"You were… serious?"
"No. But I liked him for a while."

It starts with a late-summer storm.

If there's one advantage to living in the slums, it's that the thunder can rumble all it likes, but the lightning will never strike. That's the only reason Aerith is brave enough to stand under the opening in the old church ceiling and let the rain pour over her.

This is the closest to the sky she's ever felt, apart from whenever Zack was with her. Given that the rain is falling cleanly through, it seems nobody ever got around to fixing the hole he left in the plate, years ago now. Aerith closes her eyes, imagining it as a hallowed site up above. SOLDIER First Class Zack Fair Fell Through This Gap.

She stands there for a long time, soaking in the rainwater. It feels cold and refreshing and alive, and for a moment Aerith almost feels complete, in a way she's never known and can't describe. Staying in Midgar is killing her soul, but this is the only home she knows. And it isn't as though she can escape it with Shinra watching her every move, anyway.

"What are you doing?"

Right on cue. The only thing that surprises Aerith is that the voice belongs to Tseng. They haven't spoken since he expected her to believe Zack had been killed in action, the better part of a year ago. Maybe it would be more convenient for that to be true, but Aerith knows better.

"Trying to feel him," she says, spreading her arms to embrace the rain. "It's his nineteenth birthday today."

Tseng sighs. Aerith feels more than hears it, in the chill of the breeze wrapping around her. "He's gone, Aerith."

"He's not. You're just saying things. You always just say things." Except for the times things need saying the most. The last contact they had came in the form of a card in the mailbox on her eighteenth birthday, hand-delivered and unsigned. Apart from accepting her letters to Zack, and probably screening them for security reasons, Tseng has stayed out of the way ever since.

Aerith wishes he wouldn't. Of the Turks, he is the one she understands least, and consequently the one she wants to know most. Tseng has been in Shinra for as many years as Aerith has been out of it, and by now, he's spent longer there than she ever did. He's shut off his heart so tightly that she can barely tell who he is anymore, if she ever knew.

Aerith must rely on Tseng's expressions to guess his thoughts, often in subtle contrast with his behavior. Slight frowns and faint smiles. Brief hesitations and rare gesticulations. The tension in his posture, or occasionally the lack thereof. His deliberate choice of words, and pauses that mean just as much. Yet perceiving that discrepancy doesn't tell Aerith what Tseng actually thinks, only that it's always been different somehow from the way he acts.

"Come out of the rain," says Tseng, his voice as carefully measured as his approaching footsteps. "You're going to catch a chill."

"What do you care?" asks Aerith, turning to face him. She must be soaked through by now, probably half indecent, but Tseng doesn't so much as glance down at her. Instead, he looks skyward, and there is a long silence before he answers.

"If you're doing this for him, then think of what he would want."

Tseng is never wrong, and he knows it. That much, at least, is consistent. It would have been easier if he'd given an order, because then at least Aerith could resent him for it. Instead, she has little choice but to recognize the truth in his words, and acquiesce. As she steps back into the dry in reluctant obedience, Tseng removes his suit jacket and drapes it around her shoulders to keep her warm.

Aerith freezes. He does not touch her directly, but it's been many years since he's even come this close. Since she was a child, and he was barely more than that. Maybe Tseng feels it too, because there is the slightest hesitation before he says, "Let's go."

He does not look at Aerith, but waits for her to start walking before he follows. Pulling the jacket closer around herself as she goes, she sneaks a surreptitious peek back at him. Another contradiction. Tseng has always seemed so frigid, but this lingering heat proves otherwise. His light scent wreathes around her, clerical smells interwoven with his cologne—subtle and dangerous, like a false sense of security. Or maybe just like him.

Sometimes Aerith catches herself thinking of Tseng like the Big Bad Wolf, walking Little Red Riding Hood home. The only difference is that this wolf has a strict schedule, and eating her comes later. So much later, in fact, that Little Red has grown up in his company.

Accordingly, Aerith is accustomed to the distance Tseng places between them, as intentional as everything else he does. He never walks alongside her, but simply follows her home and hangs back as she approaches the door. Often, he remains out of sight, but this time there is no reason to hide. However, even out in the open, Tseng draws no nearer, merely watching her from afar like always.

