[Fic] [FFXII] Matched Set
Title: Matched Set
Author: domlandbubbles
Characters: Balthier, Fran
Rating: G
Word Count: 850-ish
Summary: Upon returning from the Pharos, Balthier reflects on his father's relationship with his airship.
Author's Notes: SPOILERS, I guess for the Pharos and beyond. Please let me know if it's not clear what Balthier's talking about. Oh, yeah. And there's an adaptation of a line from U2's "Until the End of the World."
~~~
"Welcome to the Strahl, my lady."
He turns and bows deeply, easily, despite the drink in his hand. Fran looks at him, knowing and curious at the same time. Or perhaps he only imagines it. But here she is, indeed, standing with him before the most magnificent airship in Balfonheim aerodrome. In all of Ivalice.
Since their return from the Pharos, the others have given him a wide berth. The etiquette of sympathy is inadequate for his ostentatious loss, if it could be called that. Balthier understands and appreciates his companions' discretion. Or tongue-tied awkwardness as it were. Either way, he is glad for this small space to sort through whatever his thoughts are on the old man before they all head off to the end of the world.
But Fran, as always, is not like the others. When it comes right down to it, she has seen more of humes than any of them. Their joys, their sorrows. The endless complications of their own making. And so here she is, he thinks.
He isn't drunk. Oh, no. Inebriation makes one unfit for anything save wretched public spectacle. Fran's nose will tell her the drink he holds has been entirely neglected.
That would be the common thing to do, he once said, drown my sorrows, as the saying goes. But my sorrows are excellent swimmers.
A full glass has become the surest sign that Balthier is unhappy. He wonders what Fran thinks of that, thinks of his father and the disaster at the Pharos. She has recovered from the mist. Perhaps he should ask her.
Instead, he turns back to his ship.
Welcome to the Strahl, my lady. How many thousands of years ago had he said that? He had still been giddy with the "acquisition" of something his father had dismissed and abandoned long before.
"Shall I give you a tour?"
Fran says nothing, and Balthier doesn't move.
"I got her from the man who designed her," he says, surprised he still remembers more or less what he'd told her that first day. "Old fool didn't know what he had." He wonders if Fran remembers.
He gives her the abbreviated tour then, not the extensive and slightly excessive performance of so many years ago. He can admit to himself now that he had been just a little eager to show off to his new, if unresponsive, partner.
This time, he never moves from where he stands outside the Strahl, pointing things out with his full glass. Things Fran already knows.
"It took a while, but I've purged her of the old man's grosser eccentricities," he says without the chuckle this time.
And then he remembers, and chuckles but only because he nearly forgot. And then he chuckles because he remembers.
"A few things I've left intact," he continues. "I hate to admit, but the old man had a brilliant notion here and there." He wonders if there's any admiration left in his voice. He knows there used to be. Grudging, spiteful, disgusted admiration, but admiration, nonetheless. If there is any, Fran will hear it, even if he can't.
"Did you know he had this odd idea that she would become the darling of the Archadian air fleet?" he says. "He tried his damnedest to fit her to the empire's purposes, find her an official place on the imperial roster. And he took great pains to give her the right look and parade her in front of the right people. But, as usual, his plans were too blunt on one end and too grandiose on the other."
He doesn't bother to smile. "Can you imagine her crammed with soldiers? Or worse, judges." He shudders for various reasons. That unbearable stretch of his life was still aggravating.
"Typical of the old man. When it came out that all his efforts were for naught, that the Empire had no use for her, he found he had no use for her either. Other things demanded his attention. Grander things. And so she was pushed aside, grounded, left to rust. If she didn't fit his plan, he didn't bother to change the plan. Shame, really."
He stops to remember Fran's voice. And what would you have her do? she had asked. It was the only time she'd spoken.
Fly! had been his answer. And he had laughed. Fly fast and look good doing it. She's my leading lady, after all. She has to look at least as good as me!
"And what would you have her do?" Fran asks now, her voice low, sad. Or perhaps he only imagines the sadness. He doesn't like it either way.
He shakes his head. He does not answer.
He knows she stands behind him. He doesn't start as he feels her warm hand on his shoulder. She doesn't speak and he doesn't move. After a long moment, he puts his hand over hers, squeezes her fingers.
Too soon, he lets go, raises his glass. A mock toast, or perhaps a genuine one, he doesn't know. To his dead father, maybe, or the Strahl. To Fran? To running from plans? To himself or the end of the world, it doesn't matter.
