Work Text:
Getting To Know You
The suggestion came on a random morning during a weekly meeting:
To see the world through a commoner's eyes, one must act as commoners do. Live and breathe among the everyday man. Be as one with the people and you shall know thy people. If one intends to serve, intends to atone, I must know them. I must study them. I must be a part of them.
The idea takes time to root and grow into a more tangible call to action rather than an abstract ideal. An idea his Turks were none too thrilled to go along with, but unfortunately for them, Rufus always gets his way. After clearing a few squares of his schedule on a sunny afternoon, he will slip seamlessly into a role he wasn't born to play.
He assumes shedding his normal garb will be more difficult, more alien in its ultimate execution. And yet, it is far more liberating than he is willing to give life to. The trousers are dull denim and loose, the pale shirt fitting to his form while the dark jacket on his shoulders hangs a few inches below his waist. The black cap on his head is the most foreign thing he adorns, blonde hair tucked messily beneath it. A glance in the mirror has him content, but his confident swagger in his heavy boots has Tseng frowning disapprovingly. A small correction with a slouch and slight drag in his gait seems satisfactory before they hit the pavement.
The small adventures he takes within Edge are relatively lackluster—weaving back and forth through dense crowds here and sparse groups there with an open ear and attentive eye as he passes. His protection, also dressed in civilian gear, keeps a wary eye on his person several feet away yet maintaining a gap to be closed should the need arise. Rufus is confident he will not require brutish assistance this day—something in the air tells him so.
A thin film of smog hangs around him, one he had not noticed before during his commutes. He feels more attune with his surroundings, hoofing it like the rest of them, and oddly enough it provides a semblance of commonality he feels with his people.
Glances exchange occasionally with each passerby; from the elderly couple taking their time crossing the sidewalk to the lone wolf charging toward an unknown destination. There is little joy on these streets, he realizes. Indifference chokes him thicker than the smog does, and with it comes destitution. He cannot ignore the outward palms and the cries for mercy. It is impossible not to see the sadness glittering within eyes of hopelessness and despair.
Rufus cannot save everyone. He merely hopes to save most.
He realizes he will not snag insightful conversation from merely wandering alone. He knows he must nest somewhere for a time to soak in the atmosphere, to truly delve into what it was the people sought after. To fully immerse himself and converse could be detrimental to his plans. While his disguise could fool the casual, glancing eye, he could not be so certain he would be as convincing within the throes of a colloquy.
It isn’t long before his vision settles upon the very establishment where his present conundrum can be remedied.
Seventh Heaven was often a place that found the lips of his staff at the proverbial water cooler. Of course he knows of its owner as he did the others that would frequent the location on whims of their travels, but he’d never once set foot within the watering hole.
His preconceived ideas of a dingy hole in the wall shatter instantly, taken aback by the warm ambiance that greets him. The bar is practically spotless as the afternoon shines a brilliant glow through the uncovered windows, golden rays setting a natural lighting against whitewashed walls covered in picture frames. A multitude of scents assault him; from hard liquor to the aroma of cuisine unfamiliar to his delicate nostrils. He has stepped into a world unlike his own, and oddly enough, he feels at home.
A slight gesture of his hand has his escort stopping short of the door. Rufus wants to do this alone. Tseng takes note of the signal and obliges begrudgingly with a cross look, lingering outside the establishment until summoned.
Rufus sights a vacant spot at the bar upon entry, much to his good fortune, and takes residence before it is lost. It is not long before a familiar face approaches him. One whom he’d never quite forget.
Suddenly, home feels just a bit draftier.
What at first seems to be a jovial greeting simmers into something less hospitable as she nears. Standing before him, her arms slowly cross at her front. When she speaks to him, it is soft, just below the volume of the casual chatter around them. “Interesting disguise, Mr. President.”
“Pardon?” When he catches her gaze, he knows the jig is up.
“You aren’t really cut out for espionage, you know,” she smirks.
“You make my intentions sound quite nefarious. Perhaps I simply wish for a day away from the office.”
Her eyes roll skyward. “In a getup like that? Maybe not nefarious, but there’s definitely intention . Especially if you’re here.”
Disappointment washes over him before he tucks it away. He didn’t expect to be found out so quickly. “Fair enough. But in my defense, I’ve done rather well around town thus far. Perhaps you have a more discerning eye than most.”
A shrug. “Could be. I’ve had more exposure to you in the past than I would have liked.”
