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rose_in_winterCharacters: Balthier, Celes Chere, Locke Cole (Celes/Locke, Balthier/Celes/Locke)
Rating: NC-17
Contains: Canon-typical violence, explicit sex
Wordcount: 13,727
Notes: Yeah so I started this in 2009, and then it just sat there for fifteen years, but the idea never left me alone, so here we are. This crossover places characters from FF6 into Ivalice as though they have always been there; personalities remain intact, although backstories may have altered.
Beta: none
Summary: One of the most valuable lessons a young sky pirate will ever learn is when it is wisest to simply cut his losses and walk away.
Chapter Index
Balthier had never officially been to Rabanastre; the tiny desert nation of Dalmasca was independent, and Archades did not send a show of military force to independent neighbors. However, that was not to say that he had not been there at all. Hundreds of visitors thronged Rabanastre's streets on any given day, and it was a common assignment for young judges in training to be sent to find a piece of information held by an Archadian informant in the city. They were graded on how well they could blend in, how much information they gathered, and whether the informant caught wind of them before they ran him or her to ground. Accordingly, he was more than passing familiar with the twisting streets and sandstone buildings. Still, not wanting to tip his hand early, he waited to see what his companions did.
"We want the Sandsea," Locke said, pausing at the end of the aerodrome's cool shade. Even here beneath cover, Balthier could feel the heat radiating from the stone-paved streets. It was midafternoon, surely an unwise time to traipse about in the desert heat, but he held his tongue.
"It's not far," Celes said, "so we needn't worry about risking heat stroke."
Did he imagine it, or did her eyes sweep over his leather trousers?
Locke pointed to his left, out the aerodrome doors. "This way."
The streets were thronged with people of all descriptions. Rabanastre did not segregate its people by wealth quite as much as Archades did, and Balthier watched as a well-dressed servant accompanying a better-dressed woman scowled at a nearby urchin, diverting her from her probable pickpocketing path. Two bangaa carrying enormous sacks on each shoulder approached the aerodrome at surprising speed, and disappeared inside. Across the way, a moogle shouted advertisements for his chocobo rental business. A merchant caravan aimed at the Westersand was making its checks, presumably to set out once sunset had cooled the area. A few beggars huddled out of sight of the city guard as they made their pleas. Celes led their group with confidence, threading between other people who did not walk with her speed, which was nearly everyone.
The soldiers guarding the west gate cast eyes over them but did not trouble them. As a crossroads between continents and empires, Dalmasca saw more people in transit than it housed year-round. Visitors were expected and no one had the time to stand in lines in the hot desert sun waiting to be processed. The kingdom did not trouble itself about those entering unless they caused a fuss.
Their destination was a tavern on a street lined with shops of every description. Inside, it was cool and dark after the blazing heat of the sun. The Sandsea wasn't crowded in early afternoon. There was what looked to be a dedicated patron propping up one end of the bar, a table of boisterous men on the upper floor who seemed to be celebrating something, and three bangaa hunters--or perhaps sky pirates--studying the hunt board. As Celes made her purposeful way over there, one turned and his mouth reshaped into what passed for a toothy smile. "Celes!" Like all bangaa, he slurred certain sounds in the common tongue. "Thought you'd died."
She laughed, and pulled a cloth packet from her pouch. She unwrapped it to reveal a large wooden stamp. Taverns with hunt boards kept a pot of ink next to the board; she brushed its contents onto her stamp, surveyed the board, and pressed the stamp to the bill decorated with a green blob sprouting a half-dozen tentacles.
The bangaa threw back his head and laughed. "You never disappoint," he said. "Come on, first round's on me. Did Locke make it?"
She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at the two of them, and the bangaa looked, then snorted in the way the lizards often did. "Picked up a pet, did you?" He laughed and slapped her on the shoulder. "Hey, bartender, six ales," he shouted, and he and his two companions swaggered their way over to a large table. Locke moved to join them, so Balthier followed.
