Darknightdestiny's Stitching

MOVED. AGAIN.

2007-11-17T04:42:28Z

I have a lot of places out there on the Internet, and this was only one more. I back up my stories on the pit, and on my home page. I even have samples of my original things on the FictionPress site and on my home page, and my fanfiction is everywhere. Since darknitedestiny belongs to so many communities, I've decided to post my stories in that journal and the communities to which it belongs. nighty_night will no longer be an active journal. I may use it as an archive in the future, but don't look to it for updates. It will mainly be character lists and finished drafts, just because it's good to have a lot of copies of things I don't want to lose.

I am sorry I threw the extra journal out there for you in the first place. That was a tease, and I didn't mean it. I thought it would help, but in the end it only made things more complicated. I keep forgetting I own web space. LJ-strikeouts can't reach me there.

Update your bookmarks accordingly.

♥ —Darknightdestiny

Crossing

2007-11-01T03:25:15Z

Title: Crossing
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Characters: Vincent/Tifa/Hellmasker
Rated: PG-13

Summary: Long ago, people believed the soul was connected to the body. Vincent had always thought Tifa seemed like the... introspective type.

Notes/Warnings: Violence, assault. It starts out as Vincent's thought process, then turns into something consensual, and then it runs away from him. It's not rape, because they don't have sex (Vincent and Hellmasker don't have the same intentions for her anyway), but I've been told it's very dark and I should warn people. Better safe than sorry.

The Pit has this weird word-wrap thing going on with its HTML, and the LJ editor reads it and then translates it so it chops up the paragraphs—so reformatting things for LJ is a pain in the butt. I'm sorry for the trouble, but I'm linking you all back there because I don't have the patience to go through every line of the fic again.

[The human body was an amazing thing...]

~Darknightdestiny

Note to ff_press: Please credit this under the username darknitedestiny instead of nighty_night. Thank you!

ICON POST.

2007-10-22T03:40:25Z

I've made 36 icons and 2 friends-only banners for the Final Fantasy VII Compilation (AC, DC, BC). It's my first icon post, so go easy on me.

Previews:

(Follow the fake cut...)

Note to ff_press: Please list these under the name darknitedestiny, rather than nighty_night. Thank you!

~Darknightdestiny

Get Up and Use Me

2007-08-22T21:19:23Z

Title: Get Up and Use Me
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII (Before Crisis)
Characters: Vincent/Verdot
Rated: R // Mature (~~Boys~~ Men doing the dirty, nothing explicit)
Summary: Vincent's figured out it's easiest to make a move on someone (especially an unstable someone who's asking for it) when you're already expecting to get the shit kicked out of you. [SEC.net link]

I've had this song[mp3] stuck in my head all day.

Get Up and Use Me

Summertime in Midgar. The schools are empty, the streets are crowded, and the patchy grass is brown. Buildings just stand around, radiating heat like an oven-tray and offering nothing in the way of shade, and the road ahead of me blurs with sunlight and lingering exhaust. I don't get a vacation, not now and not ever. My job doesn't change, no matter how many bustling strangers fill the city, no matter how they fill their days.

My hair is getting shaggy, and it sticks to the back of my neck. I reach up and run a hand through it—dark auburn, it's almost as bad as if it were black—and I think I could fry an egg up there. The city's hot enough to cook your brains inside your skull this time of year. I've seen it once or twice in the papers—some poor kid faints and ends up in the hospital, not remembering where he was just hours before. That cloud of smog that's starting to gather above us isn't helping, either. Sometimes I think we've created a monster.

It's damned hot in this suit, too. Five more minutes and I'll be seriously tempted to leave him here.

As if on cue, the kid exits the store, his fingers hooked into a twelve-case of beer and a tell-tale bulge in his left pants pocket. He's walking around without his jacket, his shoulder-holster exposed for all the world to see. I know they recognize the suit anyway, but I don't like drawing unnecessary attention—though it's not like he's gotten blood on it this time.

I push myself up from the hood of the car and settle into the driver's seat, starting the ignition. I'd thought I could cool off outside, but the breeze wasn't what I had hoped for, and damned if it isn't hotter now than when I'd first gotten out. Should have left the air running.

Valentine sets the beer in the back seat and sits down next to me while I wait for the vents to get going. I hold my hand out in expectation, not even looking at him really—I try not to do that as much lately. He hands me the pack, and I smack it against my palm a few times, but pause in tearing the plastic away. Then I do look at him.

Goddammit.

"They didn't have non-filters," he explains, shrugging. "I could have gotten you another brand, or this." And then he turns that damned crooked smile on me. It's flashy, only not. It's not the kind of smile you give your colleague, and I swear he does it just to fuck with me.

"Could have asked," I mutter around one of the cigarettes, lighting up and putting the car into drive.

"I didn't want to put the beer down, come out here and then go back in."

I frown. I know he didn't get laid last night—if he had, he might have considered doing someone else a favor. Then again, maybe not. I've never really understood why Valentine does anything. Something's off about him. He's not without emotion—it's just not based on anything. He channels anger and sass at whim, like getting into character for an act. Unpredictable.

Though I wonder now, why he didn't go home with the girl from the bar. We had a late morning—he would have had the time. She was attractive and easily impressed—one night with Valentine probably would have ruined her for anybody else. I would have thought he would jump at the opportunity.

"Just pull the filter out," he says. "That's what I do."

It's a perfectly good third of a stick gone to waste, but I do it anyways. It's not like I get to sit around and enjoy much of anything leisurely and uninterrupted these days, certainly not an entire cigarette. In fact, it's getting worse—sometimes I'm so unfocused I can't even think straight. I blame most of it on the kid, though part of me hopes it's just some phase I'm going through. If that's the case, it won't last, but I know the kid will stick around for a long time.

Valentine's unnaturally good at his job.

He's smiling again as he raps the backs of his knuckles against the window, and I fight to keep my eyes on the road. I knew that if I let his eye catch mine early today I'd end up watching him all afternoon. I'm a diagnosed obsessive-compulsive—and while most of the time I have no problem keeping my outward composure intact, my mind is an entirely different story.

His body is slouched in the seat, sprawled out across my leather, something that used to drive me up the proverbial wall—still does, especially on bad days. My own fucking shadow, and whenever he's around, my bad days get worse for completely different reasons. Especially when he's readjusting himself constantly in the corner of my vision—his legs, his arms, the headrest.

The road is clear for about twenty feet ahead of me, and my eye flicks over in his direction to find that he's already staring at me. His eyes are hard and intense like crunching broken glass underfoot, and for a second I want to forget about driving. Then his mouth twitches, and he looks out the window.

This isn't normal for me. I'm—I'm not like that. He knows this, because it's come up before, and I think he thinks he's got something I want, and it makes him feel even better about himself. If that's all it is, then he's right—but I don't have to say it, and I won't. It's just a phase. I can't be that, because I've never been, and the last thing I need is for him to be thinking it's his doing.

That's what I keep telling myself. But the situation seems to be arguing with me on that one.

I'm not in love or anything like that. It's a hard life, and everyone needs something to hold onto—everyone except maybe Valentine himself. His lust for mayhem is the very thing that keeps him going—that and those guns of his.

Of course that's not all it is, but I try not to think about it. That sort of thing can get well-meaning people into trouble. Not that I'm the poster-boy for good intent, or that I have much control over my thoughts lately. I in fact hold no intentions for most people, but when it comes to Valentine—he's more able to take care of himself than even I know sometimes, self-sufficient and resourceful in the field and out, but—I'm responsible for him in a lot of ways.

We're almost to the apartments when he finally speaks, asks me what we've got lined up for the rest of the day. Only he's not simply asking the question, he's running through scenarios. Will we be spending time in the office? Will we end up with some boring assignment, done in a matter of minutes and finding ourselves in some dive? Maybe we could go back to that one, he says, because I took so well to it the last time.

He's a jerk for that low blow, but I'm barely listening to what he's saying, just the way he's saying it. He's talking deliberately, with purpose, slowing things down and unnecessarily. His voice is smooth and even as he wraps his mouth around the words he normally wouldn't waste, and I—I need out of this car.

I pull the sedan to a stop and nearly rip my seatbelt from its harness, exiting the vehicle and taking long strides to the front door. It's just a phase—it's not real. I know I'm in some kind of denial, but if Valentine ever gets to the point where he does need something, it shouldn't be me. He'll make bad decisions, and he'll have an even harder time dealing with the ones I make. I know, because I'm already there. And it doesn't matter, I tell myself, because he has to be fucking with me.

"Veld!" He laughs like it's ridiculous, but he knows me well enough by now, and that's just not the case. And I can feel his gaze hardening on my back as I continue to walk, because Valentine never stays light-hearted after a laugh like that, not when I'm brushing him off. I can hear the incredulity in his tone before the words even leave his mouth. "The hell has gotten into you?"

It's hot out—you kept me waiting. I'm tired. I've got the wrong pack of smokes. Go home, kid.

Valentine follows me in, and I take the stairs, because I don't need to be in an enclosed space with him. I'm so damned frustrated I could kill him. I could. Only this time, he hasn't done anything wrong—in fact, he's almost been kind of nice these past few days, and I find that suspicious. This—this is what I've become, a paranoid mess. Conditioned—this is what he does to me. And it's probably for more than shits and grins, but again, I don't want to think about it.

Did I just say in a round-about fashion that he's training me?

It's like that story, where the man kills the other man just because he can't stand to look at his eye, and then he starts hearing heartbeats under his floorboards. How did that man get rid of his nightmare?

