Hey, back with another random one-shot. This time it's about cleaning. Not really a CloTi, but take it as you will.
There she stood, drenched and disgruntled. There he stood, dry and pokerfaced. She'd chance a nonchalant peek at that stoic face as she wrung her hair out, fingers raking through knots and tangles. As per usual, those eyes of fierce blue glimpsed only indifference; a veneer of boredom that perhaps hinted at wishing to be elsewhere.
With no more than a soft sigh she'd make her way across the aging floorboards, tracking notable amounts of mud and filth. Those generally clean leathers gracing her physique were smeared with dirt and grime, her usual bleach-white undershirt fairing little better. And still he stood by the doorway, annoyingly meticulous hair seeming to mock her disheveled tresses.
Without a word she snatched a mop from the closet by the bar, holding it beneath the faucet to clear it of whatever dust may have built up. It had not been used for quite some time, judging by the murky water running off the rough fibers. With a nod of approval she'd fetch a bucket, bottle of detergent, and slippers from the back room. Still he stood, aloof and off in his own little world.
A sopping smack resounded through the quiet of the room as she began scrupulously scouring the faded wood flooring. The grunge of a long day was washed away with each pass of the mop, the bucket's soapy water slowly turning an unappealing brown. She'd catch him scratch his nose from the corner of her eye.
After what seemed like hours she'd stop, hand to her hip as she surveyed the room. Satisfied, she'd tuck the supplies away, ridding herself of the clouded water down the drain. With a dusting of the hands she'd nod appreciatively, sauntering up the stairs to liberate herself of that filthy clothing and perhaps pickle herself in a hot bath.
The sun had begun to set when she made her way back down to the bar in anticipation of another night of rowdy patrons and drunken idiots. She cursed softly as the zipper of her vest fought fumbling fingers, catching in a bit of loose threading. When she'd look up, she'd find herself dumbfounded.
A path of muddy footprints tracked across the room to his spot at the bar, the same glazed-over expression plastered on that ridiculously handsome face. An empty glass was set before folded arms, the culprits of the once again filthy floor perched against the bottom rail of the bar.
To compare her to a steam engine as she made her way toward him would be quite accurate. Though as she stopped before him she calmed, gathering up her anger in an explosive facade of concern. She'd express her inquiry as to his silence, her only response, well..more silence.
And there it was. The crescendo to her frustration. The climax. The breaking of the dam.
A hand raised, and..
Those blonde locks barely moved as his head jerked forward, eyes widening for a moment before he'd turn to her, expression resembling that of a deer in the headlights. Chocolate orbs met twin rivers, and all was silent.
Was this a movie, we'd be greeted with a black screen as the faint sounds of shuffling were heard. The scene would blossom once more, revealing a clean shoe tapping before a furiously worked mop. The once-great SOLDIER was reduced to a house-maid on a whim. The definition of whim being, of course, pulling hair and shouting.
And so it was, another strange evening lingered over the heads of Tifa Lockhart and Cloud Strife.