Be Bold, But Not Too Bold (Vincent/Tifa, NC-17) 1/3
Title: Be Bold, But Not Too Bold
Characters/Pairing(s): FF7 post-Doc, Vincent/Tifa
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Language, antics, sex.
Notes: For bleuwyn. I hope it proves worth the wait!
Summary: “I mostly abandoned the idea once I'd managed to make you cry,” he admitted, “and finding out you think I'm a pedophile nailed the lid on that mostly shut.”
Tifa always hated having to do things like this; but she knew she'd hate the consequences of inaction even more.
“Alright, buddy, I said outside!” Before the target of her ire could manage more than a muffled grunt of surprise, Tifa's hands were buried in the rough, stiff fabric of his work shirt, and she hauled him away from the table full of girls from the hospital with a neat pivot of her hip.
“What the fuck you think you're--”
Shifting her grip to his collar, she propelled him before her with a straight-armed shove. Wandering patrons quickly hustled out of their way as she marched him resolutely towards the exit, and she carefully pitched her voice to carry over the thump of the jukebox and the dull roar of conversation, now peppered with cheers and catcalls as customers became aware of the floor-show. “You've been told and told about this,” she said disapprovingly. “You can't act like that in here!”
One of the waitresses spied her predicament, and hurriedly scuttled forward to haul the door open for her, which was just as well, for her captive was overcoming the shock of her abrupt interruption of his evening's entertainment. She got him over the jamb without a struggle, but he rounded on her as soon as she released him, his movements not as hampered by drink as she might have hoped, not with a surly, belligerent look on his face like that. “You can come back next week if you can figure out how to behave yourself,” she said, “but I don't want to even think I see you until then.”
She saw the way his feet shifted on the weathered, sun-bleached boards of the deck, and knew she'd gone too far; she'd never really gotten the hang of conflict resolution. She had only ever figured out one sure fire way to defuse situations like this, but it was never one she hastened to employ, and particularly not these days, when Edge was finally starting to see some regular police patrols again. With an internal sigh, she braced herself for the fallout from her patron's wounded dignity.
“I dunno what the fuck you think's so special about this god damn dive you need to get all up in people's faces when they're just having a good time, there's a dozen different-”
Not bad. “Then maybe you ought to go to one of those,” she said reasonably. “Not here. Not now.” She swept her hand expansively around the deck that fronted the tavern, gesturing to the battered old stools that dotted it. “You can even sit out here, and I'll call you a cab.”
“Like I need your fucking permission!”
“Buddy, you need to get going. I'm not discussing this with you.”
There he went. She dodged the punch easily enough, but he was stronger and faster than even she'd been expecting; the reconstruction efforts had drawn all sorts of interesting characters into town, but this fellow obviously had a background. She caught his fist in both hands and forced it straight back, hoping that would communicate the realities of the situation to him, and raised her hands in what she hoped was a non-threatening fashion as he caught his balance. “I'm not angry,” she said softly. “I'm just not doing this. And you're not doing it here.”
His expression was mingled shock and anger, and she knew she was in for it. It was one of her biggest problems on the job: there were too many men in the world that just wouldn't take directions from a woman seriously. She wondered, as she always did, if what was about to take place could be considered as striking a blow for feminism.
He came in low, as they so very often did, trying to bull her over with his greater height and weight, never seeming to realize that the narrow rails on the deck were specifically placed to render it a moot point. She stepped aside; stepped aside again; shoved him; caught both of his forearms with steely force. “You really, really need to get going,” she hissed through gritted teeth, scarcely out of breath.
She wasn't expecting the head butt. The sharp, shearing pain across her brow bone was more insult than injury, and she finally decided she'd had enough. Usually she tried to string it out a little bit, let them feel they'd given as good as they'd gotten, walk away with their pride relatively intact; this guy, with his clever little street-fighting antics, had just bought himself an express ticket out of her life. She could feel the eyes on her back as she rolled her shoulders and slammed her bicep into his chest; best to get this over with before she attracted much more of an audience. Hooking her fingers into his belt loops, she let the momentum carry him up against the railing, and with a slight lift at his waist, sent him tumbling over onto the cracked pavement a few feet below.
“You fucking bitch!”
“You can still walk away,” she told him, leaning over to inspect the damage. He was already scrambling to his feet. “Just get going.”
“FUCK YOU!” He clambered upright and shook himself.
“You come back up those stairs and you're trespassing. I'll lay charges.”
That seemed to penetrate the haze of machismo and alcohol currently clouding what she charitably assumed was his better judgment. He stood, arms still raised aggressively, and glared at her so fiercely she felt a moment of gratitude that looks couldn't actually kill, but she met him stare for stare, the weary implacability of the footsore bartender proof against all but the most apocalyptic problems a busy weekend crowd could bring with it. With a final obscene gesture, he spun on his heel and stalked off into the slowly lightening darkness.
Tifa watched him for long enough to assure herself that he wasn't going to try anything cute before turning back to the onlookers she assumed were there; sure enough, the waitress and several interested customers were peering out at her expectantly. “No problems,” she said with forced good cheer, raising her hands. “Just a jerk. I'll be in in a minute.”
The waitress shot her a dubious look, but gently herded the curious patrons back inside. Tifa felt a momentary stab of guilt at being unable to recall her name; there was so much turnover due to the reconstruction boom it was hard to keep track of the new faces, but this girl seemed like she had a good head on her shoulders. Tifa gave her a reassuring smile, which earned a nod of acknowledgment before she hauled the door shut behind them.
She turned back to the railing with a sigh, leaning forward once more to ease the crick in her lower back. It was still easy to pick out her erstwhile opponent as he scythed his way through the sparse late-night crowds, his shoulders hunched and his fists balled into his pockets. She always felt awful when things got that out of hand, as they did more and more often these days. The rowdier types drawn in by the promise of handsome wages for construction work were as entitled to a good time as anyone else, but she'd always done her best to run a relaxed, if not exactly quiet, establishment. The nurses and relief workers were just as entitled to a night out, without the fear of being sleazed on by the likes of that.
She straightened, fisting her hands in the small of her back as she stretched, her eyes still following the departing troublemaker. Her forehead still smarted from the blow, but she needed to do her best not to let it spoil the rest of the night; all she needed was to gut it out a little longer, and she could fret in peace and privacy. With a sigh, she turned to make her way back inside, but cast one last glance over her shoulder before she did so... and stopped dead as she saw a bulky red figure hastily sidestep her recent nemesis.
It couldn't be. It couldn't be. But her jaw dropped as she watched Vincent Valentine pause to regard the rapidly retreating figure he had just dodged, then continue on his way with a slight shrug. She hurried back to the railing, peering into the uncertain light in disbelief, but there was now no mistaking the familiar figure making its way towards her. Baffled delight fizzled within her, and before she realized what she was doing, she had cupped her hands around her mouth. “Vincent! Hey! Vince!”
He paused again, and his head swiveled towards her with his usual uncanny precision. She raised one arm to wave excitedly at him, and was pleased when he raised his arm in a gesture of acknowledgment; even more pleased when he promptly cut across on a diagonal and began heading towards her.
A happy grin spreading over her features, it was all she could do to keep herself from vaulting the railing and running out to meet him; but she settled for hurrying down the stairs once he'd crossed the street. “Vincent! Hi!” He paused to regard her, something a little dubious in the set of his shoulders, but it didn't stop her from throwing her arms around him in a loose embrace of welcome. “It's so good to see you!”
She could feel him stiffen at her exuberant greeting, and realized that she'd managed to trap his arms beneath his cloak as he patted her elbow awkwardly. “Hello,” he responded evenly, looking down at her with a bemused expression.
Tifa stepped back abruptly, reaching up to tuck her bangs behind her ears as a cover for the blush she was certain was spreading across her cheeks. “Sorry, I just... I mean, it's been so long! What are you doing here?” Her brows drew down at the sudden realization of what must have drawn Vincent out of his habit of solitude; all she needed to complete her day was an impending holocaust. “Is everything okay? Is... did something happen? Do we need to...?”
He shook his head slowly, and something in the tone of his voice made her wish she could see his mouth as he spoke. “You asked me to come.”
“I... did! I just didn't think...” She shrugged. “You might've taken me up on it sooner,” she continued with a smile. “Can't blame me for assuming the worst, when you're such a stranger.”
