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It was an airless summer evening, the kind that retained the heat of the day well after the sun wore into the horizon, and the air held the promise of a long night.
The assignment had been a straightforward one. A simple reconnaissance mission on some small-time gangsters with big eyes and wider appetites trying to muscle in on Shinra’s trade routes. Repetitive work that always ran by the same cadence; tail the leads, learn their routines, find out which warehouse was the hit—because it was always a warehouse—stage a sting, call the troopers to clean house, get out in time for dinner and an evening report. Easy enough. Muscle memory. Busy work. She had done variations of this mission hundreds of times before.
All junk assignments meant to keep her occupied, away from the coveted high clearance missions, where the more objectionable company secrets were frequently divulged. Not that she minded her quiet benching by her superiors, having no interest nor intention to further know the true intricacies of Shinra’s machinations across the world, having already witnessed first-hand their brutality when they razed her hometown to nothing but a memory made of ash and left her the sole survivor of a tragedy the world had no recollection of—the less she knew, the lesser it would weight against her conscience. It was cowardly, her option of feigned ignorance, but the sin of her affiliation to the company was already too much a transgression on the deeply held morals of her stolen youth.
So, she accepted the trivial assignments with little question, approached the tedium with the steadfast commitment expected of her station, and suffocated in her lonely self-loathing, longing for bygone days so long gone that only its fleeting impressions remained within the recesses of her remembrances, Technicolored visions of a profound grief beyond tangible expression—it was an affliction with no cure nor an end in sight. Left with no recourse to her suffering, she found herself abandoned to simmer in her mourning, where it sparked tendrils of dry kindling into a low seething brush fire with no outlet.
She wore her fury silently, whetted its broken edges down to the fine point of a sharp arrowhead, and with the accuracy of a master archer (mis)aimed it at her assignments—false targets for a rage she did not know how to contend, lest it consumed her whole. And like any caged animal jaded by years of neglect, she clung onto the structure of her missions like a lifeline. A honed company woman who held no purpose and made no mistakes.
With the same exactness she directed her own life, always mindful to dot her i’s and cross her t’s, this evening’s assignment had gone perfectly to precision.
Until, for one misstep.
Hours upon hours of concentrated work crushed in a single careless moment by the heel of her boots on loose gravel.
Fuck. It’s going to be a long night.
The two gangsters had cut an imposing figure in the fading light, but she was faster. As soon as they realized her presence, they dropped cold to the sound of their own jaws snapping in the muggy air. The third one was slighter, quicker on his feet, and managed a single missed swing before joining his compatriots on the cracked pavement. The fourth one, though, got lucky and blindsided her right flank before sinking a jagged shank deep into her side, a hair thin just below a rib. A sharp cry tore from her throat as pain radiated a stinging bite from the puncture, flaring razor-thin needles down her leg.
Asshole.
Before he could even pull out the shank, she sent him flying into a crumpled heap cracked loud against metal, red leaked freely from his now crushed nose, a loose tooth glinted amidst maroon in the moonlight, his shirt soaked with his own gore.
Shit.
She groaned, bracing herself against the wall and took a deep, steadying breath, felt her open flesh contract a little around the metal intrusion as blood seeped through her dress shirt, a blossoming crimson.
It was bad, she could tell the wound went far, felt it with every shallow breath.
Fuck.
She had been sloppy, got distracted by the monotony of a routine stake out and wandered herself into a waking dream of hazel eyes and honied smiles. Groaning, she shook her head, cleared the daydream as the gash smarted with each movement, oozing more warm ink down the length of her, trickling down into her pantleg, sticking. God, she hated the sensation.
Gritting her teeth, and with a soft slick squelch the shank came loose from her side as she yanked it with shaky hands and an even hoarser grunt. She hissed, teeth clenched tightly, jaw nearly popping, and pressed a hand onto the gaping wound in a fruitless attempt to stem the bleeding. She whined. Her labored breathing punctuated the silent echo of the warehouse. Well, the black of her suit will hide the worst of it at least. The shiv dropped with a small clank on concrete, and she pushed herself off the wall with a pained whine.
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Nondescript, the clinic was jammed between two other establishments—a tea shop to its left and a massage parlor to its right. With its bare façade, it mostly receded into the background of the sector. A silent anchor for the residents of the neighborhood, most visitors and outsiders would pass by its door unremarked. But for the discerning eye, a single wooden sign hung off a post nailed to the front exterior, decorated with a lone sprig of milkweed—neatly hand painted with care by the clinic’s sole proprietor—would mark its significance as a house of healing. The front housed a small herb shop that sold and traded various tinctures among other homebrewed remedies, while the clinic was run out the back room.
Trained by the sector’s lone doctor, the owner was not a certified nurse by any official means, but all the same, she possessed an uncanny healing touch that swirled rumors about her amongst the disparate residents. ‘She’s a conjure woman’ they would whisper even as they showed to her door with their various ailments and aches, seeking any number of tonics she could offer to assuage their blights. She knew about horticulture, seasons, all manner of illnesses, their remedies, omens, blessings, nightmare, curses, dreams; and without fail, she never turned anyone away, made sure to mend every broken bone, stitch every gash that came through her clinic; and on the occasions where she had no remedy for her patient’s affliction, she would at least offer a balm to ease the pain. Her kindness earned her the reputation of the angel of Sector 5; despite her oddities, eccentrics, and penchant for muttering to herself in a language no one can recall—the residents loved her all the while.