I throw my keys down once inside the apartment, and Valentine puts the beer in the fridge. Indecisive, I take off my jacket and set it down on the back of one of the chairs next to my kitchen counter. Part of me wants to retreat to my room, part of me wants to stay in open spaces. I don't need him following me, cornering me. I think that maybe I can stick him in the office and run around town today doing other assignments. I could use the break.

But I don't get the chance.

"So," he says. "Are you going to tell me what's going on, or do I have to drag it out of you?"

It's not like a Turk to care about someone else's problems, Valentine especially—he lives in his own world. But lately he pokes and prods at me like he's got some vested interest, turning business into personal shit, and damned if I don't have mixed feelings about that. "I'm in a bad mood, kid. Just leave me alone for a while."

"Well, are you going to be like this all day? Because I need to know."

"The fuck am I supposed to know?" I growl. "What do you care?"

"I'm your partner, Veld. We have to work together, and your mood affects me. And frankly, I'm getting a little tired of your manic bullshit." Something snaps.

"Piss off, I said!"

I might have made some threatening gesture—certainly not out of the question, given my state of mind—because he slams me up against the wall then, and hard. Valentine can turn ugly real quick, and before I know it we're grappling on the floor. We're both wiry little shits, but although I like to think I'm meaner, the kid is taller, heavier and stronger, and he's got one hell of a reach. I want to hurt him—I should be proud, but some belying part of me wants to break his face, because he's almost laughing. "What's gotten into you?" he asks—amused? I don't know. Confused? Doubtful.

My hands are pinned above my head, and I swallow the sound of my defeat, because it's just as much a confession. And suddenly I know he knows it—he can feel it against my leg, I can see it in his eyes—and rather than succumb to shame, the fighting part of me wants to throw him out on his ass, just so I don't have to deal with it. But I can't move—he's sitting on me.

"Oh," he says, eyes lighting up with some smug sort of satisfaction. "That's it."

Can't, or won't? I throw my weight against him, and he rolls away without a fight. I'm up in seconds and walking away from him—to where, I don't know. "I told you to get the fuck away from me," I hiss on my way out of the room.

"Oh, okay. Sorry, I must have misread you."

And there it is. He shrugs it off like it doesn't bother him, and I know I can walk away and leave things where they are, or I can turn around and blow this thing wide open. But there's a jibe in his tone, so very contrary to his body language, and I know what he's getting at—and the urge to do something about it is addictive. I turn, glaring, and advance on him. "You goddamn son of a—"

I push him. He pushes back. Without even thinking, I try to take a swing at him, but he ducks. Suddenly his hands are on me, and again there's a wall at my back. My body flushes hot, and I'm frightened to hell by the tingling in my limbs—dumb and panicky, and I don't know what to do with this. But we can't go back—we work together. I see him every damned day.

Where do we stand? I don't know. Valentine isn't immoral, he's amoral—the rules don't apply to him. He just does what he does, sometimes for no reason at all. I think to myself that he'd make a terrifying lover, all selfishness and possessiveness. Not like he's ever been in any real relationships, not like they've lasted that long. His only long-term love affair is with violence. He doesn't—doesn't know how to handle it. I don't know, either.

A last ditch attempt—but I suppose it's a lot easier to make a move on someone when you already expect to have the shit kicked out of you. Because then, what have you got to lose?

He kisses me.

Just giving me what I want, and I don't need that kind of charity. So, I push him away—he grabs me by the collar and pins me again violently. And then his mouth is back on mine, muffling angry words. I want him to know I'm more trouble than I'm worth, but when his tongue slips in, warm and wet, I fail to stifle my reaction.

He breaks away, and I make a frustrated sound in the back of my throat.

"I see," he answers, hot breath against the side of my face, and then he's at it again with that mouth of his. A fiery brand on my throat—it's good for more than sass. His knee forces its way in between my thighs, his hand fists itself in my hair, yanking back—I'm caught and exposed, trapped between my own wall and Valentine's firm hands, his teeth and tongue—and I let loose a shuddering breath, tinged with a deep moan which grows louder the harder he presses into me.

Cocky. He's got me where he wants me, where I want me, and it's making him feel all sorts of powerful. But if I'm honest—honest—I don't mind if that's how he wants to get off. I'm tired of wondering, tired of fighting. One hand wraps around my throat to still me while the other undoes my tie.

I surrender.

It isn't long before I'm pressing back, my hands just as busy grasping the starched fabric of his shirt, the buckle at his waist. It seems like forever since I've felt this alive, seen someone else act this alive, and I'm practically climbing my way up his body, hard knees knocking together as he advances and I stumble backwards into the bedroom. We land half-on, half-off the bed—and I finally realize, my chest trapped underneath his own—he was right about me, about me and him. I've all but come undone.

Valentine's demanding, but not quite selfish. He's looking for something, adamant about breaking me down. It turns out he really likes making me writhe about for him, comfortable or not, even better when I talk back or offer some resistance, drawing things out. There are so many ways to do this—I've got my dignity, I'm not some needy pup, and I want him to know—but his hands, his mouth, are so damned convincing. It's my reaction that gets him off. Can't wait to see Veld's face when I push this or that button, can't wait to see what he does when I cross this line right here, when I touch him here, there—yeah, that sounds about right. Even in this, he's the same Valentine through and through.

I smirk beneath the bruising force of his kiss, but he doesn't break away or question. The giving side of him is something new. So deliberate and unyielding, and I'm not ready for it to end when it does.

The air is cool on my sweat-soaked skin, exposed again and flushed with that pulsing heat, and I'm sore all over. My back, my legs from being crushed under his weight and smothered—among other things—it had been a while for me to begin with. The room is hushed, save for the sounds of traffic out on the street, until there's a rustle at my side. Valentine settles in next to me, those hard knees against mine, tangled limbs heavy with exhaustion. And god, the smell—it's going to be here to greet me when I come home.

He's quiet for a moment, studying the freckles on my shoulder like he might find some intricate pattern. I can feel the ghost of his breath as his nose follows the curve of my neck, shoulder to jaw, and my heart resumes its pounding. Suddenly the way his chin not-quite holds my neck down is suffocating, and I shift away—but then his rust-russet eyes flick up to mine, a question dancing inside.

"Feel better?"

I think about it. I've just had the best sex of my life with the kid—not my kid anymore, but I still feel accountable—and I'm reminded that we have to be back in a couple of hours. Valentine's lying there next to me, probably feeling very proud of himself, and if his tone is any indication, he's already got the answer he wants.

Gloating, it sounds like—and he's going to be around for the rest of the afternoon, at least.

He flashes that same god-awful grin at me, and I want to jump his bones all over again and pummel him at the same time. He's got no shame—flirtatious, cocky shit—and I've just come to the realization that no, I don't feel better. Temporarily, yes—but that will fade quickly, is fading now with the knowledge that our fights are going to be worse, and they'll probably be over different things—and I know already that I'm going to want this again and again, that he's already made an addict out of me.

But Valentine...

Valentine doesn't need anything, never wants anything—not yet, but he'll give me what I want in the meantime. I don't know why, don't know where to even begin with the assumptions that will get me nowhere. Just another thing I don't need to drive me crazy. He's—he's a damned fool.

And so am I.

End

Listening To: Franz Ferdinand - 'I'm Your Villain'

Notes: I was writing this for a contest, pressured to write a piece within a month. I waited for a while, and then this poured out of me within a day or two. I had the ending in sight, knew what I wanted to happen, but it just fell out of me at the last second. I like these two—they get shit done, and they get it done right. XD

Who caught the Tell-tale Heart reference?

I Don't Want Anyone Else

2007-07-23T18:08:56Z

Title: I Don't Want Anyone Else
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Characters: VincentxTifa, Yuffie
Rated: PG-13

Summary: The memory of a night with Vincent keeps Tifa's judgement in check after a night of drinking. Part of the Agapé storyline, can stand alone. Because I needed something from her perspective, and this hit me hard. [ff.net link]

I Don't Want Anyone Else

Tonight, she was going to simply let go—what a wonderfully elusive concept she had seemingly forgotten over the years. It was late, and they were tired, and certainly there would be hell to pay in the morning when it came time to buckle down and kick ass like usual. But it was Yuffie's suggestion in the first place that they go out, and it had been such a long time.

Not since...

And perhaps she wasn't doing her job as a coach—perhaps she should have said, 'Yuffie, you need to get a good night's rest so that you can be alert in the morning,'—but the girl was only really in it for the fun and the experience to begin with.

For once, Tifa Lockhart wasn't going to feel obligated.

That's what she told herself when she walked into the bar that night, arms linked with her ninja-friend and gal-pal, ready to let loose and simply forget, if only for one night. They deserved it, after all; Yuffie had done a damned fine job of representing Seventh Heaven at the competition, proof that the time spent training her had been well worth it. And Tifa—well, she felt that a break, even a short one, was long overdue.

She wasn't going to think about how, when she returned home in a few days, it would be just in time to watch the kids leave for their first week away with Cloud at his new place. She wasn't going to think about how, months prior and just hours after a nasty break-up with said swordsman, she had gotten a wee bit tipsy and bold and slept with her best friend—and she loved Vincent to death in so very many ways it hurt—which had radically altered her perception concerning her situation with Cloud and had ultimately solidified her decision not to get back together with him. She also wasn't going to think about how she would also have to slip back into that comfortable-but-not routine with Vincent when she returned to Edge, trying to pretend that nothing had changed and waiting for the day when she thought she might be ready for him.