He snorted. “Your personal gore crow.” He shook his head again. “If it's a bad time...”
“No, no!” she hastened to assure him. “I'm happy to see you - obviously! I just wasn't expecting you. We're still open for a little while yet; do you want to come in for a drink?” She stood on tiptoe and peered over his shoulder, as if expecting to find further company lurking in his shadow. “Have you got Shelke with you? I think we can make an exception for her.”
His eyes crinkled with what might have been a smile. “Just me. But I would like that.”
Her fingers interlaced of their own volition, her knuckles much more willing to communicate their tension than the rest of her. “Well, come on,” she said, tossing her head towards the entrance. He nodded for her to precede him, so she hesitantly led the way. “It's, you know, a bar. On the weekend. Noisy. Crowded. Kind of stupid.”
“I am not unfamiliar with the phenomenon,” he said, as he reached past her to open the door.
The crowd seemed to have largely settled back down, though she was greeted with a grateful high sign from one of the nurses she had lately rescued. Yet as she led Vincent through, she was a little disconcerted by the way conversations abruptly halted, only to pick up with renewed energy as they passed.
It was easy enough to forget in the daily hustle, since the locals had largely grown used to she and Cloud, but none of the old group were without a certain reputation. She sincerely hoped that none of her patrons drew the same conclusion she had initially come to at Vincent's appearance or, even worse, decided to try their luck against the celebrated gunslinger, as they so often had with her in the early days. Her frequent customers were well aware of just what a dim view she took of weapons in her place and, even more importantly, how emphatically she would express her feelings if she discovered one, but that didn't mean some bright boy wasn't going to try.
A quick glance revealed that Vincent seemed largely oblivious to it, though, so she did not bother to make a comment until they had bulled through the press surrounding the bar and made it to the relative solitude of the waitress gate. “I'd send you upstairs with Cloud, but I'm afraid you just missed him,” she said as she flipped the portcullis open and stepped behind the bar, sliding her own stool out for him. “You'll probably want to stay here.”
“The natives seem restless,” he agreed, the sweep of his gaze taking in the numerous faces now eagerly watching them for signs of incipient heroics.
Tifa bit her lip; it was shoddy hospitality, but she couldn't imagine he was appreciating the scrutiny. “I could maybe throw someone out of a booth for you,” she offered, scanning the sides of the room for openings. “Or maybe the office, if you just want to relax. I can bring you something back and sit down for a few minutes.” She shrugged helplessly. “I'm sorry, it's just...” She swept a hand to indicate the mostly amiable chaos engulfing the room.
“That might be best.” He raised a hand to indicate the narrow hallway to their right, and she nodded.
“Past the toilets, but not the last door, that's the cellar.” She beckoned him to bend down and braced her elbows on the bar, leaning forward for a vague approximation of privacy. “Just lift the knob and twist it really hard; the lock's never worked,” she admitted sheepishly. “I'll be back in, like, two minutes, okay?”
He nodded and turned without another word. It was only as she saw the last scarlet shreds of his cloak disappear around the corner that she realized she hadn't bothered to ask him what he wanted.
Great.
She could have kicked herself; the man finally crawled out of his hole, and the best she could do was hustle him off into a glorified broom closet. She sighed, ran her hands through her hair, and then clapped them together in front of her. Stressing about it wasn't going to fix the faux pas; she just needed to get the immediate fires put out, and then she could go apologize as graciously as she could manage.
But as was so often the case, plans, even ones as simple as that one, tended not to survive contact with the enemy. The barback had drastically misunderstood the importance of precision when attaching a new carbon dioxide canister to the keg stand, resulting in a truly spectacular amount of foam to wade through behind the bar, and leaving the other two bartenders very deep in the weeds as they attempted to keep up with orders despite the almost total lack of potable beer. Tifa had the new kegs up and had swabbed out a respectable quantity of suds when voices raised in a scuffle required her to go over and scowl ominously at the disagreeable parties until they realized the error of their conflict. By the time she made it back to her station, a crowd of garrulous students had swarmed in to beat last call, every single one of them wanting some sort of time-consuming, sticky mixed drink.
Smiling rather fixedly as she gave serious thought to insisting that their blender was broken, so sorry, her hands darted beneath the bar and came up bearing a trio of bottles each. She earned an appreciative whistle as she upended all six at once over the glasses the barback had set up for her, and struggled to keep the smile from turning into a smirk. She often felt she was being a little disrespectful of her hard won hand-strength and agility when she did things like this but, cheap as it might be, it was still a good trick, and it would get this over with sooner than later. Then she could go see Vincent, make her apologies, hope that she hadn't completely turned him off the idea of visiting ever again--
“--hey!”
Her hips barked painfully against the edge of the bar as the ungainly weight slammed into her back, and she scrambled desperately to keep from sending the glasses skittering over the other side. The bottles held high at her shoulders spoiled her center of balance too much; something was about to shatter on the floor--
--until a pair of hands grabbed her forearms and yanked them upwards, giving her enough momentum to stagger back and flip the bottles upright, sugary, unnaturally colored alcohol slopping down her wrists. The watching youngsters applauded as, baffled, she realized that cool metal was biting into her right arm, and she was looking into Vincent's alarmed face.
“Good save!” someone crowed, and she burst into laughter as she gently pulled free of Vincent's grip and set the bottles down. One of her coworkers was already apologizing, a tentative hand laid on her shoulder; the slippery mess on the floor had sent him crashing into Tifa's back as she poured.
Mats. She'd have to put down mats, just in case this ever happened again.
“It's okay!” she assured him hurriedly, then turned back to Vincent, grabbing bottles to pour more judiciously as she did so. “If you at all doubted that your timing was impeccable, you just saved me somebody's dry cleaning bill,” she informed him with a wink.
He nodded carefully. “I had no idea your profession was so... kinetic.”
She laughed again as she switched bottles. “Oh, you know how it goes; everything is fine and normal until you need it to be.” She slid a pair of glasses to the waiting server and started on the next set. “I really didn't mean to lock you up in the office, things just got... kinetic.” Slide. Next set. “This is awful. I'm a terrible hostess. But I swear we're just about done with the hard part here.”
He shook his head. “I came unannounced.”
She set the bottles back on their shelf decisively. “Let me at least get you that drink I promised. What'll you have?”
Vincent raised the back of his right hand to his face and sniffed it; Tifa's eyes widened in amazement as he tentatively licked it. “This should be fine.”
She blinked in dumbfounded confusion; then it clicked. “Oh!” She blushed furiously, and fumbled beneath the bar for a stack of napkins to thrust at him; she hadn't realized the spouts had dribbled that badly. She snatched one for herself to dab at the stickiness on her forearms. “I'm, I mean, I--”
He shook his head once again, but he was smiling faintly this time. “Vodka would not come amiss.”
“Sure, let me--”
“When you have a moment.”
Embarrassed and unaccountably piqued, she whirled around and scooped up a shotglass in the same movement she snatched a bottle from the top shelf. She poured three fingers of liquor into it, managing to spatter her hand in her haste-she never did that-and set it in front of him decisively. “Just bear with me, please,” she entreated, “we're almost done.” He raised the glass in salute, and she spared a moment to marvel at his forbearance before she turned away, clapping her hands sharply above her head as she did so. “ALRIGHT, FOLKS, LAST CALL! COME ON IF YOU'RE COMING!”
The ensuing rush was enough to capitalize most of her attention, but she couldn't help stealing the occasional glance at Vincent as she filled her orders. He'd divested himself of his cloak and bandanna, presumably in the office; in head to toe black, his hair falling loosely over his shoulders, his sleeve pulled down over his golden arm, he was almost inconspicuous--which was exactly the point, she realized. She could have done without the pistol strapped to his thigh, but he leaned against the bar in such a way that she only saw it because she knew to look for it... and she didn't exactly feel she was in a position to chastise him for it, regardless. He seemed content enough to watch the crowd, which seemed content enough to give him his space, so she resolutely pushed the guilt from her mind and set about thinning the herd.
The last rush was always the worst but, after what seemed like an eternity of pulled taps and hastily polished glasses, the bar was finally cleared. Happily enough, most of the crowd had merely sought one more for the road; as she toweled her hands dry, she was pleased by the small number that had chosen to stick around and nurse their beers. They ought to be easy enough to shoo out in half an hour or so.