And so the rumors persisted, even with the sector’s fondness for her—it was the only way for them to make sense of her uncanniness when it came to her skills with medicine.
But the Turk knew the truth to her abilities, and it was even stranger than the rumors could imagine.
Considerate, and ever careful not to bleed all over the door, she raised her fist and firmly knocked on the door with a polite sense of urgency. One. Two. But before the third knock could land.
The door threw itself open.
“Tifa?”
“Hi,” she managed with a weak smile, leaning her left arm against the doorframe. She knew she was a mess of a sight to behold, dark bags exhausted under glazed eyes, skin a gaunt pallor, her suit drenched in a mix of sweat and blood, it clung to her like sloughing skin. Still, she had to try her best to look presentable in the eyes of intimate company.
Slight of frame, but warm in presence, the proprietor of the modest clinic was none other than Aerith Gainsborough. A force of a woman—dark brunette hair in a loose braid, clear hazel eyes winked with a spark of mischief that could befriend even the most dour of souls. She was a woman who charmed her way through social conventions by the fly of her wit and the ease of her dimpled grin.
Though.
There was no spark of mischief to be found in those eyes currently, only a furrowed concern.
“Shit. You’re hurt,” Aerith quickly snapped into action; offering steady hands as she braced Tifa into the clinic.
A single wall of wooden drawers stuffed with loose herbs and open shelves lined with spices, roots, and dried flowers made up the bulk of the front shop—a wide spectrum of textures and colors, it smelled of camphor and lavender. Patients and customers alike would sometimes complain about the strong mix of fragrances, but Tifa loved it, the lavender reminded her of her grandmother, who had favored it as a perfume—always a small dab on each wrist; while the camphor reminded her of her mother, who would tenderly rub the scent down the ridges of her back before scoring it with a coin in red lines whenever she was stuck in bed with a cold.
Distant memories from a bygone life, left to maroon in her mundane nightmare.
On the ceiling, a lone amber light spilled over the room, spreading its warmth against the eternal night of the slums. Standing at its periphery, the dim warmth doused Tifa in a harsh shadow, partially cloaking her face in black.
“Sorry, I’m bleeding all over your floors again,” Tifa said, slumped up against the wall, a sort of dazed smile on her face as she watched Aerith close the doors and lock up.
“Tifa, if that’s supposed to lighten the mood, you really gotta work on your material,” Aerith replied as she stepped fully into the light.
It bathed her in an ethereal glow, haloing around her, her flyaways fluttering as a fan moved the stagnant air around them. A bead of sweat rolled down the column of Tifa’s neck, disappeared into the collar of her soaked through dress shirt, her breath beyond shallow now as she grinned a touch delirious at Aerith’s comment.
Aerith sighed as she further took in Tifa’s current disheveled state, her face growing serious. “C’mere,” she said softly and gave Tifa her hand.
With a grunt, Tifa pushed herself off the wall and grabbed the outstretched hand, let it pull her into the light, pull her weight until Aerith was tucked securely under her shoulder, right hand braced on her back, left hand lightly grasped around her wrist as she helped carry her to the awaiting operating table past unassuming curtains. Bloody footprints stained the bubbling linoleum as the two made their way.
“Sorry, I’ll help you clean up later,” Tifa nodded at the trail of crimson following behind her.
“Seriously,” Aerith’s reply came at the end of another sigh, Tifa felt it reverberating against her side. “You’re dripping in your own blood—forget about the floor.”
If the front shop had been more unassuming and functional in its appearance, then the back clinic held more of Aerith’s charm. Flowers and plants of all varieties grew wild and lush from their pots hanging off hooks nailed to the ceiling—hanging lilies, devil’s ivies, and string of hearts broke the wooden walls with specks of green and honey-yellow—fragile little things kept alive in the barren gloom of the slums by the last daughter of the earth, their own personal sun in the endless night. She spoke to them, whispered sweet things, encouraging things, like they had ears to listen.
Tifa had caught Aerith once—singing to them—an easy lilting melody that left her pausing at the doorway to commit the sight to memory, watched as green vines swayed to the echoes of her sweet voice. ‘You know, it’s creepy to sneak up on someone and then quietly stare at them without saying anything.’ Aerith had said then. ‘How did you know I was here?’ She had responded with a growing smile on her face. ‘She told me.’ Aerith answered as she gestured her head down at the lone orchid she had been tending, a matching smile adorned her upturned cheeks. How many months ago had that been? Had it been a year since?
Time was passing so quickly between them.
The relief on her body was immediate when Tifa finally sank onto the operating table with a soft groan.
“Thank you,” she managed weakly as she struggled to shrug the sweat-drenched blazer off of her.
Seeing Tifa struggle, Aerith offered her mercy and helped eased the blazer off her shoulders and down her arms until she was free of the garment, leaving Tifa only in her white dress shirt. The bottom of it nearly dyed entirely red from her own blood.
“What am I going to do with you?” Aerith whispered quietly.