The bangaa turned out to be a trio of brothers who named themselves hunters, though the way they kept subtle watch over the tavern told Balthier they likely took on other, less savory work--or were hunted themselves. They seemed genial enough, but he took it easy on the ale anyway. Locke bought the second round, and the conversation covered recent hunts. Had Balthier still been reporting to the Ninth--had he still been Ffamran--he would have had several nuggets to raise his standing in his superior's eyes. As it was, an entirely different set of nuggets told him how to keep the Strahl flying free.
He excused himself for the privy, and when he returned, the bangaa and the mugs of ale had vanished. Celes and Locke had shifted to a smaller table nearby, and three glasses of wine stood before them, along with a simple plate of meat, bread, and cheese. He took his seat with some trepidation.
"Ba'Gamnan is a good hunter, but he'd talk the ears off a moogle," Celes said.
"You think anyone who says three sentences in a row talks too much." The weight of drink was evident in Locke's words; Balthier wondered if he had been sneaking extra.
"You can stop pretending now," Celes said under her breath; Balthier had to strain to hear her.
"The kid polishing the barrel's got his ear turned to us," Locke answered as softly, his speech much clearer. He picked up one of the wineglasses and waved it in her direction, nearly sloshing the liquid onto the table, and raised his voice back to its former volume. "Here's to a hunt well fought," he proclaimed.
Balthier and Celes toasted with him and then they all set to the food, companionably quiet. Locke periodically burst into snatches of tavern songs, off-key but enthusiastic. Celes joined in a few times with a surprisingly pure soprano. After an hour or so of obvious celebration, the messenger Locke had noted dropped his cleaning rag into a bucket and left. Balthier kept an eye out, now that he knew he was looking, but if anyone was watching them, they were good enough to evade his eye, and with that he had to be content.
Celes and Locke seemed in no hurry to leave, ordering another round from the bartender and sipping it leisurely. A waitress brought them a sweet dessert of ripe desert peaches baked in a crumbling crust, and it melted on Balthier's tongue. Celes's eyes half-closed when she took a bite, and Balthier found his gaze attached to the curve of her lips, the movement of her mouth, and his imagination wandering to places he knew he would never actually reach.
Worse, Locke saw him, and his eyes crinkled with amusement when Balthier hurriedly returned his gaze to his wine. For some reason, the thief took mercy on him, turning the conversation to other hunts he had seen on the board that they might pursue with their remaining time with the Strahl. Balthier found that he could not even dredge up much anger about the bet; he had, rather against his will, done some uncomfortable thinking whilst trying not to hear their coupling and come to the conclusion that he had in fact made a very stupid choice strutting into Balfonheim as he had. He might be quick of wit and hand, but he had no bureau at his back, nor his father's name to sweep trouble away. He might as well learn as much as he could from them before their paths diverged.
Not that he needed to tell them that.
So he paid attention to what Locke had learned, and asked such questions as seemed needful, and he thought--very, very privately--that he might not mind this as his pirating life. In the Ninth, his peers had all been competitors; they might be obligated to cooperate for a specific mission, but one had to be out for oneself to avoid becoming a scapegoat to someone else's mistake. Not to mention that promotions were frequently literally cutthroat. He would not trust the two of them in the sense that most people meant the word, but he had determined that he could trust them in the sense of the Ninth: weighed, measured, calculated.
Pirates, after all, swore no oaths of loyalty to liege or law.
Celes ordered a new round of wine, a sweet Tchita drink that lingered on the tongue like a late summer afternoon. Balthier thought the wine must have gone to his head, for surely she had not meant to brush her fingertips over the back of his hand, and he would do well to stop thinking such things immediately, lest he find himself once again out of his depth. Beneath the table, Locke's knee brushed against his thigh, and he tried very had not to notice the warmth from that contact.
The wine was stronger than it tasted, for it loosened his tongue enough to ask, “why choose me?”
“For what?” Celes asked.
“You could have killed me and taken the ship,” he pointed out.
Her lip pulled to the side in disgust. “I do not kill wantonly,” she said, “and you had done nothing to deserve it.”
“He did think you were pretty,” Locke commented.
