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A/N: So. I happened to be reading some VincentxYuffie discussions today (call it research, curiosity, interest in others' opinions, whatever), and, well, you know how it is—you get your rare sprinkling of well-thought out, reasonable justifications for the pairing (and the just as rare well-thought out, reasonable justifications against the pairing). But then you have the overabundance of two-line l33t-speak-filled babblings that are either sugar-high, "kawaii"-ridden squee-fests or closed-minded, illiterate death sentences appropriate for baby killers.
And somewhere in between "OMGthey'resoperfecttogether!1!" and "OMGthat'ssowrong!1!" this strange take on Vincent and Yuffie popped into my head.
Obligatory (but ultimately pointless) CYA: I don't own it.
Miel
.o.
She's sure he doesn't like her.
She thinks it's because she's young, and loud, and annoying (she wants to be accepted by them all this is her family now they're all she has). She thinks it's because he probably sees through her energetic grin of a mask like a newly cleaned window. She thinks it's because of the materia incident (he holds grudges he's going after Hojo isn't he maybe he wants her dead too). She tries to get him to like her but red eyes are still a distant cold atmosphere and lips are always a straight line or a flicker of a frown and he never calls her by name.
She thinks it's her personality, the way she looks, what she wears, what she says, what she does, the way she walks, the way she laughs, the way she keeps trying so damn hard.
She thinks he probably doesn't like anything about her.
She thinks she thinks the truth.
.
.oo.
He killed a girl like her.
She was sixteen. A witness. Necessary collateral damage. He shot her boyfriend first. He was supplying weapons and they were necking at the time and she saw him and she hadn't even removed her arms from his neck when the second bullet hit her head.
He sees wide stormy eyes and they flicker into a face in his mind (veins frozen in fear she couldn't even try to run). A pixie haircut into short bleach-blonde with no bandana (maybe she wore one just not that day). A quirk that she leaves the top button unbuttoned and she gets motion sick and doesn't like onions and it gets him wondering wondering wondering if whether or not the girl was like her.
He killed a girl like her.
The Girlfriend. The Supplier. People without faces and faces without names.
He doesn't like names (she uses his so often maybe he'll pick up the habit Vincent Vinnie Vincent). Names are personal, names have features, and voices, and histories, and hearts.
When he speaks, his mouth occasionally addresses some, but they only exist in labels in his head. The Ex-SOLDIER. The Martial Artist. The Pilot. The Environmentalist. The Cat. The Beast. The Ninja. The Florist (he's never seen her sell flowers and he wants to call her The Angel but angels don't exist).
The Ex-Turk. The Demon. The Sinner (sinner sinner sinner).
He doesn't like it when she calls him by name. Names have hearts and voices are haunting hopes of ghosts.
.
.
.ooo.
She doesn't like it when her mouth starts running.
She thinks he thinks she's young and loud and annoying but it's better than black silence. And she swears she's going to kick so much ass, and get so much materia, and any enemies don't stand a piddly chance. Fiery assurance, false bravado, a distinct personality and six letters in two syllables are circling like a vulture around his throat (say Ninja Princess Materia Hunter Brat Thief anything).
He doesn't like names (names are personal and hearts and voices). He doesn't like when hers pushes past his lips. It's hard from fighting at vocal cords, but she thinks it's hard with deadly irritation and strict warning (she thinks she thinks the truth he never said her name before).
She thinks he wants her to shut up so she suddenly falls silent and stares at him a little afraid and wonders if maybe he's going to shoot her (and why won't she blink just blink don't stare like that like her). His arm remembers aiming and his finger remembers pulling the trigger and she isn't saying his name.
The Ex-Turk. The Demon. The Monster.
Names have hearts and he has neither (he killed a girl like her).
She cringes apologetically and speaks quietly:
I'm sorry, Vincent.
(...Vincent...Vinnie...Vincent...)
Vincent.
.
.
.
A/N: I was really stuck for a title for this. I literally had nothing in mind when I started and it stayed that way almost all the way through to the end of writing and polishing it. "Miel" is actually taken from the title of an Imogen Heap song I happened to be listening to through the entire process of writing this. It's an instrumental—a kind of beautiful, softly creepy song with this haunting, almost chaotic piano with just a hint of something industrial in the beat. No doubt it contributed to this piece, and though, when it came to mind, I thought it was pretty lame, the more I thought about it, the more I liked it and the more it seemed to fit. Well, and nothing better presented itself in my head.
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