Her words sting a bit more than he thought they should. “My apologies. I don’t wish you any trouble or harm. My mission here is quite benign, but if you wish for my exit, I will oblige”
Tifa shakes her head as if to rid her mind of further thoughts from the past. “No, forget it. Things have changed. Let’s start anew with a drink, hm?” Her hackles fall from their raised position as she uncrosses her arms to rest her palms against the bar counter, “What’ll it be—the most expensive thing I have?”
Rufus scoffs. “Hardly. I’m here to blend in with the locals, hence the ‘getup’.”
“Of course, how silly of me.”
He can’t quite help but grin. “Barmaid’s choice, if you will.”
With a nod, she turns on her heel to retrieve his request. Grabbing a glass from below the counter, she turns around to a barrel settled behind her. A generous pour nearly fills it to the brim with a liquid the shade of a deep burgundy. He then recalls the whispers of her personally produced plum wine and its notable potency and how one should be mindful of its kick.
When she hands it to him, he takes a generous sip. His lip curls despite himself.
Tifa’s expression is whimsical, and he can’t decide if he hates it or longs to see more of it. “I made it myself.”
“It’s quite...strong.” But is it good? He can’t yet tell. The prolonged scrunch of his face likely tells her as much.
“The locals love it.” Her head slowly tilts to its side, peering at him steadily. ”And you?”
“Divine.” The word drips with sarcasm.
She appears amused. “I’m sure.” There is a small pause as she scans the room before leaning in ever so slightly. “Why are you...blending in with the locals, anyway? Where are your Turks? Reno and Rude show their faces here frequently so I’m surprised to see you bother with this haunt of mine.”
“Worried about me, Ms. Lockhart?” Her face reddens. He finds himself entertained by this, but pivots to the truth instead of pulling the string to unravel her further. “I am protected, but I stationed my protection outside of the premises. As to why...secondhand information is all well and good, but I’m looking to have a bit more insight on the populace and what they require in life.”
“I’m impressed that you care so much.” Her tone is genuine, as is the smile that seizes her mouth. The satisfaction he feels from this surprises him. “Is it really necessary for you to do this to figure that out, though? Are you really that disconnected?”
Rufus stares at the wine for a time, an idle finger gliding around the rim. “I have my own ambitions, pleasures, secrets. The life I’ve led has been disconnected from that of a commoner.” He stops when she lifts a brow. “No offense intended. I simply wish to understand.”
“Most people just want to live their lives undisturbed. Make their own choices without a tyrannical, ruling oligarch.”
“Your words sting, Ms. Lockhart.”
Tifa looks ashamed for a moment, a bit of tension dissipates from her shoulders. “Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. Old habits die hard, I guess.”
“Indeed. Let’s hope I’m a bit more successful at letting them die.”
They exchange a knowing glance, and something fades into extinction between them. It clears a space he can see vividly through the window of their new understanding. To him, she was no longer the terrorist he used as a scapegoat for transgressions against the people. To her, he was no longer the fear mongering President poised for global rule. They were two people with a clean slate. A weight he didn’t know existed disappears.
Suddenly, all he can see is her smile.
Rufus forces his eyes to shift around them, to break the trance. They soon settle back to her. “This bar of yours...are you...happy with it? It’s location? The revenue obtained?”
“Such invasive questions. Am I really so interesting to you?”
The humor of her tone strikes him like lightning, and he’s lured in by the ease of her tease.
“Utterly. Now won’t you indulge me?”
A patron signals to Tifa, and she holds a finger to him. As she rushes off to attend the man down the bar, he witnesses the serene smile that crosses her face, the loose body language of friendliness, and the lyrical chuckle that comes from her parted mouth as the customer cracks a quip. Whether she’s truly amused is indecipherable, yet he’s immersed in her performance all the same.
Rufus watches her make a drink as the customer continues on; one more complex than the house wine poured from the barrel. He finds himself captivated by her movements, noting she replicates her battle prowess here, absent the aggression, as she flips and pours with theatrical flare.
She’s a marvel to behold. He’s surprised he hasn’t noticed sooner.
Something quietly stirs within him as he pulls his attention away, returning it to the plum wine in front of him. The jarring strength of its potency subsides, the taste lingering with every sip he pulls. His head floods with questions as the intoxicant courses through, the loudest of them all echoes within the recesses of his mind, one he cannot seem to ignore:
Who is she, really?
His eyes return to her figure, and he’s caught her staring at him as well. She looks away in a rush. He smirks to himself as he drinks.
Rufus wants to know. He needs to know.
