A/N: Many thanks to my beta, Novocain, and to those who have reviewed. Your support really makes a difference.

Chapter 5

i. they're hungry

ii. iceberg

If things were to be done right, Tifa's bar would have to be taken down and built again to accommodate my needs. The stairs would be the first to go, followed by all unnecessary furniture that makes rotating a cool vehicle like mine a pain in the behind. There would be a big Christmas tree all year long and a room for live-in, exotic masseurs. This, as I was told, was not possible. There seems to be a scandalously sparse concentration of exotic masseurs here in comparison to Costa Del Sol. It's a real pity.

My personal quarters consisted of a duvet with a straw mattress, a lot of booze, and many cushions in the corners of the room, which had no use whatsoever. But they were colorful, so I didn't mind their presence. This old, tacky matchbox was the bar's storage room, where they kept – guess – the booze. That's right. I was in Alcoholic Heaven. To be perfectly precise here, it'd be considered a wee closer to Alcoholic Hell if I were a real alcoholic, because the bottles were out of reach. It would be like perpetually hanging mid-air from the ceiling of a room with a floor made entirely out of melted milk chocolate. Thank Leviathan I'm not an alcoholic and the floor wasn't made of chocolate, or I'd be begging to lick the soles of everyone's shoes. And then I'd be begging for a tongue transplant. But enough of that.

It was decided that I'd sleep there during my stay at the bar because, apart from the three steps at the front door, which couldn't be avoided, there were no extra stairs involved. The storage room was to the left of the bar, so Tifa could easily keep an eye on me in between taking orders, preparing drinks, serving said drinks, and breaking up drunken brawls. Ah, the glamorous life of a bartender, where you have to sport a new outfit everyday because last night's still has vomit chunks and other stains of dubious origins on it.

Vincent did, in fact, stick close by, even though it wasn't necessary. He occupied his usual room on the second floor, an isolated little thing with a grandma wallpaper that only the likes of him would pick. I mean, what is wrong with him? Grandma wallpapers can only be tolerated, let alone appreciated, by grandpas, and that is because they are emotionally attached to them. The dude's seriously not cool. He's like a depressed dinosaur with a big gun. Yeah. He is a Moodysaurus.

The first day I got there, I was feeling a strange flutter in my chest, and I realized that I had been longing to return to a familiar place. I wouldn't go so far as to call it home, but it was close enough, what with the thick, dark wood everywhere and all the memories. It was a short trip down Memory Lane.

“Hey, Vince, look! Remember the carpet I helped Marlene destroy with watercolors once? This is where it used to be.”

“You must be very proud.”

“I am, in fact. Thank you. Turn right. I want to see the table with Cid's penis drawing on it.”

“We already went there. Twice.”

“And we'll go once more. Come on, Vince, let's go faster. Unleash the power of those horses. Neigh! Neigh!”

And so that morning went by blissfully. Since there was no closet in the storage room, my clothes were hung in one of the closets upstairs, and we agreed that Tifa would consult with me before picking one every morning. By four in the afternoon, I was growing tired of watching everyone come and go, carrying around suitcases, bar supplies, groceries, children, and chocobos. I was stranded in front of a TV I had no interest in watching for once.

I didn't know what I wanted to do. I was still too numb to properly move my arms, even though I had been steadily regaining feeling and minor movement in my fingers and wrists. The doctors had said that I would probably be able to sufficiently move my hands again, if all went according to plan. I would be able to write, probably, and perhaps move my hands on my lap, but there was no guarantee I would lift them again. I was on strong medication, and I had regular sessions with a physiotherapist scheduled in the near future. But, I was numb. And worst of all, the itch was back.

The itch - now that's a bad thing. It's one of the bad things you don't even want to think about because you're afraid it might get to you. Truth be told, it's nothing fancy. Just an unsettling sensation somewhere in your gut – like when you're bored and everything is sort of hazy in your head, and you want to do something but don't have the energy to. It keeps nagging at you – do me, do me, do me, like a Midgar whore – but you can't. And it would be fine if you knew why, but you don't. And that's what drives you crazy.

That's what I mean when I say the itch.

I had my eyes shut, doing my best to ignore it, when I felt wool graze my cheek. I opened my eyes in time to see a small hand appear on my armrest.

“Tifa said I should come over and ask you if you need anything,” the little girl said sincerely.

