For Bleuwyn’s challange on the Vincent and Tifa forum.

My apologies in advance if anything’s a bit off. I’m not too good with writing in this perspective – but practice makes perfect, I suppose.

I like watching you.

If I tell you that... Well, I pretty much know your response. “Do you like watching ghosts, too, Tifa?” Yes, I do, Vincent. I watch ghosts all the time – in fact, it’s a hobby of mine. Some enjoy writing or drawing or the like. But me? No, I prefer ghost watching. I’d tell you to try it sometime, but that’d be like telling a deer to hunt itself.

As a ghost watcher – no, hunter – I take it upon myself to bait my prey. (The prey being you, Mr. Valentine, if you haven’t already figured that out.) How will I bait you? Dinner? Exactly. Do know that this is not a date. No, no, that would be much too presumptuous. Besides, I don’t want to scare my prey away. It’s a... courtesy.

Yes, there’s a difference.

No, I don’t care how you dress.

(Or do I? Just don’t come entirely naked.)

There’s no knock on my door. I think you sort of just appear there. But isn’t that what ghosts do? And don’t bother coming to the door with flowers or anything. Oh, wait, you do. Bastard. The prey doesn’t hunt the hunter! My plan is backfiring. I need an escape...

“Uh, creamed corn?” I ask politely and hold the bowl up towards you.

You look at me like I’m offering you poison. “I hate creamed corn, Tifa.”

“Really? You hate corn?”

“No, just creamed corn.”

“It’s the same damned thing, Vincent, only creamed.”

Brilliant, Lockheart.

Apparently you don’t agree, because I see your nose wrinkle, just a bit. You walk pass me, turn around quickly and hand me the bouquet of carnations like you’re passing off a football or something. Basketball, maybe? I’m no good at sports analogies.

But I like carnations and you remember that my favorite color is yellow, so I’m starting to forget about this whole hunting ghosts thing...

Okay, plan B. “What about turnips?” You smile at me – you actually smile. All right, fine. No one likes turnips. It’s like I’m making all the hated foods of a nine-year-old. What next? Broccoli? Ugh.

“You invite me over to dinner and you didn’t even make the dinner yet?” You ask skeptically. That dark eyebrow of yours raises slightly.

“I’m in the process of making it. Some things are finished.” Like the creamed corn, damnit.

“I suppose I’ll have to help you then.”

“No!” I scream. After all, the hunter is supposed to do the hunting. You’re my prey, Valentine, so sit down and eat your creamed corn. I breathe in quickly, trying to redeem myself and keep intact whatever is left of my dignity. “This dinner is for you.”

You watch me indifferently. “Tifa, it’ll go faster if I help.”

Probably.

“And if it goes faster, then we can eat and not starve to death.”

You make a good point.

“Starving to death is not a very nice way to go. It’s a slow and most unnecessarily painful way to die.”

Is any death really ‘a very nice way to go’? Wait, forget that. The last thing I want us to do is get into a discussion about the various ways of dying. There’s a possibility that you are very knowledgeable of the subject.

Anyway, back to my ghost hunting... Where was I? Oh, yes. Once the bait (the dinner) is laid out, the hunter (that’s me) must sit back patiently and wait for the prey (which is you, Vincent) to take it...

“What are you making, exactly? Besides creamed corn and turnips?”

“Uh... Spaghetti?”

Unless you hate that, too...

You don’t answer, you only make your way over to my kitchen and start pulling out pots. A quick search through my other cabinets finds you the correct sized one and you promptly start filling it with water. Maneuvering your way back to the stove isn’t easy, because you made such a mess with the other pots on the floor, so you start kicking them aside. One rolls away and under the kitchen table with a rather loud clang.

Who the hell showed you how to make dinner, anyway?

“Geez, Vincent...” Oh well. “Do you need any help?” Since when did this become about you making me dinner?

You simply shrug. “I suppose... Where do you keep the spaghetti?”

I rummage through another random cabinet and luckily that’s where I keep it. I open the package (it’s probably not even in date – wait, does spaghetti have an expiration date?) and dump it into the water. The cold water. Well, I never said that I knew how to make dinner, either. Mix drinks? Great. Kick bad guy ass? Perfect. Make dinner? Uh...

“I think the water’s suppose to be boiling...” You turn the burner on and we watch it for a few minutes in silence.

I’ll take that as the bait being victorious.

(Why must ghosts be so hard to hunt?)

So, when the prey finally takes the bait, the hunter must move in slowly for the kill...

“So... What sauce do you like?”

Yeah, that’s my way of ‘making a kill’. I’m just that great.

“Tifa...” you begin, without moving your head.

You’re not going to tell me that you hate spaghetti now, are you?

You turn to look at me, that small smile on your lips. “This isn’t really you just being courteous, is it?”

You have such lovely eyes, you know that? For a moment, I can’t recall what you’re talking about. I’m being what now? “It’s about dinner and turnips and... creamed corn.” Did that even make sense?

You lean in closer to me.

Sometimes there’s the off chance that the prey gets wise to the bait and discovers the hunter. I really wish someone would have warned me about that possibility.

“The water’s boiling, Vincent.”

You move towards me again, a little bit closer this time. I fumble on the pots on the floor and bump into the counter. I think the creamed corn is about to fall over... But you don’t seem to care (quite possibly because you hate the stuff and are happy to see it go) and you kiss my lips softly.

I hear the creamed corn hit the floor.

I’m such a lousy ghost hunter.