I Don't Want Anyone Else, a final fantasy vii fanfic

I Don't Want Anyone Else

Tonight, she was going to simply let go—what a wonderfully elusive concept she had seemingly forgotten over the years. It was late, and they were tired, and certainly there would be hell to pay in the morning when it came time to buckle down and kick ass like usual. But it was Yuffie's suggestion in the first place that they go out, and it had been such a long time.

Not since...

And perhaps she wasn't doing her job as a coach—perhaps she should have said, 'Yuffie, you need to get a good night's rest so that you can be alert in the morning,'—but the girl was only really in it for the fun and the experience to begin with.

For once, Tifa Lockhart wasn't going to feel obligated.

That's what she told herself when she walked into the bar that night, arms linked with her ninja-friend and gal-pal, ready to let loose and simply forget, if only for one night. They deserved it, after all; Yuffie had done a damned fine job of representing Seventh Heaven at the competition, proof that the time spent training her had been well worth it. And Tifa—well, she felt that a break, even a short one, was long overdue.

She wasn't going to think about how, when she returned home in a few days, it would be just in time to watch the kids leave for their first week away with Cloud at his new place. She wasn't going to think about how, months prior and just hours after a nasty break-up with said swordsman, she had gotten a wee bit tipsy and bold and slept with her best friend—and she loved Vincent to death in so very many ways it hurt—which had radically altered her perception concerning her situation with Cloud and had ultimately solidified her decision not to get back together with him. She also wasn't going to think about how she would also have to slip back into that comfortable-but-not routine with Vincent when she returned to Edge, trying to pretend that nothing had changed and waiting for the day when she thought she might be ready for him.

And gods, he had been so patient with her. It was almost enough to drive her mad—but that was what she'd needed, after having been so patient with everyone else for so long—patient, yet unrelenting, and damned if he hadn't practically committed himself to her already.

But she wasn't going to think about that tonight. No, not at all. To be sure, it was the furthest thing from her mind, and she promised herself—she promised herself that whatever happened tonight, she was not going to sit around and rehash drama. No business, no children, and certainly no men.

Tifa was about half-way through her third beer that first hour when she received her first proposition. The lighting was low, the music a repetitive thrum, and she almost didn't hear him—she hadn't even noticed him approach, not until he was speaking. Yuffie was sitting to her left, chatting away with the bartender—some young and scruffy thing, strangely attractive with his piercings and tattoos—and Tifa had since resigned herself to unwinding within the little invisible box she had made for herself.

As it turned out, the night wasn't quite finished with Miss Lockhart.

This one had a nice smile, light hair and dark eyes. Tifa smiled back at him, but when he offered to buy her next drink, she politely declined. She wasn't going to assume where he was going with this, but she didn't want to feel like her time was being bought. She didn't need to feel obligated to spend time here, should she decided that she was most certainly finished.

And she was, for the most part, when he addressed her as 'Hey, beautiful.' But his grin was light and easy rather than wolfish, and she was content to let him sit and talk—it was a free world, and she'd worked hard to make it so. It would be rude of her to tell him where to go, so she let him set his vodka tonic next to her and chat away.

Peter had been married once before, and had a five-year old son. He was in business management, had several restaurants under his belt, and recognized Yuffie from the competition. Tifa admitted to being her coach and the owner of Seventh Heaven—at that, Peter insisted that they exchange information.

"Ah..." Tifa stalled, "it looks like I don't have a pen." She didn't want to exchange information. This wasn't why she had come out tonight.

Peter only smiled kindly, which made her curse inwardly. It would have been much easier if he hadn't been so nice about it. "I'll tell you what—if you have your phone, you can just program it in."

She blinked. Her phone? "Yuffie," she said, turning to the younger girl who was very much preoccupied, "I left my phone upstairs, didn't I?"

"Guess so," she chirped, turning her attention back to the man behind the counter.

Tifa shrugged at Peter. "Sorry," she said.

"Not a problem," he said. "Hey, buddy," he piped up, gesturing to the bartender, "you think I could borrow a pen?"

