He is not the first person she asks for (Cloud), or the second (Papa), but he's the first when she's not delirious.
"Gone," she repeats, eyes half closed. She's laid up on a cot and her heart isn't the only throbbing wound. This takes all her strength, meager though it is.
The doctor - she doesn't know his name, can barely make out his face - clears his throat. "Yes. He's a wanderer by nature, you see, and, well, he's never much cared for the city. Not that I can blame him." He laughs but it's all wrong. "He's as fickle as the wind, but you - - he cares for you very much. His most precious student, he said, and made me swear on my life to give you the best possible care."
"Thank you," says Tifa, to this doctor or Zangan or some higher power because there's gone, and there's gone, and that's something. It is. It is.
.
(It has to be.)
.
Fifteen and her body isn't just a bruise; she's walking, talking scar tissue.
She wets her lips, trying not to shift too much. They're cracked, taste like blood. Did anything ever taste like anything else?
.
dear papa,
i'm sorry i wasn't strong enough.
.
dear cloud,
i tried. i tried so hard.
.
dear zangan,
i wish you were here.
.
She's angry is the thing, at Sephiroth and Shinra and herself, and for all that it burns like bile it's comforting too, the only solid ground she has left.
.
"It's okay," James says, smoothing a hand over her back, because he's James now, or Jim, not just Zangan's doctor friend, "to not be okay."
She's hunched over the toilet, shivering, the mere whiff of smoke making her retch for a half hour. "I know," Tifa lies.