Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own anything even remotely associated with Final Fantasy VII. I may have kidnapped Vincent and Tifa (and whoever else I decide to throw into the pot) for this story, but they're not mine to keep. Yup. Now, read.
* * *
Chapter Six: Waking Up
by thelittletree
Tifa couldn't remember the next morning how she'd gotten back to bed. Crying until she couldn't catch her breath, until she felt sick to her stomach, until it had all boiled down in the weary end to sitting on the floor with the feel of someone's arms, someone's shoulder under her cheek, the scent of a barely familiar shampoo. Not exactly comforting or comfortable, but steady and present. And, whether she wanted to admit it or not, safe.
Safer, somehow, than crying alone. Months and months of trying to keep up pretenses, trying -- god, trying so hard -- to keep that last wall from falling, afraid of what was on the other side. Convinced there was no way out except a bridge at night; then rescued, like a dying bird saved from impact.
And then pushed days past her limit, compelled into hasty action with the fanciful thought of a kiss to wake her; something in her desperate not to die, desperate not to break. A dream of life, maybe, after death.
But, denied. Pushed away, locked away from those things she thought she needed. No warmth in those unwilling lips; no knives in those convenient drawers.
And nearly deafened by the sound of the barrier collapsing, and it almost sounded like crying. But it was okay to cry, because there were arms balancing her as she teetered on that fatal edge. Not that she could stop what had been put into motion. The wall shook; the wall crumbled. The wall fell away.
And she remained, even if she stood at ground zero.
The curtains weren't open, but she could tell it wasn't quite sunrise. The fragile chill in the air of early dawn, the rumpled feel of blankets not quite covering her, one or two birds twittering outside. She didn't notice them consciously. Things felt different this morning. She was a tea-kettle, empty now of cold, stale water. She was a child, too weary now to cry and have tantrums. She was a dreamer who had wept herself awake.
And, somewhere inside of her was a woman who had once schemed with Barret, who had trained because she'd wanted to, who hadn't really expected to ever see a boy named Cloud Strife again. And, yet, she'd been happy.
She hadn't wanted to die. She'd been strong.
Though Zangan had told her, 'Be careful, girl. You let your heart get in front of your head and it'll only bring you shame and defeat.'
He'd been right.
But when had she let defeat leave her on the ground before?
She'd drained her heart fighting for a man, but against him. Two years, and then a year of trying not to cry, learning not to cry, and convincing herself she could do it alone.
Her proud heart in front of her head.
And in the end, her eyes had been forced open, not by Zangan, not by Barret, not even by the first frightening time she'd considered the bridge. But by a man who had forced her to come to the realization by herself.
Damn him. The hard way. The way he had probably come through it.
Her ankle ached; it was still sore. But she could walk on it. And she was going to. She may only have slept for a few hours, but she felt more awake now than she had in a long time and she knew she wouldn't sleep again. Slowly, she made her way to the door, and then opened it.
Most mornings so far, she'd discovered Vincent on the couch or in the kitchen, often looking like he'd recently come out of the shower. This morning he was standing by the door, dressed in a long black coat and a pair of dark hiking boots. He was tying his hair back into a quick ponytail as she stepped into the room and he turned at the movement with the effortless haste of someone used to being wary. He seemed surprised to see her there.
"Do you need something?"
The question had almost become his ritual greeting. "No."
For a moment he seemed unsure what to make of this answer, but then he turned back to the task at hand and slipped his hair under the collar of the back of his coat, where it presumably would stay out of the way. And then he stepped toward the door.
He was leaving, and Tifa felt sure that it was because of last night. The thought that maybe he felt he could no longer deal with this gave her a flash of anger; if so, he should never have rescued her. He, of all people, should have known what he was getting into. But then she began to wonder if it was because of the kiss; graceless, artless, senseless, running on pain and fear and need. Perhaps he thought it might happen again, and perhaps he didn't trust himself if it did. He knew it was wrong and would only hurt her, hurt both of them if he had a momentary lapse of self-control.