The man handed Peter a pen from a glass behind the bar, and Peter grabbed a napkin and began scribbling his number on it. "Here," he said, sliding it across the table to her. "If you'd like to get together sometime before you leave, my phone's always on."

He handed the pen to Tifa—and she smiled genuinely, offering a smooth thank-you as she handed it back to the bartender, without so much as writing her name down. Yuffie stifled a smile at that, knowing Tifa wasn't interested, but Peter seemed to take it in stride. He nodded politely and grabbed his drink up from the counter, sliding from his stool.

"Nice meeting you, Tifa," he said with another confident smile.

"You, too."

He left his number as he walked away, and Yuffie snickered quietly to the bartender. "Hey," she said, "you get a lot of regulars in here? Can you tell the good catches from the sleaze? You know, just in case Teef here decides to warm up a bit." She laughed out loud and flashed him an unashamed grin, which he returned.

"We get a few," he said, "but to be honest, I don't get too intimate with anyone here."

"Is that right?"

He chuckled at the suggestive tone. "Aren't you from another town?"

"I go where life takes me."

Tifa attempted to roll her eyes at the scene, but she couldn't find it in herself. Yuffie was Yuffie, and none of it would matter in the next twenty-four hours. By this time tomorrow, Tifa would be safe and sound at home, and Yuffie would be on her way to Rocket Town to spend the weekend with Cid and Shera before she headed back to Wutai.

She could probably curb any interest right off the bat, if she simply told anyone else who might approach her that night just that. She wasn't even from around Kalm—she wasn't interested in any of them. And she certainly wasn't going home with any of them. They didn't know her from the next woman. Not like—

... Gods, but that had been in early winter. Was it really spring already? She almost couldn't believe how far away it was, when it seemed like only days ago. Sure, she'd had months to weather the aftershock, but it had never left her.

Her best friend—who, five years ago, she would never have imagined in such a state. And it had been sloppy and unplanned, a disaster even—but waking up that morning to whatever consequences, though stressed and confused as she was and too unwilling to face the undisguised love in his eyes, she had never felt warmer, never felt safer in her entire life. A feeling she would never allow to be muddled by any random encounter with any random—

"Hey, you think I could get another one of these?"

The bartender—Luke, she thought she'd heard Yuffie call him—took her empty bottle and popped the cap off another, setting it in front of her. She gladly took it and downed a long swig of the cold beverage. She was exceedingly glad they served beer chilled in this bar; most of the restaurants in the Kalm area served theirs at room temperature, like in so many other parts of the world. Cold brews were mostly an old Midgar tradition, and for once she was glad that something of the long-gone city had caught on.

She could drink quickly this way.

Peter wasn't the only chap to approach her that night. There was Brian the school-teacher; Jack the local sports-caster; and Morgan, who was 'in-between jobs' as he put it, but seemed to have a wealth of useless facts stored up in his spongey brain. All of them were nice, well-behaved, and attractive—and all of them were wrong.

Wrong, wrong, all wrong.

Last call. The bar closed at three in the morning, but they pulled drinks at two. Yuffie had returned to her side after Morgan had left—and that had been a very interesting conversation, certainly random if she was looking for an example—and Luke was making his trips around the circular bartop, closing tickets and collecting tabs.

The young girl flashed Tifa one of those winning smiles and waggled her eyebrows. "So?" she asked. "You gonna meet up with any of those guys before we leave tomorrow? We can probably squeeze in time for lunch, before we call the car rental."

Tifa pushed the remainder of her beer away from her body—she'd had enough for the night, and knew she would probably be suffering the next morning. "Yuffie, we're not even from around here," she said, smiling softly to herself.

The ninja tossed her choppy hair back, shrugging casually. "Just a little fun. That's all."

Tifa bowed her head, contemplating the lines of her palms on the counter. "No," she said. "I think maybe you and I should just catch lunch together, and then go home." She smiled. "Unless you wanted to see somebody, in which case I can go by myself. I'm okay with that."

Yuffie blinked. "But why? You should go out and have some fun. It's just lunch. Come on, what was wrong with those guys you were talking to? They seemed really decent."

