The -- new -- Seventh Heaven is a bit larger than the old establishment, not that Vincent would know. It's been cleaned up since its erection, sawdust having been swept from the floors and the walls of the upstairs rooms painted in a sort of dark adobe colour that creates a warm atmosphere. The bar downstairs is different shades of slate and lacquered black.
When they land, they land in the center of the main upstairs hallway. The floors have been stripped of carpeting, the hardwood polished to a well-trodden lack of sheen that suggests many little feet have worn its luster down over the last few months. There are two rooms and a bathroom up here. It smells earthy; woodstoves, cooking spices and line-dried linen.
"We can put you up in my room," she says, subconsciously positioning herself to reach out and catch him if he topples over. "It's this one..."
Vincent nods, following her.
((Is the straightjacket off?))
((That's up to you.))
She leads Vincent into the room directly to their right. It's pretty large for a room in Edge City, about the size of a normal house's living room. Its area is mostly occupied by a large bed covered with a patch-shift quilt, a small electronic keyboard, and a mismatched clothes dresser, tucked in a far corner. There's a mirror hung on the wall, exactly opposite of the bed.
She sits on the bed and gestures for him to do the same; she's looking at what remains of the straitjacket with concerned determination, like she's puzzling how to undo it before he even sits down.
He sits silently, wondering what she's going to say. This place is a lot more comfortable than the place Verdot had put him into...
((I'm gonna say it's still on?))
Instead of saying anything, Tifa's previous expression turns out to certainly explain her agenda. She scoots forward, pulling and prying at the metal locks and buckles with her long fingers, a look of stubborn determination on her face.
After a few long minutes (and a few broken nails later), she gets them all undone. There's a canvas strap binding his forearms together, but she simply grabs it and rips it down the middle. Freedom.
He tenses, but once he realizes what she's doing, he relaxes slightly. Once she tears him free, he gently rolls his arms around, still silent, but for a "Thank you." He doesn't really want to look at her, right now.
She collects the discards garment, locks and buckles still jingling in the silence. She's quiet for a moment, not sure what to say, muted by her own sympathy and a strange brand of guilt.
"...I'll go throw this away." She gets up. The best cure for this kind of thing, to Tifa's mind, is activity; activity that nurtures another person is a step up. "You must be hungry. Would you like some dinner?"
"No." He might verbally refuse-- he distrusts everyone, right now-- but his stomach growling betrays him. His mun wants him to eat.
Tifa is quiet again, and then nods.
"Okay. I'm going to make us something... when you get hungry later, I can re-heat your portion for you."
She departs the room. Of course, the plan is to make enough for both of them and hope the smell lures him down -- hey, if it works on kids, it might work on... bigger kids.
He nods. After a few moments, he follows her downstairs. She hadn't called Verdot or the rest of AVALANCHE, yet. He was at once relieved and distrusting. He wanted to see what she was making, too...
Might be in and out, I'm having mighty hardware problems. :())
Tifa doesn't seem nearly as hung up on the particulars of the situation as Vincent is - with good reason.
When Vincent comes downstairs, she's emptying cans of vegetables into a large stainless steel crockpot that's been set on to boil over a red burner. Looks and smells like she's making soup of some kind.
She tries to act surprised when she sees him follow, and gestures to one of the wooden tables in the bar's dining room.
"Do you want something to drink?"
Mothering Experience: 1, Everything Else: 0.
((Sorry. I hope it gets better.))
He's silent a moment, before shaking his head. He sits at the indicated table.
((Thanks! I think I've got gremlins.))
It takes her about twenty minutes to stew it up. Soon enough, she brings over a tray with two bowls, two glasses of wine and a plate of bread. It's an obvious effort to "break out the fine china" for a friend, be it so humble, but it smells really good and hey... it's food.
She sets the dishes down and seats herself opposite of him, then leans the empty tray against a vacant side of the table.
"I hope it's okay. There's more if you're still hungry."
He looks over the food, waiting for her to eat, first. It looks really good...
And so she does, reaching for a piece of bread and dipping it in the soup. She blows on it, then takes a bite. Seems it's still a little hot.
After a few moments, she finally says,
"I... I know we're not really as close as some of the others, but... if you want to talk about what happened, I'm here."
Not that it was bloody likely, but you have to make an effort in these things.
He turns away slightly to eat.
There was a long pause. "How much do you know?"
Tifa's chewing slows. She's either stalling, or is trying to recollect something.
"Most of the story about the WRO," she says, quietly. "Not much other than that."
He nods, not answering.
((Sorry for the delay-- school stuff as well as I'm ill...))
((Sorry! Lost track of your notifications in my e-mail...))
She's quiet as long as he is. She's a master of vaguely-uncomfortable silences, having to deal with Cloud as much as she does.
She does seem to be enjoying her dinner, though!
Vincent returns to his meal, silently. He won't let Tifa see him eat though, turning away to do so, instead.