Her fault. Her fault he was leaving his own house. And she felt ashamed, guilty, empty, lonely, and suddenly, strangely close to this subdued man who she'd never known, had been too afraid to know, and who had only been trying to help her...
"I'm sorry," she blurted out toward his back.
He stopped with his hand on the door knob and turned to look at her, one eyebrow climbing slowly as if he wasn't sure he'd heard right.
She felt her face flush. Without the blanket of her anger, she felt uncomfortably exposed. But this time it wasn't like all of the times she'd apologized to Cloud, not really sure what she was apologizing for. "I'm sorry about last night." Her throat was a little hoarse from crying. Her voice sounded quiet to her own ears, as if she might not have used it in a year. "About...you know."
For a few seconds he gave no sign of having heard her, and then he gave a shrug. "Forget it." And then he opened the door.
"But..." She was sure he just wanted to leave, but this interruption felt important. "...where are you going?"
He stopped again, on the door step, and said without turning, "Lily will explain." And then he started down the stairs. A moment later, as he opened the door at the bottom, she heard Lily's voice, coming clearer as she stepped into the stairwell.
"Bye, Vince. Be careful, okay?"
There was no answer that Tifa could hear, and then Lily was coming up the steps. Before she arrived, Tifa started toward the kitchen. After a few seconds, the woman's brisk footsteps were behind her.
"Hey, good morning. I'm here to invite you to come and stay with me, if you want."
Tifa stopped walking at the table and nodded without turning her head. And then she reached for the thing that had grabbed her attention.
It was what Vincent had been working on in the night, the mug she'd broken. Intact again, and as the glue continued to set it would become steadier. Though it would always bear the scar where it had been cracked in two.
* * *
Yeah, this chapter's kind of short, but you know (well, maybe you don't -- or maybe some of you do...well, whatever) how it is when you just come to a point and you know that whatever you've been doing is done? Well, this is where I reached that point. This chapter is done. Not the story. Just the chapter. Hope Tifa's 'change of heart' didn't seem too sudden or confusing...
And I changed a couple of things in the last chapter (not big things; I'm just a petty perfectionist) because I wasn't happy with it. Still not completely satisfied with it, but I'm going to move on. Yup. Thanks for reviews!
* * *
Chapter Six: Waking Up
by thelittletree
Tifa couldn't remember the next morning how she'd gotten back to bed. Crying until she couldn't catch her breath, until she felt sick to her stomach, until it had all boiled down in the weary end to sitting on the floor with the feel of someone's arms, someone's shoulder under her cheek, the scent of a barely familiar shampoo. Not exactly comforting or comfortable, but steady and present. And, whether she wanted to admit it or not, safe.
Safer, somehow, than crying alone. Months and months of trying to keep up pretenses, trying -- god, trying so hard -- to keep that last wall from falling, afraid of what was on the other side. Convinced there was no way out except a bridge at night; then rescued, like a dying bird saved from impact.
And then pushed days past her limit, compelled into hasty action with the fanciful thought of a kiss to wake her; something in her desperate not to die, desperate not to break. A dream of life, maybe, after death.
But, denied. Pushed away, locked away from those things she thought she needed. No warmth in those unwilling lips; no knives in those convenient drawers.
And nearly deafened by the sound of the barrier collapsing, and it almost sounded like crying. But it was okay to cry, because there were arms balancing her as she teetered on that fatal edge. Not that she could stop what had been put into motion. The wall shook; the wall crumbled. The wall fell away.
And she remained, even if she stood at ground zero.
The curtains weren't open, but she could tell it wasn't quite sunrise. The fragile chill in the air of early dawn, the rumpled feel of blankets not quite covering her, one or two birds twittering outside. She didn't notice them consciously. Things felt different this morning. She was a tea-kettle, empty now of cold, stale water. She was a child, too weary now to cry and have tantrums. She was a dreamer who had wept herself awake.
And, somewhere inside of her was a woman who had once schemed with Barret, who had trained because she'd wanted to, who hadn't really expected to ever see a boy named Cloud Strife again. And, yet, she'd been happy.
She hadn't wanted to die. She'd been strong.