Aerith only dares look back at him once she arrives at her doorstep. To her surprise, she finds that he's never looked more real than in the slums' damp approximation of rain. Under that uniform, he's just another man. Young, even. Twenty-five or so, lean and muscular and anything but a ghost.

Maybe it's more obvious since he doesn't look so clean-cut anymore. His once-crisp white shirt has been spattered with dirty rainwater, leaked from the plate above, and clings half-translucent to his skin in patches. But Tseng either hasn't noticed or doesn't care, because he turns away.

"Your jacket," calls Aerith, holding it out.

Pausing, Tseng tosses a glance over his shoulder, but does not raise his voice. "I'm off-duty now. I'll collect it next time."

As he fades into the evening, Aerith has the strangest impulse to reach out after him, almost as though she wants him to come back. Maybe, on some level unknown to her, she does.

Nineteen, and Aerith remembers the hard way that no amount of being careful can ever protect a woman in Wall Market. Even with a staff at her side, it was inevitable that one day, she would push her luck.

It's almost sundown, as near as anyone in the slums can tell, and Aerith has been cornered in a dusky alleyway. She might have been able to handle one man, but he had too many friends. They hunted her in a pack, herding her through side streets until they had her at a dead end. Aerith had been mugged before, but this many of them, in this part of town, at this time of day… they weren't after her gil.

Power rose within her alongside the panic. Fire spilled forth from her staff like the curses from her lips, and one of the men yowled in pain as tendrils of flame ensnared him. But Aerith's strength was lessened by her trepidation. If she accidentally killed anyone, or set Sector 6 ablaze, there would be hell enough to pay that even her body could never make up the difference.

Momentary as Aerith's hesitation was, it was time enough for another man to act on it. Snatching her staff away, he cut her spell short and turned to tend to the man she'd burned. Two others took each of her arms and hauled her back before she could run, pinning her against the wall. And now—coming back to herself, half dazed—she finds the leader pointing a dagger at her throat.

"Easy, sweetheart. Easy." His voice is as rough as his manners, and his eyes as dark as his intent. "You're in good hands."

"Wh-what do you want?" Aerith knows already, of course, but the only thought in her head is buying time until the Turks can save her. She tries to stop her voice from shaking, but isn't sure how successful she is, because the man grins.

"Us? Just a little look-see, that's all." He rests his blade on the neckline of Aerith's dress. "The don still needs a fix for tonight, and he'll have our heads if we don't get him something fine. Fighting back like that, it seems to me like nobody's broken you in yet, so we might've hit the jackpot. But we'll still need to make sure you're to his taste before we send you along."

Aerith's chest feels too tight to breathe, but she takes as deep a breath as she can, glancing down at the knife. Her thoughts feel sluggish and slippery in her mind, so that she can only cling to one. All she has to do is draw their attention till the Turks can step in. All she has to do…

"All right," says Aerith, hearing her own voice as if from a great distance. "Fine. Just don't ruin my dress. It's the nicest one I've got." She looks up at the leader with an effort. "You look like you've got your hands full, anyway. May I…?"

The man hesitates, but then gestures briefly with the dagger, and the two holding back Aerith's arms release her—but do not step back. She takes a moment to shake out her hands, getting her blood flowing again, and several expectant pairs of eyes burn into her. Steeling herself, she moves her trembling fingers up to undo her buttons, just below the leader's blade.

One.

Two.

Tseng.

Even prepared for his intervention, Aerith doesn't notice him until he says, "Let her go," and she's never been so glad to hear his quiet voice. He's crept up unnoticed, gun at the ready and trained on the leader's head. But even his sudden appearance is not enough of a distraction for Aerith to be able to slip out of danger. Instead, she holds her breath and waits.

The men all shift in place uneasily, exchanging uncertain glances. They can see well enough that someone like Tseng doesn't belong down here, but also that he's perfectly at ease amid the dust and shadows. And prepared to kill.

"She yours?" asks the leader, the first to speak.

Tseng's answer is immediate and forthright, his voice as unwavering as his stance. "She's under the protection of the Turks."

"Let's see you protect her, then," says the leader, and Aerith shudders as the point of his blade touches her skin. "You're only one man, and her life don't mean nothing to us."

