Tactile
AN: I own nothing in this story. Please R&R.
Her mastery of martial arts aside, Tifa was never one for being overly touchy. Her soul-mate was even more against constant little pokes or playful traces along his scar.
"Squall's a wall and Tifa's becoming a statue," Yuffie liked to say, loudly and often.
Of course they both started with a touch. He had reached out to her, a steady press against her back. She turned to him, pressing lightly into his body, eyes asking if this was okay.
His response was the brightest smile she'd ever seen him give and a clear gleam in his blue eyes.
Their sparring became more intense as they quested onwards in their relationship, a missed Revolver leaving him open for a trip. But her supposed trip ended up with her on her back, his body close to hers before he got to his feet, a hand outstretched.
Taking it, she couldn't help but grin even if it meant she'd be forced to suffer his choice of movies for the next month.
When he'd come home, muscles sore from aiding in construction or fighting or whatever other millions of duties he placed on himself, she was there with a tight hug and a swift bridal-style trip towards the couch.
That tradition had started when Squall was sick one afternoon and refusing to leave the office, leaving Tifa no choice but to bodily carry him in her arms to some bed-rest.
Of course, he'd whisper in her ear when they were alone tangled in the sheets, he adored her when she reminded him that he could rest from his burdens every now and then.
Marriage comes and goes in a whirlwind of shrieking ninja's, a cursing pilot, and a magical orchestra courtesy of their surrogate grandfather who gave them the slightest of hints that their future would be long and prosperous indeed.
He lightly squeezed her hand at that and she could do nothing but grin like Goofy and squeeze back.
Touches came more readily to him as she worshiped the porcelain throne, as her stomach consumed her toned abs, as she bemoaned the loss of her figure, his fingers lightly tracing the softer parts of her.
Adorable he'd say, matronly, he'd assure. Not dowdy, certainly not that three letter word she dreaded like disease, even though he had to admit that ripping through a pair of his largest sweats with plenty of jiggles was kind of unusual for her fourth month.
He never said that aloud though.
Her grip nearly consumed his right hand as she gave birth, their daughter's first cry soon ringing out.
Their son's cry five short minutes after that is a bit louder.
The children bring a lot more touches into their lives from mud fights in the backyard, with Tifa smearing his face with a particularly goopy bit before crowing in triumph and ruffling Zell's hair to thank him for his help, to gentle caresses as Ellone didn't get the lead in her first high school play.
By the time the children are no longer children, their touches become slower.
When Tifa's hair is nothing but white and he's asking her to repeat what she just said, she grins at the dazed look in his eyes, her wrinkled and slightly bent frame pressing firmly into his.
His smile's still the same after all these years, she thinks, even as his eyes seem to grow that much clearer as he embraces her, stroking her hair and murmuring about another eighty years.
"Only if you can pin me again," she whispers back, her embrace the slowest she's ever done.
She might not be the most tactile woman in the world, to say nothing of her husband, but she is one for savoring every bit of time she has with this man, even if it's with crackly bones and a penchant for bran muffins.
