Manly Request Week: Soldier (FFVI, for Rina)
Title: Soldier
Fandom: FFVI
Characters/Pairings included: Locke, Celes
Rating: PG
Warnings: Sap.
Summary: After the Phoenix Cave events. Celes may still be a soldier, but Locke is still a thief, and there’s something he wants to steal.
For lassarina. Written for Manly Request Week.
---
Locke’s watching the long smooth motions Celes makes as she cleans her sword. It’s obvious she’s done it hundreds of times: motion, mechanistic, soldier at heart. Or is she? Locke’s convinced that she’s spending so much time on the sword just so that she doesn’t have to look up at him.
“Hey…” Locke starts, but he’s not sure where to go with it. He’s always had the gift of gab, especially when necessary to slip out of tight situations. But this isn’t exactly the same: there’s no reason it should be a tight situation, right? No reason he should be this worried, and yet this overjoyed?
He decides to go for the surprise attack: something to catch even a general off-guard. “Thank you.”
It works. Celes stops mid-stroke; the sword wavers in her shaky hands. Eventually she looks up at him. “For what?”
Finally. Locke comes over, sits beside her, gently taking the sword and cloth from her and setting them aside. “For … for not asking. For not pushing.” He smiles at her, some shadow of his usual cheeky grin, hoping she’ll crack.
Celes continues to look at him. She still has a soldier’s gaze, for all the softening the world has given her in the past year; he’d recognized her instantly and yet almost not known her. “About what?” she asks, as if she has no idea. It’s a soldier’s game: give nothing away. But Locke is determined to win.
“Whatever’s on your mind,” he says softly, wishing he could find better words: he saw emotion in her face, and he wants to see it again. He’s still a treasure hunter, and this is what he’s after: whatever thoughts slip around in that mind behind the general’s mask. Locke is trying to steal that, steal away Celes’s armor and catch another glimpse at what’s underneath. Somehow, now, after everything, she’s part soldier and part …something else.
“You wanted to ask me about something.” He grins, wryly; she says nothing, simply continues to look at him in that trained empty fashion. “I’m ready, Celes, so you can ask me now.”
She looks at him and the blankness on her face is too perfect: she’s keeping all the muscles still, an act of obvious military training. “I have no pertinent questions,” she says, and it’s almost a slap in the face until Locke pauses to think about it.
They’re on the airship, and for once it’s running so smoothly that Locke can barely tell. Celes had tucked herself into a little alcove, sheltered somewhat from the wind. He’d found her - treasure hunter indeed - cleaning the sword and looking almost emotional. He reaches over and takes her hands. She twitches, slightly, as if unused to the contact.
“You’re shivering,” he says at random, because she is.
Celes says nothing, simply cranes her long elegant head down to look at their hands together. Hers are pale, his dark and dirty; both are callused, strong.
“If you don’t have any - pertinent - questions,” he says, almost stumbling on the word, which he’s quite sure he’s never used; “do you have any - normal - questions?”
Celes is still staring at his hands around hers, as if she’s afraid they’ll jump up and attack her: maybe she is, Locke thinks, but he won’t move them. He’s spent the past year and some wondering whether she was alive - whether anyone was alive - and now she’s alive, and she’s in front of him, and he is not letting go.
“Not entirely,” she says, which surprises him. Celes looks up, and she’s smiling at him: a small, crooked, awkward smile like she hasn’t had enough practice doing it, but it’s enough to make a warm rush of relief run through him.
“I’m just glad you’re alright,” she admits, biting her lip a little, and he can’t take it: he reaches over, gathers her to him, and a small part of his mind wonders whether this is the first hug Celes Chere has ever had.
“Of course I’m alright,” he boasts into her hair. “World can’t get a treasure hunter like me.” He hears the light, sharp intake of air that passes as a Celes-laugh, and smiles involuntarily.
Resting his hands on her shoulders, Locke turns Celes to face him. “I’m glad you’re okay, too,” he says, and means it. He remembers his last glances to her, across time and enemies on that Floating Continent, drowning in danger and magic. He’d hoped his words in the Magitek Factory weren’t the last.
She’s reading his face like a book, her eyes flicking efficiently over him. He wonders where she’s been for the past year, and why she wears sorrow in the shadows of her face, now. He wonders how she can look so much older, and whether she’s looking through a general’s eyes, or her own.
I thought about you, he wants to say, but doesn’t. Instead, he shrugs, trying to express something he can’t really define. “So...” He stalls, which is most unlike him, but Celes shifts a little.
She’s serious again, but it’s not the wooden face of a soldier now. “Is she at peace?” Celes asks softly.
Locke nods, remembering the flash of flame, that freedom-cry of life-giving magic, the rush of dashed hopes mingled with furtive relief.
“Are you?” she asks, even more softly.
He looks up sharply, surprised, now wondering when the General laid down the soldier’s life and learnt to feel.