Tossing the towel over the lip of the sink, she rolled her shoulders to ease their tension as she ambled back over to Vincent. “It's a living,” she said with a shrug. She extended a foot to drag her stool over before she realized she'd given it to him, and settled for balancing her hip against a cooler. “So, what brings you?”
“I am just come from Midgar,” he responded. “I ended up with a layover, and thought...”
“I'm glad you did,” she said, once she realized that was all he intended to say on the subject. “But... Midgar? The reactors? Still?” She paused. “You are still with the WRO, right?”
He nodded, and drained his glass. “A few loose ends needed tidying. Corel, next.”
“No kidding? That should be fun!” She laughed. “Well, nice, anyway; Cloud headed that way yesterday. We're hoping Barrett is just being super-precautious as usual, but, well... you know. Had no idea he'd called in quite so much cavalry, though! He hasn't sent Marlene up to stay with us, though, so he can't be that worried. You ought to be able to catch up with the guys.”
It was Vincent's turn to shrug. “It's a living.”
She snorted and shook her head. “He asked me to come, too, but with all of this, I can't get away.” She pointed to his glass. “Another one?”
“Fine.” He watched her curiously as she poured. “Do you miss it?”
She looked up, startled at the question; but Vincent had never been one to mince words. “Not really,” she said finally, setting the glass before him. “It's kind of nice having things like that be other people's problem for once. I mean, at least you guys are opting in this time.” Tifa smiled, a little surprised at how wistful she felt. “And besides, there's so much going on here, now... have you even been back, since the last time?”
“No. It seems much changed.”
“Yep!” She resumed her place on the cooler. “For one, we're an actual civilization now; we've got laws, government, the whole shebang. The elections were just two months ago; I can't believe Reeve didn't tell you!” She giggled at the recollection. “He wasn't running, of course, he's busy with the WRO, but he was nearly elected mayor anyway; people were writing in for him in droves.”
His mouth quirked. “He must have had a fit.”
“Well, I don't know about that... but he did have to write a very carefully worded letter to the newspaper about it.” She deftly stepped aside as the mop slid past her feet; the barback was fighting the final engagement against the slop on the floor. “It was nice to see him get some recognition, though, even if it was like that. He's really done wonders for everyone since the Crisis, and it's good to see that people realize it.” She shook her head. “Hard to believe I wanted to kill him, once upon a time.”
“We got it back. He had his reasons,” Vincent said, raising his glass; it stopped halfway to his mouth. “Join me?”
“Oh... I really shouldn't,” she murmured automatically, but checked herself; if Vincent turning up at her doorstep and attempting to socialize wasn't a special occasion, she didn't know what was, and there had to be some advantage to being the boss. “Guys?” she called, turning to face her staff. “Can you just start closing on your own? We'll start chasing the stragglers in fifteen or so.” At the round of assent-not terribly grudging, she was pleased to note-she grabbed the bottle and a fresh glass for herself. “C'mon,” she told Vincent, “let's get out of their way.”
He followed her to the isolated booth she chose, and slid in opposite her once she'd sat down. “Oof,” she sighed as she set her burdens down, “it is so nice to get off your feet at the end of the night.”
“I can imagine.” He grasped the bottle very carefully with his left hand, metal clinking lightly on the glass, and unscrewed it with his right, before switching hands to pour for her.
“Thanks!” He nodded. She sipped contentedly at the clear liquor, inordinately pleased at having ducked her responsibilities. “So... what else?” she mused, trying to think of news Vincent wouldn't be aware of and might possibly be interested in. “Well, I haven't got most of the kids any more. We had social services up and running before we really had a society to service-again, go Reeve!--and the new orphanage facility got finished almost four months ago.” She sipped again. “It's actually a really great set up, a wonderful building, and they're doing such great things with it. There's still too many live-ins, of course, but they're also operating it as a creche; free childcare for anyone working on the rebuilding, at least until they get the tax situation sorted out-that's probably going to be our next referendum. Not enough room to go around, naturally, but it's a huge help for more... normal people here.”
“Denzel?”
“Oh, he's still with me, of course!” Tifa's laugh was tinged with chagrin. “He's... actually there this weekend. The hours I keep, and with Cloud gone... they're having a lock-in this weekend, you know, they let them watch movies, sit up all night and giggle. He was really looking forward to it, and he hasn't called begging to come home, so...” She sighed. “I never thought I'd say this, but they grow up so fast!”
“Mmm. That must be different.”
“Well... don't get me wrong, I don't regret a minute of it, and I wouldn't do a thing different if I had to do it again... but it's like I said earlier: it's nice having it be someone else's problem, for a change. I volunteer whenever I've got a moment, but I won't say it isn't a bit of a relief not to have all those little lives depending on me.” She shook her head, leaning forward to set her glass down. “I'm sorry, here I am yammering on about... what have you been up to? How's Shelke?”
He shifted in his seat, folding his arms as he settled into the battered padding. “Fine, I think. She was with Shalua.”
“Oh.” Tifa snatched her glass back up to cover her embarrassment. “I hope... has there been any change?”
“None.” He frowned. “She is as well as can be expected. They both are.”
“Oh.” She spun the glass between her hands. “Is... everything else going alright with you guys?”
His brows drew down in puzzlement. “I presume so.”
She had a sudden suspicion that she'd either put her foot even more wrong than she'd initially realized, or that Vincent was very deliberately ignoring a situation he didn't wish to discuss. “You two just seemed so... close... I thought...”
He arched an eyebrow, lips twisted with quizzical humor. “I suspect you are laboring under a misapprehension,” he said finally.
“Oh, I didn't mean to imply-you just seemed-I mean, she's so much younger, but I thought, well, with her... her programming...” she trailed off helplessly. “I'm sorry. It's really nobody's business but yours. It's not like we're gossiping about you guys, or anything...”
Vincent surprised her with a short, deep chuckle. “It's... considerate of you. But no. We possessed certain similarities; that is all.” He smiled. “I have not actually seen her since she's taken residence. She prefers not to be out of doors.”
Tifa nodded sympathetically. “At least she's getting a chance at some kind of life now.” She bit her lip. “I just... oh!” She seized on the sudden recollection, eager for a change of subject. “Speaking of life! I know you haven't heard this yet!” Bounding to her feet, she hurried back to the bar, slipping past the waitress gate to rifle through the file folders stashed beneath the cash register. Riffling through them, she grasped the glossy sheets she sought and rushed back to Vincent, slapping them down in front of him. “Red and his wife just had another litter! Bugenhagen just sent me the photos two days ago. No, three!”
He spread the three pictures out on the table before him, bending over to inspect them carefully. “I'm amazed they let them be photographed before their eyes opened.”
“Well, he was really frightened the first time. I understand; Denzel and Marlene and... it's really scary, and he's under a lot more pressure than I've ever been.” She beamed as she leaned over to catch another glimpse of the orangey-brown fuzzballs curled against their mother's side. “But since the first pair didn't catch fire or explode, he's probably mellowing out. You learn to relax.”
Vincent tapped a claw on the knobby stub that capped the tail of one of the kittens. “I believe they are meant to catch fire.”
“You know what I mean!” She smiled wistfully, propping her chin on her fists. “That's Keketi in the background of the second picture. They're getting so leggy!”
“And only four years old.” He shook his head wonderingly. “Nanaki is... fifty-one? And claimed youth only a handful of years ago. You would think their adolescence would last longer.”
“I know!” She pouted. “I just hope I can get out for a visit while they're all still young enough to want petting. Red always gets so grouchy about that.”
“He isn't a housepet, Tifa.”
“He shouldn't go around being so soft and strokeable, then!”
Vincent looked up at her beneath his lashes, a secret smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “You're trying to touch his neck, his ears, his face...”
Tifa regarded him uncomprehendingly, taking in his muted amusement, and raised a hand to her mouth as realization dawned. “You're-you don't mean-has Red thought I've been coming on to him all these years?”
“I don't think he views it that way. But I can see why he might find it disconcerting.”
“I just...” She giggled, half-horrified. “I mean, he's... he's my friend, but... he's just a big kitty!”
“Just?”
“Well, he never had any problem asking for help when he needed new feathers braided in--”
“Tifa?”
