If this is it, then why do I wait?
All tangled up in the strings of fate
If I wanted this so bad
Then why do I stand like I do?
Come in,
I never wanted anything like I want you.
-Doorway, Civil Twilight
She is tired of pretending that everything is okay only because he is alive, and under the same roof.
She is tired of the looks from Barrett, from Yuffie. Concern mixed with curiosity, and she can no longer summon a smile to appease them.
She gives, and gives, and gives, and she doesn't know how, because there is nothing left. There was a time when Marlene's hugs and Denzel's smiles were enough to keep her going. Perhaps, if he'd never come back...she thinks that might have been better.
He is a constant reminder of things unsaid, dreams unfulfilled, feelings unrequited. She wonders when she stopped being happy and started being so bitter, when heart in her throat turned to heart through the floor, spirit soaring to spirit crushed.
She aches when he is around, a pain that she cannot assuage. She used to try to hide it; this was his home, too, he helped build it. There was more than that, though.
She wanted his love. More than anything. But not his pity.
Now, she no longer has the energy to put up a front, to reassure him with small smiles and carefully placed hands. She skirts around him, and he notices, but there is more than enough to keep them both busy. Always has been, and she wonders if that's been the problem. So many what ifs, and she just can't entertain fantasies anymore.
She stares at herself in the mirror in her room late one night, naked and dripping from her shower, dull eyes listlessly traveling over smooth skin interrupted by too many scars. She is surprised to see tears well and fall silently, and her reflection stares back impassively, whispering, He doesn't want you.
Perhaps. At one time, she thought she already had his heart. So self-assured. Had things changed so much?
She was so accustomed to people telling her how beautiful she was, but she wasn't going to believe it until he told her, showed her.
Do you love me?
Do you even see me?
She wanted his love. It's what she told herself when she touched her own skin, when she dreamed of him in the dark. If she couldn't have that...
She was a fighter, for as long as she could remember. But for once in her life, she entertained the thought of settling for something else. Whatever "something else" was. Her mind hadn't grasped just what that was yet. Scratch that. Her body knew, but she was too ashamed to admit just how desperate she was becoming. Guilt easily suppressed desire when she'd catch his eye, the subtle, sweet, shy smile of his that was so familiar, so easily offered. His formality in her presence told her that he knew something was bothering her, but that smile told her he had absolutely no idea what it was.
He was either completely vapid, or she was doing a very good job. She chose to believe the latter.
"Is something wrong with Tifa?"
Marlene wasn't so easily fooled.
She held her breath, back pressed against the wall as she hovered on the stairs, an interloper, unable to move until she heard his answer.
"I don't know. But-" She could tell he was trying to answer without really answering, and his pause told her tomes. "I'm sure if there's something wrong, she'll come to us for help."
Oh, Cloud, I could come to you for help. I just don't know if you would.
Three weeks later, she was alone for the second day that week. Denzel and Marlene had gone off with Barrett with plans on returning the following week, and, coincidentally (or, perhaps, not-so-coincidentally) Cloud had taken a few more arduous and lengthy deliveries, returning late, when she was supposed to be sleeping. He probably thought she needed the space, given her attitude of late.
She stood behind the bar, staring out across the empty room, having cleaned up for the night, the silence pressing in with almost suffocating force. She felt as though she would cry. She waited, but the tears never came.
Shower. Brush teeth. Comb hair. She secured a towel around her, having foregone her clothes, perhaps because she felt lazy, perhaps because there was no reason to cover up.
Stepping into the hall and turning out the light, she stood pensively in the stillness. Bare feet carried her to his office. She surveyed what she could in the dim light, slowing at his desk to let her fingers ghost over piles of slips, earmarked books, and a framed candid of their "family", taken just outside the bar.
She stopped at his bed, a flimsy cot that had somehow lasted much longer than either of them had likely anticipated. Reaching out, she grasped the pillow, clutching it with both hands as she pressed it to her face, breathing him in. Eyes shut, shoulders rose, then fell.
"Tifa?"
Eyes opened, but she didn't move. She wanted to believe she imagined it, but the atmosphere had morphed suddenly, charged and tense, so full after having been so empty just moments before.
