Breakfast of Champions

By: Illusion of the Mirror

Morning came, as it's prone to do, and Tifa was very much ready to open the windows to warm summer breezes, chirping song-birds, and glistening sunshine. However, when she opened her eyes, she found the room to be quite dim. Fearing that she had once again awoken prematurely and would have to battle with insomnia, an all too frequent occurrence as of late, Tifa rolled over to peer at her alarm clock.

"Nine o'clock, huh?" she asked no one in particular. Letting herself still beneath the sheets, she strained to listen for the twitters of the early bird. The only sounds that reached her ears were the creaks and groans of her ancient house and the light pitter-patter of precipitation against the windows. She allowed herself a groan of discontent before forcing her sleep drunk body out of bed.

A deep yawn overtook her as she shuffled to her dresser, stretching the last vestiges of slumber from her muscles. "Well, Tifa," she sighed as she began to dig through the deep drawers for a change of clothes, "looks like you'll be spending another day inside." She crossed the room to her master bathroom, a misleading label, seeing as the room was little more than a walk-in closet, and stripped down for a hot shower. "God, I hope that the water heater is working today…"

Luckily, the antique appliance seemed to hear her murmured prayer and soon hot water poured from the silver spigot steadily, steam already beginning to fill the tiny room. Tifa climbed into the claw foot tub, pulling her chocobo print shower curtain closed behind her. Once beneath the massaging stream, she allowed herself to completely relax, relishing in the way that the rivulets of near-scalding water trailed down her arms and dripped off the end of her nose.

It was those precious moments of physical bliss where she was blessed with the gift of non-thought, graciously allowed freedom from her stresses, from her memories. But as she reluctantly began her daily washing ritual, her traitorous mind began to whir through all things undesirable. And in no time at all, she was thinking about Cloud.

After they had defeated Sephiroth and his clones, Cloud had shown so much promise. He even smiled occasionally. She had been convinced that he was through his funk…but looking back, it was more likely that she had been the one convincing herself. She had been so desperate to have a family again.

Tifa had never known her mother, couldn't even tell anyone what she looked like. She didn't even have any photographs to place on her bedside table. As far back as she could remember it had been her and her dad. And though he had been very, very dear to her, there were just some things a single father could not give his only daughter. Still, she never begrudged him. He always did his best; she had followed suit. They had relied on each other.

But then…he died. And suddenly, so very suddenly, Tifa was left alone.

And then, three years ago, Cloud, the single remaining piece of her perfect childhood, walked back into her life, and she had embarked on a journey with him to save the planet. They had lost dear friends along the way, but their bond became stronger for it. She had hoped that once the planet returned to normal, Cloud would settle down with her; she had hoped to have a family again. She had so craved the love her father had shown.

But Cloud was not her father. And he was not her lover. And sometimes, she even questioned whether or not he was her friend. There was no doubt in her mind that he loved her and the children in his own way, but what their family had needed most was stability, or at least the effort put forth to attempt a stable life. And while it was better for a while, wonderful, in fact, Cloud began to lapse back into his melancholy.

Tifa had tried to ignore it. She tried to keep Marlene and Denzel from seeing the signs of his descent into depression. But as much as she was loathe to admit it, Tifa simply was not strong enough. She could barely keep her own spirits up, let alone carry Clouds emotional dead weight. And then, one night, she'd heard his motorbike roar out of the gravel driveway, and she had known that he was leaving for good.

And all she did was roll over and let herself slip back into her dreams.

Tifa silenced her thoughts with the sharp squeak of the spigot handles and stepped out of the bathtub onto the plush rug which took up most of the bathroom floor. As she toweled of, she recalled the letter Cloud had sent her six months later. It had been ludicrously short, as though he had only stepped out for groceries, and his tone was startlingly light. But what had been the slap in the face was his ending statement.

"Give the kids a hug and kiss for me. See you soon."

It was the most presumptuous and offending statement she had ever seen: to assume that she would do anything for her children in his name! And even worse! How could he possibly think that any of them would want to have anything to do with him after his disappearing act?

Tifa didn't bother to suppress her humorless laugh. 'The best part is, I haven't heard from him since.' She jammed her legs into a pair of cut-off shorts and angrily tugged a black tank top over her head. Swinging the bathroom door open a little bit more roughly than necessary, she fumed her way into her bedroom, hurling her dirty clothing into the wicker hamper next to her full length antique mirror, one of the many pieces that had come with the house.