And gods, he had been so patient with her. It was almost enough to drive her mad—but that was what she'd needed, after having been so patient with everyone else for so long—patient, yet unrelenting, and damned if he hadn't practically committed himself to her already.

But she wasn't going to think about that tonight. No, not at all. To be sure, it was the furthest thing from her mind, and she promised herself—she promised herself that whatever happened tonight, she was not going to sit around and rehash drama. No business, no children, and certainly no men.

Tifa was about half-way through her third beer that first hour when she received her first proposition. The lighting was low, the music a repetitive thrum, and she almost didn't hear him—she hadn't even noticed him approach, not until he was speaking. Yuffie was sitting to her left, chatting away with the bartender—some young and scruffy thing, strangely attractive with his piercings and tattoos—and Tifa had since resigned herself to unwinding within the little invisible box she had made for herself.

As it turned out, the night wasn't quite finished with Miss Lockhart.

This one had a nice smile, light hair and dark eyes. Tifa smiled back at him, but when he offered to buy her next drink, she politely declined. She wasn't going to assume where he was going with this, but she didn't want to feel like her time was being bought. She didn't need to feel obligated to spend time here, should she decided that she was most certainly finished.

And she was, for the most part, when he addressed her as 'Hey, beautiful.' But his grin was light and easy rather than wolfish, and she was content to let him sit and talk—it was a free world, and she'd worked hard to make it so. It would be rude of her to tell him where to go, so she let him set his vodka tonic next to her and chat away.

Peter had been married once before, and had a five-year old son. He was in business management, had several restaurants under his belt, and recognized Yuffie from the competition. Tifa admitted to being her coach and the owner of Seventh Heaven—at that, Peter insisted that they exchange information.

"Ah..." Tifa stalled, "it looks like I don't have a pen." She didn't want to exchange information. This wasn't why she had come out tonight.

Peter only smiled kindly, which made her curse inwardly. It would have been much easier if he hadn't been so nice about it. "I'll tell you what—if you have your phone, you can just program it in."

She blinked. Her phone? "Yuffie," she said, turning to the younger girl who was very much preoccupied, "I left my phone upstairs, didn't I?"

"Guess so," she chirped, turning her attention back to the man behind the counter.

Tifa shrugged at Peter. "Sorry," she said.

"Not a problem," he said. "Hey, buddy," he piped up, gesturing to the bartender, "you think I could borrow a pen?"

The man handed Peter a pen from a glass behind the bar, and Peter grabbed a napkin and began scribbling his number on it. "Here," he said, sliding it across the table to her. "If you'd like to get together sometime before you leave, my phone's always on."

He handed the pen to Tifa—and she smiled genuinely, offering a smooth thank-you as she handed it back to the bartender, without so much as writing her name down. Yuffie stifled a smile at that, knowing Tifa wasn't interested, but Peter seemed to take it in stride. He nodded politely and grabbed his drink up from the counter, sliding from his stool.

"Nice meeting you, Tifa," he said with another confident smile.

"You, too."

He left his number as he walked away, and Yuffie snickered quietly to the bartender. "Hey," she said, "you get a lot of regulars in here? Can you tell the good catches from the sleaze? You know, just in case Teef here decides to warm up a bit." She laughed out loud and flashed him an unashamed grin, which he returned.

"We get a few," he said, "but to be honest, I don't get too intimate with anyone here."

"Is that right?"

He chuckled at the suggestive tone. "Aren't you from another town?"

"I go where life takes me."

Tifa attempted to roll her eyes at the scene, but she couldn't find it in herself. Yuffie was Yuffie, and none of it would matter in the next twenty-four hours. By this time tomorrow, Tifa would be safe and sound at home, and Yuffie would be on her way to Rocket Town to spend the weekend with Cid and Shera before she headed back to Wutai.

She could probably curb any interest right off the bat, if she simply told anyone else who might approach her that night just that. She wasn't even from around Kalm—she wasn't interested in any of them. And she certainly wasn't going home with any of them. They didn't know her from the next woman. Not like—

... Gods, but that had been in early winter. Was it really spring already? She almost couldn't believe how far away it was, when it seemed like only days ago. Sure, she'd had months to weather the aftershock, but it had never left her.

Her best friend—who, five years ago, she would never have imagined in such a state. And it had been sloppy and unplanned, a disaster even—but waking up that morning to whatever consequences, though stressed and confused as she was and too unwilling to face the undisguised love in his eyes, she had never felt warmer, never felt safer in her entire life. A feeling she would never allow to be muddled by any random encounter with any random—

"Hey, you think I could get another one of these?"

The bartender—Luke, she thought she'd heard Yuffie call him—took her empty bottle and popped the cap off another, setting it in front of her. She gladly took it and downed a long swig of the cold beverage. She was exceedingly glad they served beer chilled in this bar; most of the restaurants in the Kalm area served theirs at room temperature, like in so many other parts of the world. Cold brews were mostly an old Midgar tradition, and for once she was glad that something of the long-gone city had caught on.

She could drink quickly this way.

Peter wasn't the only chap to approach her that night. There was Brian the school-teacher; Jack the local sports-caster; and Morgan, who was 'in-between jobs' as he put it, but seemed to have a wealth of useless facts stored up in his spongey brain. All of them were nice, well-behaved, and attractive—and all of them were wrong.

Wrong, wrong, all wrong.

Last call. The bar closed at three in the morning, but they pulled drinks at two. Yuffie had returned to her side after Morgan had left—and that had been a very interesting conversation, certainly random if she was looking for an example—and Luke was making his trips around the circular bartop, closing tickets and collecting tabs.

The young girl flashed Tifa one of those winning smiles and waggled her eyebrows. "So?" she asked. "You gonna meet up with any of those guys before we leave tomorrow? We can probably squeeze in time for lunch, before we call the car rental."

Tifa pushed the remainder of her beer away from her body—she'd had enough for the night, and knew she would probably be suffering the next morning. "Yuffie, we're not even from around here," she said, smiling softly to herself.

The ninja tossed her choppy hair back, shrugging casually. "Just a little fun. That's all."

Tifa bowed her head, contemplating the lines of her palms on the counter. "No," she said. "I think maybe you and I should just catch lunch together, and then go home." She smiled. "Unless you wanted to see somebody, in which case I can go by myself. I'm okay with that."

Yuffie blinked. "But why? You should go out and have some fun. It's just lunch. Come on, what was wrong with those guys you were talking to? They seemed really decent."

And they had been decent. Peter was so proud of his son, Jack so passionate about his job. Morgan was odd in a good way, and Brian believed he was making a difference. Peter cared about his employees, and Morgan had made her laugh at least twice—and a real laugh, not a false or sympathetic attempt. No, nothing wrong with them at all—not on a first-date level of understanding, anyhow.

But there was something wrong, she realized. And it was the same thing with every man in the room, in the hotel—hell, any man on the street. Generally speaking, any one of them had just as good a chance with her as the next; there was nothing particular about a one of them which would sway her either way. Of course, if she got to know them, she might find out what was so special about them, their quirks and preferences and endearing mannerisms. Right now it was all surface, but certainly everyone had something which set them apart from the rest of the world.

The thing was, she didn't want to find out. She didn't need to know if Peter liked his coffee black, or if Jack took his dog to the park to play fetch. Tifa didn't care if Brian liked spicy food, or if Morgan brushed his teeth five times a day. For all she cared, they could be Guy Number One, Two, Three, Four. She didn't even need their names—she just wasn't interested.

There was nothing there. Peter could be Mr. Bleeding Heart, and Jack could introduce dying children to their heroes, and while all of that was fine and good, it wouldn't make a difference. Tifa was completely impartial.

When Tifa was just starting her bar back up on the outskirts of old Midgar, she had a temporary waitress who used to come in and run shifts for her every once in a while. And this woman swore up and down that she was in love with two different men, but she simply couldn't decide between them. While Tifa didn't doubt that it was possible to love more than one person at a time, she also knew better than most that there were many different ways to love a person. So, she'd asked her.

'What is it about either of them that really does it for you?' Tifa finally questioned one slow and rainy day while they were wiping down glasses. And she knew the drill—the one had the most gorgeous eyes, and the other wanted children. Sally wanted children, and she got along well with that one, but she just didn't feel like there was that spark, she said.

But that was silly, Tifa had thought even then. There were many men in this world who had gorgeous smiles and washboard abs, and there were plenty of men who would love to have children. She told Sally just as much, but that wasn't what she had asked exactly, so she reiterated. 'Yes, but... what makes each of them special to you?'

Sally hadn't had an answer. And Tifa herself had been there before—like a mental road-block, and no detour. But if Sally had just admitted then that she didn't know, save for the fact that, 'He's Tommy,' or 'He's my Jimmy,' then that would have been all right with Tifa. She would have accepted that, and it would have been enough. But Sally hadn't said that, not at all. She'd sat there instead, weighing pros and cons.

Well, that was ridiculous. Everybody had pros and cons.

And if Tifa assessed these men with some sense of detachment, then she could admit that most of them were actually quite appealing. But she herself wasn't attracted to any of them in the least—not physically, not mentally, and there was certainly no emotional investment, or even the desire to form one. They had been good conversation and pleasant company, but when Tifa walked out that door, she would forget all about them. She didn't need to get inside their heads, to find out who they were—because she already knew who they weren't.

They weren't familiar or personal to her. They weren't any of hers—not her friends, not her family, not those special few she so desperately clung to when she'd expected the world to end. She hadn't really been fighting for these people down here, who lived every day like the one before it—the weight of an entire planet was far too much for one person, and she didn't know how Aerith had ever managed to bear it—no, Tifa had been fighting for those standing to her left and her right, for the hopes she had for each of them and their futures.

