You know,
I am not much better without you


The next few days, I visit Sector Seven everyday. And I don't think it bothers Tifa.

She's usually sitting behind the bar, her right shoulder tied in some impromptu dressing with the arm clutching to the neckline of her shirt to keep still. She doesn't complain about the pain, and she smiles every time I enter, despite the scolding I'll get directly following.

"Aeris," she always starts, "you know you shouldn't be wandering the streets alone."

Her tone is chiding, and I can see the stern expression on her fine brow, but I laugh anyway.

"I'm more a Slumling than you, Country girl – so don't take that finger with me."

She rolls those eyes, taking her heavy boots off the bar and stretching as she stands. I don't think I've ever seen her feet, and I've begun to assume she sleeps in those shoes, which wouldn't be the strangest thing about her.

"Can I get you anything to drink? Eat?"

Like my compulsion to smile, I know she's just being polite, and as I shake my head to refuse, she sighs relieved and grins.

"Where's Cloud and the others?"

Her grin fades instantly and I immediately cross the room to the lone radio in the corner bookshelf and flick it on. Passing through a couple of stations and getting nothing but the current melodic beat of popular choice, I turn it off.

She's still standing behind the bar with a stoic face.

"They'll call," she says.

"Before or after?" I snap, turning sharply to see her taken back at my tone. I soften at once, "I'm sorry, that came out-"

"Don't apologize for what you believe in."

She waves me off, coming around the bar to begin turning the floor chairs up onto the tables. No easy task with only one functional arm, that's for sure. But despite myself, I'm glad she's injured.

"Is Marlene asleep?"

The air between us is hard and heavy, and I hope the little girl can ease the tension.

"She's in bed, but asleep? You know her," Tifa says over her shoulder, still setting up furniture.

And it's true, by now, I do – and I adore her dearly – Marlene that is. I'm still up in the air over a father who finds a hobby in explosives.

"When did they leave?"

I'm leaning on the pinball machine now and she's pretending to scrub at some nonexistent speck of dirt on the table, still not facing me.

"They left early this afternoon."

"It takes that long?" I regret saying it instantly, but my mouth gets a little ahead of my brain in some instances.

She turns to me and chuckles, knowing what's going on in my head – probably better than I.

"They needed to pick up some supplies, and besides, it is a top secret security facility – it can't be some walk in the park," she smirks, "there wouldn't be any fun in that."

I know she knows she's pushing my button, but what I don't know is why. My eyes narrow though at her snarky tone, and I fold my arms and cock my head to a tilt.

"And which definition of fun is this? The Turk version? Or is it the Terrorist one?"

Our eyes meet dead on, and I can feel the blush creeping along my neck as I try to stare her down in this game.

She smiles.

"It's the Tifa Lockhart definition. You tell me where that fits."


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