“I'm fine, Marles. Tell Tifa not to worry. Whatever could I possibly need? I have an entire TV at my disposal. I couldn't be happier.”

Marlene's pointy ponytail bounced up and down as she nodded in agreement. I felt instantly bad for saying such a thing to a person who couldn't even spell sarcasm yet, let alone understand it. I started wondering if I'd ever been like this before. I couldn't remember. However, something didn't feel right, a bit like the itch – but no, this was more poignant. I knew what it was about. Evolution was taking me down a slippery path. I'm a new person every second of my life, like a mutant shape-and-mind shifter, like everyone else, and I didn't like last second's person. I'm like a five-foot-something whirligig. All it takes is a strong wind, and I can't stop spinning. Not only that, but I can no longer tell my tips apart, and I'm not sure I can spin at a controllable speed. I might never be able to define my parts, what makes me me, as long as the wind blows. And that's a scary thought.

I vowed to make a conscious effort to change a little something. It'd have to be little, of course, because the thing that triggered this was little as well, smaller than a kid leprechaun, and I can only afford to give as much as I take. Or I can pretend to stand by my principle while I can only take, take, take and give nothing in return.

Next second's Yuffie wouldn't be a grumpy bitch. And then maybe I could like her again.

And then maybe the world could like her again.

“Are you crying, Auntie?”

I let out a short, bark-like laugh.

“Of course not. I'm too perfect to cry. But call me Auntie again and you'll cry.”

“Oh.” Marlene's grins were shy and sweet. She'd be legendary jail bait in half a decade, almost as good as me.

“Why are you staring at the tequila bottle like that?”

“I don't like blinking.”

Marlene bit her lip.

“Do - ” She hesitated. “Do you want me to wipe that for you, Auntie?”

I swallowed.

“Yes.” She stood on her toes and stretched toward me. Her thumb was tender and a little sticky on my cheek. I briefly wondered about hygiene and substances usually associated with kids, but I didn't really mind.

“That too?”

“Yes. And what did I say about you calling me Auntie, you horrible brat?”

She giggled. I snorted. She laughed, and then I laughed. We laughed together and she hugged me, and there were a few more thats on my cheeks, but this time, she didn't ask before wiping them again.

. ... .

I got a taste of the troubles lying ahead that very same night.

It was partly my fault. I had insisted that I wouldn't need 'surveillance' during sleep. Even if I wanted a glass of water or to use the bathroom, I had a PHS in my palm with a finger on Tifa's speed dial. Other than that, it was just sleep. I've always slept like a log.

Surprisingly, it was Vincent who was opposed to the idea. He pointed out that when I was at the clinic, the nurse used to wake me up at three in the morning to give me the painkillers that allowed me to sleep unperturbed. This was, of course, true. Still, I had faith in those painkillers. I believed in them and their ability to knock me out throughout the entire night even if I took them before midnight. Vincent didn't share my sentiments. He was forced into submission when I threw the let's-just-try-it-out-this-once-please card at him, but he still made a stiff face during dinner, which almost insulted Tifa because she mistook it for an indirect insult at her chicken fillet.

At eleven thirty sharp, I bid everyone goodnight (“And be good! Your room is directly above mine.” - after the kids were gone) and beckoned Vincent to lift me. Being able to fearlessly order him about my person was a source of endless amusement and satisfaction. I was planning on testing our impromptu arrangement's limits eventually.

Did I just use adult language? Did I just use adult language? I've been hanging around him too much. Oh Leviathan. What if it sticks? Blueberries, materia, monkey balls! Cake! Kwel! Bling! Monkey balls!

Phew.

Okay, back to what I was saying. Vincent picked me up with minimal effort (“Thank you, thank you, yes, I'm naturally thin. I've always been like this. Oh Miss Judge, is that a new shade of blush or are you going green with envy?”) and carried me to the duvet. Up close, his cloak looked like a homeless person's spare blanket. Flyaway threads were tickling my nose. It smelled of Vincent, a bit like wet soil – totally a euphemism for mud – and someone's old eau de toilette.

“When was the last time you washed this thing?” I asked as he positioned me on the mattress, butt first.

He didn't need to look at it. Instead, he pulled down my legs and moved my torso a little to the left, so that my neck was positioned nicely on the pillow. I was already in my pajamas. I had asked Tifa to help me change into something more comfortable before dinner.

