A/N: I'm back with more rules!! Finally, I know. I must admit that I've been in a total writing slump these past couple of months. But, it appears that my creativity is making a return, so that should be good news for you all. And I know it's a little early (a week to be precise), but this one is for all you mothers out there. Happy Mother's Day!

...This would also be the cue for you non-mothers out there to get something nice for your mother. Anyhow, enjoy and leave a little something por favor! (aka a review)

Disclaimer: Ahh...it's too difficult trying to think of original disclaimers all the time. Suffice to say that Final Fantasy 7 and all related merchandise belongs to Square Enix. Me? I own my ideas, which doesn't include the original concept so I guess I'm out of luck.

HOUSEHOLD RULES

Rule Number Five: A Mother's Hands are the Perpetual Black Hole for Garbage

There is something about a mother's pair of loving hands that beckons to all the bubble gum wrappers of the world, all the used tissues that are still slightly damp from the secretions a child produces when he or she is sick, all the empty plastic bags that—at one point in time—contained delectably greasy slices of fried potato, and all the rest of the random items that a child deems worthy of placing under his mother's security.

This is a universally acknowledged fact that is generally accepted with indifferent shrugs from most and apathetic sighs from others, but unfortunately for the Seventh Heaven's resident mother—namely a certain brunette by the name of Tifa Lockhart—it was a reality that crawled upon her with such stealth that would have put even the "Great Ninja Yuffie" to shame. Indeed, so great was the surreptitiousness of that minor detail that she had neither the time nor the composure to understand that this was a conventional aspect of motherhood.

Even now as she washed her hands free of the sticky, glucose substance that had smeared onto her hands from the plastic Popsicle wrapper thrust towards her by two hyper children intent on rushing outside to enjoy the afternoon heat, she couldn't help but wonder how everything had escalated quite so quickly.

She remembered quite clearly the day in which it all began. It was the day that Denzel, for the first time, had asked hastily, albeit rather shyly, if she could throw away his burger wrapper as he chased down Marlene for throwing a piece of straw wrapper in the mop of messiness that passed for his hair. Of course, at the time, Tifa had been far too amused to realize the implications of the simple little action of taking that single burger wrap. Then again, there is a very likely possibility that Tifa would have chosen to serve her family in this way even if she had foreseen the long line of rubbish that would soon find its way into her hands.

Regardless, it marked an alteration in the family dynamics of their less-than-typical family the moment she accepted that flimsy piece of paper as her responsibility to dispose. The transformation had begun slowly, gradually, but the rate of change quickly graduated from marginal to exponential in a matter of weeks.

The requests from the children addressed to their mother figure to throw out bits of this-and-that were initially few and long between. However, not long had passed before Tifa found herself instinctively carrying a small plastic grocery bag along with her so that she could consolidate all the garbage she received into one easily throw-away-able location.

Never before had she felt quite so old.

Nor did it help matters that, when she expelled this particular fear of looking far older than her actual age of twenty-four to her confidante—also known as her boyfriend—he simply shrugged and smiled that irritatingly attractive, goofy smile of his, yet offered no useful solution in the process.

It wasn't as if she minded being a living garbage disposal for the children. Okay, so maybe she did mind.

Yes, they were only kids, but at the very least they could have the common courtesy of asking before shoving their unwanted items at the poor bartender—never mind the fact that any courtesy they knew was taught by the aforementioned woman. Thus it was in a strange but not-quite-vicious cycle that she trapped herself, not wanting to be a breathing trash can, but also wanting so badly to be a true mother for them.

Oh yes, and the mind wreaks havoc once again!

With a sigh that denoted an emotion somewhere between annoyance and reluctant yielding, Tifa wiped her hands dry on a towel before staring at them thoughtfully. She took note of the rough calloused areas at the base of each finger and a frown developed on her face.

Turning her hands over, she rubbed the faint outline of a darkened streak on the back of her left hand, remembering with a wince the time that the poisonous edge of the Midgar Zolom's fangs had sliced through her gloves. It had been a particularly nasty injury although she had made light of it at the time. Later that day, however, Tifa had been forced to stop when Cloud found out that the poison had eaten away at much of the tissue, causing it to bubble and turn a sickly shade of green around the infected area. They had managed to clean out enough of the toxin that it would no longer deteriorate the flesh, but not enough to prevent a permanent scar from forming.

Tifa recalled with a faint smile that Cloud had been extraordinarily angry at her for withholding her injury while she had been equally at angry at Cloud for being angry at her for such a trivial matter. She realized now—though she hadn't understood it at the time—that he was simply concerned for her well-being.

The smile faded soon after, however, with another sigh.

The more she studied her hands, the less they looked like a set of hands that a mother would have. A mother's hands were supposed to be soft and warm, the embodiment of all that is comforting. They weren't supposed to be rough like hers, nor were they supposed to be covered in scars. They were supposed to be instruments of welcome, not of condemnation.