Though Zangan had told her, 'Be careful, girl. You let your heart get in front of your head and it'll only bring you shame and defeat.'
He'd been right.
But when had she let defeat leave her on the ground before?
She'd drained her heart fighting for a man, but against him. Two years, and then a year of trying not to cry, learning not to cry, and convincing herself she could do it alone.
Her proud heart in front of her head.
And in the end, her eyes had been forced open, not by Zangan, not by Barret, not even by the first frightening time she'd considered the bridge. But by a man who had forced her to come to the realization by herself.
Damn him. The hard way. The way he had probably come through it.
Her ankle ached; it was still sore. But she could walk on it. And she was going to. She may only have slept for a few hours, but she felt more awake now than she had in a long time and she knew she wouldn't sleep again. Slowly, she made her way to the door, and then opened it.
Most mornings so far, she'd discovered Vincent on the couch or in the kitchen, often looking like he'd recently come out of the shower. This morning he was standing by the door, dressed in a long black coat and a pair of dark hiking boots. He was tying his hair back into a quick ponytail as she stepped into the room and he turned at the movement with the effortless haste of someone used to being wary. He seemed surprised to see her there.
"Do you need something?"
The question had almost become his ritual greeting. "No."
For a moment he seemed unsure what to make of this answer, but then he turned back to the task at hand and slipped his hair under the collar of the back of his coat, where it presumably would stay out of the way. And then he stepped toward the door.
He was leaving, and Tifa felt sure that it was because of last night. The thought that maybe he felt he could no longer deal with this gave her a flash of anger; if so, he should never have rescued her. He, of all people, should have known what he was getting into. But then she began to wonder if it was because of the kiss; graceless, artless, senseless, running on pain and fear and need. Perhaps he thought it might happen again, and perhaps he didn't trust himself if it did. He knew it was wrong and would only hurt her, hurt both of them if he had a momentary lapse of self-control.
Her fault. Her fault he was leaving his own house. And she felt ashamed, guilty, empty, lonely, and suddenly, strangely close to this subdued man who she'd never known, had been too afraid to know, and who had only been trying to help her...
"I'm sorry," she blurted out toward his back.
He stopped with his hand on the door knob and turned to look at her, one eyebrow climbing slowly as if he wasn't sure he'd heard right.
She felt her face flush. Without the blanket of her anger, she felt uncomfortably exposed. But this time it wasn't like all of the times she'd apologized to Cloud, not really sure what she was apologizing for. "I'm sorry about last night." Her throat was a little hoarse from crying. Her voice sounded quiet to her own ears, as if she might not have used it in a year. "About...you know."
For a few seconds he gave no sign of having heard her, and then he gave a shrug. "Forget it." And then he opened the door.
"But..." She was sure he just wanted to leave, but this interruption felt important. "...where are you going?"
He stopped again, on the door step, and said without turning, "Lily will explain." And then he started down the stairs. A moment later, as he opened the door at the bottom, she heard Lily's voice, coming clearer as she stepped into the stairwell.
"Bye, Vince. Be careful, okay?"
There was no answer that Tifa could hear, and then Lily was coming up the steps. Before she arrived, Tifa started toward the kitchen. After a few seconds, the woman's brisk footsteps were behind her.
"Hey, good morning. I'm here to invite you to come and stay with me, if you want."
Tifa stopped walking at the table and nodded without turning her head. And then she reached for the thing that had grabbed her attention.
It was what Vincent had been working on in the night, the mug she'd broken. Intact again, and as the glue continued to set it would become steadier. Though it would always bear the scar where it had been cracked in two.
* * *
Yeah, this chapter's kind of short, but you know (well, maybe you don't -- or maybe some of you do...well, whatever) how it is when you just come to a point and you know that whatever you've been doing is done? Well, this is where I reached that point. This chapter is done. Not the story. Just the chapter. Hope Tifa's 'change of heart' didn't seem too sudden or confusing...
And I changed a couple of things in the last chapter (not big things; I'm just a petty perfectionist) because I wasn't happy with it. Still not completely satisfied with it, but I'm going to move on. Yup. Thanks for reviews!