The hand was cool against feverish skin as Aerith pressed the flat of her palm gently to Tifa’s forehead. It felt loving in its softness and Tifa found herself instinctively leaning into it. A cold rush spread through her then, made her teeth chatter, flushed skin erupted into goose feathers despite the summer heat, the hairs on the back of her neck stood, electrified, and she was washed away with the floating sensation of a small current that left her fingertips buzzing. She saw nothing but blue for a brief blinding second and then felt nothing. The spell always left her a little lightheaded, some kind of anesthetic to dull sharp pain into a flat ache.
“Stop me from bleeding to death?” Tifa joked softly, already mourning the soothing chill of Aerith’s hand as it left her forehead.
“She shows up to my door in the middle of the night, bleeds all over my floor, worrying me, and then answers my sincere question with a joke,” Aerith responded, her back turned, occupied with washing her hands in the sink. There was the familiar amused tilt to her voice, but underneath that, Tifa could hear the worry laced within the lights of her tone too. It lodged a pang in the hollow space behind her ribs.
“Honestly, Tifa, what am I going to do with you?” Aerith repeated again, so tenderly, a kaleidoscope of honey-brown and green, all loving earth tones that even the garish hum of fluorescents couldn’t dim their beauty—it made Tifa want to rip open her ribs.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to worry you.”
“I know,” Aerith replied with a small smile, corners not quite reaching high cheeks. “Lean back, please.”
Tifa followed the command, resting the ache of her body into the molded contours of the well-used cushions as deft, knowing hands worked at the buttons of her shirt—hissed—when she felt the damp fabric unstick from her sweat-slicked skin with a painless sucking sensation, felt the pool of her blood soaking cloth, and Aerith pulled her shirt open to the summer air.
“How’s the pain?” Aerith asked, assessing the wound on Tifa’s abdomen.
“Mostly gone,” Tifa replied. It was a peculiar sensation, to feel the pulse of her blood along with the breeze touching her exposed gaping flesh, only it didn’t register as pain, but a mild, numbing chill.
Aerith nodded her approval, attention focused, eyebrows pulled close, wrinkled together in a cute furrow that induced in Tifa a strong urge to kiss it away. “Looks like the bleeding has mostly stopped, but you did lose quite a bit of blood—just how far did you walk?” Aerith asked, looking back up at Tifa with an expression that brooked no arguments.
Tifa flustered. “From the warehouses on the outskirts?” she ducked her shoulders a little, embarrassed.
“That’s—Tifa—you nearly walked across the entire sector—that’s almost an hour trek on foot—Tifa!” Aerith spluttered, looking at her with alarm.
“I took a potion?” Tifa offered weakly.
“That—” Aerith stopped herself, sighed, shook her head precisely once, and then slotted the water materia into place on her bangle. “Unbelievable, I can’t believe—no, actually, that’s exactly something you would do,” she muttered under her breath.
“That still doesn’t make it better,” Aerith stated after a moment, eyes closed, hands clasped together in a praying gesture Tifa has grown accustomed to over the years.
“Sorry.”
Aerith exhaled then, and Tifa felt the air shift between them, winding, as a faint green hue flared around the other woman, the familiar spark of energy thrummed like a current, barely contained within Aerith’s skin the way it always seemed to whoosh right through Tifa’s ears before the world went silent—a channeling of atoms. By the time Aerith opened her eyes again, there was a small stream of water floating in mid-air before her.
Tifa couldn’t help but stare, wide-eyed with reverence, had already seen the sight fifty times over, could watch it a hundred times more with the same awe she had the first time she saw Aerith invoke magic.
Gently, Aerith manipulated the water with a fluid gesture until it flowed down to Tifa’s wound, cleansing, as Aerith carefully angled its spray to clean under the flaps of skin. On instinct, Tifa tensed at the contact, expecting a hiss of pain, but instead the water merely tickled against lacerated skin and open tissue.
“I don’t know why you insist on coming all this way,” Aerith said softly, her attention still focused on cleaning Tifa’s wound, “I know Shinra has fancier facilities with actual doctors they could helicopter you to.”
“I like your clinic more—it reminds me of home,” Tifa grimaced as her brain tried to make sense of sensation, felt the cold-wet pour of water in places she shouldn’t, while expecting pain where there was none.
“Lovely. Nice to know my facilities are on par with a backwater country town’s,” Aerith half mumbled.
“It’s not an ins—”
“Insult. I know. I take it as a compliment,” Aerith interrupted, “your trust in my care. I do. But I do wish you had more urgency in your care.”
“I came here, didn’t I?”
“After walking on foot for nearly an hour with a gaping wound on your side, bleeding all the way down to your boots.”
“I don’t trust them.” Tifa cut to the point.
“Even though they saved you once?”
“Tseng saved me. Not Shinra.”
“A spook only loyal to one man. How treacherous.”
“I grew up in a town they decimated.”
“And now you wear their suits.”
“I know.” Tifa clenched her jaw, almost growled her response.
It had been a selfish mercy when Tseng saved her all those years ago, when Nibelheim burned during a moonless night and he pulled her broken body from the fire, only to condemn her to a life as a forgotten spectre. They had burned her home down to gray and she watched her childhood go up in smoke, coughing iron. An orphan from a town with no record of existing, they had made of her then, who would grow to become a company liability kept on a tight leash with a memory at odds with official record—all because a man in a three-piece suit couldn’t bring himself to give her the quiet comfort of a bullet to the head. Tseng hadn’t saved her out of the goodness of his heart that night, Tifa knew, it was only to spare his already overburdened conscience the weight of a dead child haunting it.