"But yours do," says Tseng, not stirring an inch. "Try to kill her, and I kill you. Your don works for us, so he's not going to miss you." His finger tightens on the trigger, almost imperceptibly. "Now, drop the knife."

It's the most serious Aerith has ever heard Tseng, and she shivers at his icy tone. Yet there is no malice in his eyes, only a sense of intent purpose. The man must see it too, because he cannot meet them for long. The dagger clatters to the ground and he flees, his allies practically tripping over one another in their haste to follow—no hint of the coordination that trapped Aerith in the first place, as they drag the wounded one after them.

Tseng lets them run, but only flips the safety catch and stows his pistol again once he's sure they're all gone. "Are you all right?"

Aerith nods, remembering all at once to breathe. "Y-yes, thanks to you," she says, fumbling with her buttons as Tseng approaches and bends to pick up the knife. It barely even registers in her mind that he was watching her, just the same as her attackers. That doesn't seem important right now, though she'll probably think differently once she's safe at home. "But what took you so long?"

"I could tell you were only buying time, waiting for someone to save you," says Tseng, straightening up again, and looks down at Aerith from the leader's former position. His expression is almost fierce, and the dagger in his hand makes his words feel like an accusation. If the veil behind his eyes has slipped enough for her to discern any emotion in them, his feelings on the matter must be powerful indeed. "Did you have a plan for if I had been compromised?"

"Didn't need one," says Aerith, frowning. "It's your job to protect me, and you did." That's the price the Turks pay for their surveillance. Everything in Midgar is a give-and-take, and this arrangement is no exception. In exchange for Aerith's privacy and her empty promise to come quietly, Shinra provides her with protection, and her mother with the bare minimum of financial compensation. Until such time as they see fit to destroy their lives, anyway.

"Even so, you shouldn't have to rely on us like that," says Tseng, retrieving Aerith's staff almost as an afterthought and handing it to her. "Technically, you're not even supposed to know we're here. No one is—those men included."

Aerith scowls. "Are you saying this is somehow my fault?"

"No," says Tseng, and starts moving. "I'm saying it's important that you can handle yourself in a situation like that, just in case."

Aerith hurries after him, using her staff as a walking stick to keep herself from wobbling. It isn't easy. Frightening as that experience may have been, Tseng himself also strikes an imposing figure, silhouetted against neon signs as they emerge back onto the main thoroughfare. His ordinarily brisk pace is slower than usual, perhaps to accommodate Aerith's gait, but he barely looks back at her and does not speak.

She can't help but feel that Tseng is acting as though nothing happened at all, almost like real-time revisionist history. The emotion that flared up so briefly has gone dormant again, as swiftly as though it had never surfaced. But then again, perhaps it is simply invisible. After all, there is nothing rational about his recommendation that Aerith learn to defend herself. The Turks' task is to return Aerith to Shinra someday, but if she knows how to fight back, she will.

There are only so many reasons such a duty-driven man would suggest something so controversial. The memory of a jacket around her shoulders, and the warmth that came with it, gives Aerith an idea and the courage to voice it. "Are you… worried about me?"

Tseng glances back at Aerith once more, but neither stops moving nor answers her question. "You could have taken them, even as you are now. Don't hesitate next time."

His reproachful, condescending tone stirs the faintest embers of anger in Aerith's heart, and she cannot help but lash out. How dare Tseng reprimand her after what she just went through? "Even as I am now?" she repeats, brandishing her staff. "What do you want me to do, Tseng? How am I supposed to learn how to use this with the Turks watching me all the time?"

"By letting us teach you."

That is reasonably close to the last thing Aerith expected him to say, and she finds herself speechless. It's one thing to insinuate that they should turn a blind eye, and another thing to suggest that they train her themselves. Tseng wouldn't put his job on the line like this if he wasn't concerned for her on a very deep level. It looks like he's answered her question after all, but another has risen in its place.

Why?

Twenty, now, and still no sign of a reunion.

At this point, Aerith has to admit that she may have been in denial at first. Zack may be alive, but he still hasn't come back, or even answered any of her messages. By now, there are parts of him she can only remember in the liminal space between sleep and wakefulness. Her heart has been set adrift, no closure for an anchor, and there's no sign that the situation will improve.

