(Author's Note: I am so sorry! All of my readers are so wonderfully and I neglect you horribly. I had a LOT of Real Life stuff that prevented me from sitting down and hammering this out, and the biggest problem was exams. This one here is actually your November update, so by January, I'll still owe you all a two updates. I'm so sorry I fell behind, but please consider this my New Year's gift to you!

This chapter I'm especially pleased with, as it doesn't have Tifa and Cloud directly interacting in it. This is how I think their relationship would've been like when they were younger, with Cloud always focused on her and Tifa rarely if ever knowing about it. I've also put a parallel story in here between Cloud and his mother (you'll know it when you read it) that I'm very proud of and owe all of it to my muse.

Once again, all prompts are most welcome! The next one will be Christmas oriented and I know there's a LOT of household traditions for Christmas - so share them and it might end up in the next chapter!)

...I Cooked For You

It was a well-known fact that Mr. Lockhart could not cook. In fact, this inability was quietly regarded as something of a town joke.

One might say that this curt assessment was based on trite stereotypes regarding the prowess (or lack thereof) of men in the kitchen. One might say that such an ultimatum was entirely unfair, since cooking is a wildly subjective field and there are many ways to achieve the same goal. One might say that just because there was no longer a woman in the house, it didn't mean that cooking was forever a lost skill in the household.

But all those would be wrong, because the facts were plain to see. After the fifth time Mr. Lockhart had to run outside, holding a smoking and charred item, burnt well beyond recognition, there was no getting around the sad fact. Mr. Lockhart could not cook. Period.

At first, the townspeople shrugged and smiled, but a little sadly, since his bumbling efforts were a painful reminder of the loss of Mrs. Lockhart. It wasn't just the stinging smoke that brought tears to Mr. Lockhart's eyes as he rushed yet another casserole outside before the smoke alarms went off. Still, people smiled and chuckled and offered increasingly simple recipes to help tide the family over until he found his cooking rhythm.

As the months went by, it became readily apparent that he was as hopeless as ever when it came to cooking anything more complex that soup or chili, and it was the appearance of Tifa, getting thinner and stumbling after her father, coughing from the smoke, that broke the respectful distance their neighbors maintained.

Food started appearing on the Lockhart doorstep, wholesome dishes that arrived in a variety of Tupperware and bowls. Casseroles, rice and lamb, stew, even a neatly sliced roast, were all quietly placed on the step and their owners proudly sidled away, ever anonymous. All these offerings were gratefully accepted and Mr. Lockhart did his best to reciprocate in any way he could. Being a carpenter, he plied his trade well. Inside a pan once holding a lasagna there would be several freshly carved wooden spoons. A sealed Tupperware would be opened to reveal a beautifully carved wooden bowl inside. These gifts were never returned and no one said anything about them - it was of silent agreement that Lockhart's pride would not accept the food without something given in return.

Things continued on this way for a while, and it soon became evident that Mr. Lockhart's cooking skill was improving. Either that, or Tifa was a fast learner. It was suspected that both conjectures were true. The unofficial arrangement was working well and the offerings began to taper off a little as weeks went by without a single scorched casserole being rushed into the banks of snow. Finally, nearly a year since Mrs. Lockhart's death, it seemed that Mr. Lockhart had managed the tricky art of cooking, to some extent.

However, as the days ticked by and grew colder, it was impossible to note that the meager cooking talents of the Lockhart household were woefully inadequate for Blessings Day. It was that famous holiday that required a turkey with all the dressings, chestnuts, potatoes and yams, seasoning and spice and every kind of vegetable. Blessings Day was a cooking juggernaut that hovered in the future like an impending doom, looming over the Lockhart's valiant efforts menacingly. When the air would be filled with delicious aromas and every table groaned under a bountiful harvest, everyone knew the Lockhart's would be having the same stew recipie that father and daughter had managed to conquer. The absence of Tifa's mother was never more painfully felt.

A week before the holiday, someone left anonymous letters in every mailbox. Each neighbor (which was pretty much everyone, since Nibelhiem was so small) were to prepare the item written on the bottom of the letter and leave it at the Lockhart doorstep. This year, the first without a wife and mother, the stricken family would still be able to celebrate like everyone else and, perhaps, be able to count the blessings they had, not the ones they had lost.