“I don't remember.”

“You should work on that reply a little. It makes people think you're gross.”

“People?”

“Okay, it makes me think you're gross.”

A spot somewhere near his cheek and mouth twitched. I found myself wondering if he had dimples and then wondering how ridiculous he'd look if he really had dimples.

“Can't be helped,” he said.

“Oh?” I lifted an eyebrow. “So you don't care what I think?”

“Should I?” he asked while smoothing the covers over me.

“Hell yeah! If I say you're gross, you should give a damn. A big damn. Like, like – thiiiiiiis big. Imagine that was something ultra big. Hey, when was the last time you bathed?”

“I... don't remember?” he offered.

“You're shitting me.”

There it was, that twitch again.

“Sleep,” he said simply, a tall figure with a silly headband making two black curtains out of his hair, towering over my bed. What an odd man.

“Smile.”

He looked at me inquisitively, and I could tell that he was getting tired of this.

“Fine, don't smile. I know about your dimples anyway. Your secret is perfectly not safe with me.”

“Goodnight, Yuffie,” was all he said, and then he left the room.

I looked at the ceiling. If my inner clock was right, Tifa and Cloud would be lying in bed now. I hoped they'd feel my burning gaze on their back and take my advice to stay good. I didn't want to be showered in debris. I mean, come on... mako enhanced. Wink wink, nudge nudge. You have to be mentally prepared for everything. I prayed that Tifa's vagina would hold. Imagine waking up one day to find your severed uterus between the sheets. It'd be hilarious.

As I was thinking these happy thoughts, I waited for sleep to take over, sleep that didn't come easily but easily went. It felt like only a moment had gone by in limbo when I awoke again.

My mouth was in desperate need of something fresh and wet. My back hurt. My left foot was itchy. I was annoyed. And the PHS had slipped out of my hand.

Is that your dream wake up call or what?

I tried to remember happy thoughts, like Tifa's severed uterus, but I was running out of patience. In a pitch black storage room with a stupid little green light from the stupid Mosquito Killer, it was a different world. A magical world. And I was quickly turning into a witch.

It's hard to describe what's so unbearable about being a little too uncomfortable, alone, and unable to do something about it in the middle of the night. There are no distractions. No people to make fun of, no decorative patterns to study, nothing but the thoughts. I hate the thoughts. They disturb the balance; they break the silence.

Even now, they haunt me.

The thoughts make me feel like a helpless child, and before I know it they have turned into big, shadowy monsters. Children are terrified of monsters, and the monsters know it, so they feed off of that fear like giant leeches.

I was panting, whimpering, mumbling to myself. I was sitting on the tip of the iceberg, trying to submerge it in water, quickly, so that it wasn't there anymore in a way you could see, but that's a little impossible, huh? Panic and pain merged into strong fits of desperation. I huffed and screeched silently like a drowning cat.

I thought I saw someone step into the room. The monsters. They had come to get me. I sobbed.

Vincent's hand found its way to my forehead, and the sudden weight on my head stopped me from thrashing - weakly at that, like a pathetic excuse of a girl. My dreams were ribbons, torn ribbons of some unknown rich fabric that some smiling, fat clown was munching before my eyes. His eyes full of malice, his mouth a black hole with rotten teeth, swallowing my ribbons, swallowing my dreams...

I was in someone's arms.

He was silent. There was a glass of water in his hand, now half-spilled.

“I thought you might get thirsty.”

I gulped. As he held the glass up to my lips and I felt cool water slide down my throat, a stray sob echoed from somewhere deep in my chest.

I glanced at Vincent and found eyes that spoke of many years, long years that his ageless face could never betray. He got us both up and placed me on the bed again, changing my position so that my aching limbs would rest.

“Try to sleep again. I'll be over there.” He pointed at the stack of cushions in the corner.

“Don't you need to sleep too?” My voice was raw, like the scratch marks from the monsters.

He plopped down with the tiniest of sounds.

“I don't need more sleep than I've already had. Rest.”

He didn't wipe my tears. But it was okay.

As I tried to let my matted eyelashes lull me back to sleep, I couldn't help but notice the dark, unmoving shadow not too far away. I thought I saw it smile at me, a malicious grin, wet ribbons hanging from its open mouth.

But it was okay. It didn't have dimples.