17

Miles Apart

The restaurant's debut really was something to behold. The place was set up in a very large, very old house, which was gutted and outfitted with white-clothed tables. Such places should not have existed in Edge after Meteor—this one had been transported from Kalm.

Yes, these things can and do happen.

The entire scene was lit by candlelight, low and pleasant, save for the kitchen and the meager lights above the bar on the far side of the house. Tifa would have been radiant in the calming flicker reflected in the glass of the window next to our table. I had wanted to bring her—there was no better excuse really, for an innocent and formal night out with the woman of my dreams—but it was impossible, given her promise to the ninja.

Solid wood floors stretched from wall to wall, and as guests and staff alike crossed them, their steps left a hollow and resonating sound. They did not creak under the weight, but they were not intimately acquainted with the foundation of the building, and I found myself wondering what might lie between the fashioned material and the dirt below. A morbid curiousity perhaps, but this was nothing new. I'd always been in that frame of mind, even before.

By now, I do not think I have to explain what I mean by the word 'before'.

In all honesty, the interior reminded me a bit of ShinRa Manor—in design, not in size—after I had woken up to find it abandoned and everyone else gone. But in my fury, I had neglected to be kind with their drapecloths and fixtures. The manor's kitchen was completely destroyed, a stark contrast with the bustling, stainless steel room beyond those double doors. Its washrooms were shattered glass and crushed porcelain, unlike the floating candles and petals atop undisturbed waters in the vintage tub upstairs.

I never did have much self-control back then—but that was another life.

Instead, I watched with some amusement as the young woman across the table from me perused the menu, taking it all in with no small amount of fascination. Every now and then she would frown, and she would silently mouth the sounds to a word she didn't know, and it filled me with an odd sense of importance, thinking I might have found an almost comfortable role. She propped her elbow up on the table, and I grinned in the moment she caught herself, removing it to wind a finger in one of the glossy curls piled high atop her head.

She lifted her head and placed her finger on the plastic coverlet, turning the sheet around to face me. "What is... pist-ow?" she asked, mispronouncing the word in an unassuming manner.

I smiled, scanning my own menu. "Pistou," I answered, enunciating the last syllable, "is a basil and garlic sauce."

"Oh," she said. "Well, what is chever?"

I straightened my tie. Not quite, but close enough. "Chèvre, is goat cheese."

She made a face.

"Would you like me to order for you?"

My 'date' nodded, putting her menu to rest on the table. "But no goat cheese," she said shyly, as if it might be asking too much. I laughed in the affirmative.

"No goat cheese."

I browsed the wine list until I found something that looked appealing; a petít verdot. The grape was known for its color and aroma, but was usually lent to other blends in small quantities and almost never on its own. It was a rarity, and while most would say it couldn't hold up, the description promised a darkly rich, chocolate-currant flavor, smoky and with a long finish. I wanted to try it, despite the expense.

"What would you like to drink?" I asked.

She shrugged, pretending to look at the menu again. "There's too many choices."

"I'm going to have a glass of wine," I offered. "If you would like, I can order a sparkling cider for you. Or you can get something else. They have a frozen slurry at the bar, made from sorbét. I'll just tell them to not add the alcohol."

"That sounds good," she nodded. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," I smiled. "After all, our job is to try something from every area of the menu."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. We have to."

She giggled. "Okay, then."

It was then that our waiter approached the table, bringing with him a pitcher of water, some crudités, and some tapenade. I ordered my wine and the lemon smoothie, along with some roasted almonds with honey and lemon thyme, because I thought she would like them, and because I thought we should have an appetizer. He was polite and professional in the way he addressed us and in the way he carried himself. I tried not to note these things too obviously, so as not to let on why I was there, but it made it all the more enjoyable. I felt like some kind of educated lurker. My father would have loved this sort of thing—my old partner would have loved this sort of thing. Either one of them would have been better at it than I—I briefly wondered if there might be a complex there, but didn't think on it for too long, as my phone began to vibrate once our server had retreated.

I felt a swift rush of simple gladness when I saw who it was. I flipped the phone open, careful to keep my voice low and mind my manners in the fancy bistro. "Tifa."

"Hi, Vincent," she said. "Ah... what are you up to?"

I smiled. "I am having dinner. You?"

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "That's right, I forgot. You're doing that thing tonight for the magazine."

"Yes. How goes the competition?"

"Well, I called to say that Yuffie placed third out of eight contestants today, so I guess that's pretty good. She did set a record," she laughed. "Most air-bound rotations in thirty seconds, or something like that. Anyways, whatever it was called, she's in the books now. She's very proud of it. You'll probably be hearing about it for the rest of your life."

