In no way, shape or form do I take credit for creation or ownership of the Final Fantasy series. That is the property of Square-Enix.
In the dead of night, Locke Cole slowly pushed himself up on his arms, lifting the weight of his upper body from the worn, but comfortable bed that was his for the moment. They had stopped for the night in Nikeah, awaiting the arrival of Setzer and the Falcon the next afternoon and had rented a room in the Inn for the night. In the bed at the foot of his own, Locke could hear the quiet breathing of Terra and watched for a few moments to see the steady ride and fall of the blankets she was buried under as she slept. Next to her, Sabin slept peacefully, his massive frame taking up his entire bed while half of his right-side limbs hung of the bed precariously as a result of his nocturnal rolling.
Ignoring the quiet squeak of his bed as he shifted his weight once more, he turned his attention to the bed beside his own, his eyes drinking in the features of the woman sleeping a few mere feet away from him. Her blankets had slipped, revealing that small black shirt she wore beneath her vest and Locke could see her chest rise and fall with deep, even breaths, though she made not a sound. Celes looked as though she'd not moved a muscle save her lungs since she had fallen asleep hours ago, and there was a good chance that was the case. Locke had yet to ever see her move as she slept, for all the nights he had watched over her in the dark. One arm lay draped across her slender waist, while the other rested on the bed with her hand curled slightly next to her head, her face tilted just marginally in his direction. A few stray hairs had blown across her face as she slept and a thin lock, only but a few strands, was clinging to her lips, rosy and dark against her pale flesh in the dim light of the moon coming through the windows.
Pushing himself out of the bed, Locke crossed the short distance between their beds and brushed the strays away from her face, tucking them gently behind her ear and hoping he would not wake her with his ministrations. He paused for a moment, making sure she slept on, before taking a seat upon her bedside. The last thing he wanted was for her to find out that he was watching her sleep.
And watch her he did. He'd found himself drawn to her before, but after losing her for so long after the floating continent crashed, she seemed to dominate his thoughts now, as though making up for time lost. He could no longer go but a few moments without some thought about her passing through his mind and more often than not in recent days, he was chastising himself constantly for the turns those thoughts were taking.
On more than one occasion, he'd allowed his mind to wander as it wished, images of pale skin and thoughts of soft leather bunched beneath his hands burned into his brain. He would find himself wondering what it would be like, to have the worn yellow leather of her pants and vest under his hands, to feel the warmth of her skin through the material as he mapped her body with deft fingers. The thick laces holding her black shirt closed in the back teased him each time he caught a glance at them and he would catch himself before trying to come up with various ways to untie said straps, his mind fixated on the soft milky flesh the black leather hid.
When they were camping out in the woods and such thoughts overran his senses, he would excuse himself, usually with a pretext about keeping a sharp lookout for beasts and monsters. Once far from hearing distance, he would relieve himself of the tension that had built from the salacious mental images, allowing his mind to imagine whatever it desired for a few, scant moments of bliss before calming himself and returning to camp, more often than not empty-handed and assuring the others that he'd seen nary a thing out in the dark woods.
It was peaceful moments like this one, or when she would cast a certain look in his direction, that Locke felt his possessive and protective side flare up and he would feel the divine warmth of his heart falling in love with her all over again. He'd certainly fought it enough early on, but it was nice to give in and admit to himself that she had become so dear to him in the short time they'd been together.
Never would he have guessed, back in South Figaro so long ago, when he had freed an obstinate yet graceful fallen general, that she would someday unknowingly fill the void left in his wounded heart when he lost Rachel. She was so unlike his first love, who had been almost childlike in her love for life and awe of the world and yet everything about her seemed to pull him ever closer, entrancing him and making him want nothing more than to never leave her side.
No, Celes wasn't much like Rachel at all. She was strong and capable, had managed to bring their weary group of rag-tag freedom fighters back together when all hope had seemed lost, and now had more confidence than ever before in her every move and action. His insistence of protecting her now seemed foolish, for she was a far more competent fighter than he was, easily commanding the powerful magic within her that he himself still worked to use, almost dancing through battles due to her innate grace and skill with a blade.
And yet, she would send a look his way, flash him one of her tiny smiles that he liked to think were only for him, and he would know that she would continue letting him be her self-proclaimed protector, would let him fuss over her well-being without the offence she had once taken at the action.
Letting his thoughts reassure him that she enjoyed his presence in her life, Locke slowly rose from the bed and silently padded back to his own, wondering for just a fraction of a moment what she would say or do if she ever knew how much she was worked her way into his mind and heart, enough that he would forsake sleep whenever possible like this for the sole purpose of watching her. With a faint chuckle as a few different amusing ideas passed through his mind, he settled back down to sleep, unaware of the pleased smile directed at him from across the way, or the bright blue eyes that were now resting on him as he took his own repose.