She hadn't had anywhere else to go. They were her family, her reason for fighting. All of them. And as much as she'd always wanted for Cloud to move on, for everyone to find some happiness in this new freedom, she found that she herself had grown so comfortable—

The hazy memory of a cinnamon kiss under bright lights—voices outside the car, talking, after months and months of easy comfort and testing boundaries until she could tease him and curl up in his arms like an apology—the look he gave her before he rose up to meet her and she brought him under, took him in her arms and pressed him up against that hard surface...

Waking up atop his warm body, his hips flush against hers and his breath against her ear, the noise he made as she fought to catch herself and the moment his arms were wrapped around her before he pulled away and she was left alone and damning herself for her desire to forget the consequences and drag him back into the mess she'd made. The feigned calm of his features as he reassured her that she wasn't alone, even though she'd thought she'd known better, had wanted to tell him that it was something she had to handle on her own.

Tifa had always been the strong one like that, even in this—she'd needed to be, for everyone she told herself—but she distinctly remembered pulling the sheets down between them and curling into his shoulder, resisting the urge to kiss his skin and revel in the scent of afterglow, if only because she was afraid she would hurt him later. She'd been confused, still recovering from fresh wounds, and she'd needed time to figure herself out, she'd thought. It couldn't be real, what she'd felt then, because it was too soon.

She still watched him sleep, when she could catch him.

"Yo! Paging Tifa," Yuffie said, snapping her fingers and waving a hand in front of her face. "You okay?"

Tifa tilted her head in Yuffie's direction, her eyes slowly coming back into focus. She nodded minimally, and turned her attention back to the counter.

"You sure? You got this funny, far-away look on your face, like you were slipping into a pleasure-induced coma."

Tifa smiled to herself. Maybe the alcohol had something to do with it, and maybe it didn't, but she would know when she saw him. "I think I'm ready to go."

"Yeah, I think you've had enough." Yuffie reached into her pocket and produced a wad of gil, and Tifa threw some money down on the counter. The younger girl reached behind the counter for the pen, ignoring her friend's comment about how one 'should never reach behind the bar' and how much it made her blood boil when people did it back home, and wrote her number down on a napkin, leaving it for Luke along with a particularly generous tip. "Okay," she grinned, offering Tifa her arm. "Now we can go."

The walk next-door was almost quiet, both Tifa and Yuffie seemingly lost in their own thoughts about the evening—Yuffie presumably wondering if Luke was going to call her, and Tifa trying to focus her attentions on reconciling the fluttering flip-flops in her chest with the sudden queasiness in her gut, the flush of warmth through her body with the growing ache within her head.

"It was Vincent, wasn't it?"

Tifa turned to face her friend, too tired to form a questioning expression. Yuffie just smiled.

"You left those numbers at the bar," she said. "Four napkins up on the bar, minus mine. Counted them and everything."

They slowed to a stop at the front door of the hotel lobby, and Yuffie hit the buzzer on the door. When the tone chimed, she slid her key-card in and yanked the door open, and the cold air hit them both like a shock to the system. Tifa kept hold of the younger girl's arm as they stepped inside the elevator, only letting go when she'd reached the wall and slumped lazily against it.

Yuffie was smiling at her haggard form, taking note of the still-removed look that wouldn't leave her eyes. "Are you going to talk to him when you get back?"

"Mm." Tifa closed her eyes and swayed as she lowered herself to the floor. "I should, shouldn't I?"

"Why don't you call him?"

"Don't know what to say. Besides, it's two in the morning."

"Ha!" Yuffie barked. "It's never too late for love!" Her expression changed then, to something more relaxed and passive. "Seriously though, you might want to get up. We're almost to the room."

As if on cue, the elevator bell dinged—too loudly, Tifa thought—and the grown woman on the floor let out a defeated moan.

"Come on, you can't stay here," the ninja said, and stooped down to help her up. She frowned at Tifa's non-cooperation, and settled her hands on her hips. "If you don't get up, I'm going to do what you used to do to me—I'm going to strip you down to your skivvies and throw you under a cold spray."

Tifa groaned and shot her hand up exhaustedly, and Yuffie helped her to her feet.

Eventually, they made it to their room, and Tifa to a tight bundle of covers. She'd stopped at the doorway first thing, saying that it was fine to leave her there, and began to lie down on the floor beneath the small table across from the bathroom. And so, Yuffie had made good on her threat; she stripped Tifa down to her underwear and somehow managed to lift her limp form into the tub, where she turned on the freezing cold shower-spray. Tifa had screamed and called her a jerk, and Yuffie had just smiled, toweled her off and helped her into bed, where she'd burrowed underneath the heavy comforter and held on for dear life, shivering as she dried in her bedsheets.

At some point during the night—she wasn't sure how much time had passed, though she'd heard Yuffie bumping around in the dark as she got ready, kind enough to leave the lights off—she felt a weight settle on the side of the bed. She didn't open her eyes at first, but then the girl placed a smooth, weighty object in her hand.

Yuffie reached out and brushed the hair away from Tifa's forehead. "You got a message," she whispered softly in the darkness of the room.

Tifa opened her eyes slowly, wincing in the bright-blue glare of the display. And suddenly it was like another heavy hand on her shoulder, another blanket around her shuddering form.

Vincent.

Tifa selected the voice-mail command and pressed the confirm button, holding the phone to her ear. She could see Yuffie's teeth and eyes glowing in the small, harsh light as she waited patiently. And a slow smile crept over the young ninja's face—a comforting, knowing smile.

"Tifa, it's Vincent. Ah—I'm guessing you're either asleep, or you've gone out. I was just calling to see how you are. This is kind of odd—I can't remember ever leaving you a message, because you always seem to pick up. Hmph... stage fright, I suppose."

She missed that chuckle. So different when she wasn't right there with him, wrapped up in those damning thoughts and unable to look outside of herself and notice. When had they gotten so serious?

"Listen—I wanted to ask you, if when you return tomorrow, you would be willing to spend some time with me after Marlene's play is over. I..."

When had she ever said no to that?

"There are some things I've been wanting to say." A pause. "I don't know, maybe I can't do anything but say the same things in a different way." Another, slightly longer pause. "But there's not much else I can do. I have to get this out of the way before any more time passes us by—and it has to be in person."

She swallowed hard. She wasn't crying, wasn't crying—"Yes."

"Anyway, I hope you get this message. I don't mean for you to be thinking about this in the morning—don't let it get to you. It's just me, Tifa. I'll be here when you're ready."

She was so ready, so painfully ready and yet so scared. But if there were ever anyone who she could trust, who she would even want to—

"You can tell Yuffie I said good luck."

Because she'd finally realized that the only reason she'd ever have for backing away, for hurting him, was her own bundle of conditioned fears, something she knew now that she would never have to run from when she was with him.

"I'll see you when you get back. I—"

Another pause, and she clutched the sheets to her chest.

"Sweet dreams, Tifa."

"Love you," she whispered. And then it was silent, dead air.

"... I love you."

Click.

And then the tears began to fall freely, and Yuffie was readjusting herself on the mattress, hovering, asking—

"Tifa, what's wrong?"

She just shook her head, wiping at her eyes. "... Nothing," she sniffed. "Nothing's wrong. I just—"

A slender arm reached over and pulled a couple tissues from the box on the nightstand, and Tifa accepted them gratefully. "So," Yuffie began again. "You're going to talk to him?"

Tifa laughed, in spite of herself. "Yeah, I'm going to talk to him." She breathed tiredly as she wiped at her eyes and nose, and sank back into the sheets as Yuffie made her way over to perch herself on her own bed.

"Good. You going to call him in the morning?"

Tifa smiled to herself. "No. I think I'll say it in person." And she knew that Vincent wouldn't be able to wait, either—that it wouldn't come out the way he'd wanted unless he could see her.

Yuffie returned the grin as she lay down, although it couldn't be seen in the absence of light in the room. "I'm glad, Tifa."

"Me, too." Tifa curled in on herself then, snuggling deeper within the blankets. "Vincent said to wish you good luck for him."

"Yeah?"

"Mm."

"That's cool," she said. "I've been sending you two good vibes for months. Though I'll be sure to send you extra good ones tomorrow."

Tifa could hear the excitement in her friend's voice, and she was filled with warmth. "Thanks. Goodnight, Yuffie."

"'Night, Tifa."

As she pulled the blankets up around her shoulders, she couldn't help but imagine Vincent's arms coming around to hold her from behind. And for a moment, the pounding in her head seemed to lessen, and the air seemed to grow warmer. It wasn't long before her eyes fluttered shut, and her breathing began to even out.

Rest had finally come.

End

Final Fantasy VII and its characters © 1997 Square-Enix Co., Ltd.

Agapé, chapter 17

2007-07-20T06:51:32Z

Title: Agapé, chapter 17
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Characters: VincentxTifa
Chapter Rating: PG-13

Summary: In this chapter, Tifa has forgone a dinner with Vincent in order to fulfill her promise to accompany Yuffie to the bartending competition. Vincent spends some time missing her, and Marlene has questions. [ff.net link]

17

Miles Apart

The restaurant's debut really was something to behold. The place was set up in a very large, very old house, which was gutted and outfitted with white-clothed tables. Such places should not have existed in Edge after Meteor—this one had been transported from Kalm.

Yes, these things can and do happen.

