Wednesday
Come Here
Tifa held the Turk blazer between her hands like it was a filthy blanket. She stared at the shoes dubiously.
"You've gotta be kidding me!" Yuffie whined, making a vomiting sound.
"Hey, a bet's a bet, yo," Reno drawled with a devious smile. "And don't even think of backin out. Jacket, shoes—and nothin else." His voice turned sickeningly sultry.
"We at least get underwear, Reno." Tifa glared at him, and he only shrugged in response. "Who's is this anyway?"
"Mine. One of my old ones from back when I was still a kid. It should fit ya. I snagged one of Elena's for the pipsqueak here." Reno ruffled Yuffie's hair roughly with both hands.
"Get off, you perverted hedgehog!" Yuffie screeched and elbowed him in the ribs before stomping up the stairs. Reno doubled over, but his pained cackle grew louder at every booming step.
"Fine, let's get this over with," Tifa said, resigned to her fate of wearing a Turk standard-issue jacket for the next week. As she climbed the stairs, she breathed a sigh of relief. She hated ShinRa—still mostly disliked the Turks. But this could've been worse. So much worse.
She passed Vincent in the small upstairs kitchen. He'd slept in the house all week, choosing to bunk up in Cloud's office until the upcoming celebration on Saturday. Reeve always insisted they all be present. The commissioner liked to make a show of gratitude for their heroics over the years. Vincent didn't attend every year, but Tifa was happy to host him. The former Turk was good for conversation when she could coax him into it on slow nights. He paused in making his tea only briefly as she sulked past on her way to her bedroom.
Tifa regarded herself in her mirror, taking in her full look as she pulled her hair into a ponytail. She tested the zipper again until it became stuck, refusing to go higher than mid-cleavage. She cursed under her breath. That redheaded cretin likely knew that would happen. Well, it isn't side-boob.
The jacket was a tight fit everywhere and ended at the top of her thighs, so she'd have to avoid bending over and giving everyone a free peek. The shoes were the right size, though Tifa didn't know how she'd survive wearing the 6-inch torture devices all week. She'd have to take her boots downstairs with her, slip into them periodically. No one works a bar for 8 hours a night in spiked heels without a fracture.
Stepping carefully onto the landing in the hallway, she tested her balance, striding forward with deliberate heel placement. The height modified her posture significantly, and she could feel her hips swaying in an exaggerated figure eight. She teetered momentarily but quickly recovered. Moving atop the icepick thin sticks would be difficult to master. But there was no help for it. She'd simply have to move her legs slower to avoid toppling onto her backside.
Satisfied she wouldn't immediately sprain an ankle, Tifa walked precariously back through the small apartment. She stopped suddenly as she passed by the kitchen, startled by the sound of breaking glass. Vincent stared at her, motionless with his hands open in front of him, a shattered teacup lying in a pool of hot liquid at his feet.
"Oh, let me get that," she said, rushing forward to clean the mess.
"I—I'm sorry, Tifa," he apologized as he reached for the porcelain pieces. He gingerly gathered them into his hands as she wiped the floor with a dishrag. They both rose slowly, careful not to bump into each other in the small space.
Vincent's gaze swept over her body slowly, pausing at each curve. He looked stunned, standing there speechless with his hands full of glass shards. She turned her head down slightly and gave him a side-eyed look. "What?"
"Huh?" he asked, completely dumbstruck.
"It looks like there's—a thought going on in that head of yours. What is it?" she asked self-consciously, tugging at the hem of the blazer.
"Come here," he whispered.
She blinked at him. He blinked back.
Vincent audibly gulped and averted his eyes to his hands, not daring to openly gawk at her. He seemed to come to his senses, throwing the broken cup into the trash before he turned back to the counter to grab a replacement. She couldn't have heard him right.
"What was that?"
"The Turks," he responded quickly. "They come here often?"
"Oh," she said, slightly dejected. "Yeah, nearly every night."
He nodded but concentrated on his new cup of tea. She left him to it and descended the stairs, committed to being Tifa the Turk for the next week.