Disclaimer: The usual: I make no money from this... no matter how much I wish I did.

Chapter 8

Tifa's ears rang with the silence. The Seventh Heaven was… still. The new color on the walls did small wonders for the gloomy atmosphere, giving it a warmth that hadn't been there before, but the outside light that filtered in washed the insides with the same, storm cloud gray that rolled along the sky.

She slowly ventured in as the refrigerator clicked on, filling the room with its gentle hum. As soon as her hand had touched the door handle however, she had begun a mantra in her head, reiterating mentally over and over as the door had swung open with a small, reproachful creak. 'Please don't be home. Please don't be home. Please don't be home.'

Naturally, she heard a door upstairs open.

Tifa's blood felt like lead as she saw the woman descend the stairs. She had spent the better part of the day resisting the urge to imagine what type of woman Cloud would bring home. In her brief moments of weakness, she creatively imagined that she'd be an incredibly beautiful, stunning woman that Don Corneo would've killed for. She would've been tall and curvaceous, with honey blond hair, and high cheek bones. Tifa's mind conjured a woman who oozed grace, sex appeal, and money, making her out to be impossibly perfect, just to have a reason to dislike her. The woman who came down the stairs, however, disappointed Tifa.

She was rather petite, perhaps a little taller than Yuffie, and just as delicately built. Her hair was long and straight and inky black, half tied up with a bow, and almost glimmered in some unseen, phantom light. Her skin was pale, smooth, and soft looking, and conservatively covered by a sweater and a long skirt. Her startled eyes, when she saw Tifa standing by the door, were a warm brown, framed by incredibly thick lashes and her full lips were slightly puckered in a silent exclamation of surprise. Everything about her said 'fragile,' 'delicate,' and 'doll-like.'

Tifa could only stand there, staring emptily at the pretty doll, with her bag hanging limply in her hand.

"Oh… hello…?" Her voice was even sweet.

Cloud was suddenly behind his guest on the stairs, staring at Tifa with a slightly opened mouth and an expression his childhood friend didn't even bother to name. "Tifa." He breathed.

The doll blushed prettily and lowered her eyes and her head in a small bow as she passed the taller woman, diffusing a small, fragrant scent of flowers. She had looked back once as she left, thinking to say farewell, but she knew that the attention of the blue-eyed man and the crimson-eyed lady were only for each other as they merely stared unspeaking. The door closed behind her, completely unheard by the duo.

Tifa struggled to breathe, but made no evidence of it as she fixed Cloud with an open stare, her eyes dead, her mouth relaxed but cemented together, and her pale face emphasized by the stubborn dark smudges under her eyes. There were no words she could give him and none that she would accept from him.

Cloud raked his hand through his hair and scratched the back of his head in that way of his that was always so endearing to Tifa. Her hollow eyes slid past him and towards the staircase, gliding past him without so much as touching him, not even sparing him another glance, merely continuing on her way to her room with a small, polite, barely heard: "Excuse me."

He didn't turn around. He couldn't. He could only listen to her door softly close with a faint click and then nothing. His blue-eyes closed, his face grimacing in pain, before relaxing and casting his darkened eyes upwards.

He grabbed his keys and left immediately. The sound of Fenrir's engine roaring down the street.

On the other side of her door, Tifa sat crumpled, leaning against it with her head fallen back to rest against the heavy wood. Allowing herself one final tear to roll, poetically down her cheek.

The Seventh Heaven became open all week and extended its hours until 2 a.m. Tifa slept and worked, and did nothing else.

When she ran low on supplies, she paid a neighborhood boy to run her errands and had all shipments of alcohol delivered to her door. Considering that she hadn't been open the past couple of days, her regulars seemed to be making up for lost time as they stopped in after work and didn't leave until their wives or husbands or friends finally called them away. Tifa never forced anyone to leave that wasn't causing a problem which was the reason why she spent several nights and days without sleeping. She never complained or looked at the clock behind the bar and did not mind staying to look after those who had no where else to go or those who simply drank too much.

It was one of these nights that an aimless young woman, perhaps no older than herself, came to know Tifa's care. The girl had fallen asleep in the downstairs den, curled on the couch with the blanket the bar maid had draped over her shivering, emaciated body, clutched to her chest in tight fists as her face contorted with grotesque spasms of nightmarish pain. She had Geostigma.

By the way she dressed, Tifa guessed that she was from Kalm, but knew nothing else. She carried no ID or wore anything that might tell more about her. Pale blonde hair covered much of the stigma's signs that covered half of her face, from the middle of her forehead to the bottom of her jaw. Tifa had the suspicion though, that the girl's clothing covered much more bruising over the rest of her body. The fabric was stained black and gray in many areas from the ichor that accompanied Geostigma, much like Denzel's had been. She had staggered into Seventh Heaven, seated herself at the bar, and had promptly passed out, dropping her head onto the wood with a sickeningly resounding thud.