The entire scene was lit by candlelight, low and pleasant, save for the kitchen and the meager lights above the bar on the far side of the house. Tifa would have been radiant in the calming flicker reflected in the glass of the window next to our table. I had wanted to bring her—there was no better excuse really, for an innocent and formal night out with the woman of my dreams—but it was impossible, given her promise to the ninja.

Solid wood floors stretched from wall to wall, and as guests and staff alike crossed them, their steps left a hollow and resonating sound. They did not creak under the weight, but they were not intimately acquainted with the foundation of the building, and I found myself wondering what might lie between the fashioned material and the dirt below. A morbid curiousity perhaps, but this was nothing new. I'd always been in that frame of mind, even before.

By now, I do not think I have to explain what I mean by the word 'before'.

In all honesty, the interior reminded me a bit of ShinRa Manor—in design, not in size—after I had woken up to find it abandoned and everyone else gone. But in my fury, I had neglected to be kind with their drapecloths and fixtures. The manor's kitchen was completely destroyed, a stark contrast with the bustling, stainless steel room beyond those double doors. Its washrooms were shattered glass and crushed porcelain, unlike the floating candles and petals atop undisturbed waters in the vintage tub upstairs.

I never did have much self-control back then—but that was another life.

Instead, I watched with some amusement as the young woman across the table from me perused the menu, taking it all in with no small amount of fascination. Every now and then she would frown, and she would silently mouth the sounds to a word she didn't know, and it filled me with an odd sense of importance, thinking I might have found an almost comfortable role. She propped her elbow up on the table, and I grinned in the moment she caught herself, removing it to wind a finger in one of the glossy curls piled high atop her head.

She lifted her head and placed her finger on the plastic coverlet, turning the sheet around to face me. "What is... pist-ow?" she asked, mispronouncing the word in an unassuming manner.

I smiled, scanning my own menu. "Pistou," I answered, enunciating the last syllable, "is a basil and garlic sauce."

"Oh," she said. "Well, what is chever?"

I straightened my tie. Not quite, but close enough. "Chèvre, is goat cheese."

She made a face.

"Would you like me to order for you?"

My 'date' nodded, putting her menu to rest on the table. "But no goat cheese," she said shyly, as if it might be asking too much. I laughed in the affirmative.

"No goat cheese."

I browsed the wine list until I found something that looked appealing; a petít verdot. The grape was known for its color and aroma, but was usually lent to other blends in small quantities and almost never on its own. It was a rarity, and while most would say it couldn't hold up, the description promised a darkly rich, chocolate-currant flavor, smoky and with a long finish. I wanted to try it, despite the expense.

"What would you like to drink?" I asked.

She shrugged, pretending to look at the menu again. "There's too many choices."

"I'm going to have a glass of wine," I offered. "If you would like, I can order a sparkling cider for you. Or you can get something else. They have a frozen slurry at the bar, made from sorbét. I'll just tell them to not add the alcohol."

"That sounds good," she nodded. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," I smiled. "After all, our job is to try something from every area of the menu."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. We have to."

She giggled. "Okay, then."

It was then that our waiter approached the table, bringing with him a pitcher of water, some crudités, and some tapenade. I ordered my wine and the lemon smoothie, along with some roasted almonds with honey and lemon thyme, because I thought she would like them, and because I thought we should have an appetizer. He was polite and professional in the way he addressed us and in the way he carried himself. I tried not to note these things too obviously, so as not to let on why I was there, but it made it all the more enjoyable. I felt like some kind of educated lurker. My father would have loved this sort of thing—my old partner would have loved this sort of thing. Either one of them would have been better at it than I—I briefly wondered if there might be a complex there, but didn't think on it for too long, as my phone began to vibrate once our server had retreated.

I felt a swift rush of simple gladness when I saw who it was. I flipped the phone open, careful to keep my voice low and mind my manners in the fancy bistro. "Tifa."

"Hi, Vincent," she said. "Ah... what are you up to?"

I smiled. "I am having dinner. You?"

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "That's right, I forgot. You're doing that thing tonight for the magazine."

"Yes. How goes the competition?"

"Well, I called to say that Yuffie placed third out of eight contestants today, so I guess that's pretty good. She did set a record," she laughed. "Most air-bound rotations in thirty seconds, or something like that. Anyways, whatever it was called, she's in the books now. She's very proud of it. You'll probably be hearing about it for the rest of your life."

"Godo would be proud," I joked. Chances were, he didn't even know where she was. My company mouthed the question as to who it was I was speaking with—or rather, whether or not it was who she thought it was—and I grinned back at her. "You may tell her that she has my congratulations."

"I'll do that," she said. "So... did you find a date?"

The uneasy pause and the tone of her voice was a dead giveaway, if I'd learned anything about her in all our time spent together, and I liked to think that I had. She had said that it was unfair of her to ask me to wait, but it was obvious to me that if I didn't, it wouldn't be so easy for her, helplessly caught in her indecision when she simply was not ready. And thusly, I couldn't help the ridiculous smile plastered to my face, even if it did make me feel like an idiot. "As a matter of fact, I did."

"Oh." She sounded disappointed. "Well, I don't want to interrupt..."

"Not at all," I said. "In fact, I think she would like to speak with you."

"What? Why? Vincent, I don't think that's a very good—"

But I handed my phone over before she could protest, and stunted, pink-polished fingers took it happily. "Tifa!"

I watched the animated conversation, arranging the items on the table as they were brought, and thanking the waiter. When it was over, my phone was returned to me, open and waiting.

"She wants to talk to you."

I put the receiver to my ear, a funny feeling of warmth spreading through my chest. "Tifa," I hummed.

"Vincent," she said sweetly, "you took Marlene. Gods, that was so wonderful of you. I bet this means a lot to her."

She also sounded a bit relieved. I tried not to be too happy with that knowledge, but I was. It was quite cruel of me to tease her, however. "Do you think?"

"Well, it's not every day a girl gets to dress up and go out on the town, or eat at a fancy place like that. Not to mention, she's on your arm."

I chuckled. "Perhaps."

"How does she look?"

"Like a china doll," I replied, smiling. "And pink. Very pink."

She laughed.

"Shera even put her hair up in curls." Barret would have been proud, to see her like that—proud, or infuriated. But I think that rather has to do with how he feels about me.

"Well, I bet she's enjoying herself."

"Hm, I would hope so." I paused. "After all, I turned down the opportunity to ask Cid."

"Oh, gods!" Her laughter grew in its intensity. "He's such a meat and potatoes kind of guy. I bet he wouldn't know what to do with himself. Although, I think I'd like to be there to see that one."

I hummed thoughtfully. "Perhaps another time?"

"All right." I could hear the lingering smile in her voice, that tone which kept my nerves in check around her. "Listen, I have to go now, but I'm glad I got to talk with you. I'll see you when I get back home, okay?"

"See you then. Goodbye, Tifa."

"Bye, Vincent."

Marlene and I shared a nice dinner of veau normande and coq au vin after that, followed by orange crépes flambé. She told me that she was learning multiplication in school, and so I taught her what a square root was and threw her some simple questions. She seemed genuinely excited to know something that her other classmates did not.

We went for a short walk after dinner, because she'd said she wanted to look at the crystalline animals she'd spotted in a shop window. Marlene was a well-behaved kid, and I didn't have to worry about her running off or breaking anything valuable, so I let her peruse the items for a while. On the way back to the parking lot, a street vendor asked me if I'd like to buy a rose for my daughter—there was no resemblance there, and I almost glanced around, wondering who else he might have been talking to—and I did buy her a pink one, not bothering to correct the man, because her eyes had lit up when she'd seen them.

She was quite the chatterbox really, once she got going. During the ride home, she must have prattled off a week's worth of conversation I would have with any normal person, talking about teachers, friends, projects and reports, not to mention the play that was coming up. In the end we arrived safely at the bar, and as I ushered her inside, she bounded over to where Shera was leaning against the counter, sharing a drink with Cid.

"Hey, kiddo!" he greeted her with a wave. "How was dinner?"

"Great!" she exclaimed in full force. "Look!" she said quickly, turning to Shera and handing her the flower. Shera held the bloom to her face and smiled adoringly, and I hoped I would not have to endure her fawning.

"It smells lovely," she said, stepping around behind the counter. "You know what we can do with that?"

Shera grabbed for an uncorked wine bottle from the back shelf—empty, but then Tifa sometimes kept odd things for strange reasons—and began to clean it in the sink.

"Here," she said, gently taking the rose again from the girl and snapping the base of the stem off. "This bottle is plenty tall enough, don't you think?"

Marlene nodded emphatically, admiring the display. "Thank you!"

It was no vase, but something about it was appealing. Not because flowers in wine bottles is a romantic concept; the neck of the bottle was a strange sort of elegant, and out of place in a good way. Sometimes odd thoughts like that come to me, and I do not know why.

Shera looked at her watch and yawned. "It's getting late. Run along and put it someplace safe," she told her, "and then get ready for bed. I'll be up to tuck you in soon."

"Okay," replied Marlene. "Night, Vincent!"

As she turned to go, taking the bottle with her, I had a thought. Surely, I wouldn't have expected Shera to know her way around the house, much less where Tifa might keep a vase, but I wondered. Had I ever seen flowers in Tifa's home?

I turned my attentions back to the bar and found Shera grinning at me. I rolled my eyes and scooted an aluminum tin across the bar top until it reached Cid's elbow. "There. I brought you something."

Cid grinned. "Animal, mineral or vegetable?"

"Why don't you find out?"

