The Ghost of New Years

New Years Day and it was raining outside. It never snowed in Midgar no matter what the season. I almost wished it would just for a change of pace in my world of monotony, but that was already sitting across the bar from me and working on his tenth drink.

The clock chimed 3 a.m. and the bar should've been closed two hours ago. I should've been home and in bed, but there was nothing waiting for me there. So I was taking comfort in the last straggler of the night, even if his wasn't the most friendly face. It didn't make a lot of sense that he was here at all.

Everyone else had left hours ago. Barret had the kids, Cloud went out for a ride, and the rest of the crew were on a rampage across the city for an all night party. Seeing Vincent get tipsy enough to agree to something like that was almost worth having to endure in their absence a moping, silver-haired momma's boy who had downed enough liquor to kill a chocobo.

It didn't bother me that no one but me had seemed to see the man seated at the bar now, or that he followed my every motion with forlorn interest behind his clouded green eyes. I knew he wasn't real, that he couldn't reach over the counter and touch me, that I would feel nothing if he did. He was a ghost if I'd ever seen one.

A very sad ghost.

I dried my hands on the dish towel and turned to face him. "Why are you here?"

His shoulders gave a minute shrug as he took another swig of his Bloody Mary. Maybe the name fit him, but tomato juice? I had a hard time envisioning Sephiroth as a tomato juice kind of guy, but then there was a lot more Vodka in what he was drinking than there was tomato.

The ghost wobbled unsteadily on his stool, but appeared to have no interest in answering the question. That didn't surprise me. For all I knew he couldn't even hear me and this was some bizarre dimensional crossover.

Did ghosts get drunk?

"Maybe you should slow down." I suggested calmly and turned back around, submerging my hands in warm soap suds. There were a lot of customers on a night like this and thus, a lot of dishes too. I hated washing dishes.

"You ever think…"His voice undulated, "'bout what would've been…you know…without that whole Jenova mess?"

I paused what I was doing and braced my hands against the edge of the sink. Now where had that come from? "What, about you?" I asked, uncertain of his meaning. That could mean any number of things – I might never have met my friends, would never have known Marlene or Denzel.

Denzel might still have his parents. Cloud might have been with me.

"You know." He returned soberly.

My brow furrowed in consternation. Had I thought about it? I don't rightly recall. Most of my mind was taken up by Cloud, Cloud, and more Cloud. Is that where I had gone wrong?

He scoffed behind me with a hic. "Even now, you're still thinking about him."

Alright, that was getting a little personal. I pivoted around sharply, one hand on my hip and the other poised accusingly in his direction. "You've got no right to be lecturing me, Sephiroth." I rejoined, "Let alone sitting at my bar when I know damn well you're dead – three times dead in fact. You're lucky I'm willing to put up with your ghost."

Sephiroth leaned back and had to catch himself lest he fall over backwards. He gave his head a shake, blinked his eyes and grimaced. "Yes, well, even a ghost gets haunted."

I arched a dubious brow, "I can't imagine why my subconscious would conjure up a whiny, sad, drunken Sephiroth to make me feel better."

"Perhaps it is the lifestream that conjured up a stunning, angry minx to make him feel better?" He suggested.

My hands slammed down on the bar with a smack and I leered into him menacingly. I had just opened my mouth to voice the threat waiting on the tip of my tongue when the recoiling General unseated himself and hit the floor with a loud thwump, followed by a muffled groan of pain.

Well that was certainly undignified.

I sighed inwardly. Honestly, couldn't life just happen normally for once? But he was sprawled out on my floor and it was so pitiful looking that I couldn't help myself.

"You've had way too much." I stated and came around the bar to squat beside his prostrate form. He looked up at me blearily, one hand waving around sporadically for no apparent reason. His lips moved, but no sound emerged, as if he wanted to say something but couldn't.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

His eyes narrowed a fraction and he sat up with a grunt. He winced and groaned again. "Floor is hard." He said. "Knocked the breath out."

I smirked dryly, "Why you poor thing."

He shot me a scathing glance, "See how well you react to 50 ounces of Vodka."