“That is hardly a crime.”
“Still do,” Balthier mumbled, and winced when Celes’s gaze cut to him; he had not meant to speak aloud.
“And what would you do about it?” Her voice was neutral, but her eyes—deeper blue than any nethicite, an endless lake in which to drown himself.
The tavern was noisy, but their table was profoundly silent, as though the air itself waited for his reply.
He set his shoulders and smiled at her. “Why, invite you for a drink, and perhaps more, if you wished it.” There. It was said, and if he erred, let it be because he reached for something bright and missed, rather than by not reaching at all.
Locke’s knee brushed his again, and in the endless fathoms of Celes’s eyes, he fancied—he must have been imagining—that he saw a spark.
“I have one question,” Locke said, and Balthier leaned back so that he could see them both. In the half-shadow of their table, the planes of Locke’s face were sharper than ever, and Balthier’s gaze landed on his lips. He wondered if those lips were as skilled as his inadvertent eavesdropping suggested. “How drunk are you?”
He flinched, the question like a cold bucket of water tossed in his face, and Locke held up a hand. “It’s not an insult, and I’m not objecting,” he said. “I want to know whether your decisions are impaired.”
The question set him back in his seat. Strange, that pirates were more careful of their liaisons than the Judges. Best not to think on that too much. "Enough to loosen my tongue, it seems, but I know what I'm about," he answered.
"This is not a matter of the bet," Celes said.
"I hadn't thought it was." You wouldn't, he wanted to say, but that was far too trusting.
Celes's smile flashed, sun on driven snow, and she tipped her glass toward him before she took another sip. "Well, then," she said, "as we already have our drinks, let us finish them, and then see about....more."
It took a heroic act of will for him not to quaff all of his wine in one go. As it was, his hand shook slightly when he lifted the glass for a drink.
Locke was watching him with a particular intensity that Balthier recognized, even as his clever fingers toyed with a lock of Celes's hair, and Balthier found himself staring in fascination. A shiver of anticipation ran through him, and Locke knew it, from the smirk he wore.
Balthier braced himself.
Chapter Five
Rating: NC-17
Contains: Canon-typical violence, explicit sex
Wordcount: 13,727
Notes: Yeah so I started this in 2009, and then it just sat there for fifteen years, but the idea never left me alone, so here we are. This crossover places characters from FF6 into Ivalice as though they have always been there; personalities remain intact, although backstories may have altered.
Beta: none
Summary: One of the most valuable lessons a young sky pirate will ever learn is when it is wisest to simply cut his losses and walk away.
Chapter Index
Balthier had never officially been to Rabanastre; the tiny desert nation of Dalmasca was independent, and Archades did not send a show of military force to independent neighbors. However, that was not to say that he had not been there at all. Hundreds of visitors thronged Rabanastre's streets on any given day, and it was a common assignment for young judges in training to be sent to find a piece of information held by an Archadian informant in the city. They were graded on how well they could blend in, how much information they gathered, and whether the informant caught wind of them before they ran him or her to ground. Accordingly, he was more than passing familiar with the twisting streets and sandstone buildings. Still, not wanting to tip his hand early, he waited to see what his companions did.
"We want the Sandsea," Locke said, pausing at the end of the aerodrome's cool shade. Even here beneath cover, Balthier could feel the heat radiating from the stone-paved streets. It was midafternoon, surely an unwise time to traipse about in the desert heat, but he held his tongue.
"It's not far," Celes said, "so we needn't worry about risking heat stroke."
Did he imagine it, or did her eyes sweep over his leather trousers?
Locke pointed to his left, out the aerodrome doors. "This way."
The streets were thronged with people of all descriptions. Rabanastre did not segregate its people by wealth quite as much as Archades did, and Balthier watched as a well-dressed servant accompanying a better-dressed woman scowled at a nearby urchin, diverting her from her probable pickpocketing path. Two bangaa carrying enormous sacks on each shoulder approached the aerodrome at surprising speed, and disappeared inside. Across the way, a moogle shouted advertisements for his chocobo rental business. A merchant caravan aimed at the Westersand was making its checks, presumably to set out once sunset had cooled the area. A few beggars huddled out of sight of the city guard as they made their pleas. Celes led their group with confidence, threading between other people who did not walk with her speed, which was nearly everyone.