I walked behind the bar and slid the ice chest open, the metal lid reverberating with a loud shucking sound. "Still warm," Cid said from behind me, as I ran the tap and fixed myself a glass of water. "Real warm."

"It should be. They made it while we went for a walk. You will have to tell me how it is," I said, taking a sip from my glass.

He popped the lid open, and Shera peeked over his shoulder as she skirted around him. "Looks creamy." He frowned at the box. "What is it?"

"Just eat it."

I set my glass back down on the counter and took a seat, loosening my tie while Cid grabbed a set of silverware from the bin behind the bar and tested a bite with his fork. "'S good. Chewy, but it's good. What's in this?" Shera muffled a laugh behind her hand and stole the next bite from him.

"Roughly?" I asked, unable to hide my grin when he nodded. "Those would be snails."

Cid froze and his jaw went slack. Then Shera's fingers crawled their way up the back of his neck, and he shuddered away from her. "Oh, gross, Cid," she teased, stepping to him and nipping his jaw. "Maybe you should stop now and leave that for me." And with that, she snatched the fork from him and took another bite.

He frowned at me. "Y'don't say. Not bad, actually. But really, Vince, you din' hafta feed me an' the wife slimy critters."

"Stop it, Cid," Shera scolded. "I'm eating here." She then grabbed her purse and fished out some money, approaching me with it. "And honey, I asked him to pick it up when he left."

I waved her hand away, shaking my head and dismissing the money. She grabbed my hand and tried to place the money in it, but I pushed it away. In the end, she slapped my fingers and tucked the bills into my shirt pocket, finishing with a self-satisfied smile.

"I'm going upstairs to tuck Marlene into bed," she said, heading for the stairwell. "Save some of that," she nodded to Cid, laughing. "I know it'll be hard, but you'll just have to try."

Shera disappeared from view, and Cid studied the tin in front of him. "Are you going to eat it," I asked, "now that you know what it is?"

He grimaced and dipped the fork into the sauce, trying it again on his tongue uncertainly.

"It's not like the ones you find on the sidewalk, you know."

"Shaddup," he said, half-heartedly. "I'm tryin' somethin' here." I chuckled as Cid took another bite and paid very close attention to what was in his mouth. Then suddenly, he was trying to pay as little attention as possible, his face contorting into a most worried and queasy expression. "Can't do it. I'd rather have a steak."

"Then get yourself a steak," I jabbed, and then I reached across and placed the money Shera had given me in the front pocket of his work-shirt.

He didn't protest or even make mention of it, only poured himself another glass from the bottle on the counter and attempted to purge the memory of what had been in his mouth by washing away the taste. "Shaddup," he repeated, wincing at the burn and clearing his throat. "So tell me," he finally said after a moment of silence, "what's the deal with Tifa?"

I tilted my head. "What do you mean?"

"Are you seein' each other at all? Casually, I mean?"

"Like before?"

"So it's like that, huh?" Cid took the seat a couple down from me and swiveled around so he could prop his head against his hand and still make eye contact. "Nothin' more on her end? Because I could've swore—"

"She needs time, Cid."

"Right, right." He was silent for a moment, taking another sip of drink and mulling something over in his head. "...Y'know she's not like any other girl. This is big. This is you an' Tifa."

I smiled sadly, barely. "I know."

"You gonna hang around like always, if she decides to move on without ya?"

The idea was painful. I'd told myself that yes, I would stay. I loved her, and she was my best friend, and I would always be there for her. But—what if the day came when she no longer needed me? I knew that she loved me in a lot of ways, in some of the ways that mattered most, but what if it became awkward for the both of us? I hadn't given it much thought other than telling myself I was determined to always be there. But what if—

What if the pain was actually too much to bear?

"I'll always be here," I affirmed. "But, I don't know. Maybe I would need to take a break or stay away for a little while." I sighed, turning my glass on the bar, condensation gliding against the smooth varnish. "Then again, I wouldn't want to make her feel like it was some kind of ultimatum, or a punishment. She needs to not feel obligated for once in her life."

"Shit, that sounds like break-up talk to me," he grunted, shifting in his seat and leaning an arm on the back of the chair. "You," he gestured, "are seriously invested in her. She couldn't 'ave missed it, not by a long-shot. She'd hafta be blind to not know what she was doin'."

"Does drunk and guilty count?"

"She'll come around, Vince." He nodded, as if to reassure himself. "She'll come around."

I frowned. "I don't want her to feel obligated," I repeated.

"No one's gonna make her," he said. "She's takin' time, ain't she? But I think... yeah. She's gonna come around. Maybe not right away—an' you should be prepared for that, 'cause you can't always be breathin' down her neck and knowin' who else is interested—but she'd have to be crazy to choose anyone else in the end, knowin' what she does about you."

"It doesn't matter, if she doesn't feel the same way."

"Bullshit," he said. "A woman doesn' just curl up next t'you for no reason. She doesn' spend all her free time with you, an' she certainly doesn' get hammered just so she can kiss ya. All that shit was on purpose, Valentine. She might be confused now, or even scared, but that doesn' change what I saw."

I didn't bother to ask him if he was sure about that, didn't have time to think about the countering, negative things to which I hadn't given enough thought and suddenly feared—Shera was already making her way back into the bar, having finished with the girl upstairs. Meanwhile, the wine from dinner and the water were getting the better of me, and I nodded to the two of them, amused as the petite woman resumed picking at the contents of the tin with the fork. "I'm going upstairs to use the washroom, and then I think I'm going to head home."

"All right," Shera said, offering Cid another bite of the food. He clamped his mouth shut and turned away, which earned him a snicker from his wife. "You know where it is."

I made my way up the stairs, the sounds of her teasing fading into the background. Past the children's room—they had their own bathroom which was connected to their living space—and past the den where Tifa and I had spent many a comfortable evening, was the topmost level of the house. This level had a very clean, very quiet sense of peace about it, despite more recent events. It reminded me of the calm after a storm. I did not go through Tifa's room, but instead went to the washroom reserved for guests.

The mirrors, though the children had their own, were framed by bright, squiggly scrawls and stick-up decorations—other than that, the room was neat and tidy, and even smelled pleasant. Marlene's name was proudly displayed in disjointed loops along one side of the glass, presumably in some sort of wash-off gel. On the other side, an algebraic formula.

Clever.

I finished quickly and washed up, and I was almost to the door leading down into the bar when I heard a small voice call out to me. I stepped over to the half-open doorway on my right, peering into the darkened room. Marlene was sitting up in bed, looking after me.

"Vincent?" she repeated.

"Yes...?"

I stepped into the room, careful not to make so much noise as Denzel was asleep—but then I saw his empty bed and remembered that he had begun sleeping upstairs. Marlene adjusted herself on the mattress, bringing her knees up underneath the blanket she had tucked around her. I took it as an invitation to sit on the edge of the bed, but remained standing for a moment.

"Aren't you tired?" I asked. It was reasonably late for a girl so young, but her eyes showed not even the slightest indication of weariness.

Marlene smiled and set her chin atop her knees. "I wanted to say goodnight. And thank you."

I nodded. "You're welcome." I then noticed that her hair was still up in those stiff curls, and I gestured with my hand. "Are you going to sleep with those in?"

"I like them," she said, smile widening. "Are you going to visit us at Cloud's?"

I did sit down then, knowing that the innocent question might turn into a complicated discussion. The small twin mattress protested my slow weight as I settled in. "...No, I don't think so. But I'll be here when you get back."

"Why not?" she asked, and I could see that she was slightly disappointed. She had chosen to focus on the 'no,' instead of what came after it; but she was used to being told 'maybe' and 'later' and 'we'll see'. Used to being let down.

"Well," I started, picking and choosing my words carefully, "I think that Cloud would like to have that time with you to himself." Then, feeling the need to justify that, I added, "After all, he doesn't get to see you very often, does he?"

Almost immediately, I wanted to take those words back. I hadn't meant to make it sound quite that way, but I was afraid I'd already taken that first step towards bad-mouthing him—and unintentionally, of all things—which I'd promised myself I wouldn't do. But Marlene only wrinkled her face in thought. "I guess."

Maybe this would be better, I thought. Marlene had missed out on a lot of her childhood—though she might be shuffled around some more, at least Cloud would make sure that all of his time spent with her would really count for something. And it wouldn't kill me to learn something about bartending, I found myself thinking. I could take over on a slow night, and Tifa could spend some quality time with the kids.

"Do you still have your cape?"

My mouth twitched at the quick change in subject, and at the object of its focus; of course, it hung down in the back and fastened at the shoulders. She would call it that, though the image of myself in a cape was amusing in a... disconcerting kind of way. "I do still have my cloak, yes."

"Why don't you wear it anymore?" Her eyebrows were raised so high, a child-like exaggeration. I smiled.

"Well, because I don't need it anymore. I did once, but I haven't in a long time."

Marlene smiled back, as if she'd stumbled across a secret. "Because you're done fighting?"

"Yes."

"So you don't need it anymore. Like a secret identity, right?"

I was ready to laugh it off, to reply back with something in the negative. But then—it was like that, wasn't it? "I suppose you could say that."

"How many people know the real you?"

"Hm... not many." And I returned the conspiratorial smile. My eyes wandered a little to the left, and they caught sight of the bottled flower sitting on the nightstand by the window. Like a shock, it hit me—the bottle was one of ours, something split between us months ago, before we'd decided not to drink in each other's presence.

"Vincent?"

I shook it away. "Are you ready to sleep now?"

"Yeah, I guess," she sighed. I got up from the bed and straightened myself. "Are you coming to my play?" she asked as she shifted around beneath the covers, trying to get comfortable.