Unfortunately, one particular mother took a good look at the whole situation, indulged in thoughtful consideration for a few minutes and then made an ultimatum to her son.

"You're going to learn how to cook," said Ms. Strife.

Cloud, currently busy with a video game, gave the usual response children do when involved in extremely important matters. "Uh huh."

His mother clapped her hands together, making him jump. A squeal and a crash from the screen heralded the 'game over' screen. "Oh good, so glad to see such enthusiasm! Wash your hands and we'll get started."

Too late, Cloud realized he'd fallen into a trap. "Wait-"

"Ah ah ah, now what did I teach you Cloud?" his mother admonished. "Never go back on your promises."

Cloud had not realized he'd made a promise.

Before he could point that out, however, his mother said, "Come on now, go wash up. Hup hup hup!" She clapped her hands at him and, grumbling, he stood and dragged his feet on the way to the kitchen.

By the time he had sufficiently washed his hands, a small sugar pumpkin dropped into the sink. His mother grinned at his cocked eyebrow. "Wash it off good," she said brightly.

Cloud eyed the small pumpkin. "What," he demanded, "is this?"

"It's a sugar pumpkin."

He made a 'please-elaborate-further' grunt. He warily rubbed a finger on the small pumpkin and examined the finger tip for any sign of alteration.

Ms. Strife tsked and shooed him aside to wash the pumpkin herself. "They're sweeter and have a finer grain for making pumpkin pie."

He visibly up at that. "You're making pumpkin pie?"

"You're making pumpkin pie," she said, and ignored his crestfallen expression. "I bought more than one pumpkin, in case of any mistakes."

Cloud sighed. Sometimes, his mother's train of logic moved so fast he was left in the dust. "Why am I making a pumpkin pie?" he asked. There may have been a trace of sarcasm in his voice. Maybe.

"It's for the Lockhart's," she said. "The whole town is pitching in since the cooking isn't up to par for the holiday just yet."

He went very still at that. This would be the first Blessings Day for Tifa without a mother. And Blessings Day just wasn't the same without some good, homemade pumpkin pie. This dessert would probably make a world of difference to her. For a second, he vividly imagined Tifa taking a bite of pie, amber eyes delighted and full of happiness.

"So what do I do?" he asked, rolling up his sleeves.

His mother carefully hid her smile by turning away. "Here, wash these." She plunked several more small pumpkins into the sink. "Don't use any soap, just rub them down."

When this was done, she helped him transfer them all to the cutting board on the counter. Then she went over to a drawer that held all sorts of miscellaneous kitchen stuff and, after some wrestling with the contents, produced a hand saw.

Cloud looked from the handsaw to his mother and smiled. "You are the coolest mom ever."

She laughed. "Didn't think your mother cooked with hand tools, mmm? Well it's the best way to cut up pumpkins. A smooth knife will slip."

Surprisingly, Cloud found himself having fun as his mother went to work on a pumpkin with the handsaw. The tool must've been incredibly sharp, because it only took five strokes to slice the squash down the middle, stem and all. After two more pumpkins, his mother handed the handsaw to him and she let him saw up the rest. It was a little irksome to have her hovering over him, insisting he go slower and be more careful. He was ten! He could handle a saw, for crying out loud.

When the pumpkins were cut with no loss of fingers, the two made quick work picking out the seeds. Then came the tricky part. His mother provided him with a spoon and was directed to scoop out the 'guts' of the pumpkin. With two quick scoops, she demonstrated, and waited for him to do the rest.

After the hundredth time the guts slipped messily off his spoon, Cloud lost his patience. Throwing the spoon into the sink with a loud clatter, he pounced on the nearest squash, dug in with both hands, lifted the entire squishy mass out of the pumpkin, and flung it all into the trash. A few more repetitions and all the pumpkins were cleaned of their guts, with only a few fingernail marks to show for the technique.

He glared at his mother, who was doing her best not to laugh. "That spoon," he said carefully, "is evil."

She nodded rapidly and told him to wash his hands in a squeaky voice before running out of the room. From the depths of the house, he heard hysterical laughter.

