Summary: The case: Tifa cuts her hair because she's ready to move forward. The truth: Tifa cuts her hair because it's just too damn long.

Cloud/Tifa. PreAC. Also: You'll probably want to read Case of Tifa beforehand. The storytelling is a bit eh, but I'm basing a lot of this story off of bits in that. Also the Cloud/Tifa moments in it are precious.

I know the animators didn't want to animate Tifa's long-ass (literally) hair and that's why it's shorter, but I'd like to think there's always a story behind everything. So here.

Disclaimer: I don't own FF7.

Her mother once told her that girls who had their hearts broken would cut their hair bob-cut short, to symbolize a move forward from their painful, weeping past and from the loved one that left them in a dissolved mess of tears.

And she thought:

1. Geez.

2. That might be a little too emotional, even for her

3. …Does it have to be a broken heart?

Then some things happened today that made Tifa pause and think.

1. Barrett left on a journey to "settle his past"

2. When she looked at him flabbergasted because that's exactly what she had been muddling through this entire time, he told her bluntly "you can just do that here."

3. Marlene declared that they were all a family.

Family? She thinks to herself, idly twirling a shot glass between her fingers.

Family. It's a familiar tune in her head and she wants to clap her hands over her ears so it can ring with clarity family family family family. Soft notes on the edges but nothing but startling soprano-like clarity.

Barrett is gone, no longer there to make them laugh with bad bar names that sounded like monsters or to shout words of encouragement in his deep booming voice, but strangely, it's okay. Because family is here; family is in the musk of the bar, in the Corel wine.

Family is in in Marlene's idle crayon drawings; family is in his shy smile, and family is the thing that's going to carry them forward.

The future was once a monochromatic city plagued with resentment for the past, caution as to not get skewered by a rubble from Planet-vengeance, and foggy confusion about what it means to move on.

Now it's his adorable confusion and determination as he frowns at a list of vegetables and trudges out, uncertain as to what is what; her small form and pink bow curled up beneath the blankets in the night.

Take a step forward. It'll be alright.

She can say those words with the optimism she nearly lost.

(but she'll never lose it, because he'll be there to remind her, won't he?)

But moving on? It sounds so much easier than it actually is. Moving on meant sort out all of the hard feelings of the past; moving on meant facing the past and facing the past meant that sick feeling in her stomach. It was like a public speech event that she didn't want to deal with; it's the thing deep inside her closet that she stuffed in a corner of molding dust for a reason. It's burning buildings, the stench of blood , painful things that were the reason why she didn't want to go back and visit certain places.

It's the thing that she has been struggling to come to terms with for the past year.

But it's the thing that she's going to have to face, sooner or later.

The past was a promise spot engulfed in flames, her father skewered through the heart and into the ground—

—Tifa frowns. Really now.

Public speeches aren't actually all that bad. With the right practice, they can be a cinch. And molding dusty corners can be shooed away with the right broom.

"You can do that here," Barrett had told her flatly.

So she pushes the thought of blood and fire out of her head and:

— the delicacy of ivory keys-a canopy of stars and cold mountain air—a little turquoise dress—a quiet boy with eyes as blue as the daytime sky and conviction that churned the quite gears of childhood affection—

—there, she thinks.

That's much better.

The past was also once hot tears and hot anger at the thought of her body lying at the bottom of that cold, cold lake—wait. Tifa's frown deepens.

The image does her no justice.

How about:

— late night laughter with her about the things she never cherished as a girl because she spent those important teenage years screaming about her hometown and working for a rebel group—stubborn determination and outgoingness that she'll always envy—the flit of pink in the dirty sepia of the desert—

—Tifa smiles.

So much better.

She leans against her palm and lets her hair fall forward, laughing a little bit. It's one thing to move on.

It's another thing to completely let go of and pretend things never happened (because the pink ribbon is secure on her left arm).

Tifa's fingers pause in the loose threads of her hair (wait, what happened to the silky smoothness that the conditioner was supposed to guarantee) (…did she use Cloud's shampoo by accident?), and she realizes.

Her hair was getting long.

Very, very long.

The other day it got caught in between the tangle of dishes while she was washing it, and she thought two things:

1. How the hell does hair get stuck between dishes?

2. Scissors sound like a good thing.

But she didn't go ahead and chop off her long locks because a part of her clung on to it. Her mother had always kept it long, and she can almost imagine her mother patting her head fondly and telling her that she had beautiful hair.

That was also thirteen years ago, before it got swept up and started drowning in bloodstains and monsters, Midgar Zoloms and Nibel Dragons, small jealousy of her, insecure feelings about what a childhood promise really meant—

—and warm campfires with friends to laugh with, dimly lit bars with laughter and the smell of delicious food and drinks,

and a smile on his face as he told her he was ready for a new beginning.

The corner of her mouth turns upward into a tiny smile.

Her mother would probably still pat her on the head.

But damn dishes do not pat heads, and they shouldn't be grabbing on to her hair in soapsuds and leftover casserole. That's just too much (especially the sticky remains of food). So she stands up, grabs a pair of scissors, makes a left at the top of the stairs and into the bathroom (she glances at the shower stall and sighs. Looks like she did use Cloud's diluted shampoo by accident) (why does he dilute it anyways?) (she's going to have to ask him about that).

