Disclaimer: The characters are not mine. Thank you, Square Enix.

AN: So, another quick something I pieced together, set post-ACC. I'm not trying to mold a universe, here, just want to get it out of my head.

"I suppose we're no good at facing the memories. We'd rather gild the past…find something worthwhile among the rubble and build something with that."-Rufus Shinra

Normal

Back to normal, again. Whatever normal was. She fought to define everything nowadays. It made breathing, existing, a little easier. Maybe not.

Normal was raucous nights, but not for her, always someone else. Lost in smoke, and booze, and breathy come-ons carried on the stale stench of cheap whiskey.

Normal was remembering why she put up with having to wipe away some drunken slob's spit between emptying overflowing ashtrays and clearing dirty dishes. Behind closed lids she sees peaceful sleeping faces, a boy and a girl. Vicarious wishes she hopes come true.

Hope: n., a feeling of expectation and desire for a certain thing to happen.

She didn't know where it came from, but there it was. She held to it with all her might, and she was so very strong. Perhaps not as strong as some people thought she was, but she didn't let on. She had too much to risk.

Normal was laundry, and scrubbing floors, and making beds, kissing boo-boos, telling nighttime stories, knowing where everything was and reminding everyone of what needed to be done, and when.

Normal was monotonous, and welcome, and needed…

…and lonely.

Normal was clutching so very tightly to wisps of memories from another life, under the stars, in a mountain town, making promises that were supposed to be innocent and so very easy to keep because she'd never really be in that sort of pinch, right?

Normal was keeping this all to herself.

"Marlene needs a new lovey, I think."

Normal is starting every conversation with another adult using the children as the main topic.

She hears him pause in his ministrations behind her before his solid footfalls…one, two-

She spins to show him what she means before he can come closer. Stuffing erupts from the seams at the arm and along the back, one button-eye hangs precariously by a thread.

He leans in, one bare hand reaching out to finger a loose thread.

Normal is fighting not to stare too long or too hard when he was near. Normal is willing him not to notice the hitch in her breathing when his eyes met hers instead of the floor.

"Defeats the purpose, doesn't it?"

Normal is to not be surprised when he actually says something back. Because that's what normal people do when they have a conversation.

Normal is a poker face, without ever playing poker. "Oh?" Her voice couldn't have sounded any more distracted as she let him have the stuffed toy for closer perusal, turning to gather more laundry from the dryer.

Normal is desperation sheathed in nonchalance. She kept her back to him as she held up a t-shirt, folding it deftly as her teeth worried her bottom lip, counting the seconds until he spoke again. God, please let him speak again.

She hears him moving again, and sneaks a peek over her shoulder as she bends to fetch another garment. He's leaning against the countertop at the back of the bar, cradling the doll gently, turning it this way, then that. "It's an easy fix. She won't want another." He places the doll on the bar top and asks casually, "You have a kit?"

She smiles, a practiced one, the one she saves for him that tells him she's okay with this (laundry and cleaning and mothering and normal), and answers with a question. "A first aid kit?"

"No," he answers, almost too seriously, brow pensive, "a sewing kit."

Normal is being pleasantly surprised, not shocked into silence. Normal is a yes or a no. She can't conjure it.

"What?" He's on the defensive now. Her knee jerk is a quick shrug and a toss of her head before turning back to the task at hand.

Normal is a lot of unbearable silence. She wonders if he can feel it.

"I thought you'd…" His voice trails off, and she stops, but only for a second.

Normal is silently recording every word said for future reference. Finish it, for once, and she's not sure if she's said that out loud, is hoping she hasn't, but then-

"You…yours was a chocobo. White. Well, once white. I think your dad got that doll, you remember the one? With blue eyes? I think he got it just so he'd have a reason to throw the other away."

Her back is ramrod straight, and she forgets normal, her wide eyes catching the ghost of a smile as he retells this memory, the laundry forgotten. She's afraid to move, afraid to break this spell. She tells herself if he doesn't talk again for a month, six months, those few sentences will be enough to last her for a thousand nights up to her elbows in dirty dishwater. He glances up then, and for one brilliant shining moment they are both eight years old again in Nibelheim.

He breaks away first, but she remains motionless, arms limp at her sides as he slowly walks his way back to her, and she thinks how silly they must both look-she in black leather, he in riding gear and the hodge-podge mix of ex-SOLDIER regalia-surrounded by laundry against the bland backdrop of an empty bar. She's not aware that her eyes have moved to his mouth when he speaks, and they quickly dart up to meet his, only to find his gaze fixed to the floor. "I'll pick up a kit between deliveries today. Leave it on my desk, and I'll have it ready before bedtime."

Normal, she tells herself, be normal.

"Okay." Her voice is soft, but unwavering, and with that, it's over, and he's pulling on his gloves, walking out the back. She hears Fenrir start up, waits until the engine revs and fades. She walks slowly to the bar, reaching up to grab the doll he'd left, thumb caressing the threadbare material thoughtfully.

Normal shouldn't be such a miracle. But it is.

