They were supposed to go that park that Ada enjoyed so much.
Instead, Vincent finds himself within her parlor – somehow invited into that extra little mansion her family has for her, no matter his reservations about their last encounter within the place. He lets his gaze wander from her, from the sky blue and pink silk so prettily laid out over her form, accented with white lace that drapes from her wrists to her slim, delicate hands, and wonders why he is here.
The Vessalius key. The Vessalius key. The Vessalius key. Not this girl's vapid smiles that aren't so vapid, not the sunlit blonde of her hair (so much more golden than his own, that is highlighted with red as impure as that cursed eye), definitely not the beguiling curves of her body, because he can find that anywhere, anywhere –
Suddenly, those slim fingers are curled about the end of his ponytail, and Vincent jumps, legitimately startled, and glances down to her. Ada is flushing, withdrawing her hand and curling her against it her bosom as she stares up at him, all sweet, wide-eyed green and oh, it's sick how much she looks like Jack when she does that. Sicker still that he rather likes it.
"Ah… my apologies, Vincent-sama. Your hair is just…" And she blushes again, prettily. Vincent finds it annoying that he thinks she's pretty. "Pretty."
And he also finds it annoying that she thinks he is pretty.
But he smiles, as he always does – not too saccharine, because he thinks she is starting to see past that. Annoying. "It is nothing compared to yours, Ada-sama."
"Oh, no! Ah – Vincent-sama's hair is… different." More forwardly, then: "M-may I…?" Those soft, lissome fingers are upon the ribbon tying it into a tail at the nape of his neck, and the request is all too clear.
Perhaps this is a way, finally, to reach what he wants from this girl.
"If Ada-sama insists…"
Somehow, Vincent ends up seated upon a chaise with the Vessalius girl beside him, her fingers wrapped around a comb that is working through his hair that was already combed before he came, and thus doesn't need it at all. He can't bring himself to tell her that, though, when the touch is somehow pleasant – her endless, meandering chatter not quite as irritating as he normally finds it, more of a lull to roaming thoughts than anything else, an accent to the twist and gentle pull of her brushing.
Ada Vessalius is not Gilbert. She is nothing like him, so weak and useless and such a pawn to be moved at his slightest whim – but that aside, her touch is warm and there in the first place, just as Gilbert's is no longer, especially when it is no longer a comb but her own fingers brushing through his hair, separating the layers and brushing gently against his scalp. He can feel her blushing. Smell the rising heat of her body, dusting her perfume – honey, rose, carnation, all such sweet, young things – forward and against him, a cloud of innocence and softness.
Oh, but she isn't so innocent if she is here with him. Ada Vessalius is not Gilbert, and she is weak and useless and a pawn, but she is not stupid. She must know. Shemust know.
Vincent suddenly finds his head turned and buried into her throat, whispering gentle, lovely things, because ah, doesn't he want to see her color and squirm at the words? And she does, so obediently, because she is an obedient girl, especially to his touch, and it isn't long before her skirts are hiked and her stockings unraveled about an ankle, her head thrown over the side of the chaise with her perfectly bound hair a mess over the side of it, like a mermaid's stranded out of the sea. His breath is hot against her and she is moaning his name, her slender, gloved fingers still intertwined within his hair, tugging and twisting and whispering how she loves him.
She must be lying to him, too, because who could love him?
It is for that reason that he has no trouble leaving her behind (because it's a lie, isn't it, all a lie) – she will find a far more suitable man than he, and he will find a far more suitable fate for himself than some sweet girl, wanting to play with his hair as if they are lovers and not some sick farce.