They both turned at the interruption; the new waitress stood a respectful distance away, looking mortified at her own presumption. “Sorry, you... you said fifteen...”
Tifa smiled reassuringly. “Of course I did!” She shot Vincent an apologetic glance. “I'm sorry. This is the last, I swear--”
“Go.” He waved her away.
Clearing out the last of the patrons, at least, went fairly easily, and exercised a skill she had honed to razor sharpness: a sodden night-shift worker wanting to linger over his beer had absolutely nothing on a seven year old boy angling to stay home from school. That done, she hopped onto a stool at the corner of the bar, hauled the two tip jars over, and began the business of sorting the tip-outs as the rest of the staff began putting up chairs, sweeping, and all the other miscellaneous housework closing down for the night entailed.
She stacked coins and shuffled bills with nearly mindless efficiency. She had gotten so practiced at cash-handling over the years she probably could have done even divisions merely by feel, but she still counted each bundle twice; she had seen some truly legendary feuds get started over a gil or two, and didn't want to risk anyone feeling slighted. After that, it was simply a matter of handing them out and wishing everyone a good evening.
She ambled back to the booth and plopped down, resting her temple against the heel of her hand. “Wanna do that again?” she asked with a toss of her chin at the bottle, then quickly straightened and snatched it before Vincent could reach out for it. “I'm sorry. I've been such a jerk.” She poured for herself, and topped him off out of habit. “It's just been one of those nights. I really am happy you came. Thanks for being so patient.”
He clinked his glass against hers. “You were busy.”
“Cid's going to be so jealous when I tell him you were here. He was mad when you didn't turn up for Holy Day.”
“Cid can cope. Cid can come to terms with the fact that not all of us can cross the continent on a whim.”
“He would have come and gotten you, if you'd asked. Shera does mind-blowing barbecue.”
Vincent shrugged. “Busy.” He raised his eyes to scan the rafters, searching the room carefully. “I had no idea what effort such an establishment required.”
Tifa grinned. “Oh, I still have the trash, and the books, and the bank deposit, and... a whole bunch of stuff that can wait,” she amended hastily, laying a hand on his when he straightened. “Seriously. There's always something to be done, but nothing else that can't wait for an old friend.” She squeezed. “At least, I've been your friend for a long time.”
“I know.”
“I admit, there were a lot of times in the early days when I wondered. You seem a lot happier now, though; I don't think you've scowled at me once tonight.” She giggled, retrieving her hand to cover her mouth as she did so. “I'm saying this after I've talked to you for, oh, maybe twenty minutes so far. I'm sorry.”
Vincent actually smiled for a moment before the glass obscured his mouth. She laced her fingers on the table in front of her, embarrassed. He picked at once of the monogrammed napkins with a claw. “Shouldn't it be the Eighth Heaven?”
She giggled again. “It almost was,” she said with a sigh, leaning back and stretching her legs out beneath the table. “And some day there's going to be a Final Heaven, preferably somewhere warm and sunny. I think I could handle Costa del Sol in my twilight years.”
He blinked. “Not planning on retirement?”
“Oh, people like us never really retire, Vincent.” She nudged his foot with her own. “You even managed to skip out on getting old.” His face froze at that remark, eyes narrowed carefully, but she missed it as she turned to survey her domain. “But, yes, I really was going to name it that; seemed like a nice bit of continuity. We'd already started building when they first started salvaging in Midgar, and one morning, we came to the site to find the old place's sign leaning up against the foundation posts, just as nice as could be. You want to talk about continuity?” She smiled reminiscently. “Cloud swears he didn't do it, but... well. Couldn't turn a bit of providence like that down, could I?”
“Someone wished you well.”
“He'll never admit it...” She shook her head, unwilling to broach the subject further. “It's nice. A little normalcy. This place is so... I mean, we haven't even got insulation in the walls, everything had to go up so quickly. We still get puddles during bad storms.” She settled back in her seat. “You never did see the old place, did you?”
“Actually...”
She looked up sharply, struck by the sudden hesitancy in his tone. “Back then?” she asked softly. “I know it had been open for a long time before...”
He smiled briefly. “No. No.” He pursed his lips. “I... hope you'll take this the right way.”
She frowned. “What?”
He exhaled heavily through his nostrils. “I have been in Midgar lately, as I said,” he said slowly. “Things are much more accessible than they once were.” He reached down to fumble in one of his pockets. “I thought I'd... have a look. I also thought you... might like to have this back.” He carefully proffered his hand, fingers splayed.
She leaned forward cautiously, trying to make sense of the dull gleam of metal in his palm. She reached out and took one end of it, slowly lifting the string of beads into the light. “Oh,” she breathed.
“I wasn't looking... it was... well. I couldn't imagine why else something like that would be where I found it.”
She ran the necklace through her hands, the mold-marks on the cheap silver beads catching against her fingertips. It was a shoddy thing, really, just a tacky bit of costume jewelry, but it was the best she'd been able to manage, and it had been given so freely... “This was Jessie's,” she said, blinking back the tears that burned in the corners of her eyes.
“Oh.”
“She... she lent it to me.” She worked the beads through her fingers, touching each one, seeking some memory they might be able to impart. “I'd... told her about Cloud. You know. Girl talk.” She licked her lips. “And when he came in with Barrett, we... I didn't know what to do. I just... I never expected it.” Nine, ten, eleven, twelve... “She did, though. She thought it was sweet. Fate and destiny and... she gave me this. So I could be... pretty. Catch his eye. You know.” The laugh she forced ended in a stifled sob. “I never had the nerve to wear it. It seemed so... calculating. And then she, she...”
“I'm so sorry.” She looked up, and was wounded anew by the distress on Vincent's face, touched by the way his hand was still extended to her. “I thought... I didn't realize... it seemed like a trinket...”
“No.” She seized his hand roughly, squeezing his fingers tightly. “No, this is... this is great, Vincent. Seriously. Thank you.” Unwilling to surrender the necklace, she released his hand to grab a napkin to blot at her eyes with, hating herself for falling apart like this. “I just never thought I'd... that's what makes me so mad.” She sniffled. “Nobody remembers them. Her and Biggs and Wedge and... I mean, I was just angry. They believed. They really cared, and they really were trying to help, they did the work no one else even dared to try, but now... we get noticed, we get thanked, they want to put up statues of her... and hardly anyone even knows their names.”
“Change that.”
“What?”
He leaned back, folding his arms. “If I still get sought for interviews, you must be inundated.”
“Oh, I don't... I don't speak to the media...”
“Start. Speak about them.”
“But I...” She swallowed thickly. “I just... how do you do that, really? Should I just call one of the reporters back and say I want to tell them about my friends? I try pretty hard to stay uninvolved with that kind of thing...”
“Yes. A gripping expose of the early years of AVALANCHE in Tifa Lockhart's own words ought to make the pull-out section.” He shrugged. “It's better than being unhappy about it.” Smiled. “Take it from me.”
Tifa laughed in spite of herself, propping her cheek on her fist as she set the beads down. “Pot? A Mr. Kettle calling?”
“If I may carry the metaphor that far, let us say that I am trying to burnish my shine.” He emptied his glass. “Shelke is collating Lucrecia's work,” he continued softly, “with some of the... new information I've... gathered. It should be out this fall.”
“But that's... I mean, that's great news--”
“We cannot always give them what they wanted, or even what they deserved,” he told her seriously, “but that does not mean they need be abandoned.” He looked away, carefully examining the grain of the table top. “It does no good to brood. None.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “I have explored that concept to its depths.”
“Who are you, and what have you done with Vincent?” She giggled at his blank look. “I'm sorry. It's easier to laugh it off than to take you seriously, because you're making a lot of sense. It's just...”
“It's easier to give advice than to take it.”
She looked up at him, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair out of her slightly swollen eyes. “I don't think we've ever talked like this,” she said. “It's nice.”
He flicked a finger against the bottle. “You've never sat up drinking with me.”
She snorted. “True. Very true.” She shot him a mischievous glance. “Is this what you and Cid used to get up to? Yuffie had some interesting ideas on the subject...”
“Yuffie needs a spanking.”
“Okay, I'm not sure I'm up for your interesting ideas on the subject,” she said, and giggled even harder at his mortified expression.
“I meant--”
“I know, I know.” She patted his claw reassuringly, knuckling her eye with her other hand. “But I'm a little... could you excuse me for a moment?”