Fingers laced through the scissor handles, she sticks out her tongue in concentration as she looks into the mirror.

They say that mirrors were supposed to reveal the soul, who you really were, and she wouldn't lie and say she had never believed in that crap. Sometimes she believes in the spiritual and emotional powers of mirrors, but she knows that it just results in her getting over-emotional and in top-top head-hurting-over-thinking-form, but not right now.

Tifa doesn't see an eight year old girl falling down a howling cliff; she doesn't see a twenty-one year old woman kicking a snake in the jaw; she doesn't see her face in her hands in frustration when she heard that they went on a date.

It's just her and the scissors.

Fingers curl around the cold metal of the handle, and snip. Snip, snip, snip. It cuts through the air and long black locks fall to the ground.

Gone was the dolphin tail that hung sloppily at the back of her thighs because she was always too lazy and too clingy to the past to cut it.

…And present were haphazardly chopped edges of her hair that made her gawk. Good god.

They looked like chewed up spaghetti noodles or a two-year old's paper project.

(Scissors sounded like a good idea; a professional barber sounds like a great idea).

But her hair feels cleaner, hanging above the middle of her back.

And most of all, she thinks as she threads her fingers through her hair, so much lighter.

It's one thing to cut your hair ear-short out of mourning (why would she ever do that?).

It's another thing to trim the messy edges of a length that never had its uses.

She lets out a small giggle and picks up the hair on the floor. Maybe she'll throw them in the air and let it scatter in the wind. The image sounds pretty, but she has a feeling she'll look dumb doing it. So she drops them into the trashcan and a tiny figure in her brain salutes it farewell.

Good-bye, hair.

As Tifa brushes small strands off her arms, her pants, her shirt, she wonders:

Will…he notice?

She touches the edges of her hair and grimaces at the awkward fringes and messy clumps.

…Actually, maybe it's best if he doesn't. So she puts the scissors away and walks back downstairs to cook dinner.

There's a second bounce in her steps and she strangely feels like skipping. But skipping downstairs is physically awkward and skipping outside in the rain and heavy construction is a bad idea, so she does the next thing on her mind:

She hums.

-o-

He looks at her quizzically and she looks back, tilting her head to the side what's wrong? He tells her that the tune she hums sounds familiar, something that reminds him of home.

Home? She smiles at him. Nibelheim?

And he tells her, it sounds like a song she used to play on piano.

Her mouth makes an "o" in surprise, which prompts him to ask what's wrong? She shakes her head, laughing, surprised that he remembers something like that, because she remembers that her piano-playing was always inherently…awful. And it didn't help that she stopped for a long, long time after her mother died.

He gives her a tiny smile and tells her sheepishly, that he thought it was nice. Now it's her turn to be embarrassed, but she doesn't know why. That was years and years ago. She smiles back at him (their exchanges are always contests to see who can out-small-smile one another)

(she wouldn't have it any other way) and tells him thank you. He gets up, ready to head back upstairs and crash (he looked exhausted), but pauses and looks at her once more, his eyebrows furrowing in concentration.

Hm? And he's reaching out towards her hair, her heart skipping a beat or two (and she's wondering what on earth ; she's twenty-two years old—pitter-pattering hearts should not be happening to a twenty-two year old woman), as his fingers ever so lightly touch her hair.

Did you cut it? He asks.

She nods, telling him it was getting too long and that there was no need to keep it thigh-length anymore. He opens his mouth to say something, but closes it, a light pink settling over his cheeks, and she giggles. What's wrong?

Nothing, he says. He pulls his hand away. It's like…how you used to keep it.

Used to? When we were kids?

Yeah.

Is…that a bad thing?

He shakes his head. No, no no. I really liked it. I mean like. I like you. I mean I like your hair.

She's struggling not to laugh as he exhales low, looking up at her sheepishly. It looks nice, he says.

His face is a careful shade of red and now she's laughing (it's small moments like these that she has to remind herself that he's a year older than her (but she never doubts the strength in the form of his back as he fights, all sinewy muscles and crackling electricity in his eyes to protect them all).

Tifa reaches out and gives his hand a small squeeze, smiling earnestly at him. "Thanks, Cloud." He looks up and smiles back, and it's a small smile, one of those shy smiles that was so purely him (and his small happiness, his small joy, his tiny way of showing affection).

Her own face is still pink on the edges (she's happy, because:

1. He noticed

2. He liked it

3. He thought of a shared past

4. Him, him him )

as she watches him walk off and head upstairs.

Then, she remembers:

"Ah wait, Cloud!"

He turns around. "Huh?"

She puts her hands on her hips and looks at him in amusement.

"Why do you dilute shampoo?"

a/n: And so I thought: God, Tifa cutting her hair out of man-clinging heartbreak sounds like the dumbest thing.

So here's a small character-study-ish on Tifa moving on and also cutting her hair because hair getting tangled in leftover food is the last straw. Ever. Tifa's character is my favorite (and also hard to write).

Criticism is much appreciated. Thanks!