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Jan. 7th, 2012 11:28 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rapacityinblueTitle: Meeting for the First (?) Time
Fandom: Drama Drama Duck (Final Fantasies VI and X)
Spoilers: For Drama Drama Duck game-canon
Rating: PG, Jecht has a dirty mouth.
Summary: Cefca tries to make amends. Jecht responds with his usual good grace.
Pairing: Jecht/Cefca, Jecht/Terra
Word Count: ~1000
Notes: Duckfic, back from when Gene and I started fooling around with the Kefka/Jecht/Cefca dynamic. This fic was an early attempt at that from my perspective, though not how it ended up playing out in game-canon. (At least, not yet.)
He’d come here for her. He knew what it meant, that man back on the community -- young, with wide, sweet eyes. So, with the world open again, he found himself a worldhop and brought himself to her. He expected to find a child. He was ready not to be recognized. He never imagined that she wouldn’t need him.
She was polite, of course. He didn’t think she knew how not to be. But he knew from the moment he arrived that she wouldn’t be coming back to Spira with him. It didn’t matter what he told her about her future; her fate. He was at loose ends.
He ignored the blond man who followed him. Pretended he didn’t know what the fragile looking creature with the oversized eyes wanted. But he could no longer stay quiet when the waiflike magician trailed him back to Spira. “Fuck no,” he told Braska. “No fuckin’ way. Shit. No.”
And he thought he had gotten his sentiments across, but Braska only laughed, and said, “I believe this is the first time you and Auron have ever been in agreement on anything.” And so, the would-be clown joined their party.
“Ain’t there something we can do?” Jecht asked Auron, lagging behind their other two party members. His fellow guardian made the pained noise he usually reserved for Jecht’s foibles.
“A summoner chooses his or her guardians. That is unquestionable. So Yevon --”
“So Yevon Teaches, I got it. Fuck,” Jecht said. “I bet yer precious Yevon had jack all t’say about insane clown magician gods from other worlds.”
“Yevon teaches --” Auron began, and Jecht interrupted him with an eloquent hand gesture.
“I ain’t gotta like it,” he told Braska along the High Road. He pitched his voice to carry back to the blond trailing behind them.
“I never expected you to,” the Summoner said with his usual aplomb.
Jecht added, “I ain’t gonna pretend to like it either.”
Braska laughed, and said, “My dear man, no one who’d met you would ever be mistaken into thinking you could.”
But he could have lived with it -- until he realized they had only one tent. he should have seen it coming.
“No fucking way!” As if, by increasing his volume, he could finally get his point across.
“Would you have him sleep with Lord Braska?” Auron asked. “Or leave Lord Braska unprotected?”
“Got an idea,” Jecht said. “I sleep wit’ Braska an’ you guard the power-hungry maniac.”
Auron’s only response was a skeptical glare. As he left, he said, “Look at it this way. If he tries to do anything, you get the first shot at taking him out.”
He left. Jecht stormed after him, wishing tents had doors to slam.
Cefca tracked him to a bluff above the campfire where he’d nested in -- sulking, though he’d never admit it. He’d drawn his knees to his chest and stared over the the caverns of Mushroom Rock. His eyes were unfocused, but he snapped out, “What the fuck d’you want?” when the mage approached him.
He flatly refused to look over at the mage, keeping his gaze firmly locked on the dancing pyreflies in the canyon below. It was a long time before Cefca answered, taking an unwelcome seat beside him. He made a great show of shifting his body further away.
“I want to help!” Cefca said finally. If he were paying any attention (which he most assuredly was not) he’d have thought the words were torn from the tiny blond.
It was damn hard to look at him, all skinny with cornflower blue eyes. He almost wanted to believe Cefca -- until, of course, he remembered exactly what had brought the blond here. “We aren’t hiring. Take yer sorry ass on,” he said.