“Of course.”
Next...
Characters/Pairing(s): FF7 post-Doc, Vincent/Tifa
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Language, antics, sex.
Notes: For bleuwyn. I hope it proves worth the wait!
Summary: “I mostly abandoned the idea once I'd managed to make you cry,” he admitted, “and finding out you think I'm a pedophile nailed the lid on that mostly shut.”
Tifa always hated having to do things like this; but she knew she'd hate the consequences of inaction even more.
“Alright, buddy, I said outside!” Before the target of her ire could manage more than a muffled grunt of surprise, Tifa's hands were buried in the rough, stiff fabric of his work shirt, and she hauled him away from the table full of girls from the hospital with a neat pivot of her hip.
“What the fuck you think you're--”
Shifting her grip to his collar, she propelled him before her with a straight-armed shove. Wandering patrons quickly hustled out of their way as she marched him resolutely towards the exit, and she carefully pitched her voice to carry over the thump of the jukebox and the dull roar of conversation, now peppered with cheers and catcalls as customers became aware of the floor-show. “You've been told and told about this,” she said disapprovingly. “You can't act like that in here!”
One of the waitresses spied her predicament, and hurriedly scuttled forward to haul the door open for her, which was just as well, for her captive was overcoming the shock of her abrupt interruption of his evening's entertainment. She got him over the jamb without a struggle, but he rounded on her as soon as she released him, his movements not as hampered by drink as she might have hoped, not with a surly, belligerent look on his face like that. “You can come back next week if you can figure out how to behave yourself,” she said, “but I don't want to even think I see you until then.”
She saw the way his feet shifted on the weathered, sun-bleached boards of the deck, and knew she'd gone too far; she'd never really gotten the hang of conflict resolution. She had only ever figured out one sure fire way to defuse situations like this, but it was never one she hastened to employ, and particularly not these days, when Edge was finally starting to see some regular police patrols again. With an internal sigh, she braced herself for the fallout from her patron's wounded dignity.
“I dunno what the fuck you think's so special about this god damn dive you need to get all up in people's faces when they're just having a good time, there's a dozen different-”
Not bad. “Then maybe you ought to go to one of those,” she said reasonably. “Not here. Not now.” She swept her hand expansively around the deck that fronted the tavern, gesturing to the battered old stools that dotted it. “You can even sit out here, and I'll call you a cab.”
“Like I need your fucking permission!”
“Buddy, you need to get going. I'm not discussing this with you.”
There he went. She dodged the punch easily enough, but he was stronger and faster than even she'd been expecting; the reconstruction efforts had drawn all sorts of interesting characters into town, but this fellow obviously had a background. She caught his fist in both hands and forced it straight back, hoping that would communicate the realities of the situation to him, and raised her hands in what she hoped was a non-threatening fashion as he caught his balance. “I'm not angry,” she said softly. “I'm just not doing this. And you're not doing it here.”
His expression was mingled shock and anger, and she knew she was in for it. It was one of her biggest problems on the job: there were too many men in the world that just wouldn't take directions from a woman seriously. She wondered, as she always did, if what was about to take place could be considered as striking a blow for feminism.
He came in low, as they so very often did, trying to bull her over with his greater height and weight, never seeming to realize that the narrow rails on the deck were specifically placed to render it a moot point. She stepped aside; stepped aside again; shoved him; caught both of his forearms with steely force. “You really, really need to get going,” she hissed through gritted teeth, scarcely out of breath.
She wasn't expecting the head butt. The sharp, shearing pain across her brow bone was more insult than injury, and she finally decided she'd had enough. Usually she tried to string it out a little bit, let them feel they'd given as good as they'd gotten, walk away with their pride relatively intact; this guy, with his clever little street-fighting antics, had just bought himself an express ticket out of her life. She could feel the eyes on her back as she rolled her shoulders and slammed her bicep into his chest; best to get this over with before she attracted much more of an audience. Hooking her fingers into his belt loops, she let the momentum carry him up against the railing, and with a slight lift at his waist, sent him tumbling over onto the cracked pavement a few feet below.
“You fucking bitch!”
“You can still walk away,” she told him, leaning over to inspect the damage. He was already scrambling to his feet. “Just get going.”
“FUCK YOU!” He clambered upright and shook himself.
“You come back up those stairs and you're trespassing. I'll lay charges.”
That seemed to penetrate the haze of machismo and alcohol currently clouding what she charitably assumed was his better judgment. He stood, arms still raised aggressively, and glared at her so fiercely she felt a moment of gratitude that looks couldn't actually kill, but she met him stare for stare, the weary implacability of the footsore bartender proof against all but the most apocalyptic problems a busy weekend crowd could bring with it. With a final obscene gesture, he spun on his heel and stalked off into the slowly lightening darkness.
Tifa watched him for long enough to assure herself that he wasn't going to try anything cute before turning back to the onlookers she assumed were there; sure enough, the waitress and several interested customers were peering out at her expectantly. “No problems,” she said with forced good cheer, raising her hands. “Just a jerk. I'll be in in a minute.”
The waitress shot her a dubious look, but gently herded the curious patrons back inside. Tifa felt a momentary stab of guilt at being unable to recall her name; there was so much turnover due to the reconstruction boom it was hard to keep track of the new faces, but this girl seemed like she had a good head on her shoulders. Tifa gave her a reassuring smile, which earned a nod of acknowledgment before she hauled the door shut behind them.
She turned back to the railing with a sigh, leaning forward once more to ease the crick in her lower back. It was still easy to pick out her erstwhile opponent as he scythed his way through the sparse late-night crowds, his shoulders hunched and his fists balled into his pockets. She always felt awful when things got that out of hand, as they did more and more often these days. The rowdier types drawn in by the promise of handsome wages for construction work were as entitled to a good time as anyone else, but she'd always done her best to run a relaxed, if not exactly quiet, establishment. The nurses and relief workers were just as entitled to a night out, without the fear of being sleazed on by the likes of that.
She straightened, fisting her hands in the small of her back as she stretched, her eyes still following the departing troublemaker. Her forehead still smarted from the blow, but she needed to do her best not to let it spoil the rest of the night; all she needed was to gut it out a little longer, and she could fret in peace and privacy. With a sigh, she turned to make her way back inside, but cast one last glance over her shoulder before she did so... and stopped dead as she saw a bulky red figure hastily sidestep her recent nemesis.
It couldn't be. It couldn't be. But her jaw dropped as she watched Vincent Valentine pause to regard the rapidly retreating figure he had just dodged, then continue on his way with a slight shrug. She hurried back to the railing, peering into the uncertain light in disbelief, but there was now no mistaking the familiar figure making its way towards her. Baffled delight fizzled within her, and before she realized what she was doing, she had cupped her hands around her mouth. “Vincent! Hey! Vince!”
He paused again, and his head swiveled towards her with his usual uncanny precision. She raised one arm to wave excitedly at him, and was pleased when he raised his arm in a gesture of acknowledgment; even more pleased when he promptly cut across on a diagonal and began heading towards her.
A happy grin spreading over her features, it was all she could do to keep herself from vaulting the railing and running out to meet him; but she settled for hurrying down the stairs once he'd crossed the street. “Vincent! Hi!” He paused to regard her, something a little dubious in the set of his shoulders, but it didn't stop her from throwing her arms around him in a loose embrace of welcome. “It's so good to see you!”
She could feel him stiffen at her exuberant greeting, and realized that she'd managed to trap his arms beneath his cloak as he patted her elbow awkwardly. “Hello,” he responded evenly, looking down at her with a bemused expression.
Tifa stepped back abruptly, reaching up to tuck her bangs behind her ears as a cover for the blush she was certain was spreading across her cheeks. “Sorry, I just... I mean, it's been so long! What are you doing here?” Her brows drew down at the sudden realization of what must have drawn Vincent out of his habit of solitude; all she needed to complete her day was an impending holocaust. “Is everything okay? Is... did something happen? Do we need to...?”
He shook his head slowly, and something in the tone of his voice made her wish she could see his mouth as he spoke. “You asked me to come.”
“I... did! I just didn't think...” She shrugged. “You might've taken me up on it sooner,” she continued with a smile. “Can't blame me for assuming the worst, when you're such a stranger.”
