a belated Yuffie's birthday drabble
He's in the basement, stacks of papers and a computer screen to keep him company in the dark and dreary days. And nights, since he probably doesn't obey the laws of bedtimes. She crouches there int he shadows and watches him, the slink of his hair and the the glare of his eyes as he reads and writes and types out all of Shinra's secrets. Rufus' explicit instructions to spy on said traitor were ignored as soon as he said them, but Yuffie wants to know what Vincent's up to anyway: this moment of espionage is for her, fuck Rufus and Reno and all of the Turks and all of Shinra and maybe even all of Midgar. So she crouches and watches.
He hasn't changed: skin like parchment or snow or bleach-clean bedsheets. Eyelashes so long she could practically braid them. Yuffie's heart pounds like it always does, like it will always do no matter how many years go by. He barely moves as he works; he's an automaton or a statue or something, something that's eternal and unworldly.
Like a curse, she thinks to herself. Especially effective on ninjas.
There's a sound, not her of course, she's too awesome to let her secrets escape. But a sound's a sound and he turns, stands, draws a gun in a single, fluid motion. Art. Poetry.
Yuffie applauds. "Wow. A perfect 10. You haven't lost it, have you, Grandpa?"
If he's surprised she came, he doesn't show it. "I suppose Shinra sent you."
"Ooh, sorry. Gonna have to deduct those 10 points. Nope, I'm no one's lackey. Or gopher. Or butt monkey." She jumps down from her perch on the towering bookshelves and lands with nary a tap on the floor at Vincent's feet. She stands, holds the pose, then bows, but Vincent remain unimpressed. "All right, all right. Yeah, Rufus posted big Reward posters of you all around his new-and-improved-but-still-lame headquarters. And you look mighty fine in them, if you ask me. But this isn't a business trip. And on your behalf, I told him to go blow himself. He's probably still trying to figure out how that's even physically possible."
Vincent stares down from his ivory tower. "So what do you want here, Yuffie?"
He hasn't changed: skin like parchment or snow or bleach-clean bedsheets. Eyelashes so long she could practically braid them. Yuffie's heart pounds like it always does, like it will always do no matter how many years go by. He barely moves as he works; he's an automaton or a statue or something, something that's eternal and unworldly.
Like a curse, she thinks to herself. Especially effective on ninjas.
There's a sound, not her of course, she's too awesome to let her secrets escape. But a sound's a sound and he turns, stands, draws a gun in a single, fluid motion. Art. Poetry.
Yuffie applauds. "Wow. A perfect 10. You haven't lost it, have you, Grandpa?"
If he's surprised she came, he doesn't show it. "I suppose Shinra sent you."
"Ooh, sorry. Gonna have to deduct those 10 points. Nope, I'm no one's lackey. Or gopher. Or butt monkey." She jumps down from her perch on the towering bookshelves and lands with nary a tap on the floor at Vincent's feet. She stands, holds the pose, then bows, but Vincent remain unimpressed. "All right, all right. Yeah, Rufus posted big Reward posters of you all around his new-and-improved-but-still-lame headquarters. And you look mighty fine in them, if you ask me. But this isn't a business trip. And on your behalf, I told him to go blow himself. He's probably still trying to figure out how that's even physically possible."
Vincent stares down from his ivory tower. "So what do you want here, Yuffie?"