Seventh Heaven is under the plate. The air is filthy, and the night is broken by gunshots. Cloud has the best sleep of his life. He is warm and he has a pillow to rest his head on and he has someone who knows who he is.

Morning finds him still weak in the knees, as though he'd just gotten over a bad flu, but his head is clearer. He staggers to the bar, where Tifa is taking stock of the bar, and sits on a stool. She flashes him a warm smile. "Feeling better?"

"Mhm."

"You're sure?" She refrains from feeling his forehead. She'd already done it yesterday. There wasn't a fever. Something worse, because it was unknown.

"Yeah."

She pauses in restocking the bar, and turns to look him in the eye. "What you said yesterday. Cloud, Nibelheim was…" She trails off.

"Sephiroth." He remembers her holding the Masamune. Her grip wasn't strong enough to keep Sephiroth from taking it back. "He took you and mom away. Everyone." I thought I was the only one left.

Her fists are trembling like her lips. There are words she needs but can't bring herself to speak. "It's been five years," she says, and he knows, can see the time in her lean, muscled arms, the exaggerated curves of her body. The fatigue in her face.

"'M sorry." He was supposed to have been stronger. "I didn't stop him."

Her eyes widen and then press tight, tight, lock down, shut the world out and bar yourself in. "Cloud," she says. "Don't blame yourself for something you couldn't help." The words seem to pain her.

He didn't stop Sephiroth, the General, the one and only, powerful, damn near invincible. Part of Cloud knows Tifa is right. Another part is raging, furious at her words. He'd take failure and blame over helplessness because he has always been helpless. And pride—or a desperate need to think, believe he can change things, be useful, wanted—wins out. "I saw what he did to you! I was a SOLDIER, Tifa!" Her eyes fly open, like a door being kicked in. He thinks it's the outburst of emotion. "I should've..."

"You were there." Her voice is thick and she sounds numb. She's only stating a fact and Cloud hesitates, unsure how to respond to such a simple truth. They both know he was there.

The moment for conversation passes; he settles back down on the stool, and she returns to stocking bottles and washing glasses. And even in his confused state, Cloud eventually notices her hands lingering too long, rewashing clean glasses, moving too slowly for a practiced bartender's.

She's not too busy to talk to him. She's busying herself to keep from talking to him. Maybe—she doesn't want him here. Which would be understandable. It's been a long time. Maybe he's an unwelcome reminder of the past. Even though they were friends back then, she's moved on, and he's…

He…

He can't be sure. He's changed too, somehow. The ease with which he accepts rejection from an old friend seems odd, but why question it? It makes moving on easier.

"Thanks," he murmurs, standing. Tifa shoves the last bottle into place, the glass spinning slightly on the shelf before it settles, and glances at him.

"Going to get more rest?"

He shakes his head. "I'll get out of your hair."

"What? Cloud—"

The head-shaking is a little frantic now. He'd said it wrong—she thought he was being dismissive. "You've been a great friend, Tifa. You helped me out." It's sincere; she gave him a place to spend the night, and now he's had a chance to rearrange the pieces of his memory and put back together who he is. Cloud of Nibelheim, ex-SOLDIER. And he's remembered there's something he needs to do. Something that started back in their hometown. "I can take care of myself now."

Her silence sounds like acceptance and Cloud takes it, going back to the spare room to pick up the buster sword. His sole possession. A fighter needs a weapon. He straps it on his back and the weight feels odd resting there—unfamiliar—but he carries it easily and convinces himself it only feels different because of the sickness. He strides back front, to the door, and opens it into the hazy morning and Tifa hollers his name. "Cloud Strife!" He thinks his mother might have been proud, but it's difficult to recall her face. All the same, the tone compels him to stay a moment longer and pull the door softly shut behind him. He looks at Tifa, whose posture radiates anger, fists clenched near her hips, one gripping a wet rag. Her face is tensed like the rest of her body, but her eyes show a sense of panic. She tries to ask him a question—or lecture him, he's not sure, not with all her false starts—and finally comes out with "You don't even have any money, do you?"

There's a rather significant, somewhat embarrassed pause in the conversation. Gil would be useful. He'd done without until that point, but…

She's shaking her head as though disappointed, but her body relaxes. "Honestly, Cloud. What have you been doing this whole time?"

"Everything." The answer springs up from his head, fully formed. Tifa eyes him like he just laid a chocobo egg.

"Everything?"

He nods. He's a little unsure where this is coming from, but he's sure it's true. "After—Nibelheim. I left SOLDIER and became a mercenary."

She's sizing him up, obviously mulling an idea over in her head. "What kind of jobs do you take?"

"Paying ones." He's not going to be picky.

The jot of humor turns her lips up in a slight smile. "Barret might have something for you. But I need to make sure you've gotten over that sickness first."

"Yeah?"

"We'll spar after you've gotten some more rest." She grins at Cloud's surprise. "I trained under Master Zangan. If you're tough enough for me, you're tough enough for the job."