One of her regulars had been hovering near the bar about to order another drink when the girl passed out and with Tifa's help, carried her into the backroom and did their best to figure out what was wrong. While Tifa checked for visual and tactile symptoms, he called one of the few doctors in the city for a house call, but by this point, she had already found the bruising on her face and down along her neck and disappearing beneath her collar. Tifa looked up at the man with a furrowed brow and a meaningful, pitying look.

"She should be here within the hour, apparently there's a woman who's just given birth on the other side of the city," Her regular explained, hunkering down to their height.

"That's fine," Tifa smiled faintly, "We can make her comfortable. Would you mind watching her for a little bit? I'm going to let people know the bar will be closing soon, that way we'll be able to let her rest."

He nodded with a somber expression, looking at the girl with haunted eyes. Tifa laid a comforting hand on his shoulder before she stood, hoping that he wasn't reliving how his wife had suffered. His wife had been one of the first few to develop Geostigma and soon died after the disease had finally been named a couple of years ago. It had taken him a long time to finally let go of the pain enough to stop drinking his memories away, but being in the bar oddly helped, even when Tifa began to refuse him alcohol. His buddies kept him company, making him forget about his drink, (that he sometimes brought himself) which Tifa was thankful for, worried that if he had been alone… he may not have made it.

Tifa nearly dropped her towel when she returned to the bar and caught sight of a dark, crimson-cloaked man sitting at her bar with his hands caressing a clear glass filled with water. She really shouldn't have been so surprised, he had been appearing fairly frequently now, but it was the affect he had on her that caused her to stop in her tracks. A warmth had spread up along her neck to pool in her cheeks while the rest of her body grew simultaneously cold; unable to repress a shiver.

"Vincent," She greeted, smiling as she began to close bottles and stowing them away back in cupboards and wine racks. Tifa didn't try to spark a conversation with him, content with continuing behind the bar, humming some sort of tune. However well-versed she considered herself in the arts of conversing, even with the most introverted, she knew that Vincent wasn't much for it and had learned not to try.

When he came in, as he had been nearly every few nights now, he had developed a routine: He would suddenly appear, late, serve himself a glass of water before she noticed him, and close his eyes, sometimes watching her or the clock. When he came in, she would smile and greet him, and let him be, trying to not make it obvious how attuned she was to him. One of the first things about him that struck her, with her newfound awareness of the man, was that he was capable of being incredibly still. She supposed that many years in a coffin could teach a man to be still, but yet… it still fascinated and relaxed her.

She would work around him, smiling when she caught his eye, and wondering all the while why he was there. After nearly a year without seeing him, and suddenly here he was, drinking his glass of water and scaring her patrons with that otherworldly presence of his.

It was nearly 11 p.m. and the last of the customers were calling their goodbyes to their barmaid with smiles on their faces. Their cheeks and noses were rosy from the warmth and drink, and they let themselves out with laughter still dying on their lips, not minding at all that they were being sent home early.

Tifa pulled the shades down over the windows as soon as they left, first casting a hopeful look outside. She hoped that the doctor would be able to come soon and help that poor girl. Tifa knew her limits and had learned through caring for Denzel that there really was only so much she could do. She turned her concerned gaze over towards the backroom, where her patron kept a vigil over the sudden visitor.

"Your smile hasn't changed," He set his glass down with a clink as the ice settled, keeping his eyes closed, still and cool. The lithe woman jumped slightly at the sound of his unexpected voice and by the tone of it, Tifa knew he disapproved.

"Of course it hasn't," Tifa raised her chin, pretending to be coy, "I'm still me, right?"

Vincent opened his eyes to glare reproachfully at her, knowing that she understood what he meant.

Her composure slowly slipped away and she looked elsewhere, busying herself with turning over chairs and stacking them onto the tables. She knew what he meant.

Her father had once said that she had a thousand smiles, and she never gave out the same one twice. She thought he was silly of course, but Zangen had once said something nearly identical. Tifa was a girl who carried her emotions on her sleeve and let them surface onto her face, most often in the form of some sort of smile. When she was embarrassed, when she was happy, when she frustrated, even angry sometimes, she would smile. She had a smile for every minute emotion, like a manifestation of her heart.

Her smiles had been a bit practiced lately, and she knew that he noticed. For a man who keeps his eyes closed most of the time or behind a collar, he sure sees a lot. Even though she was in the service industry where smiles were the way to make a gil, she had tried to keep them natural and not forced, but lately… well, she was trying… that's all she could do.