To this day, the smell of burning wet bark still lingered in her nose whenever it rained on the top plate.
An angel she had thought of him then, his unsullied face amidst the soot, the ash, and the flames.
She had been wrong.
He was the devil in a black suit and slicked-back hair.
“I know,” Tifa repeated again, quieter.
Aerith sighed, a long breeze that swayed her shoulders low, she gave Tifa an oddly vulnerable look. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be so short. I know it’s complicated with Shinra—believe me—I do. I just don’t like seeing you hurt like this.”
“Sorry,” Tifa said.
Aerith gave her a tired smile. “Tifa, it’s fine. Please stop saying sorry.”
A brief quiet settled between the two of them as Aerith rolled over a metal stand, on it laid a needle driver, forceps, a packet of sutures, gauze, medical tape, an unlabeled jar with some amber colored substance in it, and bright blue gloves.
“I’m gonna close up the wound now,” Aerith said. “The spell should still hold, so you shouldn’t feel pain—other than some light tugging.”
Tifa nodded, watched silently as Aerith pulled on the gloves and peeled open the packet of sutures. Carefully, Aerith loaded the needle between the two clamps of the needle driver, pulled out the rest of the suture from its roll, straightening it, and Tifa turned away at the sight of the sharp point glinting in the light. Distracting herself with the tiles on the ceiling, she counted them, clenched her fingers into a fist, blunt nails digging into skin, hard enough to leave grooves later; and tried not to remember sterile walls of glass, the stringent smell of antiseptic, the echo of far-off voices floating over her, the ring of bright lights that loomed oppressive, the sea of faceless doctors impersonal in their scrubs, the burn in her lungs before the world went dark again, and the empty white of a hospital room when she finally woke, alone.
“Hey,” Aerith’s voice broke through the memory, “I’m gonna start now, okay?”
Tifa nodded, focused on the orchid standing on Aerith’s desk—already budding for its yearly bloom. Judging by its shape, Tifa gave it a week before it would fully open to reveal bright petals.
“Can you take a deep breath for me?”
“Yeah.” Tifa took the breath, let it fill out the space in her lungs, and felt the light tug of her skin as Aerith clamped it between the forceps.
“Okay good, exhale.”
Tifa followed the request, then the painless prick of the needle in her skin as it punctured through flesh and the thread of the suture followed through, her jaw tight, nerve endings still assuming pain.
“Tifa, breathe. Relax. It’s okay.”
She wordlessly nodded, tried to follow the quality of her breathing—in, one, two, three, four, out, one, two, three, four, she mentally counted amidst the repetition of tug, puncture, pull, tug, puncture, pull. It made her feel restless.
As though sensing the growing undercurrent within her, Aerith started to hum, an old jazz classic Tifa recognized as one of Aerith’s favorites, it had been playing on the jukebox at the local watering hole where they first met all those years back. Back when Tifa had pretended to be a new hire at the tavern, and Aerith (unbeknownst to her) had just been newly assigned as her assignment to follow and monitor. Despite her best efforts, the ruse didn’t keep for long—Aerith had already suspected Tifa’s true nature the moment she laid eyes on her.
The melody comforted her as did the memory of their first meeting.
“Good girl,” Aerith mumbled absently, fingers busy looping the suture into a tight knot. “You’re doing really good.”
Halfway through a breath cycle, Tifa felt her entire body tense then—like a charge pulling her spine straight at the idle turn of phrase. She could feel her face growing warm, the heat traveling down to her chest, blotting it a peach red, her shoulders growing rigid. Mortified, Tifa averted her head away from Aerith’s gaze, knowing if she looked, she would find herself confronted with a familiar smug and ever-growing grin, a proverbial cat who caught the canary.
“Really, Tifa?”
“Please, don’t,” she said quietly, growing more embarrassed by the second. God, if only the chair could swallow her whole, if only to spare her from the weight of Aerith’s inevitable teasing.
“I’m not even trying to rile you up this time.” Aerith laughed.
“Ugh.” Tifa groaned, a touch sullen, and awkwardly shifted her body away, suddenly feeling exposed with her shirt hanging loose and open.
“Tifa! Wait, I’m not done yet,” Aerith lightly snapped at the slight movement. “Don’t move.”
“Sorry.”
Tifa felt the tug of the forceps again and then Aerith threaded the needle through her flesh in a smooth motion. The skin on her arm itched as Tifa felt the pull of the suture going through, more from mental association than anything else, her brain trying to fill in the gap from the lack of sensation. She grimaced.
“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Personally, I think it’s cute—who doesn’t like being told they’re a good girl.”
“Aerith,” Tifa protested, “I’m not a dog.” She whispered under her breath.
“No, you’re more a wet leopard if I had to pick an animal for you.”
“Do you have to tease me all the time?” Tifa grumbled, soft.
“Okay, and maybe also a little bit of a pouty house cat at the vet too,” Tifa could hear the amused smile in Aerith’s voice before she continued, “and I don’t tease you all the time, only when you’re at my mercy.”
“Doesn’t that make it worse?”
“Not when it distracts you from fidgeting while getting stitches.”
“And while I appreciate that—do you have to use a strategy that’s at my expense?”
“Probably not, no, but it is cute seeing you pout.”
Tifa sighed, couldn’t help the playful tint to it. “You’re impossible.”