And they had been decent. Peter was so proud of his son, Jack so passionate about his job. Morgan was odd in a good way, and Brian believed he was making a difference. Peter cared about his employees, and Morgan had made her laugh at least twice—and a real laugh, not a false or sympathetic attempt. No, nothing wrong with them at all—not on a first-date level of understanding, anyhow.

But there was something wrong, she realized. And it was the same thing with every man in the room, in the hotel—hell, any man on the street. Generally speaking, any one of them had just as good a chance with her as the next; there was nothing particular about a one of them which would sway her either way. Of course, if she got to know them, she might find out what was so special about them, their quirks and preferences and endearing mannerisms. Right now it was all surface, but certainly everyone had something which set them apart from the rest of the world.

The thing was, she didn't want to find out. She didn't need to know if Peter liked his coffee black, or if Jack took his dog to the park to play fetch. Tifa didn't care if Brian liked spicy food, or if Morgan brushed his teeth five times a day. For all she cared, they could be Guy Number One, Two, Three, Four. She didn't even need their names—she just wasn't interested.

There was nothing there. Peter could be Mr. Bleeding Heart, and Jack could introduce dying children to their heroes, and while all of that was fine and good, it wouldn't make a difference. Tifa was completely impartial.

When Tifa was just starting her bar back up on the outskirts of old Midgar, she had a temporary waitress who used to come in and run shifts for her every once in a while. And this woman swore up and down that she was in love with two different men, but she simply couldn't decide between them. While Tifa didn't doubt that it was possible to love more than one person at a time, she also knew better than most that there were many different ways to love a person. So, she'd asked her.

'What is it about either of them that really does it for you?' Tifa finally questioned one slow and rainy day while they were wiping down glasses. And she knew the drill—the one had the most gorgeous eyes, and the other wanted children. Sally wanted children, and she got along well with that one, but she just didn't feel like there was that spark, she said.

But that was silly, Tifa had thought even then. There were many men in this world who had gorgeous smiles and washboard abs, and there were plenty of men who would love to have children. She told Sally just as much, but that wasn't what she had asked exactly, so she reiterated. 'Yes, but... what makes each of them special to you?'

Sally hadn't had an answer. And Tifa herself had been there before—like a mental road-block, and no detour. But if Sally had just admitted then that she didn't know, save for the fact that, 'He's Tommy,' or 'He's my Jimmy,' then that would have been all right with Tifa. She would have accepted that, and it would have been enough. But Sally hadn't said that, not at all. She'd sat there instead, weighing pros and cons.

Well, that was ridiculous. Everybody had pros and cons.

And if Tifa assessed these men with some sense of detachment, then she could admit that most of them were actually quite appealing. But she herself wasn't attracted to any of them in the least—not physically, not mentally, and there was certainly no emotional investment, or even the desire to form one. They had been good conversation and pleasant company, but when Tifa walked out that door, she would forget all about them. She didn't need to get inside their heads, to find out who they were—because she already knew who they weren't.

They weren't familiar or personal to her. They weren't any of hers—not her friends, not her family, not those special few she so desperately clung to when she'd expected the world to end. She hadn't really been fighting for these people down here, who lived every day like the one before it—the weight of an entire planet was far too much for one person, and she didn't know how Aerith had ever managed to bear it—no, Tifa had been fighting for those standing to her left and her right, for the hopes she had for each of them and their futures.

She hadn't had anywhere else to go. They were her family, her reason for fighting. All of them. And as much as she'd always wanted for Cloud to move on, for everyone to find some happiness in this new freedom, she found that she herself had grown so comfortable—

The hazy memory of a cinnamon kiss under bright lights—voices outside the car, talking, after months and months of easy comfort and testing boundaries until she could tease him and curl up in his arms like an apology—the look he gave her before he rose up to meet her and she brought him under, took him in her arms and pressed him up against that hard surface...

Waking up atop his warm body, his hips flush against hers and his breath against her ear, the noise he made as she fought to catch herself and the moment his arms were wrapped around her before he pulled away and she was left alone and damning herself for her desire to forget the consequences and drag him back into the mess she'd made. The feigned calm of his features as he reassured her that she wasn't alone, even though she'd thought she'd known better, had wanted to tell him that it was something she had to handle on her own.

