#lockhartred

“Please don’t make me answer that.”

It takes him a second to catch up to the implications of his question, his inquisitive nature having him hound a person of interest until his curiosity is sated (temporarily).

With someone as complex as Ms. Lockhart, well, he really should learn to consider his choice of words in regards to her relationship with other people. He frowns at her reply, tilts his head to the side - and then startles himself when he realizes what she took his question to mean.

Genesis could feel something prickling on his person, like static about to build to a shock. He's certain it's the mako surrounding them. Though it's encased in pipes, he never much gave a thought what its effect on people might be. Longterm exposure certainly couldn't be good.

That dreadful crawling across his skin kept him in a state of high alert. Or perhaps he was simply highly strung.

He listened to Tifa, and his eyes sharpened mid-musing. No word of explanation leaves his mouth as he reaches to grasp her in a protective sweep, she is pulled back, and his arm pressed her further behind so that he may shield her...

It was only infantry men, but he wouldn't scoff at them and their bullets. They could do damage enough, and they were at the advantage of being able to call in a flood of support. Better to avoid a fight altogether if possible.

His hand remained pressed to her abdomen. It was an act of overprotection. To know exactly where she was. Though he didn't realise how belittling the action was, to keep tabs on her so intensely, as though he might not trust her to hold back and stay out of sight.

A long moment passed before Genesis turned his head and glanced sidelong to her. His hand gently relented as he stepped around and faced Tifa proper. "Perhaps that would be best." he spoke gently, if a little foolishly. His own eyebrows shot up a little. Wait— "That is. Standing here, I realise what a foolish endeavour this has been. Selfish even." He spared one final glance to the factory, then regarded Tifa with an apologetic look. "I don't know what I expected, to bully some business suit around, or to demand to know who has been named my beneficiary. I am coming at this from the wrong angle. What I need is a will and testament, and a very good lawyer."

Kisses aren't unusual, nowadays. Chaste kisses, hello kisses, goodbye kisses, something more kisses. This time seems different. Cloud can't quite put his finger on why, other than Tifa has that meaningful look in her eyes that means he should know why. That's never a good sign.

His eyes narrow briefly, his fingers strum over Tifa's hip where he's holding her. He's buying time. Thinking, trying to figure out the significance of today's date. His job being what it is, keeping track of time is important. Timeliness is a key performance indicator. Attributing meaning to certain days, however, is another issue entirely.

February fourteenth. Something about it...All the decorations in the storefronts, the red heart window decals, the chocolate gift boxes, dinner specials. They make sense suddenly, for all that the answer has been staring him in the face all week.

No wonder Reeve gave him a strange look when Cloud hadn't given a straightforward answer as to what his Tuesday evening plans were.

It's today.

"Happy Valentine's, Tifa."

Hopefully the delay in his response time goes unnoticed. Hopefully he's improving. He can salvage this.

"You’re like a barnacle.”

Doesn’t Tifa know how difficult it is to move around in a kitchen when there’s someone clinging to you? He makes a big show of twisting around to try and catch a glimpse of her before ‘giving up’ to pry loose her arms enough for him to turn around and drop his chin on the top of her head.

“My crab cakes are going to burn, you know,” he points out without the slightest ounce of urgency.

Nights where Cloud is home to cook are a rare occurrence. All the more reason to make it a little special. Deliveries provide ample opportunity to think of different recipes to try with the added bonus of convenient procurement for any unusual ingredients he might need.

continued from (x):

Directionless ships at sea might never find their way home. Finding the shoreline is no guarantee of safety. If the lighthouse has gone out, if there is no way to tell whether there are sharp rocks lying in wait to pierce the hull or if the waters are too shallow and they risk running aground, it can feel safer to wander endlessly in the dark of the ocean. Darkness, not knowing, there is comfort in that too.

Nibelheim does not feel like a place to roost or rest your wings. This is a quiet town, nestled at the foot of great craggy peaks and cold biting winds. It is a place of beginnings and endings, a place that lives only in their memory and a place that is not what it once was.

There was not enough space for him to stay within the town’s boundary without directly crossing paths with Tifa. He had made camp off the beaten road leading out of town, under a thicket of evergreens that would thin out the smoke of his campfire. A simple bivvy tent gave him additional protection from the elements and a place to sleep as the curtain of night fell and his breath began to mist into the air. 

He did not spend the entirety of his time haunting childhood places. A majority of his daylight hours were spent hunting monsters. The hills were still rife with them, young drakes and wolf packs that had grown desperate enough for quarry that they lost their fear of humanity. At least he could do some good for the townspeople while he was here.

When he wanted to check on how Tifa was doing, he found creative vantage points along rooftops or glimpses caught between buildings. 

How long did she plan on staying? What answers did she hope to find by living here? Simply watching her did not produce those answers that he wanted.

Tifa knows the mountains, all the small roads leading in and out of town, all the rocky ridges and narrow walking paths of Nibelheim better than the back of her own hand. She is here for other reasons beyond sightseeing. He wants to know that she is okay, that he can be there for her when the shadows grow too long, when the time is right. If the time is right. He made a promise, even if he is struck by unspoken bitterness every time he sees her crossing the rounded cobblestones of the town center. She had been there for him when he needed her most, but he had no such opportunity to do the same.

That wasn’t to say Cloud was completely free of his own demons. Gods know he’s had plenty of time alone in the dead of night to trap himself with them. 

