Disclaimer: Don't own Final Fantasy VII, or Vincent, or Tifa. Just inserting them into the machine of my imagination and watching what pops out.

Snow White Never Did a Handstand

by: thelittletree

(Hee, this one was fun to write. Uh, oops, I'm not supposed to be writing these anymore, am I? Grabs her muse by the arm. Look, see those projects over there, gathering dust? You're supposed to be focusing on those! Oh, nevermind, you never listen to me. Muse stalks off, offended. This ficlet takes place sometime before 'Remembering Lily'. I made one tiny mention of this scene in it, and now my muse has gone off the handle. I blame the hours of boredom caused by my flu.)

He was starting to think he might've actually developed another whole personality, just to accommodate. Because every morning he opened his eyes and was reminded, just like yesterday morning (with a certain amount of shock) that he and Tifa were now lovers. Lovers.

The word seemed to imply a kind of fairy-tale whirlwind romance, complete in two unpretentious steps: (1) they'd looked at each other one day in a shower of chemically balanced sparks and (2) had cheerfully fallen into bed together without a qualm. Like there shouldn't be any doubts screaming around in the back of his mind. Like they shouldn't have made him nearly as compulsive as his desire sometimes made him to touch her, kiss her, consume her. Like he shouldn't be suspecting that at times he craved her just to shut out the noise.

Like it was wrong, wrong, wrong for him to be in the picture at all. And sometimes it wasn't so hard to believe.

If not for those first few moments after he woke up, when he was drenched in the bleary timelessness of early dawn, lying quietly beside her and watching. And feeling an ache like everything had finally come right.

She usually continued sleeping for a few minutes after he woke. And it was the first indication that he'd been torn in two when he inevitably wavered between getting up and staying where he was: to wait and wish that the strange amity of early morning could last forever. She snored a little in her sleep; she stole the blankets when she rolled over; sometimes she murmured under her breath. Something about these things, maybe coupled with the very vulnerability of her nakedness, exposed beneath he capricious shelter of sheets, seemed fantastically intimate. As if it proved, more than anything else, that she loved him.

Even if it had only been a couple of weeks since they'd finally given up the futility of separate sleeping arrangements. Even if he'd only just started looking in the mirror to realize that she was probably learning him the same way, reading signals he hardly knew he was sending in every look, gesture, sleeping position. She trusted him with her fragile body, she trusted him with her healing heart. It was frightening to realize.

Especially when he remembered that the only key he'd deliberately given her so far, to let her know he was trying, was the one to his apartment.

When she finally woke in the mornings, shifting into his arms before she even opened her eyes, they normally talked a little. Well, she talked, and he provided replies. Routine could be such a saving grace.

"How did you sleep?"
"Fine, and you?"
"Wonderfully."

Her meaning was always impossible to mistake when she wriggled against him, stretching satisfied muscles, all kisses and fingertips until he was half-dizzy with reality.

And then things blurred a little. They took separate showers, they got dressed, Tifa made plans over breakfast to see him in the evening. Then she went to work and he went home to make a show of living in his apartment, or to visit with Lily on the pretext of helping her with something. Sometimes he went to hunt.

And he would feel like the old Vincent again for several hours, as long as he could ignore the knowing smiles Lily frequently bestowed, as if she'd planned it all from the beginning; as if he should've been deliriously happy instead of burdened by things he couldn't quite make himself think about. And then Tifa would come over to Lily's for supper.

And the transformation would be complete: one man on both ends of a tug-of-war.

Tifa expected certain things from him, he knew: smiles, occasional warm touches, most of his attention; those small gestures of affection and reassurance he normally had no problem giving, provided they were in private. But Lily's presence, through no fault of her own, could somehow made him feel as if a part of himself was standing and watching, too. Shaking his head, wondering how Vincent Valentine had come to this, again, his heart very much on the line. Would he never learn?

And Tifa had no idea why he sometimes pushed her away; she'd tried to ask, once when she'd had the courage, but he was no good with explanations and they had ended up arguing. Far better was he with demonstrations of those tangible things one could put stock in. He wanted her; there were piles of evidence to support that.

But he also loved her. One body, one heart, and an uncounted number of uncertainties. It made for a very crowded room.

