Cloud wakes up and the first thing he notices is that Tifa isn't next to him.
The second is that his alarm has yet again failed to go off, and it's a damn good thing he doesn't have counter duty in the morning like she does.
His eyelids drag themselves open; blink once to clear off the rust. The ceiling swims in front of him for a second and then locks in place. Though he's comfortable and doesn't want to sit up, he does anyway – with Herculean effort. Soreness. Soreness everywhere.
He's tired as piss.
A cold breeze alerts him that the blankets have fallen away and that he's not wearing a shirt. Puzzlement only clouds his mind for a second until he remembers. He gave it to her because she was cold, and the dress she was wearing (If you could call that little thing a dress) was soaked through from the rain.
He would have put on another shirt, but those have yet to move from the washer to the dryer, because the only woman's touch this apartment ever got is relatively new around here.
'Relatively' because it's been enough time that he's used to her weight and warmth already, which isn't fair. The tiny pang of disappointment he felt when he instinctively reached for her as he woke? Wasn't fair.
She didn't even leave a note. It wasn't even a one-night stand, obviously, but a post-it on the clock face might have been at least practical.
Cloud is not a sentimental person, but there has always been a softer part of him, since they were kids, that only Tifa can help or hurt. It's the same part that's protective of Aerith and Red XIII, and similar to the part that still seeks approval from his parents' memory, even though his parents were dicks.
So are they friends? More? Less? None? None seems like a cop-out, something she would definitely say. Not as harsh as her usual, "I don't care," and not as committed as the even more usual, "You're a piece of shit."
Scavenging for clothes, he sees that there actually has been a load through the dryer – one that consists of exactly two of his black socks, which hang from the edge of a laundry basket. Her leggings are missing from the washer; the dress is not. Oh, and his shirt, the clean one, is gone.
Fantastic. She did not just.
So he ends up zipping a jacket up over his freshly showered self, with nothing underneath, and shaking the wetness from his hair, he opens the door. Shuts off the lights while stalling it with his foot. Closes it. Locks it.
It is then that he has an epiphany.
"She just stole my shirt."
His brain settles on a singular objective: Find Tifa, demand shirt. Failing that, demand an explanation, anyway.
The clock on his wrist tacpad reads 1306, which means she's been off the morning shift. His own doesn't start until 1600, so he has time to search but not time to waste. It's a short walk to the bar, and she's probably still there.
The air's chill and heavy. Not many people walk these streets, and those that do are in uniform. The pavement is slick and puddles fill every dip and pothole. Cloud doesn't bother stepping around them; being dainty has never been a priority. Muddy water splashes his boots.
Where his jacket rides up above his waistband, his skin prickles at the cool wind.
He really needs that shirt back.
East corner, fifth door on the left. Show the scanner your face and don't smile. The rules are: 1) Don't be a prick. 2) Respect rule number one.
The familiar rush of noise, the smell of alcohol, and the warmth of the boiler hit him all at once.
How many times has he dragged Barrett out of this place? How many times has he gotten into a fight outside?
Chalk up one to 'How many times has he come here to re-possess a stolen shirt from Tifa'.
The thought could have brought her into being, because there she is, sitting on a stool next to another woman. They're laughing about something.
And Tifa is wearing a black PT shirt that's too big for her and has the SOLDIER 1st CLASS emblem on it.
Shit, she's even still wearing it.
He takes the empty seat next to her and waits with his scotch. As he should have expected, she's pretending not to have noticed him yet. They're loud and annoying, well, everyone is in here. A glass shatters against the wall. Casting his gaze around for the thrower, he finds nothing.
By the time he's halfway to the bottom of his cup, her friend leaves. Tifa makes a show of checking her texts before turning to him. "Morning, sleepyhead. So you finally decided to get up."
Not in the mood to dick around, Cloud gets right to the point. "You stole my shirt."
She smiles. "Yup." And then busies herself stirring her drink as if the conversation's over.
"You stole my shirt," he says again with a bit more reproach.
"I was already wearing it."
Cloud decides he does not like this feeling of difficulty making himself understood. "It's the only clean one I have."
Now she finally looks at him again. "So what, you're not wearing a shirt under that coat?"
"…No."
Her eyes go down and up. "Hmm."
