched his arm (again, the one without the big ol' gauntlet on it). "Fine, fine. No suits. We still have slacks, shifts and stoles to get through before the day's out. Get your butt moving."

Eventually, we found him a pair of pants he liked, at a store where he looked like he could have been one of the employees. Chains, little square studs, they had the works. I could almost see his vampy face light up when he discovered they were made of about the same amounts fabric and metal. Mission accomplished.

"Today was not entirely unpleasant," he said, clutching the little brown paper bag to his chest with his one fleshy arm.

I flashed him a grin. "I'm going to interpret that as 'oh, thank you, great Yuffie, for you have provided mirth and enlightenment on what would otherwise be a long and arduous quest. I extend my undying gratitude to you and all your descendants'."

"Translation is a difficult art, it would seem," he said, raising his eyebrow just a touch. "Your assistance was appreciated, however."

I smiled. He didn't smile, because his face is made of wood and sad, but there was an odd twitching of his muscles that told me he was trying. It really hadn't be a bad day, all told.

He hadn't even noticed the bra I'd bought him.

A week later, I walked into the office and found the girls twittering when I went for my mid-mid-morning coffee. An excited gaggle of office ladies is a powerful force, not to be underestimated, and I decided to figure out what the hubbub was about.

"Oh, Yuffie. Have you seen Vincent? He's… well-dressed, today."

A well dressed Vincent is rare enough that it's worth a gander, whatever you happen to be doing at the time. I sidled up to his desk, and took a good, hard look.

"Ah, Yuffie. To what do I owe the disruption?" he asked.

Sure enough, there were the studded pretty-boy jeans I'd talked him into buying. But he'd left the cloak at home again. Instead, he was wearing a turtleneck, almost exactly like the one I'd been wearing. He's such a doof, sometimes. I put my coffee down on his paperwork.

"Uh, Vinny, not to take away from the accomplishment of actually wearing clothes designed for real people and stuff, but I have two pieces of advices for you. First of all, and I know this is going to be hard for you, but there's a difference between men's turtlenecks and women's turtlenecks," I explained, running a finger across the thin fabric. "Secondly, you usually wanna wear something under them. Nice pecs, by the way. And surprise man-nips on a Monday morning? Don't mind if I do!"

For a moment, Vincent's face was perilously blank. Then, slowly, he raised his arms to cover his chest.

Apparently he went home early that day. No idea why.

A/N: Wow. I've done it. The complete madman! And it's not even complete trash. Hoo boy. Gotta say… Yuffie, darling. I forgot the voice I gave to you, but I remember you. And Vinnie – I didn't think it was possible to resonate with Vinnie more than I did as a gloomy teenager, but now that I'm a gloomy adult, I feel for this guy. This pairing… this pairing is like coming home.

See you in seven years for chapter six!