She watches in amusement as he withdraws from his elbows, averting his icy blue gaze from her just long enough to dip into his desk drawer and retrieve a bottle of whisky. She fights the urge to make a quip about its quality and the beer she spent her hard-earned cash on. Of course, he has an alcohol supply tucked away in here; that doesn’t surprise her at all, but it doesn’t stop her from quirking a brow at the generous measurement he pours himself in the seconds that follow. Her lips curve into a smile, equal parts amused and concerned, like she doesn’t regularly pour him enough alcohol to sedate a horse or kill a man. As if he doesn’t regularly swing by her rundown little business between jobs, claiming the pool table and a bottle of her best mid-tier whisky. She’s much too prideful to admit it, but his presence on the slightly rowdier evenings brings her a great deal of comfort.
The saccharine smile on her lips stretches wider in response to the sound of his voice. Her small frame relaxes back into the seat, regarding him in amusement as she nibbles at her slice. “You think I’m sweet, huh?” Her head quirks a little to the left, voice and eyes full of mirth. She’s teasing him, that much is apparent, only because she knows he can hold his own and give just as good back. This is just how they are; they poke and prod at each other, a little distant and a little guarded, but eager to gain a reaction. There’s been some kind of imaginary wedge between them since that evening Dante cornered her in the alleyway, sword raised, eyes wild, every bit the infamous demon hunter she’d come to learn about. She still remembers the way those wild eyes softened in horror at the terror reflected in her own, with the realisation she wasn’t the creature he had expected. His face bore more expression that evening than she’s seen on him since. She’d later learn he made quick work of the man who ordered her attack, and she made sure to thank him, but that evening in the alleyway continues to ensure they keep each other at arm's length— is it him, is it her, she isn’t sure.
“Maybe you just don’t know me as well as you think you do,” she chimes, punctuated by another bite of her pizza and a quirk of her brow, and perhaps there’s a sliver of seriousness there, “maybe this has been my plan all along.” All the while, her eyes trail him, watching the way he rises from his seat and takes an idle sip from his glass. Her eyes, large and bright, betray her entirely. Tifa, for all her faults, is kind and sweet; she wears her heart on her sleeve and her softness on her face. She’s good-natured, much too good for a city like the one she’s found herself in, Morrison often comments. To which she usually offers tight-lipped smiles and girlish laughs, because she can’t bring herself to tell them of the horrors of Nibelheim, Midgard, and the demons she’s running from.
His next question is so raw and genuine that it catches her off guard, because their conversations rarely move beyond the realm of pleasantries and playful teasing. She’s torn between being truthful and being guarded, but opts for the latter, lest she bare her soul to him. If she answered truthfully, she’d say life is incredibly difficult in a city that’s so foreign to her, that the loneliness eats away at her sometimes until there’s nothing left. Instead, she cocks her head and smiles, pretty and performative. “I suppose business at the bar could be a little better, but I make enough to keep the lights on. Having a side gig helps, I can’t really complain,” she shrugs, hesitantly followed by, “and how’s things been on your end?” It feels silly and unnatural to ask a man as well-guarded as Dante, a man she realises she knows next to nothing about, how he’s been recently.
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timeasmymeasure
Re: Since that shop is getting destroyed every 2-3 months at least
Date: 2025-04-16 11:49 pm (UTC)The saccharine smile on her lips stretches wider in response to the sound of his voice. Her small frame relaxes back into the seat, regarding him in amusement as she nibbles at her slice. “You think I’m sweet, huh?” Her head quirks a little to the left, voice and eyes full of mirth. She’s teasing him, that much is apparent, only because she knows he can hold his own and give just as good back. This is just how they are; they poke and prod at each other, a little distant and a little guarded, but eager to gain a reaction. There’s been some kind of imaginary wedge between them since that evening Dante cornered her in the alleyway, sword raised, eyes wild, every bit the infamous demon hunter she’d come to learn about. She still remembers the way those wild eyes softened in horror at the terror reflected in her own, with the realisation she wasn’t the creature he had expected. His face bore more expression that evening than she’s seen on him since. She’d later learn he made quick work of the man who ordered her attack, and she made sure to thank him, but that evening in the alleyway continues to ensure they keep each other at arm's length— is it him, is it her, she isn’t sure.
“Maybe you just don’t know me as well as you think you do,” she chimes, punctuated by another bite of her pizza and a quirk of her brow, and perhaps there’s a sliver of seriousness there, “maybe this has been my plan all along.” All the while, her eyes trail him, watching the way he rises from his seat and takes an idle sip from his glass. Her eyes, large and bright, betray her entirely. Tifa, for all her faults, is kind and sweet; she wears her heart on her sleeve and her softness on her face. She’s good-natured, much too good for a city like the one she’s found herself in, Morrison often comments. To which she usually offers tight-lipped smiles and girlish laughs, because she can’t bring herself to tell them of the horrors of Nibelheim, Midgard, and the demons she’s running from.
His next question is so raw and genuine that it catches her off guard, because their conversations rarely move beyond the realm of pleasantries and playful teasing. She’s torn between being truthful and being guarded, but opts for the latter, lest she bare her soul to him. If she answered truthfully, she’d say life is incredibly difficult in a city that’s so foreign to her, that the loneliness eats away at her sometimes until there’s nothing left. Instead, she cocks her head and smiles, pretty and performative. “I suppose business at the bar could be a little better, but I make enough to keep the lights on. Having a side gig helps, I can’t really complain,” she shrugs, hesitantly followed by, “and how’s things been on your end?” It feels silly and unnatural to ask a man as well-guarded as Dante, a man she realises she knows next to nothing about, how he’s been recently.