Even Tseng—guardian of her letters, her virtue, and her future—is keeping his distance. Aerith catches glimpses of him in the shadows now and again, like always, but he doesn't approach or respond when she tries to call him over. He's even delegated her combat training to Reno and Rude rather than facing her himself. Aerith wishes he'd stop making excuses and fight her, too.

"Tseng would rather this wasn't traced back to him," says Rude, when Aerith asks after him. "They're saying he's playing favorites as is. And besides, he doesn't wanna see you hurt." That's all he says on the matter, but that's enough. Aerith is used to his reticence. It is not that he has little to say, but that he has little reason to say more. Rude is all strength and silence; if any Turk truly does his job, it must be him.

Reno, of course, is another story entirely. He and Aerith always end up bickering about everything except Tseng, but even without understanding him, at least they're under no delusion as to where they stand with each other: right on the edge of curiosity and animosity. Still, regardless of their personal feelings, orders are orders, and they're in no position to ignore them.

Besides, Reno finds a silver lining soon enough. It's not like Aerith can run anywhere or tell anyone if he beats her halfway to hell, especially if he does it in the name of simulated combat, so he enjoys taking full advantage of his free rein on their sparring days. But that doesn't stop him from complaining anyway.

"Tseng's sure bending a lot of rules for you," says Reno once. "And going behind some pretty important backs to do it, too. Feels like he cares about you more than he cares about me and Rude combined. There's no way he'd tell us to give you a leg up like this, otherwise. You putting out or something?"

Aerith tells the truth and says of course not, but Reno's words stick in her mind like molasses, slow-moving and bittersweet. Most of the jokes he cracks are offhand, but all of them contain a grain of truth. Contrary to what he (and everyone else) usually insists, there is always a reason behind the things he says, whether he knows it or not. Jumping to such a conclusion, even in jest, brings up aspects of Aerith's situation she doesn't like to consider.

To Shinra, her only value comes in trading herself away in one sense or another, and her body already belongs to them in as many ways as they like. The Turks could leave her with much worse than a few bruises if they wanted. But Reno doesn't care enough to put in the effort; Rude never does more than what he's told; and Tseng… is inscrutable as ever.

Perhaps that's why Aerith would rather he train her, too. Compared to him, she's learned quite a bit about Reno and Rude since they started mentoring her. Rude spends more time showing her how to execute specific moves, but Reno does a better job showing her what a real fight is like. In both cases, purposely or not, they've shown her what she'll be up against—both personally and in combat.

Rude is himself, inside and out, but the only time she's ever seen Reno really look alive is when they duel, because he never goes easy on her. It's been over a year, and she still can't get the better of him for long. Truth be told, she likes it that way; it keeps her on her toes. More often than not, she winds up winded, seeing stars among the flowers. And it's exhilarating, the way her body tingles from frustration as well as electricity. (So this is why others fight, and love it.)

Today is no exception. Aerith is lying beside her lilies, Reno sprawled on a pew, both catching their breath. He gets his back first. "Hey, flower girl," he says, and doesn't bother opening his eyes any more than he ever bothers calling her by her name. She doubts he even remembers it. Sometimes it's old lady for her Ancient heritage, but more often it's flower girl.

Aerith turns her head to face him. "What is it, shady guy?"

"Wanna walk to the bar with me?"

Pushing herself upright, Aerith scowls at Reno. "Excuse me?"

"Hey, don't look at me like that," says Reno, swinging his legs off the pew in preparation to rise. "You're the last person I'd ask out; I only date humans. But I do need a drink, and I am still on babysitting duty for a few more hours, so you'll need to come with me."

"Or, here's a thought, you could leave me alone for once."

"That's not happening," says Reno, sitting up and twisting both ways to crack his back. Aerith winces at the noise, and he grins at her discomfort, just like always. "Come on, I'll buy you a drink, too."

"No thanks." Aerith has had a taste or two of alcohol over the years, and didn't hate it, but she's seen what too much of it can do to the people down here. Better to keep her distance, just in case. "It sounds more like I'd be keeping an eye on you, anyway."

"Shows what you know," says Reno, getting to his feet and stretching luxuriously so that his words slur. "I only ever get drunk when someone else is buying. Tolerance is too damn high for it to be worth my own money."