The soldiers guarding the west gate cast eyes over them but did not trouble them. As a crossroads between continents and empires, Dalmasca saw more people in transit than it housed year-round. Visitors were expected and no one had the time to stand in lines in the hot desert sun waiting to be processed. The kingdom did not trouble itself about those entering unless they caused a fuss.
Their destination was a tavern on a street lined with shops of every description. Inside, it was cool and dark after the blazing heat of the sun. The Sandsea wasn't crowded in early afternoon. There was what looked to be a dedicated patron propping up one end of the bar, a table of boisterous men on the upper floor who seemed to be celebrating something, and three bangaa hunters--or perhaps sky pirates--studying the hunt board. As Celes made her purposeful way over there, one turned and his mouth reshaped into what passed for a toothy smile. "Celes!" Like all bangaa, he slurred certain sounds in the common tongue. "Thought you'd died."
She laughed, and pulled a cloth packet from her pouch. She unwrapped it to reveal a large wooden stamp. Taverns with hunt boards kept a pot of ink next to the board; she brushed its contents onto her stamp, surveyed the board, and pressed the stamp to the bill decorated with a green blob sprouting a half-dozen tentacles.
The bangaa threw back his head and laughed. "You never disappoint," he said. "Come on, first round's on me. Did Locke make it?"
She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at the two of them, and the bangaa looked, then snorted in the way the lizards often did. "Picked up a pet, did you?" He laughed and slapped her on the shoulder. "Hey, bartender, six ales," he shouted, and he and his two companions swaggered their way over to a large table. Locke moved to join them, so Balthier followed.
The bangaa turned out to be a trio of brothers who named themselves hunters, though the way they kept subtle watch over the tavern told Balthier they likely took on other, less savory work--or were hunted themselves. They seemed genial enough, but he took it easy on the ale anyway. Locke bought the second round, and the conversation covered recent hunts. Had Balthier still been reporting to the Ninth--had he still been Ffamran--he would have had several nuggets to raise his standing in his superior's eyes. As it was, an entirely different set of nuggets told him how to keep the Strahl flying free.
He excused himself for the privy, and when he returned, the bangaa and the mugs of ale had vanished. Celes and Locke had shifted to a smaller table nearby, and three glasses of wine stood before them, along with a simple plate of meat, bread, and cheese. He took his seat with some trepidation.
"Ba'Gamnan is a good hunter, but he'd talk the ears off a moogle," Celes said.
"You think anyone who says three sentences in a row talks too much." The weight of drink was evident in Locke's words; Balthier wondered if he had been sneaking extra.
"You can stop pretending now," Celes said under her breath; Balthier had to strain to hear her.
"The kid polishing the barrel's got his ear turned to us," Locke answered as softly, his speech much clearer. He picked up one of the wineglasses and waved it in her direction, nearly sloshing the liquid onto the table, and raised his voice back to its former volume. "Here's to a hunt well fought," he proclaimed.
Balthier and Celes toasted with him and then they all set to the food, companionably quiet. Locke periodically burst into snatches of tavern songs, off-key but enthusiastic. Celes joined in a few times with a surprisingly pure soprano. After an hour or so of obvious celebration, the messenger Locke had noted dropped his cleaning rag into a bucket and left. Balthier kept an eye out, now that he knew he was looking, but if anyone was watching them, they were good enough to evade his eye, and with that he had to be content.
Celes and Locke seemed in no hurry to leave, ordering another round from the bartender and sipping it leisurely. A waitress brought them a sweet dessert of ripe desert peaches baked in a crumbling crust, and it melted on Balthier's tongue. Celes's eyes half-closed when she took a bite, and Balthier found his gaze attached to the curve of her lips, the movement of her mouth, and his imagination wandering to places he knew he would never actually reach.