Then, somewhere downstairs, a door opened and closed, quietly, like someone had meant to go undetected. Tifa froze, her heart caught in her throat. It didn't take long before the memory of the previous night crashed down onto her. "Oh, god! I completely forget that Vincent was here!" she hissed to herself as she briskly stalked into the hallway, her cheeks burning in horror that she was such a terrible hostess.

Just as she reached the top of the staircase, a tantalizing aroma caused her to pause. Was that…bacon? Slowly, she descended the stairs, trying her best to make as little noise as possible. Reaching the landing, she gracefully leapt over the last two notoriously squeaky steps and landed soundlessly on the main floor next to the kitchen archway. Trepidatiously, she peered around the corner.

Vincent was standing at the gas stove, his back three fourths to her, but she could just make out his profile. He was wearing pretty much the same outfit from the night before, only this dress shirt had grey pinstripes. The sleeves were cuffed past his elbows, leaving a comparatively large amount of pale skin exposed. The wound from the previous night was nowhere to be seen.

His long ebon locks were pulled back into a loose ponytail that hung just past his shoulders. Tifa allowed herself a moment of guiltless ogling as she studied the lines of his profile, the way he gazed so intently at his work, a pan of sizzling bacon. She watched his chest rise and fall as he gave the task his complete concentration. She could hear him humming softly to himself. The hollow ache that blossomed beneath her ribcage startled her.

"How do you like your eggs, Tifa?"

Immediately, Tifa's wide eyes shot up to meet his. When had he looked over his shoulder? She must have looked ridiculous, leaning in through the doorway as she was, because that eyebrow was up again.

She laughed timidly and flushed crimson. "Um…over easy, thanks." She remained in the doorway, shuffling her weight from one foot to the other and back again.

"Feel free to come in; this is your kitchen." Tifa could hear the smirk in his words as he turned back to his work, cracking an egg over a second skillet. She was immensely grateful that his eyes weren't on her at that moment; she felt utterly foolish.

Opting to completely ignore her embarrassment, Tifa approached and leaned against the counter, her hands bracing her up on either side. "Wow! You really didn't have to do all this." She scanned the plates of bacon, toast, and…was that fresh squeezed orange juice? Tifa couldn't help but grin as she noticed the basket of fruit on the table was conspicuously devoid of citrus. "You never struck me as the breakfast kind of guy, Vincent."

Turning off the burners, Vincent slid the eggs onto another plate, the smile tugging playfully at the corners of his lips. "You'll find I'm quite full of surprises." He set down the platter and started wiping down the stove with a damp towel. "I did not mean to wake you."

"Oh, you didn't." Tifa busied herself collecting place settings from the cupboards and began dressing the table. "I'm afraid you've made me out to be a poor hostess, I mean, you're my guest."

"Hm." Vincent let his wordless reply stand as he placed the steaming plates of breakfast on the table. After arranging them just so, he pulled out one of the mahogany dining chairs and stood next to it. It took Tifa a second, but she realized he had pulled it out for her.

"Thank you," she said with a slight blush, not used to such gentlemanly conduct. She did run a bar after all. Vincent sat in the seat opposite her and waited for her to dish herself up.

Once her plate was full, Tifa had to force herself not to hork everything down and go in for seconds. The only thing she'd eaten in the last sixteen hours was half a pint of ice cream and, if she was honest with herself, she hadn't eaten a real breakfast since the last time Barret and the children had stayed over, which was…too long ago.

Reminding herself to swallow before speaking, Tifa took a moment before interjecting into the silence. "This is really great, Vincent. Thanks. I mean, really."

Vincent nodded cordially and hummed in response, seemingly pleased at her praise of his culinary skills.

Throughout the meal, Tifa told him about the goings on at the diner, her new hires and such, and answered his polite inquiries about her old house. She had noticed that he appeared quite interested in the building's past, but it hadn't surprised her overmuch. Vincent was the type of man who likes to know things. She had always liked that about him.

And right then, she liked him twice as much because, even though the conversation was completely mundane, she relished the company and the chance to really talk to someone.

When they had both cleared their plates, Tifa rose and began collecting the breakfast dishes. Vincent rose as well and did likewise. "Hey, wait a minute," she chided with her free hand on her hip. "You made this wonderful meal, so it's only fair that I get the dishes."

If he heard her, Vincent didn't give any sign. He simply placed the plug in the sink and began filling the basin with hot water.

"Uh, Vincent?"