He picked up the last of his laundry and threw it into the basket, vaguely troubled by the way he'd talked himself, yet again, into keeping an undershirt of hers unwashed, one she'd accidentally left on his floor more than a month ago. Not because it smelled like her, he'd decided, back when the decision had proved to need justification. But because it was hers, and they weren't yet in the kind of relationship where they could do each other's laundry.

It smelled of nightfall, of her body beside him: skin-warmed, sprinkled with the scent of her shampoo, a hint of the perfume she'd been wearing from work. Reminded him of hands both soothing and stimulating as she laughed in soft excitement, lips teasing forward until his patience gave way and…

He shoved the undershirt into a corner of his closet, not quite out of sight. He would give it back to her, he told himself…but not tonight. The next time she came over was good enough. Whenever that might be.

He knocked on Lily's door and only realized after the fact that Lily was not alone. Tifa had said she had things to do after work, errands to run, a cardio class to attend. Obviously plans had changed. He felt the odd, customary flutter in his stomach, a precariously balanced blend of anticipation and anxiousness, in the moment before Lily opened the door.

Both of them were grinning, laughing. Lily was smudged with garden dirt and there was something wonderfully pungent in the oven. Tifa was breathless, red-faced, wild with something like discovery as her eyes shone at him. And, no matter how restricted he might feel, his heart still leapt automatically to be a part of her joy, reacting to her proximity, so young and full of life. She could be almost overwhelming when she smiled.

He closed the door behind him and turned to Lily, waiting for his heart to settle back into the comfortable, familiar rhythm of his surroundings. He could hate himself, sometimes, for his insensitive cowardice.

"Can I use your washing machine?"

Lily was still laughing as she smudged a few more wisps of hair away from her face. "Sure. But in a minute. Tifa wants to show you something."

He turned to Tifa expectantly. But the excitement had seeped out of her limbs and her expression was edging toward a familiar insecurity; he was sending truckloads of signals, he knew. She felt childish. She'd wanted to impress him. She wanted him to love her.

She was thinking of backing down. He couldn't allow that to happen. He did love her.

There was a weight in his arms, ostensibly the reason he'd come. He bent to put the basket on the floor and then straightened to full attention. He would never be fairy tale material, but at least he knew how to spot the big mistakes.

Her face regained some of its previous animation, a shade less than before, but he could sense her energy returning like colour to her cheeks. She shuffled a little to her right, into a chosen spot, and attentively positioned her feet. She rocked herself gently into place. "Are you watching?"

"Always."

That earned him a flash of her grin before she leaned over and, placing her palms flat on the floor, fluidly kicked up into a handstand. One of her heels banged against the wall and she stiffened a little in surprise, lurching enough to make him step hastily forward, arms coming up catch her. But then she skilfully regained her balance.

"See?" She was breathy with exertion, becoming red-faced with gravity, hair puddled on the floor beneath her. "Muscles!"

It wasn't all he could see. She'd done her best to tuck her shirt into her pants, he could tell, but several inches of the hem had still come loose with her movement and fallen down to reveal the barest shadow of her belly button, the first gentle, inviting curve of a hipbone, the shape of one rib as she breathed. The briefest indication of her bra, a black one he'd begun to have a certain affection for. Not deliberately provocative; he knew the last thing on her mind was anything that might make him uncomfortable. But his eyes were immediately drawn to the appealingly familiar vista of her skin.

To be caught staring in Lily's presence was somehow worse than being caught in a kiss. A graze from her feather-duster on his ear was all he needed to remind him.

"Don't," he responded automatically, grabbing at the offending duster.

Lily was quick to grab the duster out of reach, her voluble smile telling him in no uncertain terms that she knew exactly what he was thinking. And, far from being offended, she seemed rather happy about it.

Tifa had let herself down from the wall and was hastily tucking her shirt in. "Whoops," she said quietly, smiling faintly in guilty apology.

He suddenly wanted to be far away. Upstairs in his bedroom, across town in Tifa's bedroom, hunting on the plains, it didn't much matter. As long as it was a place where he wasn't going to have to talk about the hundreds of things he was also afraid might remain stiffly unspoken forever.

"C'mon, Vince, you're not going to be embarrassed, are you?"

Like it was that easy.

"It's not like I don't know how you feel about her."

He understood then that it wasn't Lily, or Tifa, who was responsible for his discomfort. He picked up his laundry basket. He stayed; he'd watched. Now he needed to leave. Lily understood that he loved deep and was a damn fool, a terrible combination. But Tifa… Someday, he would have to explain.

