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.
-----------------------------------

Metathesiophobia or, Moving Forward
By Lady Calliope

Part Thirteen: Potophobia

-----------------------------------

Goddammit! Why can't she be just a little less Tifa?

His pulse would stop racing and he'd be able to unclench his fists if she were plain, if she smiled less, if her brain was just a bit slower. But beauty, laughter, and brains were as much a part of her as fighting gloves and quick reflexes. Besides, he wouldn't be so drawn to her if she was anything less than she was. At times like the present one, though, he wished she could at least have the decency to ignore the endless stream of hopeful glances coming from her customers at the bar.

"You know, Miss Lockheart, this is my favorite bar in the city. And I go to a lot of bars."

"Call me Tifa. The formality makes me sound old."

"All right. Tifa it is then." A grin from both.

From his usual table in the corner Cid was quickly coming to a conclusion that should have been obvious from day one: Tifa Lockheart was the most desirable woman any red-blooded male could ever hope to lay eyes on. Apparently every man in Midgar under the age of fifty agreed with him. Over the months, he'd been hard pressed not to notice the steady stream of male customers in Seventh Heaven—regulars like him were far from unusual.

But he had a privilege none of them ever could. Unlike the others, he knew the Tifa that emerged every night when she closed her bar: the bone-tired, worrywart of a woman who lived alone in a place meant for two. He knew she'd come to appreciate and—he hoped—look forward to the hours of conversation and banter he offered after closing time. She'd clean up, he'd cook a simple meal, and they'd sit at his usual table and talk with both words and silences. In the calm hours of the early morning they'd found an almost sacred space between them that would last until she yawned, he bid her goodnight, and they separated for another day. It was comfortable, it was routine, it was theirs.

It wasn't what he wanted.

"Can I get you another?"

"Whatever's your favorite."

"Well, my specialties—"

"Not your specialties. I want whatever it is you drink when it's just you."

"Who wants to know?" Playful.

A smile. "The guy who wants to make it for you after I take you out to dinner."

Electric eyes narrowed as he finished the rest of his double shot in one jerk of his head. This regular was too persistent for the pilot's liking.

"Are you asking me on a date?"

"I am at that. Please don't say no—you have no idea how long it took me to get that line right."

Persistent and honest. This guy was downright dangerous. Still, Cid kept his seat. She'd never accepted any of these countless offers before and she had no reason he knew of to start now. But even so, should the pursuit continue, the man only needed to look over at the table just once so the new arrival could clearly see his fate reflected in a pair of hard cobalt eyes

"Normally I'd love to—"

"But?" A defeated smile was already in place. Good. Here it comes.

"But I'm not available."

Pause. The man didn't seem too surprised by this. "Of course you aren't. I just figured I'd give it a shot. Couldn't hurt to try, right?"

"I'm sorry." Sincere and forever worried about the well being of others, even strangers. If only she was a little less Tifa!

"Don't be. I can still enjoy the pleasure of your company as my favorite bartender." A wistful tug of lips and he made to leave.

"Want one for the road?"

"No, it's time to leave with my tail between my legs like any respectable man would. Thanks, though."

"You're welcome. Be safe on those roads!"

As the door closed on the man's retreating back, Cid allowed himself a small, affectionate grin. She always let's them down easy. But that thought triggered the pain that lived in his chest as he faced the truth of the situation: she always let them downEvery man that wasn't him. Lifting the glass—her glass—to his lips, he drained the last few drops that always remained at the bottom. It was the closest thing to a kiss he could ever hope to receive.

In a way, he empathized with that persistent customer. He could fantasize all he wanted that it was his own face she was thinking of when she turned them down with her kind words and apologetic smiles. But he knew she still saw all men in shades of green and blonde.

He knew that better than anyone.