“I think so,” he says.
Fandom: FFVI
Characters/Pairings included: Locke, Celes
Rating: PG
Warnings: Sap.
Summary: After the Phoenix Cave events. Celes may still be a soldier, but Locke is still a thief, and there’s something he wants to steal.
For lassarina. Written for Manly Request Week.
---
Locke’s watching the long smooth motions Celes makes as she cleans her sword. It’s obvious she’s done it hundreds of times: motion, mechanistic, soldier at heart. Or is she? Locke’s convinced that she’s spending so much time on the sword just so that she doesn’t have to look up at him.
“Hey…” Locke starts, but he’s not sure where to go with it. He’s always had the gift of gab, especially when necessary to slip out of tight situations. But this isn’t exactly the same: there’s no reason it should be a tight situation, right? No reason he should be this worried, and yet this overjoyed?
He decides to go for the surprise attack: something to catch even a general off-guard. “Thank you.”
It works. Celes stops mid-stroke; the sword wavers in her shaky hands. Eventually she looks up at him. “For what?”
Finally. Locke comes over, sits beside her, gently taking the sword and cloth from her and setting them aside. “For … for not asking. For not pushing.” He smiles at her, some shadow of his usual cheeky grin, hoping she’ll crack.
Celes continues to look at him. She still has a soldier’s gaze, for all the softening the world has given her in the past year; he’d recognized her instantly and yet almost not known her. “About what?” she asks, as if she has no idea. It’s a soldier’s game: give nothing away. But Locke is determined to win.
“Whatever’s on your mind,” he says softly, wishing he could find better words: he saw emotion in her face, and he wants to see it again. He’s still a treasure hunter, and this is what he’s after: whatever thoughts slip around in that mind behind the general’s mask. Locke is trying to steal that, steal away Celes’s armor and catch another glimpse at what’s underneath. Somehow, now, after everything, she’s part soldier and part …something else.
“You wanted to ask me about something.” He grins, wryly; she says nothing, simply continues to look at him in that trained empty fashion. “I’m ready, Celes, so you can ask me now.”
She looks at him and the blankness on her face is too perfect: she’s keeping all the muscles still, an act of obvious military training. “I have no pertinent questions,” she says, and it’s almost a slap in the face until Locke pauses to think about it.
They’re on the airship, and for once it’s running so smoothly that Locke can barely tell. Celes had tucked herself into a little alcove, sheltered somewhat from the wind. He’d found her - treasure hunter indeed - cleaning the sword and looking almost emotional. He reaches over and takes her hands. She twitches, slightly, as if unused to the contact.
“You’re shivering,” he says at random, because she is.
Celes says nothing, simply cranes her long elegant head down to look at their hands together. Hers are pale, his dark and dirty; both are callused, strong.
“If you don’t have any - pertinent - questions,” he says, almost stumbling on the word, which he’s quite sure he’s never used; “do you have any - normal - questions?”
Celes is still staring at his hands around hers, as if she’s afraid they’ll jump up and attack her: maybe she is, Locke thinks, but he won’t move them. He’s spent the past year and some wondering whether she was alive - whether anyone was alive - and now she’s alive, and she’s in front of him, and he is not letting go.
“Not entirely,” she says, which surprises him. Celes looks up, and she’s smiling at him: a small, crooked, awkward smile like she hasn’t had enough practice doing it, but it’s enough to make a warm rush of relief run through him.
“I’m just glad you’re alright,” she admits, biting her lip a little, and he can’t take it: he reaches over, gathers her to him, and a small part of his mind wonders whether this is the first hug Celes Chere has ever had.
“Of course I’m alright,” he boasts into her hair. “World can’t get a treasure hunter like me.” He hears the light, sharp intake of air that passes as a Celes-laugh, and smiles involuntarily.
Resting his hands on her shoulders, Locke turns Celes to face him. “I’m glad you’re okay, too,” he says, and means it. He remembers his last glances to her, across time and enemies on that Floating Continent, drowning in danger and magic. He’d hoped his words in the Magitek Factory weren’t the last.
She’s reading his face like a book, her eyes flicking efficiently over him. He wonders where she’s been for the past year, and why she wears sorrow in the shadows of her face, now. He wonders how she can look so much older, and whether she’s looking through a general’s eyes, or her own.
I thought about you, he wants to say, but doesn’t. Instead, he shrugs, trying to express something he can’t really define. “So...” He stalls, which is most unlike him, but Celes shifts a little.
She’s serious again, but it’s not the wooden face of a soldier now. “Is she at peace?” Celes asks softly.
Locke nods, remembering the flash of flame, that freedom-cry of life-giving magic, the rush of dashed hopes mingled with furtive relief.
“Are you?” she asks, even more softly.
He looks up sharply, surprised, now wondering when the General laid down the soldier’s life and learnt to feel.
“I think so,” he says.