"I still don't think this is a good idea," says Aerith, but has little choice but to stand up anyway. She doesn't like being much farther below Reno if she can help it, and she's already several inches shorter than him.

Reno heaves an exasperated, and possibly exaggerated, sigh. "Okay, so what if I get you something else nice? And the Turks owe you a drink."

Aerith raises her eyebrows. Reno must be pretty thirsty if he's making an offer that generous instead of giving an order. Judging from his self-satisfied smirk, he knows he's piqued her interest, so there's no use in hiding it. "What kind of something else?"

Crossing his arms, Reno paces jauntily around Aerith to look her up and down, sharp eyes practically rending her dress. His are blue, too, like the sky she has almost stopped fearing. "How's about a new hair bow? That old thing's looking a little ratty."

Frowning, Aerith touches it automatically. This ribbon is a remnant of more pleasant days, when she always had something to look forward to. Someone to hold, if not to have—leaving her breathless and quivering for other reasons. And Reno must know what it means to her; his expression is expectant, anticipatory. So this was why he hadn't just dragged her along. For whatever reason, he'd wanted to needle her about Zack.

But, to Aerith's surprise, she feels no pain at Reno's prodding: it seems the scar doesn't hurt anymore. And her ribbon has gotten a little threadbare over the years. At this point, the only things that keep it tied are probably force of habit and a sense of obligation. It seems Reno speaks more truth than he realizes, as usual. Had he not pointed it out, Aerith might not have consciously recognized that retiring her bow from everyday use doesn't mean she'll lose the memories associated with it.

"Deal," says Aerith, and relishes Reno's astonishment. "As long as I get to pick it out. And as long as you don't tell anyone you bought me anything."

Mischief overtakes Reno's shock, and he laughs. "You kidding? Tseng's buying, whether he knows it or not."

"Tseng?" That brings Aerith up short. She doesn't know how or why that changes anything, but it does. The implications of him buying her something feel different than with someone like Reno. More personal, like a real gift instead of just a bribe. And it makes her physically uncomfortable in a gut-fluttering way she can't explain, or perhaps simply doesn't want to.

"Yeah, Tseng," says Reno, peering at Aerith more closely. "I know he's no SOLDIER, or whatever it is that turns you on, but his gil's just as good, right?"

Aerith doesn't care about things like that, but gives a distracted nod anyway. If Reno is going to be using Tseng's money, she wishes he were here instead, so he could do it in person. Intentionally. It seems like, even though he's in charge of the Turks, he rarely has the chance to do anything himself—much less do what he wants.

And Aerith is beginning to wonder, more and more, what that is.

Twenty-one, and everything feels like it's either coming together or falling apart.

It's been five years exactly since Aerith first met Zack. Today should be special. Sacrosanct, even. But it feels like just another day instead, because lately, she's found herself reminiscing less and wanting more.

Aerith's heart isn't built for waiting. She misses the butterflies in her stomach and the buzz in her blood. She misses the giggles and blushes, the kisses and caresses. She misses the perfect wordless understanding gained from moments of pure intimacy, a magnetic push and pull between souls as well as bodies. She even misses the ache between her legs and the lies she had to tell her mother whenever she came home still starry-eyed.

And so Aerith finds her mind wandering more and more often back to the epiphany she had, lying naked on the altar with stained-glass light spilling into and out of and over her. How was it that such bodily ecstasy could make her forget her physical form altogether?

Yet, even then, Zack was more a catalyst than the cause. All-encompassing as that revelation may have been, it was not unique to the two of them. On the contrary, Aerith felt an overwhelming sense of connectivity to all things, expanding beyond herself and her partner to encompass an endless dance performed throughout all time. Individual identity is subservient to the drive for pleasure and procreation. Sex is no more or less sacred than any other instinctive ritual.

An end so long left loose can no longer tie her down.

Now, Aerith has only the Turks to keep her company, and they're hardly adequate replacements. Even so, they find their way into her fantasies now and again, alongside various imaginary lovers and the fading memory of Zack. Rarely at any length, but their shadows are all she can cling to these nights. And one of them in particular has come to haunt her.