Preoccupied as he was, and already nearly withdrawn behind his walls, it was an unexpected splash of water in the desert when Lily pinched him vindictively in the side. Once; twice; a third time. And then surprise was turning into reaction, slight pain was translating into tickle, and he was backing away, toward the counter in a room too damnably cramped for immediate escape.

"Stop it."

But there was something quietly resolved about her expression. "Vincent…" She rarely used his full name, he'd stopped correcting her years ago; the sound of it was anything but reassuring now. "…this is stupid. You owe Tifa an explanation for acting like a goddamn insensitive bastard."

Pinch.

He took another step and glared at her, trying to put the laundry basket between them. It worked about as well as he'd expected. Once Lily felt justified in saying something, stopping her was like trying to turn the tide of a crusade.

"I don't like getting into your business any more than you like it; your love-life is your own damn affair…"

Pinch-pinch.

"…but ignoring your problems isn't going to make them go away; that just hurts people."

Pinch!

He flinched into the counter. Lily was staring him down, green eyes serious behind the twitch of her lips. And Vincent knew she and Tifa had been talking. And that meant something bad, because Tifa was almost as expert as he was at storing up pain.

"You want to be embarrassed, feel embarrassed about the fact that a thirty-six year old woman has you backed into a corner."

It was true; he bumped unexpectedly into the jut of wall separating kitchen and dining room.

And suddenly, her fingers were everywhere. The laundry basket fell out of his arms.

He'd curled up reflexively, trying to ward her off with his elbows, but there was no way to protect everything. He wouldn't laugh; god help him, he wouldn't. Hastily he knocked his way free and felt her fingers' grip briefly on his shirt.

"Tifa…" Lily was nearly laughing herself. "…don't let him get away!"

Tifa was staring at him in startled amusement, hands halfway up, giving him the impression of hesitant, half-formed action. It didn't make him sure she wasn't about to do just what Lily suggested.

He darted from her. That seemed to make up her mind. Her hands were abruptly on him, on his shirt, and then gone as he jerked back a step.

Into the table, arm first, hard enough to leave a bruise. Another tactical blunder; in this case, critical.

At least Tifa was laughing again.

The attack lasted maybe half a minute (long enough to get him onto the floor) and then Lily was sitting back to catch her breath; eventually coughing while Tifa patted her anxiously on the back. But Lily waved the help away and pulled herself to her feet: she was fine, fine, no need to worry. Just too many years of smoking, she would be all right.

Tifa shared a glance with him: uncertain, almost apologetic as they sat on the floor. Looking for something from him. Understanding, hope, willingness. Maybe all three.

He wasn't sure how he felt. Embarrassed, but now he thought it was probably appropriate. A damned fool. Given something to really live for, a healthy addiction for the first time in his life, and he was hurting them both by his withdrawal. Still so afraid to throw his whole lot in and find out too late he had a losing hand.

More than he'd ever deserved, and he hadn't said anything.

He smiled at her briefly and touched her hand before helping her up.

Lily grinned at him as she put one arm around his waist, a brief gesture to let him know that all was apologized for and forgiven. Now she was ready to wash her hands and get down to the serious business of making supper.

Vincent took the opportunity to gather up his laundry before he went downstairs.

Tifa came down a few minutes later and, after a quiet, obligatory greeting, made a dawdling turn of the room. Then she came back to his side. And, after another moment of silence, pulled herself up to sit on the dryer.

"My handstand needs work, I guess. Or a one-piece uniform."

He 'hmphed' quietly at the corner of his mouth.

That seemed to give her some confidence. She sat up and gathered her hair into a ponytail, and then let it loose so her it could bounce back into place around her shoulders. And then she took a breath. "I'm not even really angry anymore, you know. I just…want to understand. You can be so distant sometimes."

"I know." He looked at the dials on the washer and didn't know what else to say. "I'm sorry."

He heard her sigh, her habitual resignation. "C'mere." She drew him in front of the dryer and pulled herself forward so that she could kiss his forehead, and then his nose, and then, after a brief pause, his lips.

Everything seemed to fall away at the feel of her in his arms and he had somewhat of a hard time convincing his fingertips to stay within approved territory, especially when Tifa seemed to be doing her best to encourage him otherwise. Eventually, she withdrew and he felt her fingers tucking a bit of his hair behind an ear before she looked him in the eye.

He saw her uncertainty. He saw her vulnerable heart, and her determination. He took a breath and knew this had to be done now.

