Shots & Stories (Final Fantasy VII, Tifa)
Jun. 8th, 2009 11:56 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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kinkfestTitle: Shots & Stories
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jessicamariek
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Prompt: Final Fantasy VII, Tifa/Patrons: the sympathetic bartender - “You tough guys / You’re feelin’ all alone / You rough guys / The best o’ you sailors and bums / All o’ my chums”
Word count: 1140
Summary: Just another night at Seventh - same parts, different players.
A/N: Many thanks to my awesome betapearlrose86. :)
It’s never the same, and it’s always the same. There’s always at least one who I know his whole story, there’s always at least one who’s telling me his for the first time. There’s almost always at least one Turk in here, drinking up my entire supply of the good whiskey, or when Elena’s in, the good vodka because she likes her screwdrivers, and always, always at least one kid trying to sneak past the age limit. Same parts, different players, I guess.
Old Mr. Damae is in here again tonight. It’s autumn again and he always gets sadder at this time of year – I think it’s been five years now since his wife passed on. Or is it six? He’s on his third gin and tonic, not bad for this time of night, but still. I hope he doesn’t get too far gone before he goes home; I always hate having to cut off the ones who are obviously only here to escape.
“Tifa,” he says sadly, “I ever tell you that my Aslyn had the same color hair as you do? All shiny and soft…she had it longer, though, like the way you used to.” He pauses to knock back the rest of his drink, and I smile a bit. Poor old man, he doesn’t deserve this…then again, I guess nobody deserves to be the one left behind.
“You’ve mentioned it a few times, Tomas,” I tell him. “But did she ever tell you just how hard it is to keep from getting caught on everything?” He nods and smiles at me, sad and wistful, but it’s a smile. I guess that’s a start.
Isaiah Forthe is on the other end of the bar, nursing an old-fashioned and staring out the window. I feel sorry for him, to be honest. His job is really all he has, his entire life – he has no family except a sister he never talks to, no wife, no kids, and as far as I can tell, no friends. He has his job as a plant supervisor, his duties to his company, and his usual seat at the end of my bar. After a few more drinks he’ll tell me about how he used to dream of being a musician, of playing his guitar for a living, and how he wishes he hadn’t given it up for a spot on an assembly line and a steady paycheck. He tells me about the girl he used to love, about how she left him for a man on a motorcycle who called her “Sugar,” and how he heard years later that she’d died in the Wutai wars. He tells me how he used to go camping with his buddies from school, how they would joke and laugh and get drunk and run into things. He talks about things long gone, but he never talks about his life right now, about the here and now. It’s like he’s living in the past, because he can’t stand his life in the present. I try to space him out enough that I don’t have to cut him off too early. I hate having to send him away from the only company and comfort he knows.
Sandrine is sitting in the corner, one hand on her rum-and-cola and the other twirling a strand of her hair. I’m not entirely sure how comfortable I am with her being here – she’s a sweet girl, but I don’t really want Seventh associated with her profession, especially since I have enough trouble with people thinking that I’m for sale as much as the drinks are. She looks up at me and smiles a little sadly. There’s nobody propositioning her tonight, and I can’t tell if she’s relieved or annoyed. I know she hates it, hates the job and the men and how her back and her feet hurt at the end of the night. But it was the only thing she could do after her mother died and her father kicked her out, she says, and now she doesn’t know how to do anything else. She’s told me that she used to dream of being a dancer, of whirling across the stage in silks and lace while the orchestra plays. I watch the way she moves when she walks, and I can almost see her in toe shoes and tulle instead of a tight shirt and ripped jeans. She could have been that dancer.
“Tiiiiiifaaaaaaa!” I know that voice – Reno, and from the sound of it he’s already half drunk. I have no idea why the Turks always come to MY bar instead of any of the dozen or so in Edge that are probably cheaper and involve less banter with the barkeep. Maybe they just want to stay on my good side, or rather, on Cloud’s. I’m still not sure if it works.
“Reno, lovely to see you, give my regards to the rest of the crew, now go away.” I’m smiling when I say it, and already getting his usual drink going – whiskey on the rocks with a shot of orange liqueur and a paper umbrella. Don’t ask me, I don’t make up the orders, I just take them.
“Tifa, you wound me, darling,” he says widely as he takes the glass from me. One of the old men at the bar laughs at that, a rusty sound from the years of drinking.
“Shonny, you’d better not let her young man hear you shay that. He’sh got quite the temper, I hear.” The old-timer takes a drink and gives Reno a look. Reno mutters something that sounds like “not afraid of nobody with that stupid a hairdo,” and I bop him on the back of the head.
“Reno, I can kick you out for any reason I want, you know.”
“You could, but you woooouldn’t.” Yep, he’s drunk alright. Okay, one drink and then he’s getting nothing but sodas from me tonight. “Besides, it’s not like I couldn’t take on ol’ Spiky anyway, ya know? Yeah, yeah,” he says to the old man, “I know, six feet of muscles and a protective streak a mile and a half wide, but he knows me, he almost likes me, I don’t think he’d kick my ass for being friendly…”
“Friendly’s one thing,” I tell him, “annoying is another. You’re straddling the line at the moment, Reno.”
“Well, guess I’ll just have to jump back onto the good side of it, then.” He takes the drink and raises it in a toast. “Here’s to the prettiest, smartest, and not to mention most dangerous, barkeep in town, long may she not throw me out for noticing said good qualities.” I can’t help but laugh as he knocks it back in one long gulp.
It’s always different, and it’s always the same, but at least it’s always interesting.
