Disclaimer: In no way do I own FFVII. If I had, the Compilation would have been scrapped on the proposition table.

Notes: If you like your protagonists following a perfect code of ethics or morality, please look elsewhere. I do not find such people natural or at all interesting. I do not write about them. What I do do with my characters is this: be very mean to them. I have more of an interest in character interaction than combat scenes, and I might as well tell you now that the romantic front is mainly of an OCxOC nature, plays second fiddle to the overarching story, and is in any case subdued.

This is not a story about anyone going to Midgar to hook up with Cloud or Sephiroth.

I'm not sure how many people will actually read this; most stories of this type are written with the protagonist ages 14 to 18, and this one is essentially a sequel to that idea. There's boring stuff in here, like work. Still, they tell you to write what you know, and I refuse to revisit my teenage years. Please give it a try.

PS., People swear in this story, as fluidly as in real life. I don't care if 'it's unprofessional,' first of all this is fanfiction so it doesn't have to be professional, and anyway I've read some excellent stories with lots of swearing. Above all, you do not have to read it. So if you have a problem with that, you know what to do. Honestly, what do you people do when Cid Highwind debuts in a fic? Stick your fingers in your eyes?

###

There was a man sitting on my porch who I did not recognize. He was tall and stoutly built, wearing jeans and had over that only light jacket. Despite the bitter winter wind it was not even zipped up.

I pulled into a parking space further back in the lot, from which point I could observe him, and consider my course of action.

The first thing to consider was that I was a single woman, coming home before the mass influx of day laborers returning to their lairs, and that the cameras installed in the lights might not do me any good in the immediate sense.

The second thing to consider was that if he actually were a hostile, that he would not be sitting on my porch in broad daylight, in full view of the highway, the access road, the aforementioned cameras, and whoever else was home at this hour if he had any sense.

It was worth contemplating that I was being unnecessarily paranoid. Coincidences were a fair factor in life, and I had lived long enough to account for the possibility.

I wished that Brandon were there with me, so I could make him go and figure it out. This wasn't a dangerous neighborhood, and crime wasnt very common, but there was something threatening about the man set my hair on end, and my gut feelings were usually reliable.

I looked at the clock despite myself. It was almost sixteen minutes past three. If I waited much longer I would be late.

How much is this job worth to me? I admitted to myself, as much as I hated to: a lot.

Thus the decision was made for me, and I reluctantly got out of the car.

The parking lot was mostly empty. The high school kids hadn't had time to make it back home yet, and their working parents wouldn't be home for another couple of hours or more.

That might be the shortest time frame in which someone might find my body.

The thought triggered an instant, almost disgusted recoil; was this me? How far had I fallen, in the last few years; evidently low enough to deprive me of my spine.

I stepped up the pace and resolved to say nothing at all to the man. He was on my porch, not my sofa, and he wasn't actually doing anything. Just to be safe, feeling obnoxious and foolish somehow, I stuck my hand in my purse and took hold of my canister of bear mace.

I nodded at him once, in acknowledgement, but did not meet his eyes exactly, and stepped past him.

When I heard him stand, I turned my head. My heart, however, did not speed up; it stayed steady along with my composure, although all of my faculties were on high alert.

"Do you live here?" he asked. I noticed his accent was not Southern. It was a neutral Midwest tone. I did not have a Southern accent either despite being born and raised in the region, so I did not give it any special thought.

"Yes. Why?" I said, and dropped my hand. My keys were clenched in a loose fist, teeth poking out through my fingers. My other hand unlatched the top of the bear mace, unseen.

"Do you know how I could get in touch with Brandon Backer?" he asked. He kept a little bit of distance with his hands hidden in his pockets. Standing on a lower step put him almost at eye level wih me. He was a great pit bull of a man, with gray eyes and buzzed off hair. I thought he looked like a creep.

"Why do you need to get in touch with him?" I asked, not smiling or showing my surprise. "Who are you?"

"Do you know when he'll be back?"

"I have no idea," I said bluntly. My tone made it pretty obvious that I wasn't going to answer any other questions, either.

The man suddenly glared at me, and for an instant I tensed up. The building rush hour traffic swished past in ignorance, but seemed all the closer. A pregnant second two ticked by.

"Watch your mouth."

"I'll try," I retorted, "Bye."

He paused for a second, visibly annoyed as our eyes locked again, but then left without another word. He got into an old Detroit monster and drove off while I stood on my porch and watched to make sure he went out the gate, which required a keycard to access.

Does that mean he lives here somewhere or he has access anyway?

"Fuck," I muttered.