As he washed his hands sullenly, he grumbled, "Mothers."

Once his hands were clean enough (his mother made him wash again to clean out pumpkin splooge from under his fingernails) she took a step back and began issuing commands like a over-zealous general on the field.

"Now go into the lower right cupboard and get a pot. No, a bigger one. Bigger. Reach back. There! Now get the pumpkins and put them in the pot. Not like that. Turn that one and you'll fit two more halves in. No the other way. No, the - exactly!"

"Can't you help with some of this?" he asked. He'd begun to get the creeping suspicion that she was enjoying herself immensely as he scrambled about the kitchen.

She gave him that patented innocent look mother's give their children when they're exploiting them. "Why no, dear. How else will you learn to do it on your own?" She smiled at him again and his eyes narrowed. "Now, fill that pot with some water and put the other pot inside. Not that one, the one with holes in it. The steamer. Very good!"

In short order, the pumpkin halves were all steaming away in three pots. Why his mother had three pots to do the same job, Cloud did not know. Nor did he question. Mothers were inscrutable creatures with their own wayward methods and he knew enough by now that understanding them was a futile effort. Just further proof that wisdom comes with age.

It took thirty minutes before Ms. Strife declared the pumpkins sufficiently soft enough to skin. By then, the kitchen had filled with delicious scent of cooking pumpkin and Cloud's mouth was watering.

"We're going to skin them?" Cloud eyed the steaming vegetable bits warily.

"Sure. Look." With a total disregard for the heat, his mother splayed her fingers out on one of the halves, dug her fingers in a bit and drew her fingers together. The tough skin of pumpkin folded up like wet cardboard. "Easy. Now you try."

A few seconds later, Cloud was nursing burnt fingertips in his mouth.

"Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry sweety!" Before he knew what was happening, she'd grabbed his wrists and hauled him over to the sink. He was pretty sure his feet never touched the ground in between. As vibrant and funny as his mother could be, she became one crazy mother hen when he got so much as a pinprick.

Cold water poured over his red fingers and he frowned. "Ow."

"I'm so sorry, baby, that one must've held the steam in! Oh, my poor darling!" She started to kiss his forehead and stroke his hair and he thought that was quite enough. He was old enough to know what dignity was and do his best to preserve what little he had.

"I'm okay, mom, it doesn't hurt that bad." And this was the truth. Thanks to the mountain-spring-fed water from the tap, his fingers had lost all feeling a while ago. If he kept them under the icy stream much longer, 'meat popsicle' would be the only term one could use to describe them.

"Oh, okay." She let go of him, but continued to hover. "Are you sure you're okay?"

He frowned at her - she knew he hated being coddled. "Shouldn't we be starting the next step?"

Sighing, she flung her hands in the air. "Alright, alright! Can you blame a mother for being concerned for her only child?" She scurried off before he could speak, leaving him at the sink muttering about mother hens.

Once she was gone and safely puttering over the pumpkins, he inspected his fingers. A few of his fingertips would have blisters on them, but overall, not bad. In the perpetual curiosity of children, he poked a blister and marveled with grotesque fascination at the way the fluid inside squished around.

RNNNNGNGGGGSHHHHRRRRRRRRRR!

Cloud felt his feet lift from the ground as a roaring, screeching, howling wail started right behind his right ear. He stumbled backwards, one arm flung out to brace himself against the corner of two counters. His heart hammered in his ears as adrenaline flushed through him with a heady warmth.

The sound vanished a suddenly as it had begun and his wild eyes focused on his mother, sheepishly removing the container from the blender. Laughter burbled on the edges of her words as she said, "Sorry, honey. I didn't think it'd scare you."

"Afff eeeeggggg sssssshhh uhhhhh," Cloud said.

His mother snickered at that and he glared at her, one heart clutching his chest as he sank to the floor. This did nothing to dissuade her, however. In fact, she started laughing even harder. She put the rest of the mushed up pumpkin into the blender and started laughing more when he jumped as she turned it on. The blender stuttered and fell silent as her finger slipped off the button, her laughter coming in convulsing shudders. She barely managed to scrap the pulp into a wire colander to let the water drain in the sink. It took her three tries to set a timer.