Her hands belonged to a warrior, not a mother.

She felt a pair of masculine arms slide around her waist, and she automatically leaned back to melt into the embrace.

"What are you thinking about?" His breath was warm against her neck, and she couldn't stop the slight giggle from erupting from her lips when his breathing displaced a lock of hair which, in turn, tickled her collarbone.

She didn't answer his query and instead posed one of her own. "Cloud, what were your mother's hands like?"

She could feel the furrow of his eyebrows against the side of her head. "Why?"

"Just tell me."

With a small shrug, Cloud obediently closed his eyes in pleasant nostalgia and his fingers instinctively began tracing her hands. "My mother…her hands were a direct reflection of who she was. They were gentle and soft most of the time, but man, did they sting when she wanted to get a point across. She had long nails, and they made her hands look so much bigger than mine. More than anything, though, I remember how her fingers would close tightly around mine whenever we went out to town, whenever we had to endure those stares of scorn. Well, at least, my mother had to. I was too young to really understand what was going on. My mother never married, you know, and the townspeople didn't really appreciate that."

Tifa turned in his arms and hugged him closely, a part of her regretting bringing up such a sensitive subject for the blue-eyed man, but a part of her also undeniably ecstatic that he would even tell her all that he had. "I'm sorry, Cloud."

He smiled into her hair and questioned, "So what's this all about anyway?"

She chewed her bottom lip as she tried to phrase her worry in a manner that seemed at least a little less irrational. "My mother had beautiful hands. She didn't really have long nails since she loved to play piano every now and then, but I remember noticing that they always seemed so well formed. Her hands were smooth and soft, but unrelentingly firm when the time called for it. I remember my father never dared to question her when she gave him that look." Her lips twitched upward at the corners. "They were a source of warmth when I was cold and a source of refreshment when it was hot. What do you think of when you see my hands, Cloud?"

He stared at her in confusion, but was cut off before he could completely gather his thoughts.

"I'll tell you what I think of. I think of hopeless battles and endless wars. I think of times when chaos reigned over peace. I think of sadness and pain. I think of hate and disappointment." She paused, her faint outline of a smile gone only to be replaced by a fervor fueled by perplexity. Her voice softened.

"I think…I think that my hands can never become those of a mother. I think that they are too scarred and worn and beaten to ever hold and care and love. When I look at them, I realize that I can't be there for them. I'm a fighter. I won't stop fighting because I can't. I don't know how. But, one of these days, I'm going to mess up and I'll die fighting, but not in the type of fight that I want to die in. And then that'll be it."

"Tifa…You're the best thing to have happened to any of us. I don't even know—no, I definitely know that I wouldn't—have even survived this long without you. Your hands are scarred, but so are mine. We all live with the battles of our past." He took her hands in his own. "The kids…they don't care what kind of battles your hands have seen. They see your love and they see your care and that's all that matters to them. That's all that matters to me. And maybe…maybe one of these days you will fight your last battle, but then the kids can be proud that you fought hard to the end. There's no such thing a stereotypical mother, Tifa. It's like you tell me all the time: you don't have to be perfect for them—for me—to love you. We're happy to take you as you are because that's so much more than what we deserve."

A steady stream of tears rolled unbidden down her cheeks as she nodded in understanding. They were a family, a family who would love unconditionally regardless of all circumstances.

"Tifa, Tifa!" The dual voices of the bartender's two charges pierced the silence and electrified it with energy. "Close your eyes. We have something for you."

An eyebrow rose in suspicion as she quickly wiped off all evidence of her tears. Cloud stood by in amusement. "It doesn't happen to be plastic and needs to be thrown out, now does it?"

Marlene giggled uncontrollably although Denzel looked slightly offended. "Of course not!" exclaimed the girl. She thrust a colorful picture frame towards her surrogate mother. "We made it in school today."

"Happy Mother's Day!" exclaimed the two children in tandem.

Tifa's heart melted as she took the frame in her blemished hands. Seashells of various sorts were glued to the frame in a manner that looked like two different people had taken the two sides—which is likely what really happened—and the workmanship was less then professional, but it still warmed her beyond words. What really stole her breath, however, was the hand-drawn portrait of their unconventional family that sat within the frame. They were little more than stick-figures, but they were all holding hands. A real family. It was all she had ever wanted.

"You like it, Tifa?" asked Marlene excitedly.

"I love it, Marlene. Thank you so much and thank you too, Denzel. It's gonna go up on my wall, okay?"

The children cheered in unison.

It was a beautiful moment and it is only natural that in such beautiful moments something should occur to bring it back to earth. In this case, that instance took place in the form of the boy named Denzel.

"Tifa, can you take this wrapper for me? The kids down the block are gonna go play kickball."

She smiled. So what if her hands were scarred? That made them all the better for throwing out the children's scraps. "Of course, Denzel. Have fun."

A/N: Hehe...I figure, we can't always have Cloud being the clueless one, now can we?