"I am," I said. "Now try to get some rest."

"Okay. Hey, Vincent?"

"Mm." I was half-way to the door.

"You should take Tifa to a restaurant."

She was smiling unabashedly then, and I wondered if anything in my expression gave me away. Tifa and I went out to dinner all the time. "You think so?"

"Yeah, I think she'd like it."

One side of my mouth turned up. "I'll keep that in mind, then. Goodnight, Marlene."

"Goodnight, Vincent."

I left the door in the position in which I'd found it, and returned downstairs where I bid my goodbye to Cid and Shera. The old man gave me a clap on the back, and his wife hugged me—something she didn't normally do. Which meant they had been talking.

Minutes away from home, it began to rain. When I reached my complex and went to head upstairs to my apartment, I discovered that the elevator wasn't working, and so I had to exit the garage and walk around to the front of the building in the rain. Once inside, I found that the entire building was out of power. With nothing else to do, I locked my door, made for my bedroom, stripped down to my bare skin and slid beneath the bed-covers.

I didn't go to sleep for a long while. All I could do was think about Tifa. I wondered if she was out with Yuffie that evening, or if she was already curled up in her foreign hotel bedroom. I wondered if she was thinking about me, like she'd said she sometimes did—or if she was wondering about me thinking about her. Maybe she was trying to not think of me.

But this trip she'd taken, along with what Cid had said to me earlier, had made me realize that I couldn't always be there. It wasn't just my waiting game—Tifa was trying to figure herself out, and there were enough ways to do that which were completely out of my control. Just standing around, wondering who else might step in, could drive a man crazy, could make him stop eating and working and anything else useful. That sort of thing could turn a man obsessive where he had no right to be.

If someone else did step in—even if she never intended for it to become anything more than an occasional dinner, or a friendship much like the one we'd had before it had been blown wide open—all of my affections and attentions would fade into the background and become less important, because she would inevitably see less and less of me. And I realized, while I didn't want to make her uncomfortable or pressure her in any way... gods, to do nothing after what had passed between us might as well be a step backwards. I could still lose her, and not because of one earth-shattering decision built upon months of suspense, but rather very slowly. Very painfully.

And that friendship we'd had, I'd begun to realize when Cid had said, 'So it's like that... nothing more,' had been quite something. He didn't even know that half of it, and it took his understatement to bring it back to my full attention. It had grown slowly over time, but we were so very unlike simple friends—he'd been right, about Tifa's unashamed gesturing. Would I want to see her that close with someone else?

Of course not. But what more could I do? And it did feel like a break-up. Was this... how I had made Cloud feel?

I wanted her, more than anything. I wanted for her to come to me, to strip my senses bare and recolor every tiny thing in my world with the knowledge that it meant just that little bit more, that she wanted me, too. That she loved me—not just loved me, but in every way that I loved her—and nothing would ever be the same again, down to every shared breath.

Yes, I would fight for that. But Tifa already knew how I felt, where I stood. I could not make her choose me—and I had been patient for so many years that I had forgotten how to be the brash man I once was. Even if I rehashed my words, tried to better express them, none of that would matter if she found out that she didn't feel the same way. She wasn't yet mine—fighting for her now might as well be fighting against her, against the choice that she so deserved.

And though I wanted to believe that she would be mine—maybe not now, and maybe not for a long time, but someday—there really was nothing more to be done.

End Chapter Seventeen

Final Fantasy VII and its characters © 1997 Square-Enix Co., Ltd.

Agapé, chapter 16

2007-06-28T03:46:13Z

Title: Agapé, chapter 16
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Characters: Vincent x Tifa
Chapter Rating: PG-13

Summary: In this chapter, conversations about histories, family and ghost-hands. Slightly sweet. [ff.net link]

16

Looking Back and Facing Forward

Over the next couple of months, I witnessed a change in Tifa. She seemed to grow more comfortable in her skin. She held her head up; she didn't slouch anymore, and she didn't avert her eyes. And her smiles, they were so genuine, a far cry from the ones she'd been giving me in the months prior—those ugly-beautiful things that only a crying woman can manage. Tifa no longer had anything to hide, or to hide from.

It really was beautiful.

"So, the word on the street is that you have a ghost-hand," she said, winking as she plopped down onto the couch beside me.

She'd been talking to Denzel. I didn't bother to ask what else they might have talked about. I didn't think I could bring myself to, and I didn't really want to know what her reactions to the same questions he'd asked me might have been. Curious, yes—but still so afraid. "Hm," I hummed, forcing a smile. "Is that the word now?"

Tifa nodded, then reached out and snatched the bottle in my hand away. "What is this?" she asked. "Do you mind if I—?"

"You won't like it."

She shook her head, and tipped the glass to her open mouth.

Her disposition was decidedly brighter. I sometimes found myself wondering if she'd ever been like that in Midgar, before I'd met her the first time. I couldn't understand how anyone in their right mind would let this fantastic woman slip right out of their hands, and passively, with signs all over the place. Gods.

"Ahm." The bottle left her lips then, and she shut her eyes, tilting her head to one side. Her eyebrows shot up, and she blinked at me for a second. "What's in that?"

I grinned. "It's an ethnic drink, something they make in the canyon. That's the real thing, there—you can get it anywhere, but I went to a special store to get the original."

"It tastes like someone poured espresso on my corn flakes," she said, frowning.

"Can't say I didn't warn you," I chuckled. "I told you that you wouldn't like it."

She lifted an eyebrow at me. "What would the other kind taste like?"

"Sweeter," I said. "Artificially. So... like creamy coffee on sugary cornflakes, I suppose."

"Huh," she clipped, narrowing her eyes. And then she smiled. "Let me try it again."

I handed the bottle over with an amused expression, thoroughly expecting the same reaction. I enjoyed little moments like these with Tifa. They seemed to be happening more frequently all the time. We spent so much time together, anyone else would have called it dating; I would have called her my girlfriend, had it not been practically stated that it wasn't that kind of relationship—at our age, those things are assumed, not stated. But it was. I wondered if she realized that's exactly how we were, excepting the fact that we didn't sleep together.

"Well, I guess it could grow on me," she laughed. "Where did you first pick that up?"

I relaxed into the cushions and let my head rest on the back of the couch. "My mother used to make it back home."

Tifa readjusted herself, leaning on an elbow. "Where is home for you, Vincent?"

Sighing, I smiled to myself as I tried to piece together my mother's face. I remembered her smile, her eyes, her long, dark hair, but I could not see the entire picture anymore. It had been too long. "I was born in Cosmo," I said, "but I was raised in Kalm."

"Which of your parents were from the canyon?"

I turned to look at her. "My mother was a Cosmic native."

"She must have been very pretty," she said, and I grinned at her.

"She was."

"Not too dark, though," she joked, and I laughed. The cosmic natives were known for their dark hair and eyes, and their red-brown skin. My mother was a vivid example of their natural beauty. But I...

"I never did go out much," I said. "My mother wasn't very dark, but she was always darker than I was. I have my father's skin."

"Where's he from?"

"From a small village near Kalm. He met my mother while on an archaelogical dig in Cosmo. They got married and stayed there a while, then when I came along... well." Tifa's sudden interest kept me going somehow. I never did like talking about myself much, but she seemed to be enjoying it. I would have told her anything she asked of me, as long as her face continued to light up.

She raised one eyebrow, her smile playful. "Your father went on digs, and you didn't like to go outside?"

"Not during the day much, no." Our mouths seemed to widen at the same moment, each driven by the other. Oh, the others would have made some joke by now. "I never could tolerate heat very well," I explained. "A Turk gets used to all sorts of conditions, but that was always the hardest for me. Besides," I said, "a dig site isn't exactly a place for children."

Her smile turned wistful then, if only for a moment. "I guess I just figured like father, like son." Then her eyes began to dance. "I always pictured you as some athletic kid. I mean, I knew you were well-read, but I thought the reculsive thing was... new."

She looked a little lost then, and embarrassed at her choice of words, and I felt badly for her. I smiled to ease her discomfort. "I never had to work very hard to keep a good body image," I said, "but that doesn't necessarily mean in shape. To be honest, I was pretty easy-going."

Tifa snorted. "You?"

"Yes, me." I laughed. "I had a hard time adjusting to military life."

"I guess I had you pegged wrong," she said. "It was never easy to picture you as a kid, but then I thought, maybe you were one of those rich kids who went to a private school and did perfectly at everything because you had to."

"Do I really come off as being that miserable?"

She looked taken aback for a second, perhaps worried that she'd offended me. But then she caught the twitch of my mouth and slapped me on the shoulder. "Gods, Vince. Do you have any idea how much some people would kill for that kind of an education?"

But I did know—I'd killed to earn mine, only after the fact. "Well, I wasn't rich," I said. "My father's work was funded by ShinRa, but that was later. And I wasn't privately educated. Not until the academy."

"What was that like?"

I frowned. "What was what like?"

"You know," she said. "Graduating from school, going on to do other things. I never graduated, so I'm curious."

"I never graduated, either."

"But you said—"

"I took an early out," I told her. "It was a ShinRa program-mostly for soldiers, but they made an exception. I finished my schooling there."

"So you did graduate," she reiterated.

"I got a pseudo-diploma, yes. But I'd already made up my mind about what I was going to do with my life, so it didn't matter much."

She narrowed her eyes at me. "Then why did you finish at all?"