“It is annoying how impossibly charming I am, isn’t it?”
At the comment, Tifa finally turned to face Aerith and found herself staring at her smiling face, her nose scrunched in a way that pulled at the laugh lines around her eyes, the lone dimple on her right cheek that gave her smile its lopsided quality. Whatever clever retort Tifa had, died on her tongue then, struck again by golden-honey and green.
“Hey cutie, nice to see you again,” Aerith gave her a joking wink, “and would you look at that—all done.” She waved her empty hands as if to emphasize her point.
Tifa smiled, gave her a little half-nod, not quite a bow. “Thank you.”
“Always so polite, even when she’s half naked on the doctor’s chair.”
“Country manners, hard to shake.” Tifa leaned up on her arms then, raised her left hand to her head and in a motion she knew would accentuate the subtle flex of her bicep, pretended to tip an invisible cowboy hat.
Aerith rolled her eyes at the gesture and laugh-sighed. “You know, you’re a little impossible too.” The line was obviously meant to be a bit of a teasing dig, but Tifa could see the light tinge of pink spreading on her cheeks, it only made her own smile grow. It was always nice when she managed to get one over Aerith—to fluster her for a change—with her own brand of quiet confidence as Aerith had called it once.
“Okay, showboat,” Aerith tapped her on the arm then, getting her attention. “Lean back a little for me so I can put some honey on the cut—don’t want you risking an infection while the skin heals,” she said, using her hand to gently guide Tifa back down to the chair.
Then Aerith busied herself with unscrewing the jar and Tifa found herself watching.
“You’re staring a lot today.”
“I like watching you work,” Tifa answered, “you’re good at what you do.”
“Yeah, I would say my face is doing a really good job of closing your stitches,” Aerith said, absently, as she focused on smearing honey over the wound.
“Am I that obvious?” Tifa squirmed at the sticky sensation against her skin, felt it pull with each dab.
Aerith laughed, more a small noise than a full laugh from the gut. “You’re a horrible liar, Tifa—everything shows on your face,” Aerith said as she lightly pressed a strip of gauze over the spread honey.
“So you always like to remind me.”
“I just feel black ops spy doesn’t really fit you as a person, as hot as you look in the black suits.”
“Then what do you think I should be instead?”
“A member of Avalanche.” Aerith deadpanned, as she secured the gauze with some medical tape.
Tifa scoffed at the unexpected answer, her eyebrows raised in a questioning look. “I know you know Shinra has been zealously trying to root out their cells.”
“They are Shinra’s enemies, yeah, but are they yours too?” Aerith returned her questioning look with a pointed stare.
Tifa dodged the question, swallowed the shame in her throat, and bowed her head—afraid of what her answer would be.
The silence didn’t linger between them for long, blessedly, as Aerith distracted Tifa from her self-wallowing by grabbing both of her hands. She pulled them forward and placed rough palm against rough palm until they were pressed together in a prayer, while Aerith’s hands clasped in the same gesture over Tifa’s.
“Okay, breathe with me.”
Under the flat light of an amber lamp and the humid air of the clinic, Tifa matched her breathing to the same steady rhythm of Aerith’s count, synced in time as an overworked fan blew a steady breeze between them. For the second time that night, a vibrant green hue burned around Aerith, her body serving as a conduit, its current flowed through Aerith until it engulfed Tifa in its pacifying blast radius.
Tifa sucked in a deep lungful of warm summer air, bracing for the impact. The room became a soundless blur, muffled by the rush and roar of her own blood running in her ears. She closed her eyes as her bones cracked, her pulse hammering away to the loud, dry sound of her heart beating with a renewed vigor. In the world devoid of light behind her eyelids, the clinic stretched out beyond her like a dark sea, she swayed on the chair as the magic worked its way through her veins and Aerith held her steady. The fierce pounding of her heartbeat vibrated through her bones, chattering teeth, pulled the hairs on her body up by its roots. She heard the mechanical whirring of the fan blowing, focused on it as her body began to cool and recover the full senses of something living.
As the lingering after sensations of cure dissipated, Tifa drew her breath deep into expanding lungs and exhaled just as fully, settling back into her body.
“Tifa?” Aerith’s voice broke through the black of her closed eyes.
At the sound of her name, Tifa blinked her eyes open to the glare of amber lights and Aerith’s furrowed face, kind in its expression.
“Hey, how ya feeling?” Aerith asked.
Tifa rolled her shoulders, wavered her neck side to side, and savored the ease in which her muscles contracted to her movements, but underneath the lax motion of her rejuvenated body, she felt a growing tension stirring underneath her skin, an increasing itch for another kind of respite. She tried to shake her shoulders loose.
“Good as new,” she smiled at Aerith. “Thank you.”
“Glad to hear it,” Aerith said with causal ease as she looked over at Tifa’s current state. “Though, you look like a mess.”
White dress shirt stained beyond red, caked onto her body like a second skin, her chest sticky with dried sweat, her sides smeared with dried blood. The humid air only exaggerated the sensations that left her longing to scathe the skin off of her in a hot shower.
“I think I would really love a shower right about now,” Tifa said, her tone humorous.
Aerith laughed lightly. “Here, let me—I can help with that.”
She motioned at Tifa to lean forward and gently peeled the ruined shirt off her shoulders, pulling them down her arms until Tifa was bare of the garment, left only in her sports bra.