"Godo would be proud," I joked. Chances were, he didn't even know where she was. My company mouthed the question as to who it was I was speaking with—or rather, whether or not it was who she thought it was—and I grinned back at her. "You may tell her that she has my congratulations."

"I'll do that," she said. "So... did you find a date?"

The uneasy pause and the tone of her voice was a dead giveaway, if I'd learned anything about her in all our time spent together, and I liked to think that I had. She had said that it was unfair of her to ask me to wait, but it was obvious to me that if I didn't, it wouldn't be so easy for her, helplessly caught in her indecision when she simply was not ready. And thusly, I couldn't help the ridiculous smile plastered to my face, even if it did make me feel like an idiot. "As a matter of fact, I did."

"Oh." She sounded disappointed. "Well, I don't want to interrupt..."

"Not at all," I said. "In fact, I think she would like to speak with you."

"What? Why? Vincent, I don't think that's a very good—"

But I handed my phone over before she could protest, and stunted, pink-polished fingers took it happily. "Tifa!"

I watched the animated conversation, arranging the items on the table as they were brought, and thanking the waiter. When it was over, my phone was returned to me, open and waiting.

"She wants to talk to you."

I put the receiver to my ear, a funny feeling of warmth spreading through my chest. "Tifa," I hummed.

"Vincent," she said sweetly, "you took Marlene. Gods, that was so wonderful of you. I bet this means a lot to her."

She also sounded a bit relieved. I tried not to be too happy with that knowledge, but I was. It was quite cruel of me to tease her, however. "Do you think?"

"Well, it's not every day a girl gets to dress up and go out on the town, or eat at a fancy place like that. Not to mention, she's on your arm."

I chuckled. "Perhaps."

"How does she look?"

"Like a china doll," I replied, smiling. "And pink. Very pink."

She laughed.

"Shera even put her hair up in curls." Barret would have been proud, to see her like that—proud, or infuriated. But I think that rather has to do with how he feels about me.

"Well, I bet she's enjoying herself."

"Hm, I would hope so." I paused. "After all, I turned down the opportunity to ask Cid."

"Oh, gods!" Her laughter grew in its intensity. "He's such a meat and potatoes kind of guy. I bet he wouldn't know what to do with himself. Although, I think I'd like to be there to see that one."

I hummed thoughtfully. "Perhaps another time?"

"All right." I could hear the lingering smile in her voice, that tone which kept my nerves in check around her. "Listen, I have to go now, but I'm glad I got to talk with you. I'll see you when I get back home, okay?"

"See you then. Goodbye, Tifa."

"Bye, Vincent."

Marlene and I shared a nice dinner of veau normande and coq au vin after that, followed by orange crépes flambé. She told me that she was learning multiplication in school, and so I taught her what a square root was and threw her some simple questions. She seemed genuinely excited to know something that her other classmates did not.

We went for a short walk after dinner, because she'd said she wanted to look at the crystalline animals she'd spotted in a shop window. Marlene was a well-behaved kid, and I didn't have to worry about her running off or breaking anything valuable, so I let her peruse the items for a while. On the way back to the parking lot, a street vendor asked me if I'd like to buy a rose for my daughter—there was no resemblance there, and I almost glanced around, wondering who else he might have been talking to—and I did buy her a pink one, not bothering to correct the man, because her eyes had lit up when she'd seen them.

She was quite the chatterbox really, once she got going. During the ride home, she must have prattled off a week's worth of conversation I would have with any normal person, talking about teachers, friends, projects and reports, not to mention the play that was coming up. In the end we arrived safely at the bar, and as I ushered her inside, she bounded over to where Shera was leaning against the counter, sharing a drink with Cid.

"Hey, kiddo!" he greeted her with a wave. "How was dinner?"

"Great!" she exclaimed in full force. "Look!" she said quickly, turning to Shera and handing her the flower. Shera held the bloom to her face and smiled adoringly, and I hoped I would not have to endure her fawning.

"It smells lovely," she said, stepping around behind the counter. "You know what we can do with that?"

Shera grabbed for an uncorked wine bottle from the back shelf—empty, but then Tifa sometimes kept odd things for strange reasons—and began to clean it in the sink.

"Here," she said, gently taking the rose again from the girl and snapping the base of the stem off. "This bottle is plenty tall enough, don't you think?"

Marlene nodded emphatically, admiring the display. "Thank you!"

It was no vase, but something about it was appealing. Not because flowers in wine bottles is a romantic concept; the neck of the bottle was a strange sort of elegant, and out of place in a good way. Sometimes odd thoughts like that come to me, and I do not know why.