His chocobo strains against the leather lead wrapped around his fingers. Of course, there were occasions that left him no choice but to go into town and ensure that his mount was well fed and watered. 

@heavensfists​ asked: EARLY

Sleep prickles the corner of his eyes, a sharp and unpleasant sensation dragging across the delicate, bruised skin under his eyes. Cloud rolls over in his bed onto his stomach and cranes his neck to squint at his nightstand. The digital clock, threatening, stares back at him in glaring crimson. 5:21 AM. He turns over onto his back, willing the leaden feeling in his legs to subside while time continues to ominously crawl forward and the ceiling fan bounces air off the spiky ends of his hair.

If he closes his eyes, Cloud swears he can still see the charts and geography he pored over the night before burned into the back of his eyelids. Remembering the evening past makes his neck hurt.

It takes the smell of freshly ground coffee to coax a reluctant man out of his bed. He can get dressed later-- after he feels something like a human being again.

With one hand loosely on the guardrail and the other rubbing the grains from his eye, Cloud follows the scent of Tifa’s freshly brewed coffee down to the bar counter. Half his mouth curves sheepishly upward into a smile; it’s always like this when she knows he stays up late plotting his delivery routes. Unlike her, Cloud Strife looks altogether unkempt. He looks down at himself, at the wrinkled gray t-shirt over his chest and the hastily thrown-on pair of loose cotton shorts, well-worn and only a few loose navy threads away from being described as threadbare. 

Tifa doesn’t even look up, humming something along the lines of ‘good morning’ as unwashed glasses clink together under the running water in the stainless steel sink basin. She must relish these rare opportunities to wake up before him, long before either Marlene or Denzel would ever find their way downstairs in time for breakfast. They’ll be upset later, knowing that she didn’t wake them up to see him off.

He slides onto the nearest bar stool, upholstered in shiny black leather. Recently oiled. The surface is soft to the touch and gleams in the gloomy light of dawn creeping in through the windows of 7th Heaven from where he grips the edge of the seat for a moment’s balance. A mug of coffee slides across the counter and under his nose before he even has a chance to open his mouth.

Cloud murmurs his thanks with a smile hidden behind a cautious sip of the steaming hot liquid creeping over the edge of the mug that he tips back. He doesn’t have long now if he intends to make good time on his deliveries this week.

Tifa sees him. This knowledge he finds so intensely disconcerting that Cloud has to disregard it altogether. A younger Cloud, with unblemished ideals and notions of heroism, might have thought he couldn't ask for anything more.

"You don't need to do that," he finally says, a voice drawn reluctantly into the open like finely crushed gravel making way at the edge of the road. The words are a sting from a man who believes his own deceit. She can't know, because otherwise the truth is more than he can bear.

Cloud uses the weight of his hand to drop hers away. It's easier, he thinks, to reject the smaller acts of kindness so she can't feel badly for having tried. She doesn't even have to be here.

Fugitives now, too wary to even test the embers of a campfire in the open wasteland that choked the outskirts of Midgar. He can hear Barret grumbling and casting them an occasional glance, a haltingly irregular pattern based on the amount of time it takes to realize he should respect their supposed privacy. Aerith is preoccupied with the newest member of their party, though she spares him a blinding grin when he accidentally catches her eye. Her spirited nature appalls him like it usually does, and suddenly he has to find refuge with Tifa instead. 

early mornings. this is when she realizes that they both seem to have a moment for themselves before the chaos of the day catches up to them. before rechecking routes for deliveries; before going downstairs to start breakfast and the last minute prep before the lunch rush; before kids have eaten and brushed their teeth and are dressed, they have this - a handful of minutes that can possibly sum up to less than an hour where they're alone.

one bathroom is tight for four, sometimes five, people living under one roof, but they've managed. she hears the faucet going and knows that he's already up, beginning his day. tifa doesn't shy away when she lets herself in and closes the door behind her. reaching for her toothbrush from its cup, she wets it before adding toothpaste onto the bristles.

it's such a mundane thing, perhaps even inconsequential, and she can hear denzel's voice in her head telling her about the importance of dental hygiene as if it's the most important topic in the world. technically, he's not wrong, but the thought almost makes her sputter out a laugh and it's obvious that she's trying to suppress a grin.

before she begins brushing her teeth, she looks at cloud and that almost grin turns into a soft smile; she can see their reflection in the mirror from the corner of her eye.

"you know i love you, right?" she says and leans a little closer to kiss him on the cheek before starting her morning routine.

Routines are comforting. A sequence of well-planned, predictable events. Predictable means normal. As close to normal as their little mismatched family can get.

Cloud is half-staring at the network of water stains on the mirror when he notices Tifa is looking at him while she’s brushing her teeth. Scrub scrub scrub. He smiles back at her through the minty foam that collects around the corners of his mouth and a toothbrush that doesn’t quite stop moving.

That’s not fair. His brow furrows, his hands and face are still occupied. He can’t reciprocate without making a fool of himself. Cloud finishes his two minutes of mandated brushing, rinses, and gives Tifa a little frown to make his displeasure known. “Could’ve waited ‘til I finished,” he grumbles, resting a hand at the small of her back and leaning over to press a kiss against the back of her neck while she washes her face. “I love you too,” Cloud says back, allowing the warmth of his words to ghost over her skin. He hopes it tickles.