He snorted. “Your personal gore crow.” He shook his head again. “If it's a bad time...”
“No, no!” she hastened to assure him. “I'm happy to see you - obviously! I just wasn't expecting you. We're still open for a little while yet; do you want to come in for a drink?” She stood on tiptoe and peered over his shoulder, as if expecting to find further company lurking in his shadow. “Have you got Shelke with you? I think we can make an exception for her.”
His eyes crinkled with what might have been a smile. “Just me. But I would like that.”
Her fingers interlaced of their own volition, her knuckles much more willing to communicate their tension than the rest of her. “Well, come on,” she said, tossing her head towards the entrance. He nodded for her to precede him, so she hesitantly led the way. “It's, you know, a bar. On the weekend. Noisy. Crowded. Kind of stupid.”
“I am not unfamiliar with the phenomenon,” he said, as he reached past her to open the door.
The crowd seemed to have largely settled back down, though she was greeted with a grateful high sign from one of the nurses she had lately rescued. Yet as she led Vincent through, she was a little disconcerted by the way conversations abruptly halted, only to pick up with renewed energy as they passed.
It was easy enough to forget in the daily hustle, since the locals had largely grown used to she and Cloud, but none of the old group were without a certain reputation. She sincerely hoped that none of her patrons drew the same conclusion she had initially come to at Vincent's appearance or, even worse, decided to try their luck against the celebrated gunslinger, as they so often had with her in the early days. Her frequent customers were well aware of just what a dim view she took of weapons in her place and, even more importantly, how emphatically she would express her feelings if she discovered one, but that didn't mean some bright boy wasn't going to try.
A quick glance revealed that Vincent seemed largely oblivious to it, though, so she did not bother to make a comment until they had bulled through the press surrounding the bar and made it to the relative solitude of the waitress gate. “I'd send you upstairs with Cloud, but I'm afraid you just missed him,” she said as she flipped the portcullis open and stepped behind the bar, sliding her own stool out for him. “You'll probably want to stay here.”
“The natives seem restless,” he agreed, the sweep of his gaze taking in the numerous faces now eagerly watching them for signs of incipient heroics.
Tifa bit her lip; it was shoddy hospitality, but she couldn't imagine he was appreciating the scrutiny. “I could maybe throw someone out of a booth for you,” she offered, scanning the sides of the room for openings. “Or maybe the office, if you just want to relax. I can bring you something back and sit down for a few minutes.” She shrugged helplessly. “I'm sorry, it's just...” She swept a hand to indicate the mostly amiable chaos engulfing the room.
“That might be best.” He raised a hand to indicate the narrow hallway to their right, and she nodded.
“Past the toilets, but not the last door, that's the cellar.” She beckoned him to bend down and braced her elbows on the bar, leaning forward for a vague approximation of privacy. “Just lift the knob and twist it really hard; the lock's never worked,” she admitted sheepishly. “I'll be back in, like, two minutes, okay?”
He nodded and turned without another word. It was only as she saw the last scarlet shreds of his cloak disappear around the corner that she realized she hadn't bothered to ask him what he wanted.
Great.
She could have kicked herself; the man finally crawled out of his hole, and the best she could do was hustle him off into a glorified broom closet. She sighed, ran her hands through her hair, and then clapped them together in front of her. Stressing about it wasn't going to fix the faux pas; she just needed to get the immediate fires put out, and then she could go apologize as graciously as she could manage.
But as was so often the case, plans, even ones as simple as that one, tended not to survive contact with the enemy. The barback had drastically misunderstood the importance of precision when attaching a new carbon dioxide canister to the keg stand, resulting in a truly spectacular amount of foam to wade through behind the bar, and leaving the other two bartenders very deep in the weeds as they attempted to keep up with orders despite the almost total lack of potable beer. Tifa had the new kegs up and had swabbed out a respectable quantity of suds when voices raised in a scuffle required her to go over and scowl ominously at the disagreeable parties until they realized the error of their conflict. By the time she made it back to her station, a crowd of garrulous students had swarmed in to beat last call, every single one of them wanting some sort of time-consuming, sticky mixed drink.
Smiling rather fixedly as she gave serious thought to insisting that their blender was broken, so sorry, her hands darted beneath the bar and came up bearing a trio of bottles each. She earned an appreciative whistle as she upended all six at once over the glasses the barback had set up for her, and struggled to keep the smile from turning into a smirk. She often felt she was being a little disrespectful of her hard won hand-strength and agility when she did things like this but, cheap as it might be, it was still a good trick, and it would get this over with sooner than later. Then she could go see Vincent, make her apologies, hope that she hadn't completely turned him off the idea of visiting ever again--
“--hey!”
Her hips barked painfully against the edge of the bar as the ungainly weight slammed into her back, and she scrambled desperately to keep from sending the glasses skittering over the other side. The bottles held high at her shoulders spoiled her center of balance too much; something was about to shatter on the floor--
--until a pair of hands grabbed her forearms and yanked them upwards, giving her enough momentum to stagger back and flip the bottles upright, sugary, unnaturally colored alcohol slopping down her wrists. The watching youngsters applauded as, baffled, she realized that cool metal was biting into her right arm, and she was looking into Vincent's alarmed face.
“Good save!” someone crowed, and she burst into laughter as she gently pulled free of Vincent's grip and set the bottles down. One of her coworkers was already apologizing, a tentative hand laid on her shoulder; the slippery mess on the floor had sent him crashing into Tifa's back as she poured.
Mats. She'd have to put down mats, just in case this ever happened again.
“It's okay!” she assured him hurriedly, then turned back to Vincent, grabbing bottles to pour more judiciously as she did so. “If you at all doubted that your timing was impeccable, you just saved me somebody's dry cleaning bill,” she informed him with a wink.
He nodded carefully. “I had no idea your profession was so... kinetic.”
She laughed again as she switched bottles. “Oh, you know how it goes; everything is fine and normal until you need it to be.” She slid a pair of glasses to the waiting server and started on the next set. “I really didn't mean to lock you up in the office, things just got... kinetic.” Slide. Next set. “This is awful. I'm a terrible hostess. But I swear we're just about done with the hard part here.”
He shook his head. “I came unannounced.”
She set the bottles back on their shelf decisively. “Let me at least get you that drink I promised. What'll you have?”
Vincent raised the back of his right hand to his face and sniffed it; Tifa's eyes widened in amazement as he tentatively licked it. “This should be fine.”
She blinked in dumbfounded confusion; then it clicked. “Oh!” She blushed furiously, and fumbled beneath the bar for a stack of napkins to thrust at him; she hadn't realized the spouts had dribbled that badly. She snatched one for herself to dab at the stickiness on her forearms. “I'm, I mean, I--”
He shook his head once again, but he was smiling faintly this time. “Vodka would not come amiss.”
“Sure, let me--”
“When you have a moment.”
Embarrassed and unaccountably piqued, she whirled around and scooped up a shotglass in the same movement she snatched a bottle from the top shelf. She poured three fingers of liquor into it, managing to spatter her hand in her haste-she never did that-and set it in front of him decisively. “Just bear with me, please,” she entreated, “we're almost done.” He raised the glass in salute, and she spared a moment to marvel at his forbearance before she turned away, clapping her hands sharply above her head as she did so. “ALRIGHT, FOLKS, LAST CALL! COME ON IF YOU'RE COMING!”
The ensuing rush was enough to capitalize most of her attention, but she couldn't help stealing the occasional glance at Vincent as she filled her orders. He'd divested himself of his cloak and bandanna, presumably in the office; in head to toe black, his hair falling loosely over his shoulders, his sleeve pulled down over his golden arm, he was almost inconspicuous--which was exactly the point, she realized. She could have done without the pistol strapped to his thigh, but he leaned against the bar in such a way that she only saw it because she knew to look for it... and she didn't exactly feel she was in a position to chastise him for it, regardless. He seemed content enough to watch the crowd, which seemed content enough to give him his space, so she resolutely pushed the guilt from her mind and set about thinning the herd.
The last rush was always the worst but, after what seemed like an eternity of pulled taps and hastily polished glasses, the bar was finally cleared. Happily enough, most of the crowd had merely sought one more for the road; as she toweled her hands dry, she was pleased by the small number that had chosen to stick around and nurse their beers. They ought to be easy enough to shoo out in half an hour or so.