Shinra's suspicions must have finally worn off, because Tseng has stopped avoiding Aerith by now. However, his invasions of her privacy are always maddeningly unobtrusive. Though their few conversations are invariably brief, they have have become more personal over the years. Each one serves as a reminder that Tseng is one of only a handful of people who truly know Aerith—who will ever truly know Aerith, whether she likes it or not.

But, despite their eternal and inevitable proximity, they can never be friends. The intangible screen that separates them is not that of fate, but it is still ordained by powers far higher than either of them. Maybe the reason Tseng has surfaced in her thoughts so often lately is because of that unspoken law. (Evidently, it isn't only humans who want most what they can never have.)

It's enough to make Aerith wish they could at least be enemies instead. It'd be so much easier if she could bring herself to hate Tseng, if only so she'd appreciate how little time they have together instead of needing more. There are times, more and more frequent, when she wants him to stop acting like some sort of glorified chaperone and acknowledge what he really is, and ought to be. A stalker.

Call it vengeance, but she finds herself wanting to break him.

Tseng had the Turks teach Aerith exactly how to defeat him, but she has learned more of his weaknesses than he intended. Scattered as they may be, she's seen the signs over the years. Lengthening shifts, self-assigned. Lingering subconscious smiles, all contentment tinged with melancholy. A gaze more watchful than necessary. An uncannily retentive memory for her likes and dislikes, however trivial. A flicker across his face whenever she mentions Zack unexpectedly.

Everything is more obvious in hindsight, of course. It took a long time for Aerith to fit all the pieces together, and longer still for her to care, but now she sees the picture they create: a window of opportunity. After all, whether Tseng denies it to himself or only to the outside world is irrelevant. It would be easy, in either case, to provoke him—to make him crack, and shatter her in return.

Still, without any direct confirmation, all Aerith's observations amount to nothing more than idle guesswork and suppositions. If she wants to know where they stand once and for all, or maybe push him into standing somewhere else, she'll have to force the issue. She understands just enough about Tseng to know that he will not bare his heart voluntarily.

The more Aerith considers the idea, the more she likes it. Her pride is a more-than-fair price to pay for the truth, and if the stars align, she might be able to get her hands on more than that. If he holds even a part of her destiny in his hands, she might be able to reclaim it. He might even want to give it back.

But leverage, however precious, is not the point. This is no act of desperation. This isn't falling in love, or falling back on feminine wiles to earn favors. This is a direct challenge to Tseng and herself alike: Aerith knows him, too, even if he'd rather she didn't. Manipulation is the last thing on her mind. All she wants is to understand him, and if he won't explain in words… well, actions speak louder.

It's not the first time Aerith has considered this, really, even if it's never seemed so feasible before. This collection of realizations has been a long time coming. Having been prevented from growing any closer to Tseng in mind or spirit, what else can she do but covet other, more manageable kinds of intimacy? Sex always told her more about Zack than their conversations, anyway. She could feel him, in more senses than the one.

Aerith is certain that it will be the same with Tseng. He's no SOLDIER, but he's still got whatever it is that turns her on. His body is as warm as any other, and even if he keeps his heart cold out of necessity, it isn't his heart she intends to touch. Nor does she have any intention of letting him touch hers. Let Aerith be the predator for once, and Tseng the prey, even if he insists on playing his predetermined role.

What will he taste like…?

Moistening her lips, Aerith comes back to herself, and glances out at the darkening sky. Sudden as such a decisive shift may feel, it has to be tonight. There's a point she needs to prove to herself, clearer than ever, and she never did learn how to wait. And besides, her mother is safely out of the house, so she won't be able to stop her from going out. (Not as long as she leaves a lie tacked on the door to reassure her.)

Laughing softly to herself, Aerith gets up and paces over to her wardrobe. Even if she's wrong, she'll at least get a reaction, and that's what she wants more than anything else. And if she's right, nothing Tseng does can be against her will as long as she wills it. No matter what happens tonight, she'll still come out on top. That's the important part.

The Turks still owe Aerith that drink, so she already has the beginnings of a plan, but she'll have to persuade Tseng to show himself first. He's been watching her for years, so he's probably desensitized to most kinds of temptation. She'll have to walk some sort of tightrope if she wants to draw him out.

But that's fine. Aerith likes a challenge.

Time to give him a show.