“Your pants too.” Aerith said before unbuttoning them, pulling down the zipper as Tifa lifted up her hips, compliant, and Aerith eased them down her legs until Tifa was left in just her underwear.
“Thanks.”
Aerith merely nodded, mind already focused on her next task. She walked over to the sink to fill a small basin with water that, once nearly full, she carried back to where Tifa sat—plopping it onto the nearby steel stand.
“It’s not a full shower, but I can give you a little bird bath.”
Tifa smiled her thanks and watched Aerith dip a clean towel into the wash basin, wring out the excessive water before softly running it down the slope of her chest. The wet towel felt cool against her skin as Aerith methodically went to work gently wiping the dried sweat and blood off her skin—starting with her torso, then arms, then working her way down the span of Tifa’s legs. In even strokes and light presses, Aerith wiped away the violence on Tifa’s skin with a tender reverence that unmoored Tifa to sea.
“That feels really good,” Tifa whispered as Aerith cleaned between her knuckles, lightly massaging callous palm with one hand while the other wiped away at the leftover gore from the nose she had broken earlier in the night.
Goosebumps seared across her skin in the wake of Aerith’s easing touch, burning something low in the guts of her stomach. Tifa shivered in spite of the summer heat.
“Thank you, Aerith,” Tifa said softly once Aerith finished. “For always fixing me up.”
“I still think it would’ve been better if you had called Shinra’s medic team—you would’ve lost less blood.” Aerith responded even softer, threw the now dirty towel into the water basin, standing so impossibly close to Tifa.
She could smell her perfume, notes of violet and jasmine with an underlying spice of patchouli. It filled her nose and mollified her thoughts. The restless itch grew.
“Maybe I just wanted to see you.” Tifa responded, a touch more petulant than she would’ve liked, and ran her fingers down the buttons of Aerith’s dress, tracing a line down her stomach.
“Yeah?”
Tifa nodded her answer as she drifted forward, resting her head against Aerith’s abdomen. She breathed in the smell of her, found comfort in it, fingered at a loose button on the faded blue dress, worn-well from years of work and repeat washes.
Long, slim fingers threaded into Tifa’s hair then, coming to cup the back of her head, faintly scratching, and Tifa leaned into the feeling behind it.
“Feels good,” Tifa mumbled into the soft press of Aerith’s belly.
Aerith hummed and the night grew long, while the familiar currents between them shifted into something low-burning, full of wordless desire.
“Sit back.” Aerith said, feather-light, and divested her fingers from the dark silk of Tifa’s hair.
“Aerith…” Tifa swallowed, pulled herself back, watching with anticipation—knowing the promise of Aerith’s tone. Delicate arms wound themselves around her shoulders then, careful to adjust the bangles on wrists so they wouldn’t dig, soft hands came to rest at the nape of Tifa’s neck. Aerith’s thighs ran hot under the flat of Tifa’s palms as she settled her weight into Tifa’s lap, straddling her.
Aerith pressed her forehead against hers, leveled her with an intense look and asked with a smoldering lilt. “Yes?” She practically breathed onto Tifa’s lips.
Struck mindless by the closeness, Tifa muttered the first thought that came to mind. “My shoulders are tense.”
Carefully, Aerith unwound her arms, lightly pressed at the tension of muscle and bone. “Wow, they are awfully tense,” she agreed, continuing to press at Tifa’s shoulders.
“Perhaps you should try the massage parlor next door. I hear they have a two for one special with shoulder massages—where you can get a free one for your hand too.”
“Aerith, please.”
“Tifa, use your words.”
“I am.”
“Are you now?” Aerith ran her finger across the strong line of Tifa’s shoulder, teasing along bare skin, shooting shivers down Tifa’s spine.
“I’m not begging, Aerith.”
“Who said anything about begging?” Aerith whispered within their shared breath.
“Aerith, you know what I want. Please don’t make me beg.”
“I really do like how my name sounds like a plead when you say it.” Aerith rested her forehead against Tifa’s again, just shy of a kiss, but the smile betrayed the loving gesture for what it really was—a taunt.
The startled yelp echoed hot in her ear, drew her full lips into a satisfied smirk as Aerith’s back hit the chair with a soft thud, and Tifa reversed their position with apparent ease. She hovered over Aerith, all sharp lust and soft edges, her hands sliding up to her waist, worn fabric bunching underneath her grip.
“I know you want it too, Aerith.” Tifa touched her nose to hers, the tender gesture at odds with the hunger coiling in her voice.
Aerith drew a sharp breath, her cheeks flushing pink, but the fire in her eyes only burned brighter. A moth to a flame, Tifa stared with rapt attention and Aerith wound her arms around Tifa’s neck again, pulling close, until her lips brushed against hers.
“Tifa, I swear to god if you rip your stitches off again.”
“I promise to be careful this time.”
“You said that last time.”
“More careful,” Tifa corrected herself, gripped tighter at Aerith’s waist, felt the fabric gathering in her hands, the starch scratched against her bare skin—in the planes and angles where pliant bodies met.
Under her, the front of Aerith’s dress spilled open down the middle, riding up by the split of Tifa’s thigh wedging in-between, exposing the length of Aerith’s inviting legs.
“You still have too much clothes on,” Tifa observed, craving skin.
“Then do something about it, Turk.”
