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31_days2006-05-03 05:00 pm
yesthatnagia.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2006-05-03 05:00 pm
[May 03] [FF7] Mystery (Vincent, Yuffie)
[t]itle: Mystery
[r]ating: T
[w]ordcount: 857
[d]ay: May 03: about as useful as the ability to regurgitate whole lobsters
[f]andom: FFVII
[p]airing: none
[s]ummary: A desert. A broken PHS. And a shiny thing, half-buried in the sand, that may or may not explode.
[n]otes: No, I don't know what the unidentified object is, either.
"What's it for?" Yuffie asks, clearly interested. This is an anomaly; Yuffie's interest rarely perks for anything less than an explosion, something she shouldn't touch, or something shiny. And her interest will only perk THIS quickly if the object in question is somehow all of the above.
Her unusual interest in Vincent's ammunition is testament enough. Whatever happened to the leg that now requires a brace does not seem to deter her. In the weeks he has spent with her, he has found no suitable deterrent that does not also affect his performance.
There is a word for this: inexorable. Cloud's choice (and this he knows because Cloud's voice carries) is mulish. Tifa calls her strong-willed, while Aeris simply laughs, a curve so elegant that he cannot name it crossing her lips. Were it anyone but Aeris, he would call it a smirk, but the expression is lovely-- and smug and knowing and a thousand other frustrating things.
Yuffie pokes him in the ribs. "What's it for?" She insists.
He eyes it. Suspicious of this new thing, as he always is. Let it never be said that Vincent welcomes change, that dirty whore, with open arms. "No idea."
"What's it do?" She moves a bit closer to it.
He would warn her to stay back, but there is no point. The conversation would go something like this: "Stay back." "Why?" "It could be dangerous." "Well yeah, but how do you know?" "I don't." "So I'll find out."
Her fearlessness is almost endearing. Almost.
In the real world, her movements are light and quick. Careful. But there is, as always, a slight unbalance in her. Something has her centre off. The cause, he thinks, is puberty. Legs that are suddenly longer, hands and feet that are suddenly larger. Heavier-- though, for Yuffie, likely not by much-- in the torso than previous. Her centre of balance is shifting, and she is not making the transition gracefully.
Vincent recalls his own forays into that special hell. Trivial things seemed so important. What he would now consider an easy life seemed arduous. How much of that was hormones, and how much of it was lack of perspective? He cannot be certain.
One gloved hand reaches out to touch the obstruction and he mentally winces. That almost-adorable fearlessness strikes again. Does she not think before she acts? Wait. This is Yuffie he is watching, and she is the type to take any number of risks for the sole purpose of entertainment.
At least she didn't touch it with her palm. God knows how hot the thing is, sitting out here in the desert, half-buried in sand.
The hand curls into a fist. She knocks on the unidentified object. It responds with a metallic ringing sound, and she laughs, high and long and wild.
"Have you decided what it is?" He asks.
She looks back to him, a smile distinctly reminiscent of Aeris stretching itself along those lips. "No idea."
"Then let's move on."
And she nods, but doesn't move. She skitters back from the thing, feet moving quickly in a sequence of steps he has dubbed the "Yuffie Scared Step." It is somewhere between a backpeddal and a pointless ankle-crossing walk. Back left, cross right, hop to shift weight, back right, cross left, hop. Lather, rinse, repeat, until she is a distance she terms safe.
She did it the first time he met her. The events of that meeting are etched in his mind, easy to return to whenever he so wishes. He can clearly see the way the light slanted in the forest, the shorts falling off her narrow hips, ivy in her hair, twining along her arms, acting as a belt. She was covered in vines. Not as any means of camoflage, but because she had made her home in a forest. They had momentarily stunned her. The instant she regained her senses, she had done the Yuffie Scared Step, edging herself up against a tree, one knee bent to brace the foot against it.
She had seemed a spirit, almost. A sylvan apparition. And the demons lurking in his mind had called out to her. Had whispered syllables he didn't understand, had cried out the name Kisaragi.
"What's wrong?" He asks, moving towards her. Has she harmed herself somehow?
She shakes her head, frantic, hair flying, and he recalls the way the ivy she'd braided into that too-short hair had danced as she leaped through the trees.
"What's wrong?" He insists.
But she springs forward, kneels at the thing's base. She cups her hands and begins to dig.
Panic clenches, hard and tight and acidic, in his stomach. Roughly, he grabs her shoulder, pulls her away. He ponders asking about her sanity, but decides against it.
He drags her back from the object. "Don't bother," he tells her.
"But--"
"We have no use for it. Let's move on."
Cloud is waiting in Corel, he thinks but does not say. We've lost PHS signal and we're three days late. Don't bother. You're just wasting time.