Author:
jessicamariek Fandom: Final Fantasy VII
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Prompt: Final Fantasy VII, Tifa/Patrons: the sympathetic bartender - “You tough guys / You’re feelin’ all alone / You rough guys / The best o’ you sailors and bums / All o’ my chums”
Word count: 1140
Summary: Just another night at Seventh - same parts, different players.
A/N: Many thanks to my awesome beta
pearlrose86. :) It’s never the same, and it’s always the same. There’s always at least one who I know his whole story, there’s always at least one who’s telling me his for the first time. There’s almost always at least one Turk in here, drinking up my entire supply of the good whiskey, or when Elena’s in, the good vodka because she likes her screwdrivers, and always, always at least one kid trying to sneak past the age limit. Same parts, different players, I guess.
Old Mr. Damae is in here again tonight. It’s autumn again and he always gets sadder at this time of year – I think it’s been five years now since his wife passed on. Or is it six? He’s on his third gin and tonic, not bad for this time of night, but still. I hope he doesn’t get too far gone before he goes home; I always hate having to cut off the ones who are obviously only here to escape.
“Tifa,” he says sadly, “I ever tell you that my Aslyn had the same color hair as you do? All shiny and soft…she had it longer, though, like the way you used to.” He pauses to knock back the rest of his drink, and I smile a bit. Poor old man, he doesn’t deserve this…then again, I guess nobody deserves to be the one left behind.
“You’ve mentioned it a few times, Tomas,” I tell him. “But did she ever tell you just how hard it is to keep from getting caught on everything?” He nods and smiles at me, sad and wistful, but it’s a smile. I guess that’s a start.
Isaiah Forthe is on the other end of the bar, nursing an old-fashioned and staring out the window. I feel sorry for him, to be honest. His job is really all he has, his entire life – he has no family except a sister he never talks to, no wife, no kids, and as far as I can tell, no friends. He has his job as a plant supervisor, his duties to his company, and his usual seat at the end of my bar. After a few more drinks he’ll tell me about how he used to dream of being a musician, of playing his guitar for a living, and how he wishes he hadn’t given it up for a spot on an assembly line and a steady paycheck. He tells me about the girl he used to love, about how she left him for a man on a motorcycle who called her “Sugar,” and how he heard years later that she’d died in the Wutai wars. He tells me how he used to go camping with his buddies from school, how they would joke and laugh and get drunk and run into things. He talks about things long gone, but he never talks about his life right now, about the here and now. It’s like he’s living in the past, because he can’t stand his life in the present. I try to space him out enough that I don’t have to cut him off too early. I hate having to send him away from the only company and comfort he knows.
Sandrine is sitting in the corner, one hand on her rum-and-cola and the other twirling a strand of her hair. I’m not entirely sure how comfortable I am with her being here – she’s a sweet girl, but I don’t really want Seventh associated with her profession, especially since I have enough trouble with people thinking that I’m for sale as much as the drinks are. She looks up at me and smiles a little sadly. There’s nobody propositioning her tonight, and I can’t tell if she’s relieved or annoyed. I know she hates it, hates the job and the men and how her back and her feet hurt at the end of the night. But it was the only thing she could do after her mother died and her father kicked her out, she says, and now she doesn’t know how to do anything else. She’s told me that she used to dream of being a dancer, of whirling across the stage in silks and lace while the orchestra plays. I watch the way she moves when she walks, and I can almost see her in toe shoes and tulle instead of a tight shirt and ripped jeans. She could have been that dancer.
“Tiiiiiifaaaaaaa!” I know that voice – Reno, and from the sound of it he’s already half drunk. I have no idea why the Turks always come to MY bar instead of any of the dozen or so in Edge that are probably cheaper and involve less banter with the barkeep. Maybe they just want to stay on my good side, or rather, on Cloud’s. I’m still not sure if it works.
“Reno, lovely to see you, give my regards to the rest of the crew, now go away.” I’m smiling when I say it, and already getting his usual drink going – whiskey on the rocks with a shot of orange liqueur and a paper umbrella. Don’t ask me, I don’t make up the orders, I just take them.
“Tifa, you wound me, darling,” he says widely as he takes the glass from me. One of the old men at the bar laughs at that, a rusty sound from the years of drinking.
“Shonny, you’d better not let her young man hear you shay that. He’sh got quite the temper, I hear.” The old-timer takes a drink and gives Reno a look. Reno mutters something that sounds like “not afraid of nobody with that stupid a hairdo,” and I bop him on the back of the head.
“Reno, I can kick you out for any reason I want, you know.”
“You could, but you woooouldn’t.” Yep, he’s drunk alright. Okay, one drink and then he’s getting nothing but sodas from me tonight. “Besides, it’s not like I couldn’t take on ol’ Spiky anyway, ya know? Yeah, yeah,” he says to the old man, “I know, six feet of muscles and a protective streak a mile and a half wide, but he knows me, he almost likes me, I don’t think he’d kick my ass for being friendly…”
“Friendly’s one thing,” I tell him, “annoying is another. You’re straddling the line at the moment, Reno.”
“Well, guess I’ll just have to jump back onto the good side of it, then.” He takes the drink and raises it in a toast. “Here’s to the prettiest, smartest, and not to mention most dangerous, barkeep in town, long may she not throw me out for noticing said good qualities.” I can’t help but laugh as he knocks it back in one long gulp.
It’s always different, and it’s always the same, but at least it’s always interesting.
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Date: 2009-06-09 02:56 pm (UTC)Wonderfully done!
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Date: 2009-06-11 07:15 am (UTC)Thanks!!
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Date: 2009-06-09 05:48 pm (UTC)But you probably could have guessed that, since cloti is so deep in my soul. ;)
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Date: 2009-06-11 07:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-06-09 10:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-06-11 07:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-06-12 01:33 am (UTC)