Never one to back down from a challenge, Tifa growled, low and involuntary, before smashing her mouth against Aerith’s in a hungry line, knocking against teeth, swallowing down a moan.
---------------
Born in a small remote village at the base of an imposing mountain range and bred on a steady diet of rustic civility and the performative niceties that came with it, Tifa was a creature of old comforts and familiar routines. That is to say, she preferred the company of old things and people with history—frequently finding herself more at home amongst the grit and grime of the dark undercity than the sterile city that hung above, found the monuments of steel and glass too modern, too new, for a childhood of muddy trails and thick old woods.
Aerith’s apartment was humble. Homey, in ways Tifa’s standard Shinra issued apartment would never be. The apartment’s foundation predated the founding of Midgar by nearly five decades, and it showed in its craftsmanship—from the aged wood of the exposed beams on ceiling to the awkward slant of the floor after nearly a century of settling in its foundation, creaking every two steps. It was a timeworn dwelling, and it reminded Tifa of her own house back in Nibelheim, built three generations before her—by the labor and love of her great grandparents. The memory ached at her ribs.
The overhead ceiling fan cranked above them, did little in cooling her down from the sultry night, simply cycled the hot air around. A bead of sweat rolled from the column of Tifa’s neck down the slope between her breasts, tracing the downward line of marred skin, discolored and stretched from years of new skin growth surrounding the fading wound, forever preserving it on her body. The heat was oppressive, even at the late hour, she felt sedated by its stifling lull. Next to her, Aerith shifted awkwardly, restless, trying to unstick herself from damp sheets. The room perfumed of them—a heady mix of spent desire, sweat, and wet earth.
This was the only place in all of Midgar that cured Tifa of her homesickness.
Not that she would ever let herself admit to it.
“I didn’t rip my stitches this time,” Tifa broke through the peaceful quiet.
“No, you didn’t, but you did tear my dress in half, pretty sure one of the buttons fell through the drain,” Aerith teased.
“I’ll buy you a new one,” Tifa smiled. “From one of the fancy topside shops even.”
“That not going to violate Turk, assignment, client protocol?” she joked.
“Aerith.”
“Right,” Aerith laughed quietly with an indecipherable look, and gestured between them, at the state of their mutual undress. She shifted again in her spot.
“You okay?”
“Uh huh, yeah,” Aerith nodded idly, before turning onto her side to rummage through the bedside drawer next to her, pulling a cigarette and a small lighter from inside. She sat back up again, leaning against the wall and Tifa watched as Aerith cupped a hand around the thin Lucky Strike and lit it with the other, before taking a slow, deep drag. She filled the air with white smoke.
“You’re smoking—that’s new.”
“You gonna tell me it’s bad for my health?”
The smoke billowed above them at Aerith’s exhale, the smell settled harsh in her nose.
Tifa shook her head. “No, don’t think I can judge you—given what I do for a living, especially compared to you.”
Aerith gave her a smile. “There you go being hard on yourself again—c’mere.”
She curled her index finger in a come closer motion, and took another drag of smoke, filling her lungs with it as Tifa obliged the request and pulled herself up, closing the gap between them. Then achingly delicate, Aerith clasped her hands around Tifa’s face, brought them even closer still, opened her mouth slightly and sighed, smoldering, into Tifa’s awaiting mouth. In an almost kiss, Tifa sucked the smoke from deep within Aerith’s lungs, letting the acrid taste sting her throat in a soothing burn, could feel her nerves dulling with each biting inhale.
Aerith hummed when she pulled away, and Tifa felt lighter as she excised the smoke from her lungs, watching it rise from her mouth, dissipating into the night air.
“It’s not a habit I like to make frequent, but sometimes I get a tiny craving for them,” Aerith paused to take another drag. “Besides, who doesn’t like a little post-sex cigarette.”
She gave Tifa a playful wink.
No shame in her nudity, Aerith laid sprawled across the bed before Tifa. Elegant neck, tiny moles dotting along subtle breasts, soft belly, brown curls between long legs, a patchwork of angry marks borne from Tifa’s teeth—where she had spent nearly an hour working out some of her frustrations—stained the insides of Aerith’s thighs. Tifa trailed the curves of Aerith’s open body with loving glances.
“Sorry, I guess I got a little overzealous tonight,” she motioned at the motley spiral of red and purple against olive skin.
“Don’t. I will never mind the show of strength—I like it when you wreck me a little,” Aerith took another drag.
Tifa blushed, felt her cheeks go red, the words stalled in her throat.
“It’s amazing how shy you still get once the moment of passion passes,” Aerith teased with an exhale of white smoke.
Flushing brighter still, Tifa ignored the comment.
“How come you never heal them after?” She ran a feather-light finger down the soft span of Aerith’s thigh, where the wreckage she had left was heaviest.
Aerith shrugged. “How come you never take up my offer to heal the scar on your chest?”
“That doesn’t answer my question,” Tifa replied softly.
“Eyes always on the prize,” Aerith chuckled quietly and rubbed out the last remnants of the cigarette on an ash tray before leveling Tifa with a slightly more serious look. “Maybe I just like a little physical reminder of our moments together since you never stay the whole night.”
“Sorry, I don’t—I’m not trying to be callous. I just don’t want to overcomplicate your life.”