"Does it embarrass you, Vincent? Being with me like this, in a relationship?"

He knew hesitating was the wrong answer, but when the reply could be both 'yes' and 'no' it made the sudden choice of one of them somewhat difficult. But Tifa patiently allowed his moment of silence. He felt immediately grateful for it as things began to sort themselves out in his mind.

"I do feel embarrassed sometimes." He couldn't look at her; it was hard to admit. But her arms were now draped over his shoulders, her fingers tracing reassuring, distracting patterns on the back of his neck until he felt himself start to relax involuntarily. "I've taught myself to keep one foot on the shore, just in case…" He leaned into her slightly and sighed as the movement gave her better access. "…and you want all of me."

"I do."

She was smiling. Her fingers were making their way toward his jaw and he raised his head a little to allow it. He found himself looking into her eyes.

The truth was… "A part of me thinks I'm a fool for trusting this again."

Tifa's smile widened slightly, fondly. Unsurprised and unthreatened. "And I suppose this part of you approves of safe things like living alone and sleeping in a bed by yourself. So, I guess if you're listening to this part of yourself, we should probably go back to having our own bedrooms…"

She was teasing him. He tightened his arms around her hips and pulled her closer. She laughed quietly at the deliberate interruption and threaded her legs around his waist. "Or maybe not."

"Not."

"You're sure?"

"Very."

"Because we could…"

He kissed her quiet; she buzzed a chuckle against his lips before helpfully participating in his efforts to muffle her.

It was surprisingly easy to forget that there was someone upstairs. And halfway through the rinse cycle, Vincent began to wish the laundry was a more distracting chore.

Supper was a relaxed affair for the first time in weeks. Tifa occasionally touched his foot with her own underneath the table while they ate. Lily found reasons to smile at him, as if she knew. And, somehow, it was all right. He was a fool; he was in love. The two seemed to go hand in hand.

Maybe it was just time to make some new routines.

Tifa hadn't been to his apartment in weeks, but it didn't seem to make much of a difference. They still made their way to the bedroom without a problem.

When he woke later, it was to realize that he'd been dozing and the bedside lamp was still on. He went to shut it off, blearily wondering how he'd simply let himself fall asleep. And then there was a rustle of movement from across the room to remind him.

Tifa was in his closet. "Vincent…"

He rubbed an eye and looked around for his clock. Remembered that he'd given it to Tifa because it had an alarm that worked. "Mm?"

"Is this my shirt?"

He pushed himself up, feeling a belated wash of shame. "You left it here," he defended immediately, before realizing that she had yet to accuse him of anything.

"When?"

"Awhile ago."

She turned to him, laughing a little. "Were you ever planning to give it back?"

He shrugged and lay down again, not sure he was yet at a place where he could explain about that.

"I've been wondering where it had gotten to. There are a couple of blouses I can't wear to work without an undershirt. Boy, it needs a wash. Old sweat and stale perfume, not a good combination."

She tossed the shirt onto his dresser and climbed back into bed, worming her way comfortably under the covers. "So, is this going to become a trend? Us sleeping here?"

"If you want."

"I think I do. It's nice; it feels like I'm in your territory."

He turned the light off and felt her, warm and content against him. He took a breath. "I want it to feel like our territory."

"So, I should buy another toothbrush?" She was grinning into his shoulder, aware of what his invitation meant and giddy enough in her confidence to risk teasing him about it.

He smiled and gave a long-suffering sigh. Give her an inch… "You can leave anything here you want."

"Be careful. I might take you at your word."

"That doesn't scare me."

He could hear her giggling. And it was the only warning he got before he felt a series of familiar pinches.

She left early the next morning for her apartment. They'd woken up together, showered separately, made plans over breakfast for the evening. And Tifa's smile hadn't wavered once to give him even the slightest clue.

So Vincent was half-mortified, half-amused and thoroughly impressed when he discovered the first of her possessions, left behind to remind him that he was her Vincent, before anything else. Her undershirt she'd taken with her, but she'd thoughtfully replaced it with something much more appropriate. Her underwear on a corner of his bathroom mirror.

There was a difference, he realized as he thought to wonder what she was wearing under her pants at that moment if her underwear was here, between a gift and something he felt he didn't deserve, couldn't trust, was a fool for taking. A gift could be taken for granted.

He decided to leave her panties where they were.