The glass clinks down, empty. Her absence ends within moments, returning to him with another. The sparkle in her eyes is brighter, wider than before. He wonders if he’s responsible.
He hopes he is.
Taking it from her, he brushes the flesh of her naked fingers, slipping from the glass, filled to the very brim again. He nearly misses the blush roll across her cheeks as she pulls away.
“So…where were we?” Tifa asks.
For a moment, he cannot recall. He is lost within her irises, noting how the wine nearly matches the duo of carmine—how one could drown within both if caution is not exercised.
For once, he doesn’t think he’d mind.
And he can’t help but wonder… “Are you happy?”
She pauses, her lips curving upward to light her expression further. “I would say I am, yes. The bar is mine, and it brings in a decent wage for what we need here.”
His look is deeply inquisitive. “Just decent?”
“I wouldn’t say I’m raking in the gil, but I’m comfortable.”
“Have you not considered expansion? Perhaps multiple bars scattered across the globe? You might build yourself an enterprise by utilizing your past as a marketing tool.”
She shakes her head with a hint of incredulousness. “That’s way more work than I care for right now.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Do you lack ambition?”
She frowns.
“I do not mean to insult, I am simply...curious.”
Ambition, greatness, power—these are things he’s always known, always been a part of himself from his youth to his present. His aspiration to be greater, to be better, has kept him propelling forward without fail. No obstacle has been too great, no opposition has been too large to overcome. To remain still and stagnant was a foreign concept, one he could not envision long enough to entertain. It simply did not resonate with him, like a language he could not decipher.
“It’s not that I lack ambition. I’m just satisfied with what I have.”
He doesn’t understand.
“But you’re only, what? In your early 20’s? You have a lifetime to live and can fill it with all the measurable pleasures the Planet has to offer. They’re at your fingertips. Why not seize it?”
A twinge within his chest startles him as Tifa leans her forearms upon the counter in front of him, gazing into his eyes with a softness he does not deserve. He finds himself pulled in all the same. “When you’ve lived the life I have, you find the simple pleasures are enough to keep you satisfied. I’ve lived more than a lifetime. I think I’m done moving and okay with existing for a while. And who knows, maybe it could change sometime. But really it’s pretty simple. I’m happy. Are you ?”
The question brings forth a rare occurrence for Rufus—speechlessness. Her eyes, drawn into a slant as they scrutinize his features, attempt to pierce through the carefully constructed wall a man of his stature has meticulously erected. He’s mesmerized by what they reflect in return. An earnest warmth he’d known only once, long ago, and never knew again once she’d left this world.
Until now, perhaps.
The weight of his stare seems to shake her from the gaze she holds. Fingertips graze her hairline, tucking free tendrils of chocolate brown behind a delicate ear. “I’m sorry. Of course you are. You have a successful company, wealth, and just about anything you could desire. Because life is about the material, right?”
“Perhaps I’m no longer so certain that’s the case, Ms. Lockhart.”
A crimson hue blossoms across her cheeks. The husk of his voice surprises even him as her eyes avert away from his face and down the bar. “I’ve gotta make some rounds… but I’ll be back.”
He watches her leave. He can do nothing else except drink his wine. Emptying the glass will see her return to him faster. It’s what he wants right now, to have her close.
The PHS within his coat pocket breaks him away from the line he’s drawn straight to her figure; one he wouldn’t mind exploring. Retrieving it, he flips it open without reading the caller ID. “Hm?”
“Sir, Mr. Tuesti is on the line verifying his appointment with you this afternoon. Shall I confirm for you?”
Tifa notices his empty drink and supplies him with another. The radiance from her smile lingers on as she retreats away, and he finds his own lips slowly returning it in kind.
“Cancel it. Clear my schedule for the rest of the afternoon.”
There is a pause before an uncertain reply follows, “Yes, Mr. President.”
They exchange no parting words as he closes the PHS and returns it to his pocket.
The wine keeps coming as long as he consumes it. Tifa, the ever dutiful barmaid, willingly provides him with a fresh glass each time he drains it dry. The rush of lunch widens the gap between them, much to his chagrin, but he’s oddly satisfied to watch her spin and twirl and pour and wink and smile as he drinks his afternoon away. His intentions to listen to idle conversations of the common folk evaporate—he can do nothing else save to fill his time with her and wine. She doesn’t seem to mind. He swears she revels in it.
It’s just before closing when the haze of the drink flits over his vision, and the blur of his surroundings bob and weave and tilt in and out of focus. He only knows it is because she appears beside him and tells him so.
