A/N: For the record, the last time I tried writing in this style, it was so forced and stilted that I almost died after reading it just now. For those who have read my Star Wars NaNoWriMo about two years ago, you should know.
A/N: This is probably the final form. I can't think of much else on my own. Need your feedback. =)
Chapter One
She wrings the dishwater from the rag and straightens up. Two glasses, still half-full of bitter, stand forlornly on the table in the corner. The table's former occupants stagger to the door, letting themselves out into the night. The storm howls in through the open door, snow and sleet scudding in waves across the cracked wooden floor as frigid air swirls into the smoky, musky interior of Seventh Heaven. The screen door slaps closed again against the glacial temperatures of Edge's harsh winter.
He's out, somewhere, in that freezing hell.
Rag in one hand, the other tucking a raven curtain of hair behind her ears, she moves over to the seats they recently vacated . Mechanically, she wipes the splintered wood of the tabletop before walking back to the counter. The glasses clink together when she sets them down into the sink.
She's always been good at this. Mixing up cocktails, pouring out draughts of beer and other liquors have always come naturally to her. She finds comfort in her constant, repetitive work. But lately, finding her peace hasn't been so easy.
The bar's empty now. The last of the regulars have left, and Seventh Heaven isn't one of those big, raucous establishments which run around the clock. Giving the room a cursory glance, she picks up a dustpan and broom, and begins to sweep the grime and dirt accumulated on the floor.
She wishes he'd come and scour the layer of accumulated pain off her soul.
When she's done, she sets the cleaning tools back into their cupboard. She powers down the lights, the music, and the various appliances behind the bar. She fingers the dirty calico curtains that frame the two windows looking into the street. They're long due for a wash, she thinks.
If she could wash the guilt from his soul, and the years, prematurely gained, from both their spirits.
The shadows cast by the lights on the street race across her face. She draws the curtains, a little light barely trickling through the gaps to dance upon the barren floor behind her. Keys in hand, she moves to the door.
She stops. She turns back to the bar, picks up a rag, and absent-mindedly begins to polish one of the glasses which line the shelves on the wall behind her. She doesn't want to lock the doors. Not just yet. He's still out there. She doesn't want to lock the doors when he's still on his way home, when Fenrir might just be around the corner. It just doesn't feel right. So she perches herself on the counter, glass in hand. She decides to wait, if only for a little while more.
The smallest hand on the clock has never moved more slowly for her. The silence lies heavily on the aged beams and weathered concrete around her as she sits along in the dark, the hollow shadows of the emptiness around her reflecting those in her heart.
Every once in a while, she gets up, hurrying to the window. She's disappointed every time. The storm shows no signs of abating as she peers through the frosted panes, just as there's no sign of him. She lets the curtain fall back over the window, and resumes her silent vigil. She's already polished half of the glasses on the shelf.
A flicker of movement in her peripheral vision startles her from her private thoughts. A heavy step rings out, heard clearly even over the banshee-like howls of wind. Someone's on the patio. No one should be on the patio; not at this time of night, and much less in the raging tempest outside.
At least, not anyone with that heavy a step. A silhouette is cast onto the screen door. It isn’t him. He isn’t that tall, nor does he have the sheer bulk of the man about to open the door.
She slips off the counter, landing in a crouch. Her muscles tense, and her mind races through the myriad possibilities. She knows that no one in the neighbourhood would be so presumptuous as to attempt a robbery on her. The last one that tried could barely crawl away when she was finished with him. Coincidentally, he was also the first to try. Her fingers tighten around the glass she holds.
Then the door opens, and a man bearing a deeply tanned face enters. Snow is heavily crusted on the shoulders of his jacket.
“Barret!” She exclaims, as she relaxes and moves forwards, shaking her head in disbelief. “What in the world? Look at the time!”
The man known to Avalanche as Barret pulls off his hood, revealing closely shaven black hair. He turns around, shrugging off his leather jacket, and gives her a wide grin.
“And look at you! You’re practically frozen.” Setting down the glass and rag on the counter, she takes his coat from him, and drapes it across the chair in front of the heater.
“You said you’d get here in the morning. Well, it is technically morning, but…”
Barret cuts her off with another wide grin of his and a careless wave of his hand, as he slaps on the light. The servos in his machine arm whine as he gestures towards her.
“Can’t I get home early to see my best girl?”
She rolls her eyes and laughs. “Your best girl is sound asleep upstairs with that plush chocobo of hers. She doesn’t need her big, brave papa to brave the harshest storm in all of Gaia just so he can get himself and that non-existent brain of his frozen.”
He laughs along with her, holding his hands above the heater. “I thought to give her a surprise, y’see. So she can wake up in the morning to her papa right beside her.”
“Well, she’d wake up crying if she knew her papa was lying frozen somewhere in the wilderness,” she retorts.
“Aw, give it a rest, Tifa. I’m here, ain’t I?” The big man waves her off. “Marlene will be over the moon when she sees me. Nothing doin’.” Barret sneaks a glance up the stairs.
The woman named Tifa slugs him on the arm, hard.
“What was that for?” He raises his gleaming metal arm in mock threat.
