laylah
in
springkink
Final Fantasy XII (Basch/Vossler)
Title: Restoration
Author: Laylah
Rating: PG
Word count: ~1100
Warning: Mild AU, endgame spoilers.
Summary: "Welcome back," Vossler says. It should be easier than this. It should be impossible.
If he measures Ashe's forgiveness by his responsibility, then Vossler thinks she has been more generous than he deserves. When he presented himself to her in her restored court, after the sinking of the Bahamut and the withdrawal of Archadia's troops, she would not even hear his apologies. Dalmasca needs you, captain, she said. Will you come to her aid? He said yes with raw gratitude tight in his throat, with relief lightening his limbs so that he scarcely felt the injuries she'd done him months before.
In the months since, he has seen little of her, but much of her city; Ashe put him in charge of the corps of engineers that is to restore Rabanastre to her glory before the empire's invasion. It is perhaps the most rewarding work that Vossler has ever done in his life -- exhausting, and he takes more potions than he ought to keep him on his feet when his lame leg protests at the strain, but he would far rather that than sit by like an invalid and trust the city to someone else.
When Vossler looks to the south, from the balcony of the palace's barracks wing, he can see the new construction, the places where lights shine from windows and along streets that had been dark and ruined at war's end. To the west of the city, the hulk of the Bahamut looms against the horizon, with the moon only now climbing above it. The wreckage has partially dammed the Nebra, so that now there is a lake around its base. Once the housing project has moved further, Vossler thinks, he should investigate the possibility of irrigating the surrounding area from that lake. There are never enough hours in the day for all the projects that need attention, and he hasn't nearly the strength he'd like to, anymore.
The lights in some of the windows are going out now, though, a good reminder that today's hours are gone. Vossler turns, leaning on the cane that he still needs when the day has been particularly taxing, intending to go back inside. Instead he stops, stares, words for a moment failing him.
"I thought we were to expect you next week," he says, and wishes instantly that he had been more eloquent.
"I grew impatient," Basch says plainly. "Lord Larsa gave me my leave, and I took the commercial flight this afternoon." His hair is trimmed too short, and he is dressed as a Dalmascan, in light trousers and a vest; and yet he is familiar, as well, the low timbre of his voice and the steady certainty of his countenance.
"Welcome back," Vossler says. It should be easier than this. It should be impossible. The last time they saw each other they crossed blades in earnest.
Basch bows his head. "Thank you," he says. He steps forward, as though he would offer and embrace -- and then he checks himself, and comes instead to stand at the railing beside Vossler, quiet. "Her majesty speaks highly of the work you've been doing."
Of course he would have been to see her already. "I am glad to hear it," Vossler says. he turns back, looks out over the city. "It is -- it was always what I wanted."
"To see Dalmasca hale again," Basch says. "To make her thrive. I know."
Vossler laughs hollowly. "You grant your forgiveness so easily," he says. He curls his hand tight around the rail, the stone rough and cold under his fingertips.
"If it were a matter that required forgiveness, every time two men chose different means to the same end," Basch says, and then stops: even his optimism must recognize that it is often the case. "At any rate, I would not have it be so. You sought to save her, as we all did." They are the words Ashe used, when Vossler asked how she had found it in her heart to trust him again. So they spoke of him, on their journey. Is there no end to the debt he owes to Basch? He almost misses what comes next -- "I hope you can forgive me, my friend, for drawing steel against you then."
The bright streak of lights just west of the city center must be Muthru, doing brisk business into the night now that there is no longer a curfew to call a halt to it. "I imagine you had no faith left in Archadian promises, and little wonder."
"It might have worked," Basch says. "It was a fair gamble. With Lord Larsa's aid, and a faction of the Senate to support the effort to remove Vayne from power --"
"No," Vossler says. "I know you seek to offer comfort, but I was wrong. Vayne's devotion to his aims was too pure to be thus easily thwarted."
There is a shift of cloth, as of Basch turning toward him. "None of us knew that then."
"And yet you chose rightly," Vossler says. He studies the stars, takes a deep breath. "I think I had already forgiven you by the time I woke. Before Balzac even told me that you were the one who carried me to safety. I prayed for both of you, while I was recovering. Studied every rumor for news of you."
Basch lays his hand atop Vossler's. The touch is warm, so warm, with the night air cooling fast. "Thank you," he says. "I had feared -- I am glad we are yet friends."
Vossler turns his hand to clasp Basch's. "I've missed you, these last few years." It's a surprisingly easy thing to say. When he looks over, Basch is watching him, not the city, and most likely has been this entire time.
"Likewise," Basch murmurs. He takes a step closer, and Vossler turns to permit him, and when they kiss it seems that this is the only thing in Ivalice that has not changed in the last five years: wet and hot and welcome, as it has ever been.
No, Vossler realizes a moment later, as Basch's hand cups his face, as he lets his cane fall to take his support instead from holding onto Basch's waist -- even this is not how it always was. This gentleness, this slowness -- this caution was not there, when they were soldiers together, and young. But there is no hesitation, no reserve, and there is a comfort in it that he has missed more than he allowed himself to acknowledge. And Basch --
When he pulls back, Basch meets his eyes steadily, and what he sees there, Vossler thinks, is hope. "Come inside with me," he says, before he can invent a reason not to.