Her movements were precise and slow...harmless. Replacing the pillow, she stood with her back to him, head bowed, and each second that she didn't move was agony, but less so than the prospect of facing him. What would she see? She didn't want to know. She didn't know what she was doing...what could she tell him?
Resolute, she turned, eyes to the floor, arms hanging limp, fighting the flush that was creeping across her chest, to her neck, and heating her cheeks, thankful, at least, for the cover the darkness provided. She waited, hands fisting, then relaxing. She had nothing to say.
She was a fighter, this much was true. His silence, however, was too harsh a blow. Her throat constricted. She wished she had the courage to look at him, to perhaps glean some kind of insight. He gave her nothing.
When the burn behind her eyes became too much, she moved to make her escape, holding her breath and keeping her head down as bare feet carried her closer to the door, but closer to him.
She almost made it, the weight of his stare an invisible force pressing upon her already heavy heart. And then, he moved.
One moment, the path lay clear before her, leading to the hall, the refuge of her lonely room and a closed door, questions unanswered to be later ignored. He was so predictable, and it was breaking her heart.
She hadn't anticipated a subtle sidestep on his part, effectively blocking her in. He'd hadn't purposefully moved so close in such a long time, even when she had a lot more than a towel on, and never had he taken the initiative to confront her so openly. She pulled back, swallowing a gasp, her eyes widening, her gaze level with his chest.
If there was any confusion about his intentions, he took one deliberate step forward, his proximity forcing her to scurry back. Reaching behind him, without turning from her, he closed the door.
With the added darkness came heightened awareness from her other senses. She could hear his measured breaths, hers, fast and shallow. She smelled how close he was, a mix of dust and sweat and leather and something else that was altogether him. She then became aware that she was shivering. She made no effort to rub her arms or hug herself, afraid that any movement on her part would shatter the moment.
She wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole. At the same time, she wanted him to do the same.
A scuff of boot heels on the floor, and he was moving past her, further into the room. She felt as though she'd been underwater for minutes, and had just broken the surface. Seconds later, a click, and then the room was awash with a soft glow of a desk lamp.
The dark had seemed less terrifying.
Still, he said nothing. She could hear him, the shifting of clothing, heavy boots dropping to the floor, the slide of leather over skin, the solid jingle of buckles, the agonizing descent of a zipper. A tired sigh and the pop of tendons over bone, and she could stand to look away no longer.
Her teeth chattered, forcing her to clench her jaw.
He was standing by the cot, bare from the waist up, his back to her as he worked to undo his pants, his machinations casual, as if she wasn't there. She was transfixed, mesmerized by the play of light and shadow upon his bare skin, the movements of the muscle beneath.
It had been too long since she'd last seen him without a shirt.
He paused then, choosing at that time to glance over his shoulder. Lapis met garnet and locked. Straightening, he held her stare as he lowered himself to the edge of the cot. Her lips parted, trembling, her jaw lax.
Is this really happening?
Light-headed, pulse buzzing in her ears, she looked away from him to the door. The stillness was too much. The uncertainty was stifling.
And then, his voice again, soft, beckoning, it seemed.
"I'm...here, now."
Indeed. Just like that, she felt the vice in her chest release, felt the suppressive weight evaporate from her shoulders. She could feel him watching her, waiting. A warmth was building deep in her belly and spreading out, and up, slow and sweet. She stopped shivering, felt the soreness in her shoulders dissipating.
She turned back to him, biting her lip as her eyes met his once again. He was staring, unwavering, and she allowed herself to stare openly back for the first time since his return at the church. In those few quiet seconds, she wordlessly told him everything he needed to know.
She watched as understanding dawned, saw the bob in his neck as he swallowed thickly. She could feel the tension building, charging the atmosphere between them.
He ducked his head, eyes on the floor, arms draped against his legs as nervous hands fidgeted between his knees. Offering furtive glances beneath his lashes, quick, and light, and not always at her face, she noted with an almost primal glee, he then stuttered, his voice catching and loaded with something dark and promising.
"Did...is...is there something you...wanted?"
She could only smile in reply.