And, grudgingly, she comes, scuffing up sand as she moves to register her displeasure.
[r]ating: T
[w]ordcount: 857
[d]ay: May 03: about as useful as the ability to regurgitate whole lobsters
[f]andom: FFVII
[p]airing: none
[s]ummary: A desert. A broken PHS. And a shiny thing, half-buried in the sand, that may or may not explode.
[n]otes: No, I don't know what the unidentified object is, either.
"What's it for?" Yuffie asks, clearly interested. This is an anomaly; Yuffie's interest rarely perks for anything less than an explosion, something she shouldn't touch, or something shiny. And her interest will only perk THIS quickly if the object in question is somehow all of the above.
Her unusual interest in Vincent's ammunition is testament enough. Whatever happened to the leg that now requires a brace does not seem to deter her. In the weeks he has spent with her, he has found no suitable deterrent that does not also affect his performance.
There is a word for this: inexorable. Cloud's choice (and this he knows because Cloud's voice carries) is mulish. Tifa calls her strong-willed, while Aeris simply laughs, a curve so elegant that he cannot name it crossing her lips. Were it anyone but Aeris, he would call it a smirk, but the expression is lovely-- and smug and knowing and a thousand other frustrating things.
Yuffie pokes him in the ribs. "What's it for?" She insists.
He eyes it. Suspicious of this new thing, as he always is. Let it never be said that Vincent welcomes change, that dirty whore, with open arms. "No idea."
"What's it do?" She moves a bit closer to it.
He would warn her to stay back, but there is no point. The conversation would go something like this: "Stay back." "Why?" "It could be dangerous." "Well yeah, but how do you know?" "I don't." "So I'll find out."
Her fearlessness is almost endearing. Almost.
In the real world, her movements are light and quick. Careful. But there is, as always, a slight unbalance in her. Something has her centre off. The cause, he thinks, is puberty. Legs that are suddenly longer, hands and feet that are suddenly larger. Heavier-- though, for Yuffie, likely not by much-- in the torso than previous. Her centre of balance is shifting, and she is not making the transition gracefully.
Vincent recalls his own forays into that special hell. Trivial things seemed so important. What he would now consider an easy life seemed arduous. How much of that was hormones, and how much of it was lack of perspective? He cannot be certain.
One gloved hand reaches out to touch the obstruction and he mentally winces. That almost-adorable fearlessness strikes again. Does she not think before she acts? Wait. This is Yuffie he is watching, and she is the type to take any number of risks for the sole purpose of entertainment.
At least she didn't touch it with her palm. God knows how hot the thing is, sitting out here in the desert, half-buried in sand.
The hand curls into a fist. She knocks on the unidentified object. It responds with a metallic ringing sound, and she laughs, high and long and wild.
"Have you decided what it is?" He asks.
She looks back to him, a smile distinctly reminiscent of Aeris stretching itself along those lips. "No idea."
"Then let's move on."
And she nods, but doesn't move. She skitters back from the thing, feet moving quickly in a sequence of steps he has dubbed the "Yuffie Scared Step." It is somewhere between a backpeddal and a pointless ankle-crossing walk. Back left, cross right, hop to shift weight, back right, cross left, hop. Lather, rinse, repeat, until she is a distance she terms safe.
She did it the first time he met her. The events of that meeting are etched in his mind, easy to return to whenever he so wishes. He can clearly see the way the light slanted in the forest, the shorts falling off her narrow hips, ivy in her hair, twining along her arms, acting as a belt. She was covered in vines. Not as any means of camoflage, but because she had made her home in a forest. They had momentarily stunned her. The instant she regained her senses, she had done the Yuffie Scared Step, edging herself up against a tree, one knee bent to brace the foot against it.
She had seemed a spirit, almost. A sylvan apparition. And the demons lurking in his mind had called out to her. Had whispered syllables he didn't understand, had cried out the name Kisaragi.
"What's wrong?" He asks, moving towards her. Has she harmed herself somehow?
She shakes her head, frantic, hair flying, and he recalls the way the ivy she'd braided into that too-short hair had danced as she leaped through the trees.
"What's wrong?" He insists.
But she springs forward, kneels at the thing's base. She cups her hands and begins to dig.
Panic clenches, hard and tight and acidic, in his stomach. Roughly, he grabs her shoulder, pulls her away. He ponders asking about her sanity, but decides against it.
He drags her back from the object. "Don't bother," he tells her.
"But--"
"We have no use for it. Let's move on."
Cloud is waiting in Corel, he thinks but does not say. We've lost PHS signal and we're three days late. Don't bother. You're just wasting time.
And, grudgingly, she comes, scuffing up sand as she moves to register her displeasure.