Cloud stood, anger rising to replace startlement, and adjusted his clothing with furious jerks. "It isn't that funny!"

His mother put a delicate hand to her throat and just kept laughing. In spite of himself, he felt his own giggles starting to rise and he had to fight to keep a stern expression. Ms. Strife's hand landed on a forgotten pumpkin skin and her laughter cut out for a second as she raised it, surprised.

A suddenly wicked grin spread across her face and, with two quick pokes, she made eye-holes in the skin, draped it on her face, and hunched over like a witch, hands out in front of her like claws. Cloud gaped, laughing at the ridiculous images she made.

"A witch, a witch, an ugly witch am I! I love to eat little boys with unruly hair! Ha!" She ran after him and he ducked away quickly, shouting as he did.

"You're a madwoman!"

"I'm a witch, a white witch and I want a face to replace this old one!"

The chase circled the kitchen table three times, with Cloud toppling a chair or three to slow her down. He couldn't believe it when she cleared the chairs in a single leap. The hunt went into the living room where they circled the couch about fifteen times, laughing and cackling and throwing pillows at each other. Twice Cloud fell and suffered the Tickle Torture before he managed to squirm away, tears of mirth in his eyes. At some point the 'witch' lost her wrinkly old face, the pumpkin rind lost in the scuffle, but neither of them noticed.

Ultimately, pillows saved Cloud from total defeat. Pillows and an old blanket that tangled the witch's limbs for a few seconds, enabling Cloud to beat her about the head and shoulders with a flimsy pillow a few times before she grabbed his ankles and sucked him under too.

There was a wild flailing of arms and pillows while Cloud gasped for breath between laughter and his mother shrilly declared how she was going to eat up the little boy, and invite all her white witches of the mountain to share little boy stew.

Just when the battle was at the deciding moment, when Cloud would have to escape or wet his pants from uncontrollable laughter, the timer dinged.

Witch and stew-destined froze for a second, the burst into action.

Cloud was quicker on his feet, up and racing for the kitchen with the speed of thought. But his mother reached out, snagged the waistband of his pants and jerked him back into the mess of pillows. By the time he'd flailed to the top of the fluffy trap, she was already in the kitchen. He got there just as she grabbed the timer, a wild grin on her face.

The leaned against each other, the last giggles escaping them. At last, they pushed apart and inspected the draining pulp. A finger prod proved it to be dry enough for the next step.

Cloud was set to mixing the ingredients, which proved enough for five pies, while his mother made the pie crust. They worked together well, Cloud consulting the recipe book every fifteen seconds and his mother crafting a perfect, flaky pie crust on pure instinct and experience. The oven whuffed now and then as it was brought up to heat. The coal and wood stoves of the past had been replaced by the supposedly 'clean' energy of Mako reactors.

Soon, Cloud was delicately pouring the mixture into the first pie crust. "Are you sure this will get harder?" The mixture was amazingly runny.

"Yes, yes, I'm very sure. Now be careful to not tip it too much or... that will happen." Some of the mixture had spilled over and the perfect crust edge was a loss. His mother tsked.

"Ah well, it'll still be good. We can eat it ourselves. Consider this your first run. Now, get it to the oven and we'll have some dinner while it bakes."

The unexpectedly runny mixture slopped over a few times and he had to take painstakingly delicate steps to ferry the pie over to the stove. Despite his mothers reassurances, he couldn't suppress a pang of disappointment.

"I know you wanted it to be perfect the first time around, sweety," she said, stirring the soup, "But these things happen in baking. Besides, look at how much we have here! We can always make another."

"Hnnngh." Cloud sat at the table, one cheek propped up in a hand, looking glum. "What about the rest of the pies then?"

She shrugged, adding a little spice to the pot. "We can't eat them all. We can give them to the neighbors, so they can celebrate Blessings Day as well."

He gave her a questioning look, which she didn't see. He could never understand generosity in their near-destitute state. It was the kind of act he supposed people would call courageous or brave. But to him, it just seemed odd.

"You'll get better," she said, sliding into a seat next to him. A steaming cup of soup was laid before him. "It took me time to get as good as I am today." She smiled warmly at him as he conveyed a spoonful of soup to his mouth.

