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Summary
Tifa leans her elbows on the bar, voice dropping low. “It’s just, I worry about him. He hasn’t been the same since he got back. I was hoping you could talk to him about, y’know, some of your own experiences.”
Barret doesn’t immediately answer. Strife looks plenty fine to him. He smirks at Biggs and Wedge as he lazily drawls the story of some daredevil adventure he’d had while under SOLDIER’s employ, and every time his eerie blue eyes smolder in Jessie’s direction, Barret sees her knees knock together under the table. They all hang on his every word, and he eats up the attention like a prince among his most loyal subjects, lithe limbs spread out on top of the table behind him, the crown of his unruly golden locks doing little to hide his devil-may-care grin.
Marlene, at least, had the presence of mind to squeak and hide behind the bar when Strife first sauntered into the Seventh Heaven. Barret doesn’t think Strife’s even noticed her yet – which is for the best. He damn well does not want some asshole white boy charmer in her life.
(And yet, somehow, they all wind up with exactly that. Ain't it just Barret's luck?)
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