Shera looked at her watch and yawned. "It's getting late. Run along and put it someplace safe," she told her, "and then get ready for bed. I'll be up to tuck you in soon."

"Okay," replied Marlene. "Night, Vincent!"

As she turned to go, taking the bottle with her, I had a thought. Surely, I wouldn't have expected Shera to know her way around the house, much less where Tifa might keep a vase, but I wondered. Had I ever seen flowers in Tifa's home?

I turned my attentions back to the bar and found Shera grinning at me. I rolled my eyes and scooted an aluminum tin across the bar top until it reached Cid's elbow. "There. I brought you something."

Cid grinned. "Animal, mineral or vegetable?"

"Why don't you find out?"

I walked behind the bar and slid the ice chest open, the metal lid reverberating with a loud shucking sound. "Still warm," Cid said from behind me, as I ran the tap and fixed myself a glass of water. "Real warm."

"It should be. They made it while we went for a walk. You will have to tell me how it is," I said, taking a sip from my glass.

He popped the lid open, and Shera peeked over his shoulder as she skirted around him. "Looks creamy." He frowned at the box. "What is it?"

"Just eat it."

I set my glass back down on the counter and took a seat, loosening my tie while Cid grabbed a set of silverware from the bin behind the bar and tested a bite with his fork. "'S good. Chewy, but it's good. What's in this?" Shera muffled a laugh behind her hand and stole the next bite from him.

"Roughly?" I asked, unable to hide my grin when he nodded. "Those would be snails."

Cid froze and his jaw went slack. Then Shera's fingers crawled their way up the back of his neck, and he shuddered away from her. "Oh, gross, Cid," she teased, stepping to him and nipping his jaw. "Maybe you should stop now and leave that for me." And with that, she snatched the fork from him and took another bite.

He frowned at me. "Y'don't say. Not bad, actually. But really, Vince, you din' hafta feed me an' the wife slimy critters."

"Stop it, Cid," Shera scolded. "I'm eating here." She then grabbed her purse and fished out some money, approaching me with it. "And honey, I asked him to pick it up when he left."

I waved her hand away, shaking my head and dismissing the money. She grabbed my hand and tried to place the money in it, but I pushed it away. In the end, she slapped my fingers and tucked the bills into my shirt pocket, finishing with a self-satisfied smile.

"I'm going upstairs to tuck Marlene into bed," she said, heading for the stairwell. "Save some of that," she nodded to Cid, laughing. "I know it'll be hard, but you'll just have to try."

Shera disappeared from view, and Cid studied the tin in front of him. "Are you going to eat it," I asked, "now that you know what it is?"

He grimaced and dipped the fork into the sauce, trying it again on his tongue uncertainly.

"It's not like the ones you find on the sidewalk, you know."

"Shaddup," he said, half-heartedly. "I'm tryin' somethin' here." I chuckled as Cid took another bite and paid very close attention to what was in his mouth. Then suddenly, he was trying to pay as little attention as possible, his face contorting into a most worried and queasy expression. "Can't do it. I'd rather have a steak."

"Then get yourself a steak," I jabbed, and then I reached across and placed the money Shera had given me in the front pocket of his work-shirt.

He didn't protest or even make mention of it, only poured himself another glass from the bottle on the counter and attempted to purge the memory of what had been in his mouth by washing away the taste. "Shaddup," he repeated, wincing at the burn and clearing his throat. "So tell me," he finally said after a moment of silence, "what's the deal with Tifa?"

I tilted my head. "What do you mean?"

"Are you seein' each other at all? Casually, I mean?"

"Like before?"

"So it's like that, huh?" Cid took the seat a couple down from me and swiveled around so he could prop his head against his hand and still make eye contact. "Nothin' more on her end? Because I could've swore—"

"She needs time, Cid."

"Right, right." He was silent for a moment, taking another sip of drink and mulling something over in his head. "...Y'know she's not like any other girl. This is big. This is you an' Tifa."

I smiled sadly, barely. "I know."

"You gonna hang around like always, if she decides to move on without ya?"

The idea was painful. I'd told myself that yes, I would stay. I loved her, and she was my best friend, and I would always be there for her. But—what if the day came when she no longer needed me? I knew that she loved me in a lot of ways, in some of the ways that mattered most, but what if it became awkward for the both of us? I hadn't given it much thought other than telling myself I was determined to always be there. But what if—

What if the pain was actually too much to bear?

"I'll always be here," I affirmed. "But, I don't know. Maybe I would need to take a break or stay away for a little while." I sighed, turning my glass on the bar, condensation gliding against the smooth varnish. "Then again, I wouldn't want to make her feel like it was some kind of ultimatum, or a punishment. She needs to not feel obligated for once in her life."

