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rose_in_winter2012-09-28 04:06 pm
lassarina) wrote in rose_in_winter2012-09-28 04:06 pm
[Final Fantasy VI] Back-Alley Intelligence Gathering
Characters: Celes/Locke
Rating: PG
Contains: no content notes
Wordcount: 957
Notes: Written for 2012 Chocobo Races for DOINK!
Betas:who_shot_kr
Summary: Zozo is an ugly place, and Locke hates the rain, but it looks really good on Celes.
He finds her standing alone in an alleyway that gives no protection from the rain, her pale hair plastered to her skin. Her clothes are plastered to her as well, but if he thinks about that he's going to go down a path that ends in her sword at his throat, and he's not really keen on that idea. So he keeps his eyes on her face as he approaches. "You all right?" he asks, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Otherwise he might try to brush that strand of hair out of her face. Besides, the damn perpetual rain means Zozo is much colder than he likes.
She shrugs. "I am little use by a sickbed," she says, "and my presence discomfits Cyan."
"He can deal with it," Locke says, though to tell the truth she discomfits him, too. She still hasn't said why she left the Empire (well, the whole "chained to a wall beaten and bleeding" really covers that motivation but she hasn't said why she was there in the first place), and the fact that she might well be a spy for the nation that could crush them all with its Magitek might should really be sending a "stand down, soldier!" message in the direction of his pants, but it seems to be doing the opposite.
Her mouth quirks faintly; he's never been quite sure if that movement indicates a smile or a scowl. "And you?" she asks. "You are not fond of the rain, or so your commentary since our arrival here would seem to indicate."
He can't keep his hands in his pockets and tug awkwardly at his bandanna at the same time. "Wanted to make sure you were doing okay," he says. He is definitely looking at her face. He is definitely not watching water drip off her chin and slide down the smooth, pale skin of her chest. (Benefit of Magitek empire technology and magic infusion superpowers: no scarring unless you want to, apparently.)
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the flicker of her frown and hopes it's not due to his wandering eyes. "I am not injured," she says in the careful way she has when she thinks he's being irrational, "so I do not see why I would require supervision, unless this is a question of trust and loyalty."
"No!" Even if the thought crossed his mind, he doesn't want her to think it. He takes a step closer, and her eyes widen fractionally. "It's not that at all. I just—Terra's your friend too. It's upsetting."
She frowns. "You are lying," she says simply.
He's not lying, but that's not what she means. He sighs. "I would like to state for the record that I was not the one who suggested you were out here commanding an army to wipe us out," he says in an aggrieved tone. "That was all Cyan."
The corner of her mouth quirks again. "You were merely deputized to carry out his orders," she says, and shrugs. "His suspicion is reasonable."
He takes another step closer; if Zozo didn't have its overpowering smell of poverty and desperation and rain, he might be able to smell her this close, but that's not in his cards today. She watches him warily and he can almost see the calculations behind her eyes: what weapons is he carrying, where will he strike? He raises his right hand very slowly, open and unthreatening, making sure it comes into her field of view, before he rests his palm against her cheek and slowly, carefully tucks that strand of hair back behind her ear. "That's not why I'm out here," he says, and this is really stupid—right up there with "freeing an Imperial general from captivity and bringing her straight to Returner headquarters"—but he leans closer, almost close enough to kiss, close enough to feel her breath. "Cyan can think what he wants; I really just wanted to make sure you were okay."
"I prefer to be able to take action," she says. "I am of little use waiting." There isn't a crack in her facade, not exactly, but he thinks maybe she might be frustrated and sad under the mask. She stands still as a statue, barely reacting to his hand on her cheek.
Even knowing it's definitely one of the dumbest things he's done in his life, he leans in to kiss her. She tastes like rain, and she doesn't shove him away. It takes a long time for her to lean into the kiss, but when she does, it's straightforward and controlled force, just like her. She doesn't put her arms around him, just leans close and kisses him hard. He is kissing an Imperial general in the rain—he hates the rain—and all he can think is that it doesn't matter that they're in a damn alleyway in Zozo where the locals would as like knife them as leave them be. He wants to peel off her armor and her clothes and see the rain run off all of her skin.
"Locke! Where did you get to?" Edgar yells from entirely too close, and he jerks back, startled.
She looks at him, her lips flushed dark and colour burning high on her cheeks, and presses her lips together. "We should rejoin them," she says, and he hopes she isn't as businesslike as she sounds—but her hands are shaking, just a little, and he doesn't think it's from the cold. He doesn't think she can even be cold.