"I told you to go easy on it." I wouldn't have made it past 25 without passing out.

"Isn't it your job to enforce the rules?" He retorted.

I rolled my eyes and started to stand, "Oh for Heaven's sake, you're not even real." Although the 50 ounces of Vodka certainly was.

Sephiroth stared at me for a long moment, saying nothing. Then he awkwardly stumbled to his feet, catching the edge of the bar to steady himself, and faced me squarely. "What makes you think that?"

I gave a hysterical sort of laugh and took an involuntary step back. "You're dead. You can't be real." For the first time I felt a tiny cold trickle of fear rolling down my spine.

He looked at me oddly, "Do you often hold conversations with imaginary persons?"

My cheeks turned pink. "No, of course not." Unless they insist upon it.

His brow arched.

I angrily blew at a strand of hair hanging down the side of my face. "I need to get some sleep." I muttered and turned away.

"Tifa."

His voice halted me in my tracks as every nerve under my skin prickled with anticipation. Anticipation of what? He said my name. I don't remember ever hearing Sephiroth say my name. It was strange the way he said it, almost pleading.

"What?" I murmured.

Something brushed the hair at the back of my neck, his gloved fingers grazing my shoulder. I shivered, but couldn't muster the urgency to move. His breath tickled my skin where he stood right behind me, close enough that I could feel the heat from his body and smell the liquor on his breath.

So much for the ghost part…I must be dreaming.

His lips hovered by my ear, "I would like…" He began and I could feel his hesitance, uncertainty, "To have known you…under better circumstances."

I turned around to face him, "Why?"

He stepped back, head inclined towards the floor, "Death can be lonely…when visited by your victims, and I had a special guest. He wanted me to give you a message."

I knew almost instantly, as if a piece of his soul stood before me now. "Daddy?" My eyes glossed over despite myself. I forgot that the silver haired man was even there.

"He loves you very much." Sephiroth said, breaking my focus. "He said he was sorry, for misjudging Cloud all those years ago, and that you should make me wash the dishes instead."

The last bit caught me for a bit of a loop. "Wait…what?"

Sephiroth was scowling between the murky water and his leather sleeves. "I will have to remove my coat."

I lifted a hand, palm outward. "Hold on a second." I leaned forward, searching his eyes for signs of deceit. There was something entirely unsettling about their honesty, not the least of which being he was clearly quite serious. I closed my eyes and rubbed my face in my hands. "I have got to get more sleep."

"Go home, Tifa." Sephiroth urged quietly and I found myself being escorted to the door by gentle hands. "I will finish up here."

"Okay." I murmured and did as he bid.

I woke up with a start, blinking rapidly to clear my eyes. The room was dark and empty, the rain outside a light patter against the window. I released a sigh of relief and sagged back into the pillows.

Just a dream…

I didn't return to the bar until that afternoon. When I did, it was just the way I'd meant to leave it – spotless and orderly. Only, when I thought back to the night before, I couldn't remember cleaning the tables or finishing the dishes, and I certainly couldn't remember coming home. There was a giant blank where all that information should have been.

It was the vase full of oriental lilies that completely upended me though.

My breath caught in my throat. I hadn't had oriental lilies in forever. There was only one person who knew what oriental lilies meant to me and that was my dad.

I crossed the room in a state of trance and reached out to the note attached to the vase of flowers. It was plain white with small, ornate letters scrawled across it. I tilted my head to one side curiously, for it was not my father's handwriting, but someone else's.

I'm sorry, it said.

I gazed down at the card for a long time. A familiar presence lingered on the surface of it. It smelled of leather and…apple scented dish soap.

I glanced about the room, but he was not there. Wherever he was, it was now long gone. I set the card down and smiled faintly out the window.

Author's Note: The one-shot ever still remains my nemesis in writing. I have no idea where this came from. I fear it isn't near poignant enough to qualify as a decent one-shot, but I tried. It was kind of fun to write and since I haven't been able to write anything else as of late, it's encouraging to at least do something.

Happy New Years everyone.