Tossing the towel over the lip of the sink, she rolled her shoulders to ease their tension as she ambled back over to Vincent. “It's a living,” she said with a shrug. She extended a foot to drag her stool over before she realized she'd given it to him, and settled for balancing her hip against a cooler. “So, what brings you?”
“I am just come from Midgar,” he responded. “I ended up with a layover, and thought...”
“I'm glad you did,” she said, once she realized that was all he intended to say on the subject. “But... Midgar? The reactors? Still?” She paused. “You are still with the WRO, right?”
He nodded, and drained his glass. “A few loose ends needed tidying. Corel, next.”
“No kidding? That should be fun!” She laughed. “Well, nice, anyway; Cloud headed that way yesterday. We're hoping Barrett is just being super-precautious as usual, but, well... you know. Had no idea he'd called in quite so much cavalry, though! He hasn't sent Marlene up to stay with us, though, so he can't be that worried. You ought to be able to catch up with the guys.”
It was Vincent's turn to shrug. “It's a living.”
She snorted and shook her head. “He asked me to come, too, but with all of this, I can't get away.” She pointed to his glass. “Another one?”
“Fine.” He watched her curiously as she poured. “Do you miss it?”
She looked up, startled at the question; but Vincent had never been one to mince words. “Not really,” she said finally, setting the glass before him. “It's kind of nice having things like that be other people's problem for once. I mean, at least you guys are opting in this time.” Tifa smiled, a little surprised at how wistful she felt. “And besides, there's so much going on here, now... have you even been back, since the last time?”
“No. It seems much changed.”
“Yep!” She resumed her place on the cooler. “For one, we're an actual civilization now; we've got laws, government, the whole shebang. The elections were just two months ago; I can't believe Reeve didn't tell you!” She giggled at the recollection. “He wasn't running, of course, he's busy with the WRO, but he was nearly elected mayor anyway; people were writing in for him in droves.”
His mouth quirked. “He must have had a fit.”
“Well, I don't know about that... but he did have to write a very carefully worded letter to the newspaper about it.” She deftly stepped aside as the mop slid past her feet; the barback was fighting the final engagement against the slop on the floor. “It was nice to see him get some recognition, though, even if it was like that. He's really done wonders for everyone since the Crisis, and it's good to see that people realize it.” She shook her head. “Hard to believe I wanted to kill him, once upon a time.”
“We got it back. He had his reasons,” Vincent said, raising his glass; it stopped halfway to his mouth. “Join me?”
“Oh... I really shouldn't,” she murmured automatically, but checked herself; if Vincent turning up at her doorstep and attempting to socialize wasn't a special occasion, she didn't know what was, and there had to be some advantage to being the boss. “Guys?” she called, turning to face her staff. “Can you just start closing on your own? We'll start chasing the stragglers in fifteen or so.” At the round of assent-not terribly grudging, she was pleased to note-she grabbed the bottle and a fresh glass for herself. “C'mon,” she told Vincent, “let's get out of their way.”
He followed her to the isolated booth she chose, and slid in opposite her once she'd sat down. “Oof,” she sighed as she set her burdens down, “it is so nice to get off your feet at the end of the night.”
“I can imagine.” He grasped the bottle very carefully with his left hand, metal clinking lightly on the glass, and unscrewed it with his right, before switching hands to pour for her.
“Thanks!” He nodded. She sipped contentedly at the clear liquor, inordinately pleased at having ducked her responsibilities. “So... what else?” she mused, trying to think of news Vincent wouldn't be aware of and might possibly be interested in. “Well, I haven't got most of the kids any more. We had social services up and running before we really had a society to service-again, go Reeve!--and the new orphanage facility got finished almost four months ago.” She sipped again. “It's actually a really great set up, a wonderful building, and they're doing such great things with it. There's still too many live-ins, of course, but they're also operating it as a creche; free childcare for anyone working on the rebuilding, at least until they get the tax situation sorted out-that's probably going to be our next referendum. Not enough room to go around, naturally, but it's a huge help for more... normal people here.”
“Denzel?”
“Oh, he's still with me, of course!” Tifa's laugh was tinged with chagrin. “He's... actually there this weekend. The hours I keep, and with Cloud gone... they're having a lock-in this weekend, you know, they let them watch movies, sit up all night and giggle. He was really looking forward to it, and he hasn't called begging to come home, so...” She sighed. “I never thought I'd say this, but they grow up so fast!”
“Mmm. That must be different.”
“Well... don't get me wrong, I don't regret a minute of it, and I wouldn't do a thing different if I had to do it again... but it's like I said earlier: it's nice having it be someone else's problem, for a change. I volunteer whenever I've got a moment, but I won't say it isn't a bit of a relief not to have all those little lives depending on me.” She shook her head, leaning forward to set her glass down. “I'm sorry, here I am yammering on about... what have you been up to? How's Shelke?”
He shifted in his seat, folding his arms as he settled into the battered padding. “Fine, I think. She was with Shalua.”
“Oh.” Tifa snatched her glass back up to cover her embarrassment. “I hope... has there been any change?”
“None.” He frowned. “She is as well as can be expected. They both are.”
“Oh.” She spun the glass between her hands. “Is... everything else going alright with you guys?”
His brows drew down in puzzlement. “I presume so.”
She had a sudden suspicion that she'd either put her foot even more wrong than she'd initially realized, or that Vincent was very deliberately ignoring a situation he didn't wish to discuss. “You two just seemed so... close... I thought...”
He arched an eyebrow, lips twisted with quizzical humor. “I suspect you are laboring under a misapprehension,” he said finally.
“Oh, I didn't mean to imply-you just seemed-I mean, she's so much younger, but I thought, well, with her... her programming...” she trailed off helplessly. “I'm sorry. It's really nobody's business but yours. It's not like we're gossiping about you guys, or anything...”
Vincent surprised her with a short, deep chuckle. “It's... considerate of you. But no. We possessed certain similarities; that is all.” He smiled. “I have not actually seen her since she's taken residence. She prefers not to be out of doors.”
Tifa nodded sympathetically. “At least she's getting a chance at some kind of life now.” She bit her lip. “I just... oh!” She seized on the sudden recollection, eager for a change of subject. “Speaking of life! I know you haven't heard this yet!” Bounding to her feet, she hurried back to the bar, slipping past the waitress gate to rifle through the file folders stashed beneath the cash register. Riffling through them, she grasped the glossy sheets she sought and rushed back to Vincent, slapping them down in front of him. “Red and his wife just had another litter! Bugenhagen just sent me the photos two days ago. No, three!”
He spread the three pictures out on the table before him, bending over to inspect them carefully. “I'm amazed they let them be photographed before their eyes opened.”
“Well, he was really frightened the first time. I understand; Denzel and Marlene and... it's really scary, and he's under a lot more pressure than I've ever been.” She beamed as she leaned over to catch another glimpse of the orangey-brown fuzzballs curled against their mother's side. “But since the first pair didn't catch fire or explode, he's probably mellowing out. You learn to relax.”
Vincent tapped a claw on the knobby stub that capped the tail of one of the kittens. “I believe they are meant to catch fire.”
“You know what I mean!” She smiled wistfully, propping her chin on her fists. “That's Keketi in the background of the second picture. They're getting so leggy!”
“And only four years old.” He shook his head wonderingly. “Nanaki is... fifty-one? And claimed youth only a handful of years ago. You would think their adolescence would last longer.”
“I know!” She pouted. “I just hope I can get out for a visit while they're all still young enough to want petting. Red always gets so grouchy about that.”
“He isn't a housepet, Tifa.”
“He shouldn't go around being so soft and strokeable, then!”
Vincent looked up at her beneath his lashes, a secret smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “You're trying to touch his neck, his ears, his face...”
Tifa regarded him uncomprehendingly, taking in his muted amusement, and raised a hand to her mouth as realization dawned. “You're-you don't mean-has Red thought I've been coming on to him all these years?”
“I don't think he views it that way. But I can see why he might find it disconcerting.”
“I just...” She giggled, half-horrified. “I mean, he's... he's my friend, but... he's just a big kitty!”
“Just?”
“Well, he never had any problem asking for help when he needed new feathers braided in--”
“Tifa?”
They both turned at the interruption; the new waitress stood a respectful distance away, looking mortified at her own presumption. “Sorry, you... you said fifteen...”