But Cefca crossed his arms stubbornly and planted himself. Jecht spent a moment’s idle speculation on just how easy it would be to push him into the canyon below. “That’s up to Braska,” Cefca sad, and Jecht reconsidered homicide. It would clean that smirk out of his voice -- unfortunately, it was also messy.
“Fine, yer fuckin’ here. I ain’t gotta like it.” He repeated the sentiment he’d offered Braska earlier. And tried not to feel like a toddler. “Ain’t gotta like you, either,” he added.
He turned away from the hurt on Cefca’s face. “I’m sorry,” the mage said. Well, he could tell Jecht’s fuckin’ back, because he wasn’t listening to a word the freak said. “For what my future self will do to Terra. And you.”
“Boo-fuckin’-hoo,” Jecht informed him. “Didn’t get to be a freak overnight, no matter how fuckin’ sorry ya are.”
“But I’m not the same!” Cefca protested, and Jecht kept his back fully turned so he only had to imagine those round, blue eyes.
“Ain’t any different by me,” he said finally.
There was a rustle as Cefca stood, his robes falling from his thin frame. “Nothing I can say will make you change your mind, will it?” he asked. His voice sounded defeated. Whatever. Jecht wasn’t even turning to look. Wasn’t answering, either.
With another rustle, silence fell. Jecht turned and found Cefca gone.
When he returned to the tent, he found the mage huddled in his thin clothes, an unhappy heap outside the tent.
Fine, Jecht thought. The sooner he dies, the less time we’re not stuck with him. And he stared at the canvas of his tent until dawn.
The early morning air had a bite to it as they collapsed the tents and brewed coffee. The three of them had this routine down to an art by now. There was always another temple, another day’s walk, and not enough time. The mage held back from the bustle (b’cause he’s useless, Jecht hissed, and Braska returned, he’s staying out of our way.) and fell in behind him when they finally moved onto the road.
Jecht half-turned and dug something from his pack -- a blanket, which he balled up and threw at the fragile blond.
“Whatever,” he grumped. “Carry yer own shit, at least, fuck,” and he fell into step beside Auron.
The last thing he heard was the Mage’s court-slippered feet, trotting to catch up.
Fandom: Drama Drama Duck (Final Fantasies VI and X)
Spoilers: For Drama Drama Duck game-canon
Rating: PG, Jecht has a dirty mouth.
Summary: Cefca tries to make amends. Jecht responds with his usual good grace.
Pairing: Jecht/Cefca, Jecht/Terra
Word Count: ~1000
Notes: Duckfic, back from when Gene and I started fooling around with the Kefka/Jecht/Cefca dynamic. This fic was an early attempt at that from my perspective, though not how it ended up playing out in game-canon. (At least, not yet.)
He’d come here for her. He knew what it meant, that man back on the community -- young, with wide, sweet eyes. So, with the world open again, he found himself a worldhop and brought himself to her. He expected to find a child. He was ready not to be recognized. He never imagined that she wouldn’t need him.
She was polite, of course. He didn’t think she knew how not to be. But he knew from the moment he arrived that she wouldn’t be coming back to Spira with him. It didn’t matter what he told her about her future; her fate. He was at loose ends.
He ignored the blond man who followed him. Pretended he didn’t know what the fragile looking creature with the oversized eyes wanted. But he could no longer stay quiet when the waiflike magician trailed him back to Spira. “Fuck no,” he told Braska. “No fuckin’ way. Shit. No.”
And he thought he had gotten his sentiments across, but Braska only laughed, and said, “I believe this is the first time you and Auron have ever been in agreement on anything.” And so, the would-be clown joined their party.
“Ain’t there something we can do?” Jecht asked Auron, lagging behind their other two party members. His fellow guardian made the pained noise he usually reserved for Jecht’s foibles.
“A summoner chooses his or her guardians. That is unquestionable. So Yevon --”
“So Yevon Teaches, I got it. Fuck,” Jecht said. “I bet yer precious Yevon had jack all t’say about insane clown magician gods from other worlds.”
“Yevon teaches --” Auron began, and Jecht interrupted him with an eloquent hand gesture.