Tifa had always been the strong one like that, even in this—she'd needed to be, for everyone she told herself—but she distinctly remembered pulling the sheets down between them and curling into his shoulder, resisting the urge to kiss his skin and revel in the scent of afterglow, if only because she was afraid she would hurt him later. She'd been confused, still recovering from fresh wounds, and she'd needed time to figure herself out, she'd thought. It couldn't be real, what she'd felt then, because it was too soon.

She still watched him sleep, when she could catch him.

"Yo! Paging Tifa," Yuffie said, snapping her fingers and waving a hand in front of her face. "You okay?"

Tifa tilted her head in Yuffie's direction, her eyes slowly coming back into focus. She nodded minimally, and turned her attention back to the counter.

"You sure? You got this funny, far-away look on your face, like you were slipping into a pleasure-induced coma."

Tifa smiled to herself. Maybe the alcohol had something to do with it, and maybe it didn't, but she would know when she saw him. "I think I'm ready to go."

"Yeah, I think you've had enough." Yuffie reached into her pocket and produced a wad of gil, and Tifa threw some money down on the counter. The younger girl reached behind the counter for the pen, ignoring her friend's comment about how one 'should never reach behind the bar' and how much it made her blood boil when people did it back home, and wrote her number down on a napkin, leaving it for Luke along with a particularly generous tip. "Okay," she grinned, offering Tifa her arm. "Now we can go."

The walk next-door was almost quiet, both Tifa and Yuffie seemingly lost in their own thoughts about the evening—Yuffie presumably wondering if Luke was going to call her, and Tifa trying to focus her attentions on reconciling the fluttering flip-flops in her chest with the sudden queasiness in her gut, the flush of warmth through her body with the growing ache within her head.

"It was Vincent, wasn't it?"

Tifa turned to face her friend, too tired to form a questioning expression. Yuffie just smiled.

"You left those numbers at the bar," she said. "Four napkins up on the bar, minus mine. Counted them and everything."

They slowed to a stop at the front door of the hotel lobby, and Yuffie hit the buzzer on the door. When the tone chimed, she slid her key-card in and yanked the door open, and the cold air hit them both like a shock to the system. Tifa kept hold of the younger girl's arm as they stepped inside the elevator, only letting go when she'd reached the wall and slumped lazily against it.

Yuffie was smiling at her haggard form, taking note of the still-removed look that wouldn't leave her eyes. "Are you going to talk to him when you get back?"

"Mm." Tifa closed her eyes and swayed as she lowered herself to the floor. "I should, shouldn't I?"

"Why don't you call him?"

"Don't know what to say. Besides, it's two in the morning."

"Ha!" Yuffie barked. "It's never too late for love!" Her expression changed then, to something more relaxed and passive. "Seriously though, you might want to get up. We're almost to the room."

As if on cue, the elevator bell dinged—too loudly, Tifa thought—and the grown woman on the floor let out a defeated moan.

"Come on, you can't stay here," the ninja said, and stooped down to help her up. She frowned at Tifa's non-cooperation, and settled her hands on her hips. "If you don't get up, I'm going to do what you used to do to me—I'm going to strip you down to your skivvies and throw you under a cold spray."

Tifa groaned and shot her hand up exhaustedly, and Yuffie helped her to her feet.

Eventually, they made it to their room, and Tifa to a tight bundle of covers. She'd stopped at the doorway first thing, saying that it was fine to leave her there, and began to lie down on the floor beneath the small table across from the bathroom. And so, Yuffie had made good on her threat; she stripped Tifa down to her underwear and somehow managed to lift her limp form into the tub, where she turned on the freezing cold shower-spray. Tifa had screamed and called her a jerk, and Yuffie had just smiled, toweled her off and helped her into bed, where she'd burrowed underneath the heavy comforter and held on for dear life, shivering as she dried in her bedsheets.

At some point during the night—she wasn't sure how much time had passed, though she'd heard Yuffie bumping around in the dark as she got ready, kind enough to leave the lights off—she felt a weight settle on the side of the bed. She didn't open her eyes at first, but then the girl placed a smooth, weighty object in her hand.