They ate in silence for a while. Then, Cloud spoke. "What was your first pie like?"

She raised a golden eyebrow. "When my mother was teaching me, I-"

"No, not that far back." Cloud pushed around some of his soup as she stared at him in surprise.

"If this is another age joke, I'll have you know that my father had hunted all the mammoths down by the time I was born."

He chuckled. "No, I meant... What was the first meal you cooked... when dad was here?"

She went very still. For a moment, he feared she wasn't even breathing, then she drew in a shuddering breath and gave him a wan smile. "Well, that was so long ago, but I'll never forget it."

Cloud set down his spoon and leaned in closer. She didn't often talk about his father and even at his young age he knew it still hurt her to summon his memory.

She raised her mug of tea and took a sip, as if to brace herself for the story. "It was our first winter together. Your father, at the time, worked in the mine, down the mountain. Oh, he was good at it." She smiled. "He was always so strong. He could carry an entire sack of coal over each shoulder and do it all day."

She fell silent, a faint smile on her lips as she remembered. "Well, our first winter together was very hard, even for this high up in the mountains. It was easier to tunnel a road under the snow than to clear it off the top. Oh, it was cold. We didn't have the Mako reactor back then and we all had to keep warm with was coal back then, and trust me, you don't know how cold a coal fire can be with snow over your windows."

She smiled, took another sip of tea. "Well, I decided to make something warm for your father when he got home and so far all my cooked meals had been rather simple. I was a new wife, didn't know what the hell I was doing. So I decided to make a shepherd's pie." She grinned as he winced at the implications. "Yes, I have no idea what I was thinking. I didn't know that some of the ingredients had to be lightly cooked ahead of time, so they would be done at the same time when put in the oven. The first time I learned of this is when I looked it up in the cook book. It all looked simple enough, so I decided to do it."

She laughed at her own naivete. "I had this image in my head of this perfect meal, like those old 'idealism' paintings that were so popular, you've seen the kind. Everything in those pictures looks warm and happy, with a whole family around the table and a delicious meal just waiting for a fork. I wanted a little slice of that heaven in my life, I wanted to make it happen for your father, something that only I could give."

She took a sip of her cooling tea and leaned back in her chair. "Well the pie was a disaster, of course. I was elbow-deep in flower and frantic by the time your father got home. All the ingredients were scattered about the kitchen in various states of not-cooked and that pie was nowhere near to being done. When your father walked in he just looked around and said, 'Are we eating out tonight?'"

They both laughed. "And when he said that I just... burst into tears. I was so disappointed, that lovely, perfect-family image. Like I said, I was a new wife, and thought if I could do just this one, stupid pie right, that image would always be mine."

She stopped suddenly, and even Cloud could sense the pang of anguish; that dream had been lost to war anyway, and no amount of perfect pies could put it back together. It took only a few seconds for her to recover. "So, there I am, covered in flour, bawling my eyes out, and your dad doesn't have a clue what to do. So after a while, he gets the whole story out of me and he starts laughing and says, 'Don't worry, love, I'll help you make it.'"

She smiled, her eyes gone distant and hazy with a beloved memory. "It took us hours to get it together. Even I knew more about cooking than him, and sometimes I had to go dashing to his rescue. The potatoes still boiled over, but somehow we managed to get it done. That pie came out of the oven at ten o'clock at night. We were so hungry by then, we ate the whole thing." Her smile grew, the saddest, yet most content smile Cloud had ever seen. "When we were done, your dad said it was the most delicious thing I'd ever made."

Silence fell as she lapsed into memory, eyes glistening at that sour cooking experiment that had become a treasured moment in her life. Cloud watched her, watched her eyes fill with exquisite emotion and he knew she still loved his father very much.

BREEP-EEP. BREEP-EEP. BREEP-EEP.

The timer made them both jump and she smiled at him, no longer wandering in the past. "Go check the pie, sweety. Poke it with a knife, and if it comes out clean, it's good to eat."

He hopped off his chair and did as she instructed. The knife came out clean and it had indeed firmed up quite well in the oven. That wasn't the disappointing part.