Tifa smiled reassuringly. “Of course I did!” She shot Vincent an apologetic glance. “I'm sorry. This is the last, I swear--”
“Go.” He waved her away.
Clearing out the last of the patrons, at least, went fairly easily, and exercised a skill she had honed to razor sharpness: a sodden night-shift worker wanting to linger over his beer had absolutely nothing on a seven year old boy angling to stay home from school. That done, she hopped onto a stool at the corner of the bar, hauled the two tip jars over, and began the business of sorting the tip-outs as the rest of the staff began putting up chairs, sweeping, and all the other miscellaneous housework closing down for the night entailed.
She stacked coins and shuffled bills with nearly mindless efficiency. She had gotten so practiced at cash-handling over the years she probably could have done even divisions merely by feel, but she still counted each bundle twice; she had seen some truly legendary feuds get started over a gil or two, and didn't want to risk anyone feeling slighted. After that, it was simply a matter of handing them out and wishing everyone a good evening.
She ambled back to the booth and plopped down, resting her temple against the heel of her hand. “Wanna do that again?” she asked with a toss of her chin at the bottle, then quickly straightened and snatched it before Vincent could reach out for it. “I'm sorry. I've been such a jerk.” She poured for herself, and topped him off out of habit. “It's just been one of those nights. I really am happy you came. Thanks for being so patient.”
He clinked his glass against hers. “You were busy.”
“Cid's going to be so jealous when I tell him you were here. He was mad when you didn't turn up for Holy Day.”
“Cid can cope. Cid can come to terms with the fact that not all of us can cross the continent on a whim.”
“He would have come and gotten you, if you'd asked. Shera does mind-blowing barbecue.”
Vincent shrugged. “Busy.” He raised his eyes to scan the rafters, searching the room carefully. “I had no idea what effort such an establishment required.”
Tifa grinned. “Oh, I still have the trash, and the books, and the bank deposit, and... a whole bunch of stuff that can wait,” she amended hastily, laying a hand on his when he straightened. “Seriously. There's always something to be done, but nothing else that can't wait for an old friend.” She squeezed. “At least, I've been your friend for a long time.”
“I know.”
“I admit, there were a lot of times in the early days when I wondered. You seem a lot happier now, though; I don't think you've scowled at me once tonight.” She giggled, retrieving her hand to cover her mouth as she did so. “I'm saying this after I've talked to you for, oh, maybe twenty minutes so far. I'm sorry.”
Vincent actually smiled for a moment before the glass obscured his mouth. She laced her fingers on the table in front of her, embarrassed. He picked at once of the monogrammed napkins with a claw. “Shouldn't it be the Eighth Heaven?”
She giggled again. “It almost was,” she said with a sigh, leaning back and stretching her legs out beneath the table. “And some day there's going to be a Final Heaven, preferably somewhere warm and sunny. I think I could handle Costa del Sol in my twilight years.”
He blinked. “Not planning on retirement?”
“Oh, people like us never really retire, Vincent.” She nudged his foot with her own. “You even managed to skip out on getting old.” His face froze at that remark, eyes narrowed carefully, but she missed it as she turned to survey her domain. “But, yes, I really was going to name it that; seemed like a nice bit of continuity. We'd already started building when they first started salvaging in Midgar, and one morning, we came to the site to find the old place's sign leaning up against the foundation posts, just as nice as could be. You want to talk about continuity?” She smiled reminiscently. “Cloud swears he didn't do it, but... well. Couldn't turn a bit of providence like that down, could I?”
“Someone wished you well.”
“He'll never admit it...” She shook her head, unwilling to broach the subject further. “It's nice. A little normalcy. This place is so... I mean, we haven't even got insulation in the walls, everything had to go up so quickly. We still get puddles during bad storms.” She settled back in her seat. “You never did see the old place, did you?”
“Actually...”
She looked up sharply, struck by the sudden hesitancy in his tone. “Back then?” she asked softly. “I know it had been open for a long time before...”
He smiled briefly. “No. No.” He pursed his lips. “I... hope you'll take this the right way.”
She frowned. “What?”
He exhaled heavily through his nostrils. “I have been in Midgar lately, as I said,” he said slowly. “Things are much more accessible than they once were.” He reached down to fumble in one of his pockets. “I thought I'd... have a look. I also thought you... might like to have this back.” He carefully proffered his hand, fingers splayed.
She leaned forward cautiously, trying to make sense of the dull gleam of metal in his palm. She reached out and took one end of it, slowly lifting the string of beads into the light. “Oh,” she breathed.
“I wasn't looking... it was... well. I couldn't imagine why else something like that would be where I found it.”
She ran the necklace through her hands, the mold-marks on the cheap silver beads catching against her fingertips. It was a shoddy thing, really, just a tacky bit of costume jewelry, but it was the best she'd been able to manage, and it had been given so freely... “This was Jessie's,” she said, blinking back the tears that burned in the corners of her eyes.
“Oh.”
“She... she lent it to me.” She worked the beads through her fingers, touching each one, seeking some memory they might be able to impart. “I'd... told her about Cloud. You know. Girl talk.” She licked her lips. “And when he came in with Barrett, we... I didn't know what to do. I just... I never expected it.” Nine, ten, eleven, twelve... “She did, though. She thought it was sweet. Fate and destiny and... she gave me this. So I could be... pretty. Catch his eye. You know.” The laugh she forced ended in a stifled sob. “I never had the nerve to wear it. It seemed so... calculating. And then she, she...”
“I'm so sorry.” She looked up, and was wounded anew by the distress on Vincent's face, touched by the way his hand was still extended to her. “I thought... I didn't realize... it seemed like a trinket...”
“No.” She seized his hand roughly, squeezing his fingers tightly. “No, this is... this is great, Vincent. Seriously. Thank you.” Unwilling to surrender the necklace, she released his hand to grab a napkin to blot at her eyes with, hating herself for falling apart like this. “I just never thought I'd... that's what makes me so mad.” She sniffled. “Nobody remembers them. Her and Biggs and Wedge and... I mean, I was just angry. They believed. They really cared, and they really were trying to help, they did the work no one else even dared to try, but now... we get noticed, we get thanked, they want to put up statues of her... and hardly anyone even knows their names.”
“Change that.”
“What?”
He leaned back, folding his arms. “If I still get sought for interviews, you must be inundated.”
“Oh, I don't... I don't speak to the media...”
“Start. Speak about them.”
“But I...” She swallowed thickly. “I just... how do you do that, really? Should I just call one of the reporters back and say I want to tell them about my friends? I try pretty hard to stay uninvolved with that kind of thing...”
“Yes. A gripping expose of the early years of AVALANCHE in Tifa Lockhart's own words ought to make the pull-out section.” He shrugged. “It's better than being unhappy about it.” Smiled. “Take it from me.”
Tifa laughed in spite of herself, propping her cheek on her fist as she set the beads down. “Pot? A Mr. Kettle calling?”
“If I may carry the metaphor that far, let us say that I am trying to burnish my shine.” He emptied his glass. “Shelke is collating Lucrecia's work,” he continued softly, “with some of the... new information I've... gathered. It should be out this fall.”
“But that's... I mean, that's great news--”
“We cannot always give them what they wanted, or even what they deserved,” he told her seriously, “but that does not mean they need be abandoned.” He looked away, carefully examining the grain of the table top. “It does no good to brood. None.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “I have explored that concept to its depths.”
“Who are you, and what have you done with Vincent?” She giggled at his blank look. “I'm sorry. It's easier to laugh it off than to take you seriously, because you're making a lot of sense. It's just...”
“It's easier to give advice than to take it.”
She looked up at him, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair out of her slightly swollen eyes. “I don't think we've ever talked like this,” she said. “It's nice.”
He flicked a finger against the bottle. “You've never sat up drinking with me.”
She snorted. “True. Very true.” She shot him a mischievous glance. “Is this what you and Cid used to get up to? Yuffie had some interesting ideas on the subject...”
“Yuffie needs a spanking.”
“Okay, I'm not sure I'm up for your interesting ideas on the subject,” she said, and giggled even harder at his mortified expression.
“I meant--”
“I know, I know.” She patted his claw reassuringly, knuckling her eye with her other hand. “But I'm a little... could you excuse me for a moment?”
“Of course.”
Next...