"Shit, that sounds like break-up talk to me," he grunted, shifting in his seat and leaning an arm on the back of the chair. "You," he gestured, "are seriously invested in her. She couldn't 'ave missed it, not by a long-shot. She'd hafta be blind to not know what she was doin'."

"Does drunk and guilty count?"

"She'll come around, Vince." He nodded, as if to reassure himself. "She'll come around."

I frowned. "I don't want her to feel obligated," I repeated.

"No one's gonna make her," he said. "She's takin' time, ain't she? But I think... yeah. She's gonna come around. Maybe not right away—an' you should be prepared for that, 'cause you can't always be breathin' down her neck and knowin' who else is interested—but she'd have to be crazy to choose anyone else in the end, knowin' what she does about you."

"It doesn't matter, if she doesn't feel the same way."

"Bullshit," he said. "A woman doesn' just curl up next t'you for no reason. She doesn' spend all her free time with you, an' she certainly doesn' get hammered just so she can kiss ya. All that shit was on purpose, Valentine. She might be confused now, or even scared, but that doesn' change what I saw."

I didn't bother to ask him if he was sure about that, didn't have time to think about the countering, negative things to which I hadn't given enough thought and suddenly feared—Shera was already making her way back into the bar, having finished with the girl upstairs. Meanwhile, the wine from dinner and the water were getting the better of me, and I nodded to the two of them, amused as the petite woman resumed picking at the contents of the tin with the fork. "I'm going upstairs to use the washroom, and then I think I'm going to head home."

"All right," Shera said, offering Cid another bite of the food. He clamped his mouth shut and turned away, which earned him a snicker from his wife. "You know where it is."

I made my way up the stairs, the sounds of her teasing fading into the background. Past the children's room—they had their own bathroom which was connected to their living space—and past the den where Tifa and I had spent many a comfortable evening, was the topmost level of the house. This level had a very clean, very quiet sense of peace about it, despite more recent events. It reminded me of the calm after a storm. I did not go through Tifa's room, but instead went to the washroom reserved for guests.

The mirrors, though the children had their own, were framed by bright, squiggly scrawls and stick-up decorations—other than that, the room was neat and tidy, and even smelled pleasant. Marlene's name was proudly displayed in disjointed loops along one side of the glass, presumably in some sort of wash-off gel. On the other side, an algebraic formula.

Clever.

I finished quickly and washed up, and I was almost to the door leading down into the bar when I heard a small voice call out to me. I stepped over to the half-open doorway on my right, peering into the darkened room. Marlene was sitting up in bed, looking after me.

"Vincent?" she repeated.

"Yes...?"

I stepped into the room, careful not to make so much noise as Denzel was asleep—but then I saw his empty bed and remembered that he had begun sleeping upstairs. Marlene adjusted herself on the mattress, bringing her knees up underneath the blanket she had tucked around her. I took it as an invitation to sit on the edge of the bed, but remained standing for a moment.

"Aren't you tired?" I asked. It was reasonably late for a girl so young, but her eyes showed not even the slightest indication of weariness.

Marlene smiled and set her chin atop her knees. "I wanted to say goodnight. And thank you."

I nodded. "You're welcome." I then noticed that her hair was still up in those stiff curls, and I gestured with my hand. "Are you going to sleep with those in?"

"I like them," she said, smile widening. "Are you going to visit us at Cloud's?"

I did sit down then, knowing that the innocent question might turn into a complicated discussion. The small twin mattress protested my slow weight as I settled in. "...No, I don't think so. But I'll be here when you get back."

"Why not?" she asked, and I could see that she was slightly disappointed. She had chosen to focus on the 'no,' instead of what came after it; but she was used to being told 'maybe' and 'later' and 'we'll see'. Used to being let down.

"Well," I started, picking and choosing my words carefully, "I think that Cloud would like to have that time with you to himself." Then, feeling the need to justify that, I added, "After all, he doesn't get to see you very often, does he?"

Almost immediately, I wanted to take those words back. I hadn't meant to make it sound quite that way, but I was afraid I'd already taken that first step towards bad-mouthing him—and unintentionally, of all things—which I'd promised myself I wouldn't do. But Marlene only wrinkled her face in thought. "I guess."

Maybe this would be better, I thought. Marlene had missed out on a lot of her childhood—though she might be shuffled around some more, at least Cloud would make sure that all of his time spent with her would really count for something. And it wouldn't kill me to learn something about bartending, I found myself thinking. I could take over on a slow night, and Tifa could spend some quality time with the kids.