Brandon would be home in three hours from his job at the meat processing plant, and I would be waiting for him. We were definitely having a talk tonight.

##

"I'm home, sweetie!"

Maybe he had forgotten how much I hated being called sweetie, but I would not argue with him right now. Not yet, anyway; it wouldn't do any good to start an argument just because I had managed to work myself up over the last few hours, and was now just barely holding myself back from coming at him with a knife and interrogating him until he broke.

"Rhea?" he said, when I did not immediately respond.

I stepped out of the kitchen, wiping my hands dry with a tea towel.

"In here, Brandon."

He appeared around the corner, all bright smiles and cheer. He was carrying a big box wrapped in silver iridescent paper.

"I missed you," he said, and kissed me on the forehead. He was quite tall; I had always liked tall men. "What's for dinner? Smells good. Um—it won't mess with my seafood allergy, will it?"

"Not unless sheep recently evolved to have gills and learned to swim," I replied dryly.

"Sheep?" he repeated, and stood there with his eyes comically wide. "You made sheep?"

Good God, it's hard to stay mad at this idiot. Sometimes, like now, I resented that about him, that he was able to completely disarm me.

"Lamb, actually. I Googled how to make a rack of lamb. Sheep meat is called mutton."

He still seemed startled, but then shook his head.

"Here—this is for you," he said, and placed the shiny box in my arms.

"What is it?" I asked, perhaps sounding nonplussed.

"Youll have to open it," he said. "It's a surprise."

Brandon, bless his sweet soul, was not a person I envisioned being with. I always figured I would end up with someone like myself, and if I had there would never have been surprise gifts or boundless enthusiasm. I smiled genuinely; every single time his spontaneity still seemed novel.

I brought the box into the kitchen and put it on the table. The box and the lid were wrapped separately, so that all I had to do was pull off the top and look inside. A single iris in a vase sat beside a book I had not bought because of our budget.

A brief spasm of exasperation flared and died. This cost money, an expense we could not afford, but there was a better time and place to discuss it.

"Oh, wow!" I gushed, and took out the book and the flower by its little ceramic pot. "Thank you, Brandon."

"I had to get the people at Borders to help me," he said, pointing at the thick volume, which was about the Unification of Germany in the late 1800s. "This stuff is totally not my thing."

"How thoughtful," I said, sincerely. I flipped through the pages. I was reminded of how badly I had wanted it now that it was in my hands. I looked up. "Are you hungry?"

"I'm starving," Brandon said, "Is everything ready?"

I had not liked making tables as a little kid. We only did it when my dad was home from work in time to eat, which wasn't frequent. It happened more often as I grew older, but then when I went to college I had a cafeteria to feed me, and it was only after Brandon and I moved in together that I voluntarily took the time and trouble.

He sat down and I placed the dinner platter in the middle of the table, next to the mashed potatoes. I sat down, too.

"What part of the lamb is it?" Brandon asked.

"The ribs," I said.

He blinked at it, possibly mystified that anyone would not simply put a slab of ribs on a plate and call it quits. These had been frenched-had the tip ends stripped down to bare bone-and arranged in a shallow pool of mint sauce.

"Well, they look good to me," he remarked with the eagerness of an unpicky eater, and grabbed three of them.

We had been eating for a while, and discussing our work days, when finally I decided I had had enough of pretending that everything was alright. There was no easy way to start this conversation so I took a deep breath and got straight to the point. I set down my silverware and touched my mouth with my napkin, set it down, and went straight for the kill.

"Brandon," I said, and he looked up at me, unawares, "There was someone waiting for you when I got home from work today. I have no idea who he was, but he wanted to know when you would be home."

Brandon froze, he blanched and turned a sickly gray. He dropped the lamb rib numbly.

"Oh my God, Rhea—Are you okay? What—what did he look like?"

"I'm fine," I said. "Have you gotten into something?"

"It's—it's nothing—"

"It is not nothing," I interrupted. "Brandon, I need to know. It doesn't just affect you—that guy showed up on our doorstep and I think that if we hadn't been out in public things would have gotten ugly." I sighed, and spread my hands. "What; are you gambling again?" He's never actually gone in the hole that I know of, but…

He was silent for a little too long, and his guilty look told me all I needed to know. I had guessed correctly, or near enough the mark. I sat back, vaguely annoyed but by far more concerned about our health and safety.

"Fuck," I muttered, and ran a hand through my hair. It fell loosely around my neck and shoulders. I folded my arms. "Do you owe these guys money, or something?"

"Five thousand," he admitted. "I almost had it, Rhea. Then they pulled out—I swear it was an extra queen of diamonds. They were cheating."

