It's not often that Vincent takes enough damage to knock him out without taking enough damage to bring out one of his less human sides. In this case, it's both: a blow from one monster has him transforming in a flurry of purple fur and claws, and another, final blast as an enemy dies results in a brief, stunned look on the Galian Beast's face before he crumples to the ground. While there are times that Reeve is convinced Galian is more intelligent than his appearance suggests, the creature is totally unable to resist attacking Bombs head-on, despite knowing better.
The unconscious heap of fur and muscle dissolves into an equally unconscious pile of tattered red cloak and lean, black-clad gunman. Reeve instructs Cait Sith to keep watch, and kneels down to check him over for injuries.
There's a minor cut on Vincent's forehead - probably from the first blow, given that the blood already looks to be drying. Reeve had always heard head wounds bleed a lot, but apparently that doesn't take into account the effects of shape-shifting immediately afterwards because there's little more than a sticky-looking trickle, a shade or two darker than the band of red fabric just above it. He's quietly grateful for Vincent's ability to heal quickly, because he finds himself stuck staring at it, wondering if he should maybe find a water and some cloth and try to clean it - which might start it bleeding again - or retrieve the restore materia he knows Cait has equipped. The latter is probably overkill, but then, Vincent is unconscious. There is a chance it could be more serious that Reeve knows.
It would be poor repayment for Vincent's friendship if he died on some rocky hillside, while Reeve dithered over his lack of relevant medical knowledge. Perhaps it's a good thing Vincent is capable of surviving a lot more damage than this appears to be.
The galling thing is that Reeve knows the situation is entirely his fault. He's the one who insisted he wanted to come along in person, when Vincent was more than capable of making this particular investigation on his own. For that matter, Reeve could have sent Cait Sith by himself, with only periodic check-ins to ensure that the independent AI-mode was not running into any decision trees its existing programming couldn't handle. Indeed, when he'd first broached the idea to Vincent he'd couched it partly as a need to see for himself and partly as a desire to get out of the office for awhile - and he knew which excuse Vincent had found more sympathy for. While Reeve is not exactly helpless in a fight, he can't help but think that if Vincent hadn't had him to worry about, the gunman would have defeated their attackers much more quickly. Or possibly managed to avoid attracting the monsters' attention in the first place.
And possibly it's because he's dwelling on his entirely selfish motives - only some of which he admitted to Vincent - that it also occurs to him that he's leaning over Vincent's unconscious (uncomprehending) form, and if he leaned forward just a little bit more...
Reeve is not in the habit of doing things entirely on impulse. If anything, he overthinks most actions, especially in social situations. But if anyone asked him afterwards, he'd be unable to say precisely how he'd gone from one fleeting, inappropriate thought to pressing his lips against Vincent's in a fairly chaste kiss.
Vincent's lips are cool, at least when contrasted against the warmth of his own. Then smooth, hard metal is closing around the back of his neck, tugging him forward; the world disappears in slick heat and the press of teeth, tongue and lips meeting in careful, unhurried exploration.
Reeve is not sure how long it is before realisation catches up with him. Metal points dig almost painfully into flesh before Vincent relaxes his grip enough to let him pull away. Reeve blinks at him in astonishment, words failing to offer themselves up in hasty explanation when faced with the unexpected reality of Vincent kissing him back.
"I believe it's traditional to do that when both parties are awake," Vincent says drily. "Unless you're taking first-aid advice from children's stories."
"I... uh..." Reeve stammers. Vincent is not quite smiling; his mouth has just a slight, smug curve to it. Reeve also thinks his irises are a little more red than usual, but he is accustomed to Vincent's less human traits. Metal claws scrape lightly against the nape of his neck in something that might be called a caress, sending an electric shiver down his spine, and he amends that thought to mostly. Vincent's lips curve upwards a little more.
Reeve's eyes narrow. "Wasn't there one with a girl asleep in a coffin?"