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Title: Goodnight, Sweet Beloved
Genre: Romance / Family
Rating: K+
Pairing: Cloud x Tifa (couldn't be any more obvious, now, can it?)
Disclaimer: Oh, the things I would make them do, if I owned Cloud Strife and Tifa Lockhart…
A/N: A test-run to see if I'm capable of writing fluff. Not the most original of concepts, unfortunately, but I decided that it's time to rid it from my system lest CloTi-induced insanity ensues.
This was intended to be a one-shot, but it somehow got too long. So I decided to break it up into six ficlets.
Plot Summary:
Her kiss goodnight. It was a simple gesture of affection, cultivated since humanity began, to wish another well into the peaceful world of sleep. To him, however, it was the caress of angel's wings. CloTi. Post AC. Six-shot.
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Goodnight, Sweet Beloved
Part One: Unlikely Remedy
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I had always been fascinated with Tifa Lockhart.
Young, I was then, and yet so inescapably captivated. A neat, blue bow atop her fair head, she was the girl next door, one who could not help but capture the attention of every eye. Her smile was the sun's radiance upon a dull, barren land, her shy laughter, a rhapsody of the purest birdsong. One could not call her running so much as dancing, her feet pattering across the ground like a rain of soft kisses, as they pranced and pirouetted in her joyous fury.
She was Nibelheim's beloved, a dove amidst a flock of ravens.
No, not a dove. Doves were white. Inadvertently, her hair had already dispelled that image – darker than chocolate, lighter than ebony. It swept across moon-kissed skin that was indeed white, yet brighter, bestowing upon her a still greater elegance even as she sat there in her variegated glory.
No, she was not a dove. Neither an angel, nor a goddess. She was merely – Tifa Lockhart. For there were no words that could possibly compare with her beauty, no words that had worth or meaning enough to describe her truly, completely. They were flawed, flawed in the way that she was flawed – too absolute in their definitions to account for the whole. What right had I to name her dove, angel or goddess – symbols of perfection – when it was her flaws, together with her admirable qualities, that made her the person who she was?
And the person whom I loved most.
In her all-encompassing imperfection, she had stolen my heart. Hers, was the attention I had always sought after. Hers, was the embrace I would but willingly surrender myself into.
Unfortunately, I had not realized all of this till now.
Blinded by chaotic emotions and feats of heroism, I had disregarded all around me, only pursuing my interests with single-minded determination. Some led to destruction, others, to escape. Whether they involved the re-assembly of my mismatched identity, or the struggle for the Planet's survival, only one thing was evident. In the midst of confusion, I had failed to see the single, most important fact of my life.
She was always there for me.
Loyally, she had waited, my concerns utmost, as I defeated my arch-enemy, banished his lingering remnants and overcame my guilt. And even as she waited, she had offered aid, comfort, and most importantly of all, her confidence in me. Countless were the times she had rescued me from the depths of self-despair, uplifting me even in my somber aloofness, taking assurance in my oh-so-fragile bravado. Had it not been for her, I would not be standing here today.
Or propped halfway up against the headboard of my bed, actually.
Not that the aforementioned were cause for my fondness of her. Of course, one could hardly go by being human without reciprocating some kind of friendship in turn. But what I felt, was born of something with an entirely different nature.
And it was stealing the very breath from my lips right this instant.
Her.
Neither her deeds, nor her love, but her. Simply her.
And so, was I fascinated.
Blessed was the one to behold Tifa Lockhart, and whether or not I be in this affection-drunken stupor that some vindictive love-deity had cast upon me, I would have to agree.
The curtains in my room were drawn, allowing but a sliver of the pale afternoon sun to trickle through. Though a wan and flickering sliver it be, it was sufficient to illuminate all that needed to be illuminated – namely, the woman by my bedside.
She was seated on a wooden stool, a tray carrying a bowl and various phials in her lap. The light settled gently upon one side of her heart-shaped face, painting it a dazzling hue of creamy golden even as the other half reclined in shadow. Every now and then, her fine brows would furrow in concentration, accompanied by a slight twitch of her dainty nose that I found indescribably endearing. Her full lips, tinged pink in the sun's glow, had me eyeing them longingly – for they were a temptation no man could possibly resist.