Balthier finishes his drink.
~~~
Author: domlandbubbles
Characters: Balthier, Fran
Rating: G
Word Count: 850-ish
Summary: Upon returning from the Pharos, Balthier reflects on his father's relationship with his airship.
Author's Notes: SPOILERS, I guess for the Pharos and beyond. Please let me know if it's not clear what Balthier's talking about. Oh, yeah. And there's an adaptation of a line from U2's "Until the End of the World."
~~~
"Welcome to the Strahl, my lady."
He turns and bows deeply, easily, despite the drink in his hand. Fran looks at him, knowing and curious at the same time. Or perhaps he only imagines it. But here she is, indeed, standing with him before the most magnificent airship in Balfonheim aerodrome. In all of Ivalice.
Since their return from the Pharos, the others have given him a wide berth. The etiquette of sympathy is inadequate for his ostentatious loss, if it could be called that. Balthier understands and appreciates his companions' discretion. Or tongue-tied awkwardness as it were. Either way, he is glad for this small space to sort through whatever his thoughts are on the old man before they all head off to the end of the world.
But Fran, as always, is not like the others. When it comes right down to it, she has seen more of humes than any of them. Their joys, their sorrows. The endless complications of their own making. And so here she is, he thinks.
He isn't drunk. Oh, no. Inebriation makes one unfit for anything save wretched public spectacle. Fran's nose will tell her the drink he holds has been entirely neglected.
That would be the common thing to do, he once said, drown my sorrows, as the saying goes. But my sorrows are excellent swimmers.
A full glass has become the surest sign that Balthier is unhappy. He wonders what Fran thinks of that, thinks of his father and the disaster at the Pharos. She has recovered from the mist. Perhaps he should ask her.
Instead, he turns back to his ship.
Welcome to the Strahl, my lady. How many thousands of years ago had he said that? He had still been giddy with the "acquisition" of something his father had dismissed and abandoned long before.
"Shall I give you a tour?"
Fran says nothing, and Balthier doesn't move.
"I got her from the man who designed her," he says, surprised he still remembers more or less what he'd told her that first day. "Old fool didn't know what he had." He wonders if Fran remembers.
He gives her the abbreviated tour then, not the extensive and slightly excessive performance of so many years ago. He can admit to himself now that he had been just a little eager to show off to his new, if unresponsive, partner.
This time, he never moves from where he stands outside the Strahl, pointing things out with his full glass. Things Fran already knows.
"It took a while, but I've purged her of the old man's grosser eccentricities," he says without the chuckle this time.
And then he remembers, and chuckles but only because he nearly forgot. And then he chuckles because he remembers.
"A few things I've left intact," he continues. "I hate to admit, but the old man had a brilliant notion here and there." He wonders if there's any admiration left in his voice. He knows there used to be. Grudging, spiteful, disgusted admiration, but admiration, nonetheless. If there is any, Fran will hear it, even if he can't.
"Did you know he had this odd idea that she would become the darling of the Archadian air fleet?" he says. "He tried his damnedest to fit her to the empire's purposes, find her an official place on the imperial roster. And he took great pains to give her the right look and parade her in front of the right people. But, as usual, his plans were too blunt on one end and too grandiose on the other."
He doesn't bother to smile. "Can you imagine her crammed with soldiers? Or worse, judges." He shudders for various reasons. That unbearable stretch of his life was still aggravating.
"Typical of the old man. When it came out that all his efforts were for naught, that the Empire had no use for her, he found he had no use for her either. Other things demanded his attention. Grander things. And so she was pushed aside, grounded, left to rust. If she didn't fit his plan, he didn't bother to change the plan. Shame, really."
He stops to remember Fran's voice. And what would you have her do? she had asked. It was the only time she'd spoken.
Fly! had been his answer. And he had laughed. Fly fast and look good doing it. She's my leading lady, after all. She has to look at least as good as me!
"And what would you have her do?" Fran asks now, her voice low, sad. Or perhaps he only imagines the sadness. He doesn't like it either way.
He shakes his head. He does not answer.
He knows she stands behind him. He doesn't start as he feels her warm hand on his shoulder. She doesn't speak and he doesn't move. After a long moment, he puts his hand over hers, squeezes her fingers.
Too soon, he lets go, raises his glass. A mock toast, or perhaps a genuine one, he doesn't know. To his dead father, maybe, or the Strahl. To Fran? To running from plans? To himself or the end of the world, it doesn't matter.
Balthier finishes his drink.
~~~