And he’s the only one left in the bar.
“Huh. Time flies when you’re having fun.” His voice is not quite his own and internally admonishes himself for his weakness for the drink and silliness of his speech.
And for her.
“I’m glad you did.” There is a bashfulness in her timbre that melts him. He could be putty for her, if he allowed it. “I have to get the kids soon. But... Thank you for coming by. I hope you found what you were looking for.” Her voice is like a song. His heart jumps with anticipation for the next verse.
You have no idea.
Rufus nods and shimmies from his perch, only to wobble upon touching the floor. Tifa is quick to catch him, slinging his arm around her shoulders to steady him with a natural grace. If she’s amused, he doesn’t notice; he’s too sauced to notice anything aside from the electricity of her touch or the lingering scent of her vanilla scented shampoo. While he knows this display should humiliate him, something else eclipses it entirely.
“Oh Ms. Lockhart, I have a feeling you have a habit of catching others when they are about to fall.”
She chuckles as they move toward the door, “Something like that.”
“Is anyone around to catch you?”
Silence drops suddenly and unwelcome discomfort greets them. He’s hit an off-key chord he wishes to retract, but the note has already been released into the air. It remains until they reach the door, where Rufus grips the frame and successfully steadies himself on his own. As Tifa peels from him, he grabs her fleeting hand. The motion surprises her, but she does not resist—not when he captures her eyes in a passionate gaze, nor when his thumb glides across her bare knuckles.
Just like that, his mission changes.
“I want to know you.”
Her pale skin burns red. He feels the heat transfer from her touch—it feeds his own. “I’m sure you know me pretty well from Shinra files.”
Rufus shakes his head, the haze from the drink diminishing just so. “No. I want to know you. From you. I want you to tell me. I want to know what you want, what you desire. I want to understand you.”
Hesitation reigns as she stiffens. Still, she does not pull away.
Who are you, Tifa?
“Let me learn about you.” His grip tightens, and a small, sharp gasp escapes her.
The answer is obvious, and not the one he hoped for. He realizes the wine has led him to miscalculate her openness toward him. Like any friendly barmaid, he’s succumbed to her professional wiles. He feels foolish, but most of all, disappointed.
Nodding, he releases her hand. With careful concentration and precision, he reaches for his wallet and pulls forth several gil. The amount is undefined, but he knows it exceeds the cost for the wine and time given to him. He presses it into her hand, the very hand he left suspended midair. Her fingers are malleable as he closes them around the bills. “For your troubles.”
Her mouth is agape as he releases her once more. He spares not another glance as turns toward the door.
A hand closes around the knob when he hears her behind him. “Ask me tomorrow.”
His heart beats faster. He does nothing to calm it. “Hm?”
“Come back here and... ask me tomorrow.”
Slowly, he turns back toward her, hiding the grin that threatens to overtake his visage. “Tomorrow? Here, tomorrow?”
A ghost of a smile touches her lips as she nods. “Here, tomorrow. Around this time... tomorrow.”
It is all he can do not to fall at her feet. “Very well. I will see you tomorrow, Ms. Lockhart . ”
“Tifa.” The smile widens. “Call me Tifa.”
“Tifa...” The name coats his throat and rolls along his tongue. The sweetness of it lingers, “Alright, Tifa.”
He doesn’t stay long enough to witness any further reaction. With a deep breath and perfect posture, he opens the door and steps onto the street. It shuts securely behind him.
When he loses his forced elegance and stumbles forward, Tseng is there to catch him before he falls to the ground. The Turk has the good sense to keep his expression neutral as he helps to steady him.
“Enjoy yourself, sir?”
The grin rushes across his mouth as he pushes off from Tseng and straightens. His eyes are alight with a gaiety he can’t quite contain. He doesn’t want to—dignity be damned. “I’m returning tomorrow.”
Tseng glances toward the closed door, then back to Rufus. There is an unspoken understanding within his inquiry. “Unfinished business?”
The stare he places upon Seventh Heaven is heavy and filled with longing. As if he can peer through its walls. “Quite unfinished.”
For the first time in years, Rufus felt light and free. Through his small adventure, through his quick study, he learned far more than he hoped for or imagined. He learned that what can bring joy to a persons’ heart could be painfully simple yet not so obvious. It was immaterial, yet just as tangible and potent, perhaps even more so than the buildings and bank accounts in his name. What he experienced was a feeling, a deep-seated desire he had reason to explore. And he would find a way.
He would find a way to her.
Here, tomorrow.