Still no reply but he did pull the dish soap from under the sink and squirt a dollop into the water.

"Hello? Didn't you hear me?" she asked, trying to gently nudge him from in front of the sink.

Vincent, however, would not be moved. He merely stacked the dirty skillets in the basin and then handed her a towel. The smirk on his face made the message was quite clear. You dry.

Well, she'd be damned if she let him get his way. Besides, she was quite sure that he was teasing her. Such an act could not go unpunished. She took the towel from him and threw it over her shoulder, and he seemed to take the act as a sign of her acquiescence because he began to scrub the dishes in earnest.

Quick as a flash, Tifa reached into the sink, scooped up a handful of lemon-scented bubbles and promptly thrust them into Vincent's face. She giggled as he held dripping hands out of the water and spit the soap off his lips, one eye closed from the assault. Tifa stood with one hand on her hip and smiled a triumphantly. "You so deserved that."

Vincent wiped his face clear with the back of his wrist fixing her with a pointed crimson glare. Then, he reached for the nozzle beside the faucet, pulled it out as far as the hose would allow, and pointed it straight at her.

Tifa pointed a finger back at him and took a half-step back. "No." she commanded, sounding anything but commanding. Alas, her pitiful attempt did nothing to stop Vincent. He arched an eyebrow and pulled the trigger.

Tifa's hands shot up and she tried to dodge the stream. She was grossly unsuccessful and when Vincent released the trigger, she gaped incredulously at him as cold droplets dripped from her fingertips.

This time Vincent actually did smile, albeit briefly. "Do you concede?"

Tifa narrowed and put on her best glower. "Never."

Without warning, Tifa lashed out and pulled a cup full of water from the soapy sink, splashing the contents across the front of her assailant's shirt. Aided by the distraction of his wet hair covering his eyes, Tifa seized the opportunity, lunging for the nozzle in his hand. The two wrestled over the nozzle for a moment or two, thoroughly soaking themselves in the process.

Unfortunately, as is customary when one is trying to appear witty or adroit, Tifa slipped on the wet tile and landed rather gracelessly on her back-side. Vincent arched his eyebrow but said nothing. Rather, he held out his hand to help her to her feet.

Tifa smiled weakly and accepted. "I suppose you win this round, Mister Valentine."

So there they were: two adults standing in a dripping wet kitchen covered from head to toe in water soaked garments. "We should probably clean this up," Tifa said with a laugh.

Vincent nodded with a wry smile. "Indeed."

So they used what was left of the dry towels to sop up the kitchen and then finished the dishes.

Tifa washed. Vincent dried.

- O -

"So, when did you end up getting up this morning?" Tifa swirled a glass of lemonade as Vincent started repacking his bag.

"Hm. I would say around six o'clock." The zipper groaned as he closed the final pouch. Now that they were in fresh clothes, they were merely waiting for the last articles of Vincent's clothing to come out of the dryer. After that, he would be leaving.

A couple of questions niggled in the back of Tifa's mind. Vincent had seemed so out of sorts the previous night…did it have something to do with his injury? Why the sudden retreat from the city? Was he in some sort of trouble? Or maybe he just needed a vacation…

Unlikely.

But right now she had a bigger issue. Despite the fact that she knew that Vincent never did anything or went anywhere without a good reason, she didn't want him to leave. Engaging him in small talk was just her way of biding time as she tried to think of a way to get him to stay, even for one more night.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Vincent's deep baritone voice. "Tifa, I believe the dryer is finished."

"Oh, yeah…right." She rose, heading to the laundry closet, and pulled his clothes from the machine. He accepted them from her with a genial nod of his head and tucked them into his bag. Now, completely ready, he approached the door, preparing to leave.

'Quick Tifa! Think of something to say to make him stay! Tell him how lonely you are! Tell him you need someone to keep you company! Tell him how handsome he is! Anything!'

Vincent opened the door.

She took a step forward, gripping her elbows. "So…how long will you be staying in Rocket Town?"

"Not long." He looked up towards the ceiling. "Perhaps I shall visit Red XIII at the canyon." Then he turned and looked straight into her eyes, his crimson gaze burning into hers. "Was there something that you needed, Miss Lockheart?"

'This is it! Tell him how you feel!'

"Well, there's this light bulb in the stairway that needs changed and I'm not quite tall enough to reach it." 'Nice.'

Vincent quirked an eyebrow, glancing up towards the aforementioned bulb. "Well, we can't have you climbing the stairs in the dark now, can we?"

- O -

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