"It looks like a chocobo turd," Cloud said unhappily. His mother had to stifle a laugh, but it stuck in her throat and made her voice squeaky.

"Oh, it's not... not quite that bad, dear."

It was, though. It was lumpy and had several pockmarks in it where air bubbles had risen to the surface.

"Did you... thoroughly tap the pan like I told you to? To get the air bubbles out?" she asked.

"You never told me that."

"Yes, I did sweety."

"Well I didn't hear it over that, wailing thing!" he gestured wildly at the mixing bowl. "I can't give this to Tifa - I mean," he stumbled over his words when he saw her smiling, "The uh, the Lockharts. This looks like a disaster!"

His mother sighed. "Well, no argument there, it is fright to behold." She scooped up a fingerful of pie filling and tasted it. "Tastes fine though. Maybe this one will be our own fridge experiment. Go on, let's make another. But we've only time for one more, before it's your bedtime, sweety!" She turned to pull out another pie tin.

"No," said Cloud. He had his hands on his hips and his chin thrust forward, the way he always did when he wasn't going to move on a decision.

She faced him, blinking. "Excuse me?"

"I'm giving Tifa the best pumpkin pie." He glared up at her, stubborn as ever. "Only the best."

Her expression shaded from incredulity to something else, almost like a sadness. "Why?"

He thought about it for a second, the thoughts flickering through his blue eyes like hawks across the sky. Then, "Because she deserves it."

A slow smile spread across his mother's lips and she nodded. "Well then. Until the perfect one. Deal?" She ruffled his hair and he grinned. "Let's get to work, little one."

xXxXx

His mother fell asleep when the fourth pie was in the oven. The second one had been too runny and he'd checked it too often. It had baked lopsided, almost over the crust on one side and nearly showing the crust on the other. The third had developed splits in the filling and Cloud refused to deem it fit for Tifa's table.

He toiled well through midnight and his mother fell asleep on the couch. He covered her with a blanket, and baked on.

By the fourth pie, he'd become quite good at making the crust, pouring the mixture and gently conveying it to the oven. His work slowed down as yawns grew in length and frequency but he soldiered on, determined that he would give Tifa this one thing, this piece of home she'd lost with her mother. She would have it, and he, Cloud, would see to it that she got it.

A truly noble goal.

It would've been even more noble if he hadn't fallen asleep next to his mother while the fourth, perfect, pie cooled on the counter.

xXxXx

Cloud woke from bright sunlight. He blinked, winced, and turned away from the spearing rays. Next to him, his mother curled up under a blanket. He looked around, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. It was still early morning yet, and the sun had just reached the height to peer over the mountain peaks.

He yawned, pulled a blanket over him, snuggled down into some pillows, and closed his eyes.

A minute later he exploded from his cozy nest, with a gasped, "THE PIE!" His mother jerked awake with a snort.

"What?" she asked, voice still muzzy.

"What time is it? Oh my god, it's almost seven!"

"What's going on?" His mother sat up, rubbing her eyes. "Cloud?"

"I forgot to put the pie on their doorstep!"

She stared at him for a second, eyes wide. "There's a pie carrier in the third cupboard! Hurry!"

After a frantic morning that had no breakfast, they decorate the pie with whip cream and cinnamon, carefully placed the perfect pie in the carrier and Cloud rushed out the door as fast as slow, steady steps could be rushed.

The distance between his house and Tifa's never seemed longer or more treacherous. He glanced at the windows nervously.

One of the upper lights came on.

His foot came down on a loose stone and he nearly lost the pie right there. There was nothing for it but to grit his teeth and take his time.

At long last, he reached her doorstep, already laden with dishes of every kind. He carefully knelt, and laid the pie down...

...at the exact same time Tifa opened the door.

They stared at each other for several seconds, blue locked with amber and he finally stood, coughed and muttered, "Happy Blessings Day," before running back to his house.

"Did you get it there in time?" his mother asked.

Instead of answering, he rushed to the kitchen window that provided a view of the Lockhart's front door. Tifa was still gawping at the wealth of food on her doorstep and he grinned as she picked up his own offering.

And he would never forget the smile of pure joy on her face when she saw that beautiful, perfect, pumpkin pie.

A little slice of heaven that he made just for her.