He blinks; her lidded eyes and pursed lips make him feel very scrutinized.
"So," Cloud continues slowly. "I kind of need it back."
Tifa holds still for a moment, thinking. "I don't know. I think it looks better on me anyway." He has to grudgingly admit, she's not wrong. The shirt's too big for her and hangs toward her shoulders, and kind of billows around her the rest of the way. Her hair falls around her neck, resting on the pale skin exposed between her nape and its collar. Not to mention black's a color that's always flattered her.
Plus, she keeps smirking at him sidelong, and it's distracting.
Okay, so she's hot. Fine.
"I still want my shirt," he says defensively.
"You could always wear one of mine." She's having way too much fun.
Cloud stops all movement to round on her. "Are you kidding? I'd rip right through it!"
"Okay, okay," Tifa laughs. "Let's go home and I'll put on one of my shirts." She rummages in her purse, swipes her credit chip. "You're so picky."
Paying with one hand, he flips her off with the other. Her reply is a peace sign and sticking out her tongue before walking toward the door, deliberately making him lunge to catch up.
That cold air crashes into him like waves against a rock as they step out into the alley. It's an odd feeling, but the slight dampness to the wind is almost invigorating. Perfect weather for a day of conditioning, or even fighting. He wishes he'd gotten up earlier to train.
Once they're walking, Tifa looks over her shoulder to make sure he hasn't fallen behind. That smirk is back, and seeing it he realizes she's challenging him.
Then he realizes she's already won, because what the hell.
On sheer impulse, he grabs her hand and spins her around, pulling her lips to his. He can feel her still grinning as she kisses back. It's very wet and very needy, and maybe it's been too long since she went and ambushed him the other day. It's also brief, though, because the whole thing came out of left field so fast they're both short of breath and break away, panting, after an intense moment. Her warmth lingers.
"Knew you couldn't resist," she says triumphantly in between breaths; her face is flushed and that smirk has taken a turn for the appreciative.
"Hn. I really do need that shirt, though."
Tifa wraps her arms around his waist. "No you don't." But it's just an excuse to slip her cold fingers under his jacket and press them to his back.
"Yaaah!" Cloud jumps, then wriggles away. "You bitch!"
"What are you going to do? Give me the-" she pauses. "…cold shoulder?"
His only response is a glare.
Spurred on, she chuckles to herself. "If you want to get me back, they say revenge is a dish best served cold."
"That one wasn't even that good!"
"Well, you don't have to go and start some kind of heated argument over it."
Cloud looks her in the eye seriously. "Stop."
Her voice drops, suddenly husky. "Make me."
"You're in way too good of a mood today," he declares, shaking his head.
"What's the matter? Can't keep up?
"No, just maybe you should chill."
"Maybe I should-" she blinks. "Touché."
They reach the door and she breezes past him, around the corner into the hall. In short order, a closet opens and shuts, and his shirt flies out of the room and lands on the floor.
"Thanks," he says, halfway sarcastically.
Tifa emerges wearing a dark grey hoodie. "You're just mad 'cause I wore it better."
"If by 'wore it better' you mean looked like you were swimming in it." He checks his tacpad. "Fourteen thirty. I've got an hour and a half."
"What all can you do in an hour and a half?"
His stomach growls, as if on cue, and he pouts. "I'm hungry."
"Me, too," she says, frowning. "If I don't get some food right now, I'm gonna punch someone in the face."
"Why don't you-"
"It's your turn to cook." Her pointed threat still standing, she inches toward him menacingly.
Turning around and ducking into the hall to escape, he says brightly, "Hey! Let's go out someplace."
He can hear the smile in her voice. "It's your turn to pay."
Cloud bristles. "It's always my turn to pay."
Rounding the corner, she stands on her tiptoes to pat him on the head, like a dog. "That's your fault for having a Y chromosome."
He follows her out the door. "That seems really arbitrary."
"It kind of is, but I wear the pants, so I make the rules." And her expression dares him to complain.
Throwing up his hands in surrender, he sighs. "You also wear the shirt, apparently, so that leaves me with the socks and boxers."
Tifa giggles. "I'm okay with that."
Wait, what? "Wait, what?"
They've already reached the mess by the time she's stopped laughing at him.