Vincent would never do so weak a thing as shudder when she touches him. Instead, he sits perfectly still, as Yuffie takes his ungloved hand, tracing the lines of his palm. Hesistantly, searchingly, she moves, and he would have laughed at her sad parody of a fleeting touch, if he did not know better the unspoken rules of this old and tiring dance.

It might have been worse. She could have tapped his claw, fingered the digits. Ran her hands along it, stopping at the part where metal meets flesh. And ask, in the softest, trembling voice, "Does it hurt?" A careful mixture of curiosity, sympathy, apprehension, and fear.

"Do you hate it?"

"Who did this to you?"

"Why?"

And he thinks to save her the trouble, but her fingers are already circling the pulse point on his wrist, hovering, settling, one by one. Without a second thought, he flips her hand over and pins it to the ground. She stares at him, eyes wide.

There is barely enough time to make a show of struggling before his mouth is on hers, nearly hard enough to bruise, but not quite. And he can feel her stiffen, then melt into the rough kiss, just as he pulls away. She blinks, in surprise.

"You don't know what you're doing," he says, brushing the hair from her face with his claw, feeling her tense.

"Maybe you're right." He has to admire the way she keeps her voice from cracking, even as his runs sharp fingers along her cheek. "Maybe I don't." And she grins, eyes glittering, the grin of the materia-hungry, the thieving magpie's lust for shine.

"There are other ways." Less flagrant ways.

"But I got what I wanted," she whispers, leaning into the touch, tempting him to draw blood. "Didn't I?"

This time, it's her turn to try to not to shudder when he tightens his free arm around her waist and pulls her towards him, one hand still crushed between the two of them.

 

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