Disclaimer: Final Fantasy VII and its characters belong to Square Enix and many others. Sadly, I'm not one of them.

Revised and edited January 7, 2007.
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Metathesiophobia or, Moving Forward
By Lady Calliope

Part Seven: Decaphobia

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Organization had always been one of his strong suits. Most of his once-comrades would never have guessed as much from his wrinkled shirts and perpetual five o'clock shadow, but his mind had been on other things in those days. Besides, they only had need of one leader and Cloud wouldn't have taken very warmly to a challenge for his position. He had decided where and when, and that's just the way it worked.

Shit, don't start thinking about that bastard now. You'll never get this crap done if you do.

Pencil poised, thoughts shoved aside, he began to write.

Finalize the lease for apt. (He'd been lucky to get it at such a good price, but the paperwork was turning out to be a real bitch).

Call Rufus. (See what the hell they wanted to do with the Space Program after all this time anyway.)

Buy furniture. (He was sick of using the same cardboard box as a table, footstool, and chair.)

Buy food. (Another thing no one would think just looking at him. Shera used to say he could easily have made a living as a chef if he weren't so obsessed with engines.)

Take a long, hot bath. (Torture was probably the only way he'd ever admit that such a womanly luxury was his favorite way to relax his tense muscles after a hard day in the shop. The bubbles were just for the smell.)

Call Barrett. (He could use a good drinking buddy at this point.)

Drop by Shinra building. (He'd been told he had a corner office somewhere in the reconstructed, skyscraping monstrosity.)

Go get new things. (He refused to write "go shopping." Shopping was something Shera did over a period of at least eight hours and many days of exchanges and returns. He was just going in for some suits and right back out. No ties, though—Rufus had finally conceded that much. As if it wasn't enough that he was forcing him to wear a suit to work.)

Buy cigarettes. (In fact, buy at least three cartons. He was going to need them.)

Tifa.

That's all he could write—nothing more could physically come to mind after her name. He kept telling himself that the proximity in time of Cloud's disappearance and his own move to Midgar had nothing to do with one another. It was just coincidence that Shera had left him with nothing but a note nearly six months ago and he had only now accepted the Shinra job—the offer had been standing for several months before that. Everything was pure chance, nothing else.

It wasn't because the man who had always watched him warily whenever he came to visit Tifa in the past was gone. It wasn't because her unconscious song had been calling to him for three years now, pulling him back again and again to a city that should have held nothing for him but stale grief. It wasn't because he came here wanting something—anything—he'd never had.

He was simply an organized person who had pushed away the phantom wish that occupied his every waking thought until he got to the last item on his list. Until #10.

Welcome to the city, old man. What the fuck are you doing?