Normal is a lot of waiting.

She remembers how much she used to hate it. How impatient and impetuous she used to be.

She glances at the clock next to her bed, hears a familiar engine whine in the distance. Closer, closer…she knows the series that follows.

This wait isn't so bad. It's right up there with waiting for the kids to get home from school, and waiting for the last customer to cash in.

Wait: v., to stay where one is or delay action until a particular time or until something else happens. To have expectations.

Maybe even great ones.

She isn't sure what "actions" she's delaying. She hopes she'll know when the "something else" happens. Whatever that is.

She turns off the light and crawls into bed as she hears Fenrir pull into the garage.

Normal is having pleasant dreams, even if you can't remember exactly what they are in the morning.

Normal is sitting down together for meals, like a real family.

She finishes her coffee and toast alone. She is usually the last to bed, the first to rise. Most normal mothers are.

Later, as she is braiding Marlene's hair, listening to the girl chatter endlessly about an ongoing school project, she is drawn by the soft intonations of his voice as he and Denzel finish their breakfasts.

Normal is adoring the conversations between this man and this boy, parables and proverbs of the utmost simplicity. Normal like this is mesmerizing and precious.

"…but…but I feel so bad…for, for everything. With all that's happened, I still have you guys. She's got no one." Denzel stares sullenly at his plate, cheek against fist, fork tapping and scraping his plate listlessly. He doesn't wait for a reply. "I just…she was so nice to me, even when I was sick."

Marlene is blissfully unaware of the exchange occurring just a few feet away, holding a red ribbon up in the air by her ear patiently as she talks on. The subject has changed, soft "ohs" and "uh-huhs" politely interspersed between her prattle, gently coercing her details and feeding her excitement with the reassurance of an audience, albeit a distracted one.

"I never know what to say to her, Cloud. I want to thank her, for trying to help me, for being at the church, for…being my friend." He puts down his fork then, resigned to not cleaning up his plate, apparently. Certainly not normal, but forgivable.

She takes the ribbon from Marlene but slowly. She is desperate to hear this to its completion, her stomach knotting with premonition. She has the sudden almost irresistible urge to shush Marlene into silence, frowning as she works on tying a perfect bow.

Normal is being a part of the conversation, even when you aren't doing the talking.

There is an extended silence, and a frustrated sigh from Denzel before he gets up from his seat to move about the room, shouldering his backpack begrudgingly. She can't help but be a little disappointed, wishing she'd heard what he'd said before she started listening in. She realizes then that Marlene has quieted then, and is watching Cloud expectantly.

Perhaps she wasn't the only one eavesdropping.

She finishes the braid just has Marlene takes a breath to speak, but it's Cloud's voice that she hears, and she swears her heart skips a beat. Once again, not normal, but it can't be helped.

"Denzel…words-" There's a hitch, almost as if he knows she's listening, and oh, no, oh, no, oh, no…

"…Words aren't…" A deliberate pause, she's sure of it this time, and she has stopped breathing because she doesn't want to ruin this, and besides, the air is entirely too heavy to take in as he suddenly shifts his gaze up to meet hers, and she is caught, caught, caught.

"…the only thing that tell people what you're thinking." His voice, she notices, is so, so soft, like a prayer, a supplication. She wants to escape suddenly, but he holds her there with his eyes. The atmosphere has changed so that even the children are aware; peripherally, she sees Marlene gaze upon her curiously before glancing back to Cloud, and she knows Denzel is doing the same. One of them is going to have to move, to speak, to do something, but she is trapped, immobile, unable or unwilling to act, she isn't sure. She only knows that it's been a very long time since she has felt the way she does right now.

Anything but normal. Anything but ordinary.

And then it's over, and he's turning from her to look at Denzel over his shoulder. "Perhaps you could do something for her."

It's as if the world is turning again. Marlene bounces over to Denzel, bubbling over excitedly as she clutches his arm, as if to transfer some of her excitement, proposing cards and homemade gifts and maybe you could make her a cake!

She's taken the opportunity to suck in a breath, not too loudly, she hopes, fighting not to hold a hand over her chest, feeling the blood hum in her ears as she turns her back to them all, making as though to busy herself with something in the kitchen.

Normal is using chores as psychotherapy.

Silence descends upon the bar not long after that, as the children rush out to walk the few blocks to school. But the silence is not comfortable, and she is struggling to find something, anything to distract her from the memories that are threatening to envelope her…the sink is empty, the floor is annoyingly clean, the laundry is upstairs and she doesn't have the courage to go back out there just yet…

She hears the sound of a chair scooting softly across the polished floor, and in a panic throws open the pantry door…inventory, she can do inventory, although orders usually aren't placed until Monday, but-

Normal is wanting and not wanting something at the same time.

She reaches for the light, the click a staccato gunshot, and she is relieved that she doesn't flinch. The shelves are full, taunting her. She is acutely aware that his words had been meant for her, and she suddenly realizes that she has not responded that way she should have.

She emerges from the kitchen to find the bar empty.