“Don’t you dare, Barret Wallace. I know what you’re thinking. Marlene needs her sleep. You are not to go wake her up. “ She waves a disapproving finger in his face.
Grinning like a kid caught sneaking candy from the kitchen, he raises both his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright. She needs her sleep, “ he concedes. “But it seems that you don’t…”
“And there’s nothing you can do about that.” Tifa places her hands on her hips.
“Are you sure?” Barret waggles his eyebrows suggestively.
Tifa laughs. Raising her eyebrows, she gives him a stern glare. She’s glad for his company, this night. At least, her mind won’t have the chance to run away from her.
“Not like I’d dare to do anything, Spikey’ll have me for lunch,” he continues rambling on, bending over to look under the bar. His words pierce a sensitive spot in her soul. How Tifa wishes that he would indeed have Barret for lunch if he tried anything. Not that Barret would, but she’s not even sure what his reaction would be. Maybe he wouldn’t even care…
“….any more of that scotch? “
Tifa doesn’t respond, unwilling trapped in her thoughts, a prisoner inside her head.
“Maybe it’s not just me that’s got my brain frozen,” Barret mutters. He waves the near empty bottle in front of Tifa’s face.
She starts in surprise, leaping to her feet. “Wha..? Oh yeah, more scotch.” She goes to the bar and begins rummaging through the dusty bottles.
“Tifa? You feeling okay?” Barret leans on the counter, a concerned expression on his face.
She doesn’t want his concern. She doesn’t need his concern, she tells herself.
“I’m just tired, Barret. I’ll be going to bed. Enjoy your drink.” She shoves the bottle she’s found into his hand, and turns away, heading for the stairs.
Tifa can imagine his shocked expression. But she doesn’t want to see it. She takes the stairs two at a time, and races for the safety for her room, hoping to avoid the inevitable question chasing her up the staircase.
“He’s not back, is he?” Barret’s questions echoes through the house.
But she’s already slamming the door on it, shutting it out. She turns the lock harder than she should, and the iron knob breaks off in her. She hurls it across the room, and throws herself across her bed, hot tears leaking from her eyes.
Damn it. Damn it to Sephiroth’s accursed grave.
Barret’s caught on to her again. Tifa knows he’ll be hovering around her for the next few days, treating her as if she were fragile spun glass. She hates it. She isn’t weak. She’s a fighter. She’s a martial artist, for Gaia’s sake. She’s supposed to be strong.
Just that even the hardest materials on earth have their weaknesses. Even diamonds have shatter-points. One gentle tap and a jewel that can withstand thousands of tons of pressure will just shatter into so many pieces. And he’s her weakness. She hates weakness. But she loves him.
So with just one fleeting touch on her Cloud-shaped shatterpoint, the unbreakable diamond that is Tifa Lockhart crumbles to pieces.
~
Tifa wakes with a start, her heart pounding from a dream barely remembered. Feeling her way around in the dark, she flicks the light on.
By the dim light of the single bulb on the ceiling, she examines the salty tracks her tears have left on her face in the tiny mirror on the dressing table. She really hates crying. Especially the horrible hangover it gives her. Tifa Lockhart never does things halfway. There’s no such thing as a small cry for her. Either she keeps a stiff upper lip, or breaks down completely. Her brow furrows in frustration. She’s already late, and has less than an hour to herself before she has to start breakfast.
Tying her hair back in a loose ponytail, Tifa grabs her usual attire – white blouse, black vest and skirt, and heads for the bathroom, closing her door quietly behind her.
She stops just outside Denzel’s room. She looks in at the typical messy room of a boy just entering his teenage years. No sign of him stirring; he’s probably still killing Midgar Zoloms in his dreams. She smiles fondly as she continues down the shadowed corridor.
There’s no sound from Marlene’s room, and surprisingly, no sign of Barret either. He’s probably in Seventh Heaven’s only bathroom. He’d never pass up a chance to cradle his sleeping daughter.
Her suspicions are confirmed when she sees the light on in the bathroom. Despite herself, she sighs. She’s no wish to see him, for he’s sure to ask questions; questions that would cause her no small amount of discomfort. Not to mention she desperately wants her bath, for she’s covered in the yesterday’s dirt and nursing a pounding headache that she hopes the hot water can relieve. So it is with great surprise – and no small amount of irritation that Tifa finds the bathroom door wide open, lights on, but no one inside.
Strangely, she finds this disquieting, even though it’s not a rare occurrence for Denzel or Marlene to have a midnight tryst with the bathroom. She’s told the kids countless times to switch off the lights when they’re done with their business. She shakes her head, planning to give those two a stern reminder at breakfast. Electricity is still expensive, oil being relatively new technology.
Entering the small bathroom, Tifa sets her clothes down on the stool at the side and switches on the heater. Locking the door behind her and releasing her hair, she throws the white hairband carelessly on her pile of discarded outer clothing before carefully untying the red ribbon she wears on her left arm. Setting the ribbon down on her clean clothes, she reaches into the shower to switch the water on.
It’ll be a while before the water’s warm enough, time enough to wash her face and brush her teeth. Turning to the washbasin, Tifa looks up to see her reflection in the old mirror above the sink.
And claps her hand to her mouth to keep from screaming….