"Perhaps we can continue this another time," he suggests.
She doesn't stab him and she doesn't say no, so he counts that as a win as they rejoin the others.
Rating: PG
Contains: no content notes
Wordcount: 957
Notes: Written for 2012 Chocobo Races for DOINK!
Betas:
who_shot_krSummary: Zozo is an ugly place, and Locke hates the rain, but it looks really good on Celes.
He finds her standing alone in an alleyway that gives no protection from the rain, her pale hair plastered to her skin. Her clothes are plastered to her as well, but if he thinks about that he's going to go down a path that ends in her sword at his throat, and he's not really keen on that idea. So he keeps his eyes on her face as he approaches. "You all right?" he asks, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Otherwise he might try to brush that strand of hair out of her face. Besides, the damn perpetual rain means Zozo is much colder than he likes.
She shrugs. "I am little use by a sickbed," she says, "and my presence discomfits Cyan."
"He can deal with it," Locke says, though to tell the truth she discomfits him, too. She still hasn't said why she left the Empire (well, the whole "chained to a wall beaten and bleeding" really covers that motivation but she hasn't said why she was there in the first place), and the fact that she might well be a spy for the nation that could crush them all with its Magitek might should really be sending a "stand down, soldier!" message in the direction of his pants, but it seems to be doing the opposite.
Her mouth quirks faintly; he's never been quite sure if that movement indicates a smile or a scowl. "And you?" she asks. "You are not fond of the rain, or so your commentary since our arrival here would seem to indicate."
He can't keep his hands in his pockets and tug awkwardly at his bandanna at the same time. "Wanted to make sure you were doing okay," he says. He is definitely looking at her face. He is definitely not watching water drip off her chin and slide down the smooth, pale skin of her chest. (Benefit of Magitek empire technology and magic infusion superpowers: no scarring unless you want to, apparently.)
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the flicker of her frown and hopes it's not due to his wandering eyes. "I am not injured," she says in the careful way she has when she thinks he's being irrational, "so I do not see why I would require supervision, unless this is a question of trust and loyalty."
"No!" Even if the thought crossed his mind, he doesn't want her to think it. He takes a step closer, and her eyes widen fractionally. "It's not that at all. I just—Terra's your friend too. It's upsetting."
She frowns. "You are lying," she says simply.
He's not lying, but that's not what she means. He sighs. "I would like to state for the record that I was not the one who suggested you were out here commanding an army to wipe us out," he says in an aggrieved tone. "That was all Cyan."
The corner of her mouth quirks again. "You were merely deputized to carry out his orders," she says, and shrugs. "His suspicion is reasonable."
He takes another step closer; if Zozo didn't have its overpowering smell of poverty and desperation and rain, he might be able to smell her this close, but that's not in his cards today. She watches him warily and he can almost see the calculations behind her eyes: what weapons is he carrying, where will he strike? He raises his right hand very slowly, open and unthreatening, making sure it comes into her field of view, before he rests his palm against her cheek and slowly, carefully tucks that strand of hair back behind her ear. "That's not why I'm out here," he says, and this is really stupid—right up there with "freeing an Imperial general from captivity and bringing her straight to Returner headquarters"—but he leans closer, almost close enough to kiss, close enough to feel her breath. "Cyan can think what he wants; I really just wanted to make sure you were okay."
"I prefer to be able to take action," she says. "I am of little use waiting." There isn't a crack in her facade, not exactly, but he thinks maybe she might be frustrated and sad under the mask. She stands still as a statue, barely reacting to his hand on her cheek.
Even knowing it's definitely one of the dumbest things he's done in his life, he leans in to kiss her. She tastes like rain, and she doesn't shove him away. It takes a long time for her to lean into the kiss, but when she does, it's straightforward and controlled force, just like her. She doesn't put her arms around him, just leans close and kisses him hard. He is kissing an Imperial general in the rain—he hates the rain—and all he can think is that it doesn't matter that they're in a damn alleyway in Zozo where the locals would as like knife them as leave them be. He wants to peel off her armor and her clothes and see the rain run off all of her skin.
"Locke! Where did you get to?" Edgar yells from entirely too close, and he jerks back, startled.
She looks at him, her lips flushed dark and colour burning high on her cheeks, and presses her lips together. "We should rejoin them," she says, and he hopes she isn't as businesslike as she sounds—but her hands are shaking, just a little, and he doesn't think it's from the cold. He doesn't think she can even be cold.
"Perhaps we can continue this another time," he suggests.
She doesn't stab him and she doesn't say no, so he counts that as a win as they rejoin the others.