Basch smiles, and squeezes his fingers tight. "Gladly," he says. "Yes."
Author: Laylah
Rating: PG
Word count: ~1100
Warning: Mild AU, endgame spoilers.
Summary: "Welcome back," Vossler says. It should be easier than this. It should be impossible.
If he measures Ashe's forgiveness by his responsibility, then Vossler thinks she has been more generous than he deserves. When he presented himself to her in her restored court, after the sinking of the Bahamut and the withdrawal of Archadia's troops, she would not even hear his apologies. Dalmasca needs you, captain, she said. Will you come to her aid? He said yes with raw gratitude tight in his throat, with relief lightening his limbs so that he scarcely felt the injuries she'd done him months before.
In the months since, he has seen little of her, but much of her city; Ashe put him in charge of the corps of engineers that is to restore Rabanastre to her glory before the empire's invasion. It is perhaps the most rewarding work that Vossler has ever done in his life -- exhausting, and he takes more potions than he ought to keep him on his feet when his lame leg protests at the strain, but he would far rather that than sit by like an invalid and trust the city to someone else.
When Vossler looks to the south, from the balcony of the palace's barracks wing, he can see the new construction, the places where lights shine from windows and along streets that had been dark and ruined at war's end. To the west of the city, the hulk of the Bahamut looms against the horizon, with the moon only now climbing above it. The wreckage has partially dammed the Nebra, so that now there is a lake around its base. Once the housing project has moved further, Vossler thinks, he should investigate the possibility of irrigating the surrounding area from that lake. There are never enough hours in the day for all the projects that need attention, and he hasn't nearly the strength he'd like to, anymore.
The lights in some of the windows are going out now, though, a good reminder that today's hours are gone. Vossler turns, leaning on the cane that he still needs when the day has been particularly taxing, intending to go back inside. Instead he stops, stares, words for a moment failing him.
"I thought we were to expect you next week," he says, and wishes instantly that he had been more eloquent.
"I grew impatient," Basch says plainly. "Lord Larsa gave me my leave, and I took the commercial flight this afternoon." His hair is trimmed too short, and he is dressed as a Dalmascan, in light trousers and a vest; and yet he is familiar, as well, the low timbre of his voice and the steady certainty of his countenance.
"Welcome back," Vossler says. It should be easier than this. It should be impossible. The last time they saw each other they crossed blades in earnest.
Basch bows his head. "Thank you," he says. He steps forward, as though he would offer and embrace -- and then he checks himself, and comes instead to stand at the railing beside Vossler, quiet. "Her majesty speaks highly of the work you've been doing."
Of course he would have been to see her already. "I am glad to hear it," Vossler says. he turns back, looks out over the city. "It is -- it was always what I wanted."
"To see Dalmasca hale again," Basch says. "To make her thrive. I know."
Vossler laughs hollowly. "You grant your forgiveness so easily," he says. He curls his hand tight around the rail, the stone rough and cold under his fingertips.
"If it were a matter that required forgiveness, every time two men chose different means to the same end," Basch says, and then stops: even his optimism must recognize that it is often the case. "At any rate, I would not have it be so. You sought to save her, as we all did." They are the words Ashe used, when Vossler asked how she had found it in her heart to trust him again. So they spoke of him, on their journey. Is there no end to the debt he owes to Basch? He almost misses what comes next -- "I hope you can forgive me, my friend, for drawing steel against you then."
The bright streak of lights just west of the city center must be Muthru, doing brisk business into the night now that there is no longer a curfew to call a halt to it. "I imagine you had no faith left in Archadian promises, and little wonder."
"It might have worked," Basch says. "It was a fair gamble. With Lord Larsa's aid, and a faction of the Senate to support the effort to remove Vayne from power --"
"No," Vossler says. "I know you seek to offer comfort, but I was wrong. Vayne's devotion to his aims was too pure to be thus easily thwarted."
There is a shift of cloth, as of Basch turning toward him. "None of us knew that then."
"And yet you chose rightly," Vossler says. He studies the stars, takes a deep breath. "I think I had already forgiven you by the time I woke. Before Balzac even told me that you were the one who carried me to safety. I prayed for both of you, while I was recovering. Studied every rumor for news of you."
Basch lays his hand atop Vossler's. The touch is warm, so warm, with the night air cooling fast. "Thank you," he says. "I had feared -- I am glad we are yet friends."
Vossler turns his hand to clasp Basch's. "I've missed you, these last few years." It's a surprisingly easy thing to say. When he looks over, Basch is watching him, not the city, and most likely has been this entire time.
"Likewise," Basch murmurs. He takes a step closer, and Vossler turns to permit him, and when they kiss it seems that this is the only thing in Ivalice that has not changed in the last five years: wet and hot and welcome, as it has ever been.
No, Vossler realizes a moment later, as Basch's hand cups his face, as he lets his cane fall to take his support instead from holding onto Basch's waist -- even this is not how it always was. This gentleness, this slowness -- this caution was not there, when they were soldiers together, and young. But there is no hesitation, no reserve, and there is a comfort in it that he has missed more than he allowed himself to acknowledge. And Basch --
When he pulls back, Basch meets his eyes steadily, and what he sees there, Vossler thinks, is hope. "Come inside with me," he says, before he can invent a reason not to.
Basch smiles, and squeezes his fingers tight. "Gladly," he says. "Yes."