"Do you still have your cape?"

My mouth twitched at the quick change in subject, and at the object of its focus; of course, it hung down in the back and fastened at the shoulders. She would call it that, though the image of myself in a cape was amusing in a... disconcerting kind of way. "I do still have my cloak, yes."

"Why don't you wear it anymore?" Her eyebrows were raised so high, a child-like exaggeration. I smiled.

"Well, because I don't need it anymore. I did once, but I haven't in a long time."

Marlene smiled back, as if she'd stumbled across a secret. "Because you're done fighting?"

"Yes."

"So you don't need it anymore. Like a secret identity, right?"

I was ready to laugh it off, to reply back with something in the negative. But then—it was like that, wasn't it? "I suppose you could say that."

"How many people know the real you?"

"Hm... not many." And I returned the conspiratorial smile. My eyes wandered a little to the left, and they caught sight of the bottled flower sitting on the nightstand by the window. Like a shock, it hit me—the bottle was one of ours, something split between us months ago, before we'd decided not to drink in each other's presence.

"Vincent?"

I shook it away. "Are you ready to sleep now?"

"Yeah, I guess," she sighed. I got up from the bed and straightened myself. "Are you coming to my play?" she asked as she shifted around beneath the covers, trying to get comfortable.

"I am," I said. "Now try to get some rest."

"Okay. Hey, Vincent?"

"Mm." I was half-way to the door.

"You should take Tifa to a restaurant."

She was smiling unabashedly then, and I wondered if anything in my expression gave me away. Tifa and I went out to dinner all the time. "You think so?"

"Yeah, I think she'd like it."

One side of my mouth turned up. "I'll keep that in mind, then. Goodnight, Marlene."

"Goodnight, Vincent."

I left the door in the position in which I'd found it, and returned downstairs where I bid my goodbye to Cid and Shera. The old man gave me a clap on the back, and his wife hugged me—something she didn't normally do. Which meant they had been talking.

Minutes away from home, it began to rain. When I reached my complex and went to head upstairs to my apartment, I discovered that the elevator wasn't working, and so I had to exit the garage and walk around to the front of the building in the rain. Once inside, I found that the entire building was out of power. With nothing else to do, I locked my door, made for my bedroom, stripped down to my bare skin and slid beneath the bed-covers.

I didn't go to sleep for a long while. All I could do was think about Tifa. I wondered if she was out with Yuffie that evening, or if she was already curled up in her foreign hotel bedroom. I wondered if she was thinking about me, like she'd said she sometimes did—or if she was wondering about me thinking about her. Maybe she was trying to not think of me.

But this trip she'd taken, along with what Cid had said to me earlier, had made me realize that I couldn't always be there. It wasn't just my waiting game—Tifa was trying to figure herself out, and there were enough ways to do that which were completely out of my control. Just standing around, wondering who else might step in, could drive a man crazy, could make him stop eating and working and anything else useful. That sort of thing could turn a man obsessive where he had no right to be.

If someone else did step in—even if she never intended for it to become anything more than an occasional dinner, or a friendship much like the one we'd had before it had been blown wide open—all of my affections and attentions would fade into the background and become less important, because she would inevitably see less and less of me. And I realized, while I didn't want to make her uncomfortable or pressure her in any way... gods, to do nothing after what had passed between us might as well be a step backwards. I could still lose her, and not because of one earth-shattering decision built upon months of suspense, but rather very slowly. Very painfully.

And that friendship we'd had, I'd begun to realize when Cid had said, 'So it's like that... nothing more,' had been quite something. He didn't even know that half of it, and it took his understatement to bring it back to my full attention. It had grown slowly over time, but we were so very unlike simple friends—he'd been right, about Tifa's unashamed gesturing. Would I want to see her that close with someone else?

Of course not. But what more could I do? And it did feel like a break-up. Was this... how I had made Cloud feel?

I wanted her, more than anything. I wanted for her to come to me, to strip my senses bare and recolor every tiny thing in my world with the knowledge that it meant just that little bit more, that she wanted me, too. That she loved me—not just loved me, but in every way that I loved her—and nothing would ever be the same again, down to every shared breath.

Yes, I would fight for that. But Tifa already knew how I felt, where I stood. I could not make her choose me—and I had been patient for so many years that I had forgotten how to be the brash man I once was. Even if I rehashed my words, tried to better express them, none of that would matter if she found out that she didn't feel the same way. She wasn't yet mine—fighting for her now might as well be fighting against her, against the choice that she so deserved.

And though I wanted to believe that she would be mine—maybe not now, and maybe not for a long time, but someday—there really was nothing more to be done.