Three

"Storm, honey? Could you get the door?"

The blonde teenager seated in the beanbag in the living room continued with his activities, which involved mainly a book in his lap, a half-open textbook on the floor next to him, some giant earphones, and a TV remote changing channels every three seconds. It was a little hard trying to see the glorious swimsuit models of daytime television over that pen balanced on the tip of his nose, though.

"Storm? I'm not asking you again. Get the door please."

"But I don't want to greet him." The boy known as Storm answered, without interrupting any of his simultaneous activities. The pen tilted dangerously. "Can't we pretend we're not home?"

A pause came from the kitchen. Then, tiptoeing, Tifa came into the living room and crouched down next to the spiky-haired youth, eyes wide with apprehension.

"It's not your father, is it?"

"Oh no. It's much worse."

Now Tifa was curious. "Mrs. Winston again? How many times have I told you she doesn't appreciate your 'talents' any more than your periodic 'acts of kindness?'"

Again, Storm shook his head. The pen, miraculously, swayed and stayed put. "She'll thank me one day - that budgie would've killed her in her sleep. Anyway, you could open the door, if you're so keen. But the person on the other side isn't exactly a ray of sunshine."

Tifa was already two steps from the door. "As if we need it." She said, before pulling it open.

And there he was, the person Tifa had never expected to see again, still in the clothes she saw him in last... sixteen years ago? Despite the heat, Vincent had on his usual coolass crimson cape, and his untrimmed, gorgeous hair came cascading down his broad shoulders in ripples. His gloved hand was halfway to the doorbell, ready to press again, and by the shy, Vincent-style startled-rabbit look on his half-hidden face, Tifa could deduce that she was the last person he had expected as well. A few seconds of awkward silence dawned, broken by the sound of Storm's loud mutter of "I told you so!" from within.

"Vincent!" Tifa finally managed to splutter, a good-natured look settling with discomfort over her face. She thought the days of masquerading were over, but bad days seemed to have a tendency to come back and bite you on the ass. Tifa, in her years of living alone, remained in constant vigilance, because sometimes bad people, or more specifically, a certain bad, blonde person did as well, and in that case the potentialass-biting would be much more than a just metaphor.

Vincent, on the other hand, could not be classified as altogether bad. Though he never was a white dove either.

"I haven't seen you since Bugenhagen's funeral! What are you doing here?" She prompted. It seemed the ex-Turk had never been gifted in the art of conversation. No wonder about that ladylove of his. Shy men were cute, but after a while it gets very frustrating.

"I..." In this period of time, Vincent had regained his composure and coolness. It was in fact really fascinating to watch his face change from expression to expressionless so quickly, like one giant wipe of some invisible duster. "It's good to see you again, Tifa. I was..."

"Looking for Cloud?" Tifa asked, running just a bit out of patience. She never was as good as Aerith at pretending she cared. "You didn't think he still lived here? Mr. Big-shot, superstar, I-staged-my-own-wedding-as-a-publicity-stunt Strife?"

"Oh." A pause. "Do you know...where I might find him?"

"Yeah, but I wouldn't recommend it. You'll never get past the crowd of fangirls that envelop him like a plague. Alive, anyway."

Vincent looked a bit bewildered. The poor guy was so tall, but so lost, with his fashion of fifty years ago, standing so out-of-place on the most luxurious and populated beach paradise in the world, that Tifa's heart could not help just melt at the sight of that face.

"Look, do you want to come in?" She sighed, standing to the side and allowing him access to the air-conditioned corridor. For a moment Vincent's gaze shifted, from her face to the inside of the villa, and Tifa saw those red eyes fix on something, then look down at her questioningly. She glanced back to see Storm's face peeking from the living room, giant headphones still on, looking like he couldn't care less. At least he's taken that pen off his nose, she thought.

"That's Storm." She said, in answer to those eyes. They didn't waver. "My son." She added.

The eyes widened considerably.

"Cloud's son." Tifa mentioned.

She was sure that for a second, a smirk formed inside that annoyingly high collar of Vinny's, but a flash later, like all Vinny's emotions, it was gone.

"Yeah, tell me about it." Tifa responded to the phantom smile by tossed her hair, much like a disgruntled mare tosses her mane. "Are you gonna come in or what?"

Vincent didn't move, but lowered his head slightly to the ground. Tifa followed, and it was only then she noticed his suitcase lying against the door, and suddenly realised what was going on.

"If you need a place to stay, we've got plenty of room." She suggested, half-exasperated and half-amused by how adorable this guy was. "Yuffie always crashes here when she needs to get away from duties, and you wouldn't believe how many times Shera and Cid have made up here."

"Thank you Tifa." It was only then he picked up his suitcase and shuffled awkwardly in. "I appreciate it."

She guided him into the guest bedroom, aware that Storm had left his multitasking and was peering with minimal interest at the man whose appearance really needed some attention. Tifa felt a little self-pitiful all of a sudden. She's already renounced around the neighbourhood for having a son who's...more than a little lenient towards the weird side, and now what are they going to think after seeing a strange, raven-haired prettyboy with a left arm made of metal moving in with her? And what if Vincent and Storm influence each other in a less-than-desirable way? Teenagers, no matter how eccentric they were, were universally known to be angsty, and Tifa didn't need anymore of THAT around the house, thank you very much.

"Storm, this is one of my friends, Mr. Vincent Valentine." She introduced, secretly knowing that Storm already knows. There's now the matter of how to explain to Vincent like she explained to the others just how to deal with her son. Like the former Cloud, he can be quite... disturbing to outsiders, though in a somewhat different way.

But Storm himself had already decided to cut to the chase: "Vincent Valentine." He announced, very unenthusiastically given the nature of the news: "Aerith wants you and I to go to Midgar immediately. There we will pick up on the unfinished past, and you will get to do what you didn't get a chance to sixteen years ago."

Vincent, who was sitting on the bed in the process of unbuttoning his cape, froze so instantly that he looked like he'd been petrified by five green dragons at once. Tifa was also momentarily stunned. In all these years of adapting to Storm's unexpected bursts of 'inspiration', this had got to be the biggest, and most ridiculous, piece of information that has ever come out of his mouth. For nearly a full minute, nobody moved. But given the circumstances, Tifa felt, after recovering a little, that it was her duty as host and mother to inform their guest exactly why he had been temporarily deprived of his movement capabilities. Maybe if she distracted him a little, his pupils would reappear, for Gods' sakes.

"Vincent, Storm here has a 'gift'... of sorts." She sighed. This never did get easier. "He's psychic."

"That's right." Storm grinned. "Come on, we're to leave immediately. And I don't like it anymore than you do that Aerith brought Hojo back to life."

This time, even Tifa couldn't remain standing. Her knees gave way and she collapsed backwards onto Vincent, who, she discovered later, had turned the colour and rigidity of set concrete.

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AN: Here it gets interesting-er.