Disclaimer: DOI (don't own it.)
Clow, Yuuko, and a room full of treasures (prices paid).
"It's curious, isn't it?" Clow is watching her (like he always seems to be watching her, with a wide smile that conceals and bright, open eyes that lie, frequently and cunningly) place a sealed, seemingly empty jar next to a gilded candlestick, which rests at a crooked angle against a yellowing and dusty tome with no title on its spine, which is half lying on a somewhat newer sheaf of paper with brightly-coloured shapes and figures scrawled in a child's hand, which is above and below and next to a million million other treasures belonging to the countless souls who have stumbled unwittingly (though still inevitably) through the front gate of her shop. "That so many destinies are tied to such a variegated spectrum of objects?" He hefts an elegant silver kris in one hand, testing its balance. His eyes flit about the room –as ever, when she allows him within in—tirelessly, but invariably settle back on her, where she stands silently, observing him stoically.
"Humans are nothing if not unpredictably predictable." She runs long fingers over the porcelain-silk texture of an ancient vase, half-smiling. "Caprice is unfailingly the law, the notion of possession and attachment consistently universal. And destinies reflect –perhaps personify— this truth. Materials are, after all, the essence of human value. They always have been."
Clow studies her silently. Then, with the careful refinement he uses to perform even the most benign tasks, he nudges a small ceramic pagoda out of the way with his toes, and then their distance has closed and his hands are in her hair, combing through silk-water tresses as easily as one might navigate the soft-quiet liquid of a still pond. It is a familiar gesture, intimate without the complications of intimacy, and she (almost-unconsciously-but-not-quite) leans into his touch.
"Always?" Is the steady whisper that ghosts across her ear. Her knee is against his thigh, her cheek against the wire-thin frame of his glasses, pressing just so.
Yuuko closes her eyes, feels the wish he will never make in the pads of his fingers, burning satin-smooth trails along the nape of her neck, in the weight of his eyes, falling closed as she leans into his embrace, and her breath escapes her as a trembling sigh.
"No," her lips are the gentle pressure at his jaw, his wish is the unspoken desire on his tongue, "not always."
Clow likes Shiny Things.
So the two of us have something in common.