“Tifa, I’m a half human, half Cetra hybrid—the last of my kind even—with the world’s biggest mega-corporation monitoring my every move since the day I was born. I’ve basically been under glorified house arrest since I was seven. I really don’t think sleeping with my Turk handler is gonna make a dent in complicated.”
“That’s not—” Tifa started to say, before stopping. “You know there’s more to it.”
She looked away, head downcast.
“You haven’t been around as much lately,” Aerith said, so achingly quiet, voice laced with such yearning it nearly broke Tifa’s resolve.
Tifa turned towards her. “I know, I’m sorry. They’ve been shifting my assignments around, sending me to monitor the other sectors.”
“Did you finally complain to Tseng about how annoying I am as an assignment?” Aerith tried to joke, wore a small smile Tifa knew was false.
“You know I would never do that.”
“I know you wouldn’t—too noble hearted to ever speak ill of anyone,” Aerith chuckled as she settled back onto the bed, looking so small and tired, it made Tifa long. She reached out to tuck an errant strand of hair behind Aerith’s ear.
“I shouldn’t have kissed you that day—maybe this was all a mistake, and I just made a mess of everything.”
Aerith flinched lightly at the words. “Don’t say that. You can’t do that—you can’t kiss me and go and give me some of the best sex of my life, just to take it all back,” Aerith tensed. “It’s not fair, especially when you don't even really mean it,” she finished quietly.
Not knowing what to say, Tifa tucked her hands underneath her cheek, resisted the temptation to comfort Aerith with her touch, not wanting to complicate it all the more.
But Aerith wasn’t done, she turned on her side then, towards Tifa—facing her—looked at her with such an open expression; and in that moment, Tifa knew she wasn’t going to win.
“What happened to your hometown, Tifa, and the scar on your chest—what really happened? I wanna know,” Aerith asked, and placed a palm against her cheek, rubbing her thumb at Tifa’s cheekbone. It was an unfair move.
“It’s better if you don’t.”
“Why, is this you trying to protect me?”
“Yes.”
“It’s funny, we’ve known each other for nearly 5 years now and I still don’t know anything about you, really. Just an odd detail here and there you let slip, and how you like to be touched, but that’s it. Meanwhile you know everything there is to know about me—read it all in a neat little file before you even saw my face in person.”
“That’s not true. That doesn’t mean I know you. I know your history, the things you’ve been through, but that doesn’t mean I know you.”
“You could know me like that.”
“I—” Tifa paused, struggling to find the words. “I care about you, a lot. I think that’s all I’m allowed to give you.”
Aerith balked, laughing, a sad-soft sound. “You truly are the most fascinating person I have ever met—a Turk with principles.”
“You say it like it’s an insult.”
“It’s contradictory.”
“You know, you have the very unique ability to make a compliment sound like an insult.”
“See, that’s the thing with you, Tifa, it’s never an insult—not with you.”
“I want to tell you.”
“But you won’t”
“I can’t.”
“So stubbornly honorable, even as you violate how many protocols by sleeping with your assignment,” Aerith grinned.
“But you like that about me,” Tifa teased back, a small smile of her own.
“I do, unfortunately.”
At the soft confession, Tifa drifted closer, stroked Aerith’s cheek with her thumb, and ran it across her soft lips.
“You deserve someone better than me—someone with less blood on their hands.”
Aerith leaned in closer, a hair’s breadth away, their noses nearly touching. “And who would I deserve, Tifa, when I want you.”
It was that same blunt honesty again, the naked desire worn plain on her face. The same one that made Tifa impulsively kiss her nearly a year ago, she hadn’t regret it then, wondered if she would regret it now. Tifa shook her head, stared at the honey-green before her, with no hope of clearing the spell from her heart.
“I shouldn’t—I can’t want you.”
“Why not?”
“So many reasons. Too many.”
“Then explain them to me,” Aerith replied, patient. The weight of her hand burned on Tifa’s cheek, her thumb still tracing across, as if casting a spell.
Outside, the revelry of the night was finally winding to a close, ebbing the surrounding neighborhood down to a quiet apprehension—held the world in suspense. The witching hour was what her grandmother used to call this span of night. Tifa followed the fading voices as she thought. Through the open window, the flickering of neon spattered across Aerith’s face, pulsing like some kind of morse code, indecipherable but still familiar.
She stared and wondered what it would be like to see Aerith fully in the sun, to watch it spark across her skin the way it was meant to, to see her beyond the oppressive shadow of the metal titian that has loomed over her since her seventh birthday, and Ifalna had whisked her away from a glass prison, traded it for a future under an endless night. What would it be like to love Aerith under the open blue. She desperately wanted to know, wondered if she would ever get the chance to; or if they were only meant for stolen moments among the witches and ghouls that lurked during the haunting hours of the night.
Tifa took a deep breath, her chest rising and then lowering, and settled on saying the truest thing she could, because it was what Aerith deserved.
“Everyone around me either dies or leaves,” she whispered quiet.
“Oh Tifa, I’m right here,” Aerith whispered just as soft, and grabbed her hands to hold, pulled them to her chest. “Right now.”
Overhead, the ceiling fan moaned, giving the stale air a sense of movement. Tifa listened to it.
“Can I stay for the night?”
Aerith finally closed the rest of the gap between them, resting her forehead against Tifa’s.
“Baby, you can stay for as long as you’d like.”