Tifa paused in her movements as she felt the cold, terror-like pain in her chest beginning to grip her once more as the memory of drunken whispers and throaty moans began to reemerge. Images of Cloud's sad, glowing eyes began to worm their way into her heart once again as she felt the longing and jealousy and hurt and pain and love and anger and every frustration swirl around in her gut and chest, like a homicidal tornado, lifting her only to dash her against the relentless ground.

He had hurt her.

Hurt her much more than when the rest of the villagers tore him away from her. Hurt her much more than the loneliness of the past several months. Hurt her much more than when her mother died. She felt ashamed of that.

She hadn't even realized that she had dropped a chair until she felt Vincent's cool, smooth cloak slide down her arm. With one hand he easily picked up the chair and stacked it upside down onto the table. Tifa blushed and looked away. This was why she didn't pause in her work and why she buried herself so relentlessly in it. If she paused, she would remember, think, and feel that burning coldness.

Vincent's red eye slid to look at her sideways, barely seen through his dark locks of hair and frayed cowl. When she didn't look at him, he gripped her bicep until she did; his eyes pools of simmering, ruby acknowledgement of shared pain. Tifa searched his gleaming eyes as her lips opened with the sudden realization that he did understand… he understood perfectly. She really didn't understand how he knew what could possibly be the matter, but she did know that Vincent had a way of being frighteningly perceptive. Not to mention, her love for Cloud was as obvious to everyone as Cloud's own obliviousness.

She nodded slightly, giving him a very small, but genuine smile, before covering his hand with hers and giving it a warm, gentle squeeze. Vincent was a man of few words but the sheer depth of his very being was enough. He really didn't have to say anything, and for that, Tifa was glad.

Every single one of them had had several lifetimes' worth of grief, battles, and sins, and perhaps that was one of the reasons that they were so drawn together. Perhaps that was how they came together in the first place - a group of tortured souls on a heroic high to save the world. So where did that leave them now? What were they to each other? Were they friends? Allies? Comrades in battle? Or perhaps they were still strangers, acquaintances at best.

Vincent closed his eyes, as if cringing, and withdrew his hand, his fingers hesitating slightly on her smooth skin. He silently exhaled through his nose and gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head, as if dismissing some loony notion as he turned slowly from her.

Tifa sighed as well, wrapping her turbulent thoughts around this darkly-enshrouded man and her arms around herself before casting another worried glance towards the back room, feeling that familiar helplessness she dreaded so much. She knew that Vincent was a troubled man, perhaps more so than the rest of them, and she also knew that there was practically nothing that she could do other than what she was doing now. She was helpless… it was hard coming to terms with that. When Denzel had begun to develop Geostigma, it was Marlene who came to her and asked her to heal him, but when she couldn't the little girl had said she hated her and that she could've healed him. Tifa knew that Marlene really didn't mean it, for she was only a little girl who already had so much taken from her, but even when she had run into her arms crying for Denzel, Tifa couldn't shake that guilty helplessness.

Vincent looked back at her, studying her face and body as she went over to lean against the bar, and if it had been within his nature to sigh, he would have. "Her flowers are still there, even though the water isn't." The tall man said before giving her a curt nod, and seeing himself out just as the doctor appeared at the door. Tifa's mouth opened to question him, but… she knew that he was already long gone. Why does he always leave like that?

The doctor confirmed the Geostigma and relieved the man who had actually fallen asleep, leaning against the couch. The girl had been awake to hear the doctor give the diagnosis and they all could hear the prognosis in the undertones of the physician's voice. The girl was going to die… and soon. Nearly 80% of her body was covered with the bruising, her breathing was labored, and her heart beat was faint and slow as it struggled to keep fighting. With a nod, she promptly passed out again, but not before she managed to whisper her name, "Lace."

Tifa kneeled next to her guest with a wash basin at her side, gently wiping her face with a wet cloth and laying a folded one across her forehead. She wished that there had been enough of Aeris's healing water to heal everyone on the planet, but only so much could have been saved before it had absorbed back into the ground or evaporated. A large portion of the world who did suffer had been saved, but those who were too far gone weren't able to hold on long enough to be healed, and there hadn't been enough to save the entire stigmatized population.

Her flowers are still there, even though the water isn't.

Reddish brown eyes looked up towards the door as Vincent's words echoed through her head. Was he suggesting that the flowers might be able to heal her? The simple idea had been enough to convince her where she had to go next.

AN: Hey there, sorry for taking so long to update! School and work have been kicking my ass, and when I did work on this, I wrote the more interesting bits that will come later on. That being said, the story will start picking up soon, I promise! Apologies for all the angsty-ness of this one, it was actually really hard to write but I hope that it fits in with the rest of the story's tone. Please review! They make me happy. :)