“I ain’t gotta like it,” he told Braska along the High Road. He pitched his voice to carry back to the blond trailing behind them.
“I never expected you to,” the Summoner said with his usual aplomb.
Jecht added, “I ain’t gonna pretend to like it either.”
Braska laughed, and said, “My dear man, no one who’d met you would ever be mistaken into thinking you could.”
But he could have lived with it -- until he realized they had only one tent. he should have seen it coming.
“No fucking way!” As if, by increasing his volume, he could finally get his point across.
“Would you have him sleep with Lord Braska?” Auron asked. “Or leave Lord Braska unprotected?”
“Got an idea,” Jecht said. “I sleep wit’ Braska an’ you guard the power-hungry maniac.”
Auron’s only response was a skeptical glare. As he left, he said, “Look at it this way. If he tries to do anything, you get the first shot at taking him out.”
He left. Jecht stormed after him, wishing tents had doors to slam.
Cefca tracked him to a bluff above the campfire where he’d nested in -- sulking, though he’d never admit it. He’d drawn his knees to his chest and stared over the the caverns of Mushroom Rock. His eyes were unfocused, but he snapped out, “What the fuck d’you want?” when the mage approached him.
He flatly refused to look over at the mage, keeping his gaze firmly locked on the dancing pyreflies in the canyon below. It was a long time before Cefca answered, taking an unwelcome seat beside him. He made a great show of shifting his body further away.
“I want to help!” Cefca said finally. If he were paying any attention (which he most assuredly was not) he’d have thought the words were torn from the tiny blond.
It was damn hard to look at him, all skinny with cornflower blue eyes. He almost wanted to believe Cefca -- until, of course, he remembered exactly what had brought the blond here. “We aren’t hiring. Take yer sorry ass on,” he said.
But Cefca crossed his arms stubbornly and planted himself. Jecht spent a moment’s idle speculation on just how easy it would be to push him into the canyon below. “That’s up to Braska,” Cefca sad, and Jecht reconsidered homicide. It would clean that smirk out of his voice -- unfortunately, it was also messy.
“Fine, yer fuckin’ here. I ain’t gotta like it.” He repeated the sentiment he’d offered Braska earlier. And tried not to feel like a toddler. “Ain’t gotta like you, either,” he added.
He turned away from the hurt on Cefca’s face. “I’m sorry,” the mage said. Well, he could tell Jecht’s fuckin’ back, because he wasn’t listening to a word the freak said. “For what my future self will do to Terra. And you.”
“Boo-fuckin’-hoo,” Jecht informed him. “Didn’t get to be a freak overnight, no matter how fuckin’ sorry ya are.”
“But I’m not the same!” Cefca protested, and Jecht kept his back fully turned so he only had to imagine those round, blue eyes.
“Ain’t any different by me,” he said finally.
There was a rustle as Cefca stood, his robes falling from his thin frame. “Nothing I can say will make you change your mind, will it?” he asked. His voice sounded defeated. Whatever. Jecht wasn’t even turning to look. Wasn’t answering, either.
With another rustle, silence fell. Jecht turned and found Cefca gone.
When he returned to the tent, he found the mage huddled in his thin clothes, an unhappy heap outside the tent.
Fine, Jecht thought. The sooner he dies, the less time we’re not stuck with him. And he stared at the canvas of his tent until dawn.
The early morning air had a bite to it as they collapsed the tents and brewed coffee. The three of them had this routine down to an art by now. There was always another temple, another day’s walk, and not enough time. The mage held back from the bustle (b’cause he’s useless, Jecht hissed, and Braska returned, he’s staying out of our way.) and fell in behind him when they finally moved onto the road.
Jecht half-turned and dug something from his pack -- a blanket, which he balled up and threw at the fragile blond.
“Whatever,” he grumped. “Carry yer own shit, at least, fuck,” and he fell into step beside Auron.
The last thing he heard was the Mage’s court-slippered feet, trotting to catch up.