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Six months ago he was walking into Seventh Heaven for the very first time.
It’s nearly three in the morning and he’s been up for twenty-seven hours going on twenty-eight, and he’s just lost his lead down a string of twisty, seedy Sector 7 alleyways too narrow to fit through. So he’s a bit irritated but mostly exhausted by the time he stumbles upon the warmly lit signs of the bar. The door gives when he tries the handle, although it’s empty save for a single snoring patron in a side booth—and possibly the most beautiful bartender he’s ever seen. Long dark hair swept up in a lovely, messy bun at the nape of her neck. A loose hoodie, stained from the day’s labors, sleeves rolled up her forearms as she wipes dry a glass mug. Eyes like the stunning plumage of a Summer tanager, narrowing at his slow approach. He wonders about her song.
“We’re closed,” she says coolly, eyeing him up and down with pinched brows. He can’t blame her, he must look a mess in his wrinkled suit jacket and askew tie.
“That one didn’t get the memo.”
Her lips pucker into a petal pink frown. “He’s a regular.”
“Just one drink.” He adjusts his tie before removing the shades from his face, placing them neatly into his breast pocket. “Please.”
“Well, that depends on the drink, then.” She sets the glass down on the counter and settles her hands on her hips.
“Charge me a glass of whatever’s priciest.” Arched brows. “But make it a coffee.”
He’s never been a fan of imbibing outside the comfort of his own home. Loose lips sink ships and all, and Reno has sunk a few too many lately. It seems to be a good answer, though, because she turns right around and starts grinding up fresh beans. Within minutes the aroma of a strong dark brew with undertones of cherry tickles his nostrils as the machine drips in tune with the sound of her faint hums. When it’s done she pours it into a ceramic mug and slides it over black without even asking, lips smugly upturned in a challenge.
She guessed right. He takes a sip and it’s delicious, tells her so and her smile widens into something softer, sunny and bright. Like tart cherry notes dancing on his tongue. Pleased, she pours a second cup, adds a bit of sugar and takes a sip of her own. They drink in sweet silence broken only by the soft snores of the nearly forgotten last patron. He finishes before she does, sets down enough gil to cover a top shelf drink and then some before she even rings him up, smiles smugly because from the look on her face he’s gotten the price right, and then some, too. She puts his money in the till and stretches as the receipt prints, the hem of her sweatshirt riding up to show a glimpse of a black leather skirt and—oh.
His mouth parts.
That insignia. The eternal flame. The core tenet of Master Zangan’s teaching.
He removes his gloves and places them palm up on the counter for her inspection. Emblazoned on the leather, the eternal flame.
Her eyes widen in understanding, wetten with realization, and without another word she starts another pot. Somehow, conversation flows easily after the second cup. He blames the late hour, or the magic brew, or probably it’s the easy company—on the eyes and ears. Her name is Tifa, Master Zangan’s 128th. He’s 99th. She grew up in a small mountain town and he grew up on a tropical island. Her dad was mayor, his a doctor, and somehow they both got lost somewhere along the way and found themselves in Midgar. She gets quiet after that, though, and he drinks the last of his cup in silence.
He reaches for his wallet but her hand stops his, rough calloused skin against rough calloused skin, slips the forgotten receipt between his fingers instead, so he can charge it to the company.
He blames the late hour, or the magic brew, or probably it’s that mischievous smile that makes him hold onto her hand, tug her over the counter to taste petal pink sweetness like cherry sugar on his tongue.
In the quiet hours of not-quite-night and not-quite-day, he learns her song sounds more like a Scarlet tanager, husky and throaty as she croons into his ear.
He leaves Stargazer Heights just after the sun rises, reaches into his pocket to feel for a crumpled receipt, but finds a phone number instead.
Two weeks ago he was swerving the helicopter to miss as she thundered up the stairs to the plate.
He barely manages to hide a sigh of relief that she makes it, barely manages to avoid Reno’s suspicious accusation, but he can’t avoid a helicopter crash like he can’t avoid Tifa’s stunned stare. Eyes like the blistering wingspan of a Phoenix, flickering angrily as he emerges from the rubble to oppose her. He looks away first, reaches for his second pair of shades, aims for the men and sidesteps her as much as possible.
But when she finds herself in front of the control panel, standing between him and the authorization code, fists raised and eyes blazing, he can’t sidestep her any longer. “Don’t,” she pleads, whispers like dying embers as the wind picks up violently around them. She reaches for his hand, but he raises it up and over her head, brings it down between her shoulder blades and she crumples to the floor. He thinks of how easy it would be to carry her off, run away with her, away from Midgar and Avalanche and the Turks and all the complicated messy things inbetween, off to some mountain village or a tropical island or somewhere brand new where they could get lost and find themselves again, together.
He has no one to blame but himself when he presses the button to initiate the plate separation.
He carries Reno into the waiting helicopter and doesn’t look back.
Five minutes ago he was tugging her by the elbow into a secluded cavern of the Mythril Mine.
She grounds her feet and whirls, all flying fists that he only barely manages to dodge. Gets a clean shot at his chin before realizing it’s him, or maybe she realizes it first judging by the grim satisfaction on her face. Still, she doesn’t lower her hands, tenses as he reaches up to remove his sunglasses, places them in his breast pocket.
“I’m not asking for understanding or forgiveness,” he says, hands raised in surrender before he lowers them slowly, slowly, presses gloved palms flat against her hips, eternal flame to eternal flame.
“Then what, Rude?”
“…Goodbye.”
And her eyes, like a rosy-faced lovebird, brimming wet and sliding shut as she grabs the lapels of his coat to crush her lips against his.
Six months later he’ll walk into the new Seventh Heaven in Edge after two weeks of indecision, pace in front of the door for an extra five minutes before finally pulling on the handle.
“We’re closed,” she calls, back turned as she puts away freshly dried glasses on the shelf.
“Just one drink,” he tries, notes the way her entire body freezes up, shoulders hunched around her ears. The please dies on his lips.
She whirls around with hands on her hips, pinched brows over bright eyes, voice like a quavering melody. “You’re gonna have to make it up to me with way more than that.”
“Let’s start with two, then.”
“Coffee?”
“Cabernet.” He takes off his sunglasses and places them in his breast pocket, meets her curious gaze with steady resolve.
He’ll sing for as long as she’ll listen.