Worse, Locke saw him, and his eyes crinkled with amusement when Balthier hurriedly returned his gaze to his wine. For some reason, the thief took mercy on him, turning the conversation to other hunts he had seen on the board that they might pursue with their remaining time with the Strahl. Balthier found that he could not even dredge up much anger about the bet; he had, rather against his will, done some uncomfortable thinking whilst trying not to hear their coupling and come to the conclusion that he had in fact made a very stupid choice strutting into Balfonheim as he had. He might be quick of wit and hand, but he had no bureau at his back, nor his father's name to sweep trouble away. He might as well learn as much as he could from them before their paths diverged.
Not that he needed to tell them that.
So he paid attention to what Locke had learned, and asked such questions as seemed needful, and he thought--very, very privately--that he might not mind this as his pirating life. In the Ninth, his peers had all been competitors; they might be obligated to cooperate for a specific mission, but one had to be out for oneself to avoid becoming a scapegoat to someone else's mistake. Not to mention that promotions were frequently literally cutthroat. He would not trust the two of them in the sense that most people meant the word, but he had determined that he could trust them in the sense of the Ninth: weighed, measured, calculated.
Pirates, after all, swore no oaths of loyalty to liege or law.
Celes ordered a new round of wine, a sweet Tchita drink that lingered on the tongue like a late summer afternoon. Balthier thought the wine must have gone to his head, for surely she had not meant to brush her fingertips over the back of his hand, and he would do well to stop thinking such things immediately, lest he find himself once again out of his depth. Beneath the table, Locke's knee brushed against his thigh, and he tried very had not to notice the warmth from that contact.
The wine was stronger than it tasted, for it loosened his tongue enough to ask, “why choose me?”
“For what?” Celes asked.
“You could have killed me and taken the ship,” he pointed out.
Her lip pulled to the side in disgust. “I do not kill wantonly,” she said, “and you had done nothing to deserve it.”
“He did think you were pretty,” Locke commented.
“That is hardly a crime.”
“Still do,” Balthier mumbled, and winced when Celes’s gaze cut to him; he had not meant to speak aloud.
“And what would you do about it?” Her voice was neutral, but her eyes—deeper blue than any nethicite, an endless lake in which to drown himself.
The tavern was noisy, but their table was profoundly silent, as though the air itself waited for his reply.
He set his shoulders and smiled at her. “Why, invite you for a drink, and perhaps more, if you wished it.” There. It was said, and if he erred, let it be because he reached for something bright and missed, rather than by not reaching at all.
Locke’s knee brushed his again, and in the endless fathoms of Celes’s eyes, he fancied—he must have been imagining—that he saw a spark.
“I have one question,” Locke said, and Balthier leaned back so that he could see them both. In the half-shadow of their table, the planes of Locke’s face were sharper than ever, and Balthier’s gaze landed on his lips. He wondered if those lips were as skilled as his inadvertent eavesdropping suggested. “How drunk are you?”
He flinched, the question like a cold bucket of water tossed in his face, and Locke held up a hand. “It’s not an insult, and I’m not objecting,” he said. “I want to know whether your decisions are impaired.”
The question set him back in his seat. Strange, that pirates were more careful of their liaisons than the Judges. Best not to think on that too much. "Enough to loosen my tongue, it seems, but I know what I'm about," he answered.
"This is not a matter of the bet," Celes said.
"I hadn't thought it was." You wouldn't, he wanted to say, but that was far too trusting.
Celes's smile flashed, sun on driven snow, and she tipped her glass toward him before she took another sip. "Well, then," she said, "as we already have our drinks, let us finish them, and then see about....more."
It took a heroic act of will for him not to quaff all of his wine in one go. As it was, his hand shook slightly when he lifted the glass for a drink.
Locke was watching him with a particular intensity that Balthier recognized, even as his clever fingers toyed with a lock of Celes's hair, and Balthier found himself staring in fascination. A shiver of anticipation ran through him, and Locke knew it, from the smirk he wore.
Balthier braced himself.
Chapter Five