"Honestly that doesn't matter," I said. "You lost."

"But it wasn't fair," Brandon argued.

"Okay? Don't play back door poker!"

He sat in silence for a minute, squirming anxiously. He didn't say anything, and wouldn't look at me.

"Did you use any of our savings?" We had nearly wiped out our joint pool savings account on fixing the Hyundai last month after somebody sideswiped us.

"No," he said, quickly. "No. I didn't. It was a loan. I promised to pay them back double."

"Wait, double? Hang on—did you borrow five K or twenty-five hundred? Do you owe five-thousand or ten-thousand?"

"I borrowed twenty-five hundred…so I owe five-thousand."

I sighed with relief. At least that was within reasonable boundaries.

"Brandon, who is it you owe money to?"

"Some guys at the pier…"

I looked at him narrowly.

"Well, I guess you're just going to have to pay them back," I said.

"What?" Brandon said, and I could see that his shock was absolutely genuine.

"You boiled the soup—now slurp it."

"I thought you would support me!"

"I do support you," I replied. "But you lost, so suck it up and pay the consequences."

His countenance trembled; he seemed confused more than anything else.

"But they cheated!"

"So what?"

"So what? So it's not fair that I have to pay them at all!"

I leaned back in my chair and sighed.

"Yes, but you voided all your ideas of right and wrong as soon as you walked into their house. They took you for a ride. Second of all, they came here. They want their money and I think that violence is definitely on the list of possibilities if you don't play ball."

Brandon stared at me helplessly.

"So you think I should pay them off? I shouldn't call the police?"

I hesitated just a moment. Was it more appropriate to call the police? Oh, screw it. It was beyond me to try and guess.

"Well, I suppose you could do that," I said uncertainly. "I wouldn't. I think the cops might have a few questions for you about illegal gambling."

I also think it would be a massive dick move. You'd also going to probably get killed in prison for being a bitch-ass snitch.

"Well—what would you do?"

"I think I would pay them off. If I get myself into something I feel like I should take responsibility for it."

"I don't think I can do that," he said slowly.

"You don't think you can do what? Take responsibility for your actions?"

He jerked once, and his face turned bright red.

"Tell me what's the problem, Brandon. You know, I should get up and walk out that door and not come back until this is over, say fuck it and let you work this thing out yourself because you told me you were done with this shit."

His eyes widened and he looked instantly panicked.

"No! I—"

I silenced him with a very sharp gesture.

"But I'm not going to. Call them up, say you've got the money."

"What?" he said faintly. "Rhea, we don't have the money."

"Yes, we do," I said. "I do, actually."

There was a prolonged pregnant silence.

"I—I don't know what to say, I—"

"Oh, believe me—you're going to pay me back," I said shortly. "And we're going to draw up a legal contract to make sure of it."

He stared at me in shocked silence.

"What, you think I'm just going to give you five grand without a guarantee? These guys can shoot you. I can take you to small claims court."

"I'm your boyfriend," he said, suddenly serious.

"And that makes you exempt from balancing the check book how?"

"You would sue me over five thousand dollars?"

"Only if you don't pay up. Those are my terms," I said. "Take it or leave it. That five thousand is coming out of my personal savings account. Think of the guarantee as payback for putting me through this shit."

"Your what? Since when did you have that?"

I sighed hard. It was sometimes a deal breaker for two people in a serious relationship to have secrets like money hidden away but I had simply neglected to ever mention it, thereby lying by omission; I wondered what Brandon thought. He couldn't have thought anything good, I could see just how mad he was.

"I've been saving money since I was sixteen," I said. "Some of it is tied up in investments but there's a good bit of it just gathering interest."

"How much money do you have?"

I looked at him incredulously.

"In what alternate universe have you proven yourself financially responsible?" I said. "It's my money." I'm also not keen on you figuring out just how much you might count on for a fall back. It's not there for that. "And Brandon—this is a one-time bailout. If you ever pull a stunt like this again, I'm leaving you and you'll be on your own."

His alarm was deep and breathless; I stared back at him implacably.

"You didn't leave me before," he said uncertainly. "Why would you leave me now? Rhea, I need you! You keep me sane!"

I stared.

"Keep yourself sane!" I retorted. "For that matter—" I lifted an eyebrow, "I didn't leave you the first time because really, you were only losing money in casinos, and I'm not leaving you this time because this is the first time you've done this sort of thing. If you do it again, it's over—three strikes, you're out."

##

I actually like pit bulls. Pits have cute fat faces. I think shitty owners have ruined the breed; when labs were popular those crazy inbred fuckers bit people, too, but owners who encourage their animals to be aggressive are awful people.