[It bristles his pride, but Cloud had too much of a point for it to offend. His plan is shallow and not much of a plan at all; but how is he to cultivate a willingness to connect and routinely contact others when such a skill was never cultivated in him? He is a weapon, sometimes in its sheath, sometimes drawing blood — he is not a creature of social niceties or practical arrangements of affection.

He tone dips dry to match the sarcasm inlaid in that scoff.]

As if Shinra would waste its infinite resources to better prepare me for a universe of pleasurable hand-holding.

[But then Cloud extends a hand—an offer, perhaps the real apology—and the silence falls again, churning over in his mind what implications lie in the acceptance of it. (And his cells, they whisper for him to take that hand, to emblazon himself into that unfinished connection without question, buzzing in every atom.)]

...Is this what you want? To help me?