Why, indeed? I was stumped. A Turk's job was more than secure—it was a prison, albeit one to which I'd freely assigned myself. Once there, the only other option was termination, and we went about that quite differently.

Quite differently.

"I suppose... to show myself that I could." I paused. "So that the previous years meant something."

"Then why not graduate with your friends? Why choose to give up on having any kind of social life already?"

I pursed my lips. Already, I knew Tifa was thinking I was crazy for throwing away the one thing she had missed out on. And I also knew that if I hadn't, my life would have turned out much differently. For certain, we wouldn't be sitting there, having our conversation. "It was a one-time only sort of deal," I said. "And I never could relate to many people. Although, if I'd had a friend like you back then, I might have stuck around."

"Might?" she repeated, a hint of false indignance in her voice. She grinned smartly up at me as she made herself comfortable against my side, pulling my arm up and around her.

Well, of course. There was no need to remind me exactly how head-over-heels I was for her, even if the comment was purely innocent. She was merely falling back on an old routine, and I had no choice but to follow. "...Do you ever want to go back?"

"What, home?"

"No, school."

She shifted, and I resisted the urge to pull her into my lap. "I don't know. Sometimes I think about it, but it's been so long, I think I'd have a horrible time. Besides, I'm pretty set in my ways. I do miss home, though."

"Everybody does," I said, sighing. Heroes and villains were no exception. It didn't matter what we'd done or where we'd been, how strong we grew or what we'd accomplished. We would always be the same, at the very heart of things. "I wish we could do something about that, but we can't."

"Do you mean that?" she asked suddenly. "Would you go back if you could?"

I blinked. "To... what?"

"Would you go back if you could—thirty years ago. Would you do it?"

She wasn't looking at me then, but I could hear the uncertainty in her voice. It didn't matter that we weren't together; already I felt compelled. My answer was honest. "...No. I'm glad I'm here now. There isn't much sense in looking backwards; there's no way to know how things might have turned out if I'd done things differently. But I don't really feel the need to think on it anymore," I added, smiling a bit. "I like the life I have. In fact, I rather prefer it."

I met her questioning eyes when she turned around in my loose hold, and she looked... puzzled. And lost. "You wouldn't? Not even after everything you've—"

Tifa cut herself off there, and waited—impatient, behind those eyes—for me to confirm it. I leaned my head against the cushions. "No," I repeated. "I wouldn't."

There was a slight tremor in her, which I felt in her movement as she returned to her position on the couch, thinking. My admission had sobered her. Perhaps it was too much.

"Do you think that it is selfish of me?"

"No," she said, turning her head to the side and immediately taking the gesture back. Thoughtful, pensive. "No," she repeated, more to herself than to me. After a moment of silence, she spoke again. "But then, what did you mean?"

My eyes were starting to drift shut as I leaned against the back of the couch. I nearly began to stroke her arm with my hand, more for my own comfort than anything else, but I caught myself. "Hm," I said. "Remind me."

"You said you wished we could do something. About missing home."

"Well, everyone longs for that feeling." She shifted again and rested against my body, and I lifted my head to peer at her. "Familiar faces, sights and sounds. Family, and the people we grew up with. Everyone is looking for the place where they belong."

I tried to quell the uneasiness in my gut, knowing that Cloud was the only remnant of Tifa's childhood, whether or not they were close. Like myself, she had to build her own family out of the people that drifted in and out of her life. We had to decide for ourselves where we belonged.

I hoped she didn't take my words and pity my position. It wasn't her responsibility to give me that place. No, I didn't want that to be her burden.

"What do you miss the most about your home?"

"Hm," I smiled. "Family dinners. Even though my father wasn't there much, I miss being around the table with my sisters and my mother. Her cooking was to die for."

"You had sisters?" She sounded surprised. My smile grew.

"I had five of them."

Her eyes were wide when she whipped about to look at me. "Five?"

I laughed quietly, lazily. "Five."

"What were their names?"

"Anna. Cecilia. Maria and Margaret, and Gina. Yuffie actually reminds me of Gina a bit."

"Does she now?" she asked, grinning.

"Yes," I sighed contentedly. "She was most annoying." Tifa sent a scolding look up at the smile forming on my face.

"I'm guessing you were the oldest, then."

I nodded.

"Gods," she said. "How on earth did she do it? I could never handle six kids."

"She had help. And there was a bit of an age gap between Cecilia and the twins, so we helped take care of each other when we got older."

Tifa shifted against my side, a pleasant sensation. "You know, it's funny how much and how little we know about each other."

"Mhm," I said, shifting back at her. "It seems like two different lives, really. Before—"

"I know what you mean." She sounded a bit wistful, but didn't give it much more thought. "So, tell me about your training."

I cracked a smile. "I would have to kill you, I'm afraid."

"Nah," she sang. "You said it was hard adjusting. How long did it take you?"

The smile grew. "I said it was a hard time, not a long one. I had someone there who knew very well how to put me in my place." Bastard enjoyed it, too.

"Lucky you," she snickered.

"Of course."

She was quiet for a moment, her head rising and falling atop my side as my breaths grew steady and relaxed. Simply content to be sharing the same space, but it was becoming increasingly hard for me. Regardless, I had made my choice to live with her decision and stay near, but that didn't mean I had to sit still in that stifling silence at that particular moment.

So, I broke the silence. "What is your favorite memory of home?"

"Climbing in the mountains," she said with a quiet fondness. "Sitting on top of a cliff-face and looking down on the town, and feeling... just so above all of the little things. I didn't have a care in the world up there."

"It sounds inspiring."

She nodded, and then was still. "I miss my parents, Vincent."

I had since accepted that I was not responsible for Sephiroth's madness, or Lucrecia's mistake. But I still would feel a pang of guilt whenever I heard or was reminded of the things that had happened because of the project. I was a Turk, you see—an enforcer of ShinRa's will. I was around before the company became what it was the day that Sephiroth went insane, and it was because of people like myself that it garnered the sort of power it did. We scouted for those brilliant minds that aided the heads of research—captured them by force, if necessary—we killed for knowledge and resources, funding and power, and rid ourselves of any competition. The monstrous entity known as the ShinRa Corporation was built on the shoulders of men like myself. I had personally disposed of those who opposed ShinRa's controversial agendas before; sometimes I knew why I was told to kill, and other times I did not. Back then, it didn't matter to me.

Not until I began to see the consequences of my actions unfolding in front of me, and so close to home. But by that time there were other things lurking beneath my skin—that, or the same old things had grown more fierce—itching to be let out. And I could not bear to watch. I had to go away.

But if I had told Tifa that I was sorry, even as anyone would if they were being sympathetic, she would tell me that it wasn't my fault. Not only that, but she would feel badly for bringing it up. So, instead I simply gave her frame a slight squeeze, casually wrapped in my arm as she had made herself.

Again, it didn't last long, but I wasn't going to press the issue. "How does this ghost hand of yours work?" she asked, sitting up a bit and looking down at my false appendage.

I let my eyes close. It was a grey sky that day—no rain yet, though. A day made for drowsing. "Nerve signals get crossed sometimes. Not often."

"You feel pain?"

"No." I was half-inclined to lean my head to rest atop her own, but I didn't think my neck would bend that way. "I feel things sometimes, if I remember what it was like to touch them. Or maybe if I've touched them with my right hand."

"Why only sometimes?"

"Because you have to catch me by surprise, before my brain can realize what is happening."

"Oh." A pause. "Vincent?"

"Mm."

"Vincent, are you going to sleep?"

One of my eyes opened the tiniest bit to peek out at her as she turned in my hold and craned her neck to look at me. For a second I thought she was inspecting my lashes, to see if they were really touching my cheeks. I closed it again. "I think that it's time to take you home now," I said, but didn't really feel like getting up on second thought. "Or you could stay here while I take a nap, if you don't mind it."

"Uh-oh," she teased. "What if I'm a snoop?"

I gave a small, content smile. "I don't own anything that isn't functional."

"Well, that's no fun." She drummed her fingers against my artificial limb, and I felt it in the flesh above it. Her steady rhythm was interrupted by a sudden exclamation. "Oh, I just remembered!"

"What's that?"

"The bartending competition. It's scheduled next month from the twelfth to the fifteenth—I have to be there, because I'm registered as Yuffie's coach. I wanted to ask you if you would come."

Asking me to go out of town with her for a few days? I supposed we wouldn't really be alone, and with everything that Yuffie was undoubtedly signed up for, I didn't think it would be quality time. I was on the verge of saying yes anyway.

Until I remembered.

"I knew that date sounded—" I yawned. "Familiar."

"You can't come?"

"There's a new restaurant opening in town on the night of the twelfth," I explained. "My boss asked me to go and write a review. I might start doing more of those—" And another yawn. "It pays better, at least."

"Okay," she said, full of understanding, but I suspected she was a slight bit disappointed. "You'll go to see Marlene's play though, on the sixteenth, right?"

My mouth twitched in response. "Of course."

The room was very quiet then, and my thoughts began to blur along with the splotchy patterns behind my eyelids. Not a lot of light in that room, and I was nearly asleep when I felt a bare tug on my left shoulder. My eyes slowly opened, blinking back the sleep they fought against.

Tifa was sitting there in front of me, my left hand clasped in between her palms. Once she saw my entirely slow reaction, however, she let it fall to her lap. She wore a slightly bashful expression as she ran her fingers distractedly over the metal, avoiding my attention. I smiled at that, laying my head back against the cushions and closing my eyes once more.

"Nice try."

End Chapter Sixteen
Final Fantasy VII and its characters © 1997 Square-Enix Co., Ltd.