Needless to say, however, I was enchanted most by her eyes.
Almond-shaped, they were a warm hue of brown, adorned with red flecks that made them sparkle with jewel-like splendor. It was this mystifying quality that had one uncertain of their true colour at first glance. And that was not even including their uncanny ability to shift shades whenever she experienced different emotions.
Brown, exclusively brown they were, when she was happy. Likewise, they shone pure red in her anger. Everything else was any unique combination in between, from a glittering garnet in her surprise, to a dulled mahogany in her sadness.
I regretfully confess that I had been seeing the latter too much.
But they were closer to brown now, a misty cinnamon that, of once, had me clueless as to her feelings. They would flick to me occasionally, then back to her tray, eliciting an enigmatic smile from the corners of her mouth each time.
By the Planet, she was beautiful.
And I haven't even started on those glorious, womanly curves –
Okay, let's not go there. But she was beautiful, nonetheless (and still more so with those outstanding –), even…
Even if she happened to be mixing up some positively evil concoction.
I was no fool – the stirring motions of her hand were all too familiar. Why, otherwise, would she require that motley assortment of phials? The potion was to be made fresh, with unidentifiable bits and pieces thrown in, for extra nastiness of taste.
Sure, everyone would say that Tifa Lockhart always had my best intentions at heart. Under normal circumstances, I would comply, and unhesitatingly, at that. But, now, wasn't what you'd call 'normal circumstances'. If one had an eye sharp enough, he would notice the smug accusation in her glances directed towards me, silently implying that I'd deliberately gotten myself into this situation.
And therefore, I was deserving of this. This, being her retribution for I not heeding her advice about 'avoiding travel in much less-than-pleasant weather'.
Herbal medicine.
Smiling encouragingly, she pushed the product of her efforts – a bowl of foul smelling, inky black liquid – closer to my lips. I turned away, repulsed.
Bleargh.
"Come on, Cloud, drink up," she said cheerfully. "It'll help you get better."
Was that amusement in her voice?
There was no way on Gaia I would let that vile substance go down my throat. Not especially with that overly saccharine grin on her face, which could only be masking some less-than-benevolent intent…
It brought out those lovely dimples beneath her cheeks, though.
A few moments passed on in fruitless discord, with her insistently pleading for me to accept her oh-so-delightful gift (note the sarcasm), and me, stubbornly rejecting it (obviously). Finally, she gave up with a sigh, laying down the bowl on my bedside table in the hopes that I would – eventually – drink it.
Fat chance.
"Alright, Cloud. If it suits you…" Her tone still held the merriment of her ironically futile persuasion, if tainted with a hint of annoyance. "I have to go clean up the bar now. If you need anything, I'll be back in thirty, 'kay?"
She disappeared out the door in a light sprinkle of footsteps, taking her tray and stool with her. The image of her mane gracefully swaying in rhythm with her hips lingered in my mind for a moment longer, before I realized I was alone. This time, with nothing but an ugly deskful of paperwork to ogle at.
Oh joy.
Lest you ponder excessively about why I was being served inedible soup, and in bed, no less, permit me to explain. The first, was because I had adamantly refused to go to the doctor, therefore did not obtain a prescription. Which led to Tifa taking into her own hands, the specifics of my treatment, which led to her fingering through a traditional recipe, which led to the despicable weed stew. (This, she relayed to me, with a nonchalant grin, was the same one she had force-fed the children with, in similar times of crisis.) The second, was due to my run-in with a storm during one of my deliveries, and you can guess the rest.
That's right.
I, Cloud Strife, ex-leader of AVALANCHE and (twice) saviour-of-the-world, had fallen victim to the common cold.
Unbelievable, isn't it?
Well, here's how it began…
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TBC…
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A/N: So there you go. Part One.
I had decided to abandon my usual style of writing (and vocabulary) in favour of something lighter and less dramatic to suit the atmosphere of this story. Word choice was still a pain, though.
My not-so-little slur on herbal medicine came from personal experience. Though I daresay I'm a little less fussy when it comes to downing the wretched thing.
Reviews are a welcome treat.
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