Yuffie reached out and brushed the hair away from Tifa's forehead. "You got a message," she whispered softly in the darkness of the room.

Tifa opened her eyes slowly, wincing in the bright-blue glare of the display. And suddenly it was like another heavy hand on her shoulder, another blanket around her shuddering form.

Vincent.

Tifa selected the voice-mail command and pressed the confirm button, holding the phone to her ear. She could see Yuffie's teeth and eyes glowing in the small, harsh light as she waited patiently. And a slow smile crept over the young ninja's face—a comforting, knowing smile.

"Tifa, it's Vincent. Ah—I'm guessing you're either asleep, or you've gone out. I was just calling to see how you are. This is kind of odd—I can't remember ever leaving you a message, because you always seem to pick up. Hmph... stage fright, I suppose."

She missed that chuckle. So different when she wasn't right there with him, wrapped up in those damning thoughts and unable to look outside of herself and notice. When had they gotten so serious?

"Listen—I wanted to ask you, if when you return tomorrow, you would be willing to spend some time with me after Marlene's play is over. I..."

When had she ever said no to that?

"There are some things I've been wanting to say." A pause. "I don't know, maybe I can't do anything but say the same things in a different way." Another, slightly longer pause. "But there's not much else I can do. I have to get this out of the way before any more time passes us by—and it has to be in person."

She swallowed hard. She wasn't crying, wasn't crying—"Yes."

"Anyway, I hope you get this message. I don't mean for you to be thinking about this in the morning—don't let it get to you. It's just me, Tifa. I'll be here when you're ready."

She was so ready, so painfully ready and yet so scared. But if there were ever anyone who she could trust, who she would even want to—

"You can tell Yuffie I said good luck."

Because she'd finally realized that the only reason she'd ever have for backing away, for hurting him, was her own bundle of conditioned fears, something she knew now that she would never have to run from when she was with him.

"I'll see you when you get back. I—"

Another pause, and she clutched the sheets to her chest.

"Sweet dreams, Tifa."

"Love you," she whispered. And then it was silent, dead air.

"... I love you."

Click.

And then the tears began to fall freely, and Yuffie was readjusting herself on the mattress, hovering, asking—

"Tifa, what's wrong?"

She just shook her head, wiping at her eyes. "... Nothing," she sniffed. "Nothing's wrong. I just—"

A slender arm reached over and pulled a couple tissues from the box on the nightstand, and Tifa accepted them gratefully. "So," Yuffie began again. "You're going to talk to him?"

Tifa laughed, in spite of herself. "Yeah, I'm going to talk to him." She breathed tiredly as she wiped at her eyes and nose, and sank back into the sheets as Yuffie made her way over to perch herself on her own bed.

"Good. You going to call him in the morning?"

Tifa smiled to herself. "No. I think I'll say it in person." And she knew that Vincent wouldn't be able to wait, either—that it wouldn't come out the way he'd wanted unless he could see her.

Yuffie returned the grin as she lay down, although it couldn't be seen in the absence of light in the room. "I'm glad, Tifa."

"Me, too." Tifa curled in on herself then, snuggling deeper within the blankets. "Vincent said to wish you good luck for him."

"Yeah?"

"Mm."

"That's cool," she said. "I've been sending you two good vibes for months. Though I'll be sure to send you extra good ones tomorrow."

Tifa could hear the excitement in her friend's voice, and she was filled with warmth. "Thanks. Goodnight, Yuffie."

"'Night, Tifa."

As she pulled the blankets up around her shoulders, she couldn't help but imagine Vincent's arms coming around to hold her from behind. And for a moment, the pounding in her head seemed to lessen, and the air seemed to grow warmer. It wasn't long before her eyes fluttered shut, and her breathing began to even out.

Rest had finally come.

End

Notes: This story takes place between chapters seventeen and eighteen of my multi-chaptered Vin-Tifa romance, Agapé. It could stand alone, if you've never read the story—but really, that's where it belongs. Feedback's appreciated, and will be answered with a smile!

Listening to: Sia - 'Breathe Me' (Jess, it's all your fault), and